Once Court was through the gate, the path opened into a set of large buildings under a canopy of pines and fir trees. The structures were simple cement blockhouses with tin roofs; a road ran through the middle, and armed men guarded individual doors. Many horses and a few donkeys stood at hitching posts and water troughs. Court was led by them on his way towards a large warehouse-type building halfway up the road.
At the front door the man on Court’s right put the tip of his pistol to Court’s right temple. The man on the left put the tip of his pistol to Court’s left temple. A third man stepped in front of Court and placed his revolver’s muzzle on Gentry’s forehead, and a fourth gun prodded him in the back of his head.
“Bueno,” said the man in charge. He stood in front, spoke Spanish, “We go into the room slowly. One step at a time.” He began moving backwards, and the entourage moved along in a cluster. Court felt like he was the torso of a spider, arms and legs all around him and moving more or less in unison.
As they passed through the doorway, everyone’s weapons pressing and bumping against his face and head, Gentry said, “You guys are about the most chicken-shit bodyguards I’ve ever seen.”
The man in front smiled and said, “If we were chicken shit, we would have shot your white ass back in Altar.” The procession kept moving into the big room; the man in front walked backwards as he said, “Por favor, don’t make us blow your head all over Señor Madrigal’s lunch.”
FORTY-FIVE
Court looked over the man’s shoulder and saw the room was some sort of meeting hall. Against the far wall a row of picnic tables full of food and soft drinks was laid out. A dozen armed men stood around, watching the procession moving towards them across the dirt floor. Seated at the end of the tables, facing Court, was a lone man with a plate of beans; he was sopping them up with corn tortillas. He finished his tortilla then took a long swig of Tecate beer from a can.
A half dozen men stood behind him; they all wore either simple straw hats or baseball caps.
Only after he had placed the can back on the table did he look up at the American surrounded by his men with their guns pressed to his head. The man in front scooted to the side, lowered his pistol somewhat, but he kept it trained on the chest of the Gray Man.
Finally, Court got a good look at the man he’d come to see.
Constantino Madrigal looked more like a campesino, a peasant, than a drug lord. He was in his fifties, heavy, more big than fat, with a mustache and bushy hair that was still more black than gray, but just. His denim shirt was open, and his hairy chest gleamed from sweat on either side of a simple wire cross medallion.
He wore a ball cap on his head.
He folded up another tortilla, dipped it in black beans, tore a bite from the soggy bread. Through chews he said, “Gray Man, they call you. El hombre de gris.” Madrigal lifted his beer and used it as a pointer. Jabbed it out at Gentry. “Nobody gets a meeting with me. Nobody. But everyone is talking about you. Everybody is asking me, ‘Did you see that gringo on TV in Puerto Vallarta?’ You are like a movie star. I had to meet you.”
Madrigal stuck a wet finger into a small pile of white powder on the table next to his lunch, then he jammed the finger into his mouth, sucking off the cocaine.
This act was followed by a swig of Tecate.
Court said, “Thank you for seeing me.”
“You have killed a lot of the Black Suits’ sicarios. More than my men have.” He looked around him at the gunmen as he sipped more beer, as if waiting for an explanation from his staff. No one said anything.
Court looked to his left and right, on both sides the muzzles of stainless steel revolvers pressed into his cheekbones. “Can you ask your men to lower their guns? I’d hate for one of them to sneeze. I came here showing you respect; I only ask you to give me the same courtesy.”
Madrigal smiled as he folded another tortilla. “I am showing you lots of respect, gringo. You don’t think this is respect? You should see how I treat men I do not respect. I know what you can do. You may have a way to kill me still; I don’t know.”
“I couldn’t kill you if I wanted to.” Court was not above a little ass kissing at the moment.
“Then if that wasn’t the plan, what can I do for you?”
“I came to offer my services, free of charge.”
“¿Tus servicios?” Your services?
“Yes. I would like your help, and your blessing, in going after Los Trajes Negros.”
Madrigal waved his men back; they lowered their weapons and stepped to the side. Still, there were twelve men with firearms within five steps of the American assassin. The narco drummed his thick fingers on the picnic table. “Haven’t you been doing that all week without my help?”
“I am talking about a larger-scale operation.”
The drug lord shrugged, motioned for Gentry to sit down. Court took a metal chair on the opposite side of the table. Madrigal spoke while a man with an AK-47 popped open a can of Tecate and placed it in front of Court. “I am not at war with de la Rocha. I don’t want war with de la Rocha. There is enough war going on now. DLR has his plaza, and I have mine, and I have enough troubles fighting the army. I’d rather just watch you kill his people without getting involved.” He laughed. “That’s more fun.” The men in the room laughed behind their gun barrels.
Court did not understand everything Madrigal had said; he had a thick Mexican mountain accent peppered with impenetrable colloquialisms, and Court had learned the majority of his Spanish in Spain and South America. A young man was called from across the room; he sat down next to Madrigal.
“My son will translate. We call him Chingarito.”
Court silently translated the boy’s nickname then wondered what kind of man would call his son “Little Fucker.” Court did not ask the question aloud.
The kid was barely sixteen; he wore a ball cap with a gold marijuana leaf emblem stitched on it. He looked somewhat excited to be called to the table for this responsibility. He translated his father’s reticence about war with the Black Suits.
Court switched to English. “Did you know DLR was given intelligence on your contacts in South America by the Central Intelligence Agency?”
The boy translated. Madrigal shook his head. “No. How do you know this?”
“A man in the CIA told me, and DLR himself told me. He wants access to some of your production.”
“He won’t get it.”
“Maybe not. Maybe he will just do what he can to hurt your production. That would strengthen him, wouldn’t it?”
Constantino Madrigal called another man over. Spoke into the man’s ear for a moment. Then he looked back to Gentry. “Daniel de la Rocha’s father was a wise man. A competitor, of course, but a good businessman. Daniel is loco, insane. He has tried to implicate me in the assassination attempt of him by the GOPES on his yacht, and then he tried to implicate me in the assassination of the families of the GOPES officers. But that is his style, not mine. High profile, high body count. Psychological warfare. All that time in the military cooked his brain, made him a mad killer. An unreasonable man. Now they say he worships a street idol from the barrios.” Constantino Madrigal shook his head in disgust. “The business and intelligence end of his operation is actually run by his consigliere, a gentleman named Calvo. Calvo is my enemy, but I respect him. He is smarter than any ten of these stupid pendejos I have working for me.” He waved his arm around the room, and a couple of his men chuckled.