You sensed that he was praising you. You barked confidently.
Woof!
In the human world too, the same amount of time had passed since that first Sabbath in August. Three months. During that period, as the two puppies had learned how to be drug dogs, similarly momentous changes had occurred in the two-legged world as well. First of all, the conflict with the Colombians was over. So much blood had been shed on “Bloody Sunday” that one of the bosses in Panama, unwilling to stand by and watch the carnage, stepped in to mediate. The conditions of the truce weren’t bad. So a bargain was struck. For the first time in ages, the Hellhound’s Mexico City estate went back to being just that—an ordinary organized crime boss’s compound, not a fort. The security detail was reduced to a few men, though they still carried light machine guns and ammunition belts at all times. Now that there was no need to man the fort, the Hellhound lost no time in flying off to Texas. He wanted to pay his respects to the Don. “I’m real sorry, Dad. Quite a commotion I caused.” “You idiot! You idiot! You idiot!” the Don said, berating him a touch too dramatically. “You sure as hell caused a commotion! You gotta be sharper than that, right? Listen, I want you to remember this. World War II is long over. This is 1975, there are no ‘gangsters’ anymore, not like they used to have ’em in the old days. You’re part of the new generation. I invested in you, right? You’re part of the new guard in this business. So you gotta learn to be a businessman. Wise up. Learn to make it look legal, okay? Look legal.” This exchange with the Don left the Hellhound feeling kind of blue. He hadn’t just been told off, of course—the Don had been trying to impart some serious knowledge—but he hadn’t expected to be bawled out. Not at all. Maybe I’m just not cut out for this, he thought glumly as he stood in the courtyard of La Familia’s compound, chucking bread to the dozen ducks bobbing on the pond. Just then, he heard a bright voice at his back. “Hey, it’s my favorite brother-in-law! Long time no see!” It was his ex-wife’s younger sister, the Don’s third daughter. She was eighteen now. He hadn’t seen her for three years because she had been sent to get an education in Vienna when she was fifteen. The Hellhound gasped. She had grown into quite a woman. A real beauty. A beauty of the slim, big-breasted type.
“Uh… yeah… long time no see.”
“What’s wrong? Feeling blue again?”
“No, no. Just… feeding the ducks.”
“The ducks?”
“Yeah. Bread, see?”
“Bread?”
Soon they were embroiled in a heated discussion concerning the most appropriate food for ducks. Then they left the courtyard to take a stroll through the orchard, and two hours later they were kissing passionately. The Hellhound had fallen in love with the young woman at first sight—though technically this was the second time he’d encountered her—and the Don’s third daughter, then in the throes of puberty, had a megacrush on the Hellhound. They started going on dates. North of the border, south of the border. The Hellhound had gotten back into his work as a luchador by this time, and the young woman actually came to see him in the ring. His ex had never once done that. The Hellhound was so bowled over he devised a brand new killer move that he called the “Love Love Dog-Drop.” They were both sure of their feelings, so in the last week of November the Hellhound broached the matter with the Don. “I’d like to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage,” he said.
“Yeah, I guess my other daughter turned out to be a loser, huh.”
“No, no! That’s not the point. I’m really serious about her, and I—”
“Sure.”
“What!”
“With one condition. This is going to be the second time I’ve given you a daughter, so I want you to expand your operations a bit for me, all right? Think of it as a wedding present to La Familia.”
Nothing wrong with that. And so, once again, twos came into play. The Hellhound had to start running around, east and west, trying to rummage up some big new game he could bag for his second wife. As it happened, the biggest tip of all came from a source very close to home: his bodyguard. “I’ve got a good route, Boss.” “Hmm, I don’t know. Where does it lead? I’ve had enough of these South American connections.” “You can trust this one, Boss. It’s my brother.” “What? You mean your twin brother?” “I told you he’s in the same business, right?” “Come to think of it, you did.” “He’s in Asia. Works for the head of an organization that deals drugs. He’s the guy’s secretary.” “His secretary? You mean his bodyguard?” “You got it, Boss. Brraahahahahah! And this organization, seems they’ve got some fields out in Pakistan, out in the middle of nowhere.” “Fields growing… poppy seeds?” “Bingo.” “I seem to recall that your brother’s a Muslim?” “Sure is. It’s all Allah, Allah, every day. Anyway, this organization…” “All right, I hear you.”
Plans were laid for a corporate tie-up. The Samoan twins (the two of them) were very much part of their respective organizations, and their bosses trusted them implicitly. With the two (two) of them acting as middlemen, might it be possible to bring even two (two) organizations as profoundly distinct as these—one operated in America, one in Asia; one boss was a Catholic, one was a Muslim—together? The twins considered the question and delivered their verdict: Yes, we can! Samoan culture placed great importance on family, by the way, and maintained a social structure based in extremely large families. The ties among relatives were very strong. The twins suggested that since the two bosses would have to talk, maybe they should meet up somewhere in the middle. In between America and Asia was… the Pacific Ocean. Well, then, why not arrange a summit in our hometown?
Sounded good.
Thus, in the middle of December, the two groups arrived in American Samoa, disguised as tourists, and met up in a hotel. The Hellhound decided to take his alter ego along —his second self, his dog, Cabron. “We’ll scare the bejeezus out of ’em,” he’d said before they left. “Show ’em that with this dog we’ve got, we’ll sniff out any funny business, diluting shit down and stuff. Sniff it out in a second. We’ll show ’em what we can do!” “Nice. I like it, Boss,” the Samoan said. “The only worry is—do you think Cabron will leave the puppies?” “Hmm… good point. He’s been fawning over them nonstop, it’s true. How about this, then? They’re six months old now, right? Why not take the little buggers along?” There were only two of them. (Two.) The Hellhound decided this was the best solution. Besides, just imagine the look on those Asian faces when they see those two roly-poly dumplings zipping around, trying to outdo each other in ferreting out carefully concealed heroine, marijuana, and speed! Hats off to the Nuevo Mundo!
“You can have a whole roast pig, Boss,” said the Samoan. The older one, the Hellhound’s bodyguard. The younger twin’s group flew from Melbourne by way of Fiji and landed in Samoa, formerly known as Western Samoa, then moved on to the final destination. The older twin’s group—including the Hellhound and the three dogs—flew first to Hawaii. They changed planes in Honolulu and headed for the South Pacific.
It was December 9, 1975, when Cabron left Mexico City. He and his alter ego. He was no longer a dog of the twentieth parallel north. He passed over Oahu, over the twenty-first parallel north. But Goodnight wasn’t there anymore. The bitch of the twenty-first parallel north was no longer living on that island.