The ground on which his urban estancia sat was the most valuable in all of Mexico City, but because it was protected from development by the powerful National Fine Arts Institute, of which Encarnación was, not coincidentally, an influential member, no high-rises could be built there, as they had been in Lomas de Chapultepec or Colonia Santa Fe.
“Welcome home, Don Maceo. You have been missed.”
The man sitting beside Encarnación was short, squat as a frog, with dark skin, a belligerent hooked Aztec nose, and pomaded black hair swept back from his wide forehead, thick and lustrous as a horse’s mane.
His name was Tulio Vistoso; he was one of the three most powerful drug lords in Mexico, but almost everyone except Encarnación called him the Aztec.
“There is tequila to share, Don Tulio,” Encarnación said amiably, “and news to digest.”
At once the Aztec was on guard. “Problems?”
“There are always problems.” Encarnación fluttered a hand back and forth. “What matters is the level of difficulty these problems present in the solving.”
The Aztec grunted. He was wearing a black linen suit over an elaborate guayabera shirt. His feet were clad in caiman-skin huaraches dyed the color of polished mahogany. The driver was Encarnación’s bodyguard, the stolid armed man beside him belonged to the Aztec.
Nothing more was said on the drive to Encarnación’s mansion. Both men knew the value of silence and of presenting business at the proper time and place. Neither man was possessed of an impetuous nature. They were not prone to make a move before its time.
The familiar streets, avenues, and squares slid by in a blur of color and cacophonous noise. Bursts of bougainvillea crawled up the stucco sides of restaurants and tavernas, lumbering buses belched carbonized particulates. They passed by the square of Santo Domingo, inhabited by evangelistas with their old bulky typewriters, banging out for the city’s illiterates letters of love or condolences, simple contracts to be explained and signed, eviction notices to be delivered orally, occasionally short, stark missives of bile and hate. The sleek armored SUV maneuvered nimbly in the rattling sea of taxis painted in violent colors and trucks and buses packed with stinking men, women, children, and animals. While church and cathedral bells clanged incessantly, it passed through the thick, grainy, wallowing morass of the city on its way to the cleanly exalted Colonia Polanco, and nestled within its heart, the villa, screened by high walls and pines, secured by electrified fences.
Beautiful as it was, with finely wrought designs and magnificent scrollwork, Encarnación’s mansion was built like a fortress, an absolute necessity, even for him, in the city’s crime-ridden environs. Yet it wasn’t the increasingly powerful drug lords the premises were fortified against, but the shifting political landscape, unstable as quicksand. Over the years, Encarnación had witnessed too many of his supposedly invulnerable friends plowed under by regime changes. He had vowed that would never happen to him.
It was the time of la comida, the grand theatrical lunch of the City of the Aztecs, a meal taken as seriously as a saint’s festival and with an almost religious fervor. It started at 2:30, often lasting until 6 pm. Grilled meat with assertive pasilla chilies; baby eels, white as sugar, in a thick, vinegary stew; grilled fish; flour tortillas, hot and steaming from the griddle; chicken mole; and, of course, bottles of aged tequila set the long plank table in Encarnación’s paneled, light-filled dining room to groaning.
The two men sat opposite each other, drank a toast with tequila the color of sherry, then set about sating their immense appetites, at least for the time being. They were served by Anunciata, the nubile daughter of Maria-Elena, Encarnación’s longtime cook. Seeing something special in her, he had relieved her of learning the finer points of cooking with the thousand varieties of fried peppers and exquisite moles, and was instead teaching her the finer points of disruptive technology in cyberspace. Her mind was as active and nubile as her body.
When their bellies were full, the dishes cleared, and the espressos and cigars served, Anunciata brought in enormous mugs of hot chocolate laced with chilies, which she proceeded to whip into a froth with a traditional wooden molinillo. This was the most important part of the ritual. Mexicans believe that the powerful spirit of the drink lives in the foam. Placing a mug in front of each man, she vanished as silently as she had appeared, leaving the two men alone to
discuss their Machiavellian plans.
The Aztec was in a jovial mood. “Little by little, like hair falling from an aging scalp, the president is ceding power to us.” “We run this city.”
“We have control, yes.” Don Tulio cocked his head. “This does not please you, Don Maceo?”
“On the contrary.” Encarnación sipped his hot chocolate meditatively. It wasn’t until he tasted this magnificent drink that he truly knew he was home. “But gaining control and maintaining it are two very different animals. Succeeding at the one does not guarantee the other. The country abides, Don Tulio. Long after you and I are dust, Mexico remains.” Like a professor in a classroom, he lifted a finger. “Do not make the mistake of taking on the country, Don Tulio. Governments can be toppled, regimes can be replaced. To defy Mexico itself, to take it on, to think you can overthrow it, is hubris, a fatal mistake that will bury you, no matter the length and breadth of your power.”
The Aztec, not quite seeing where the conversation was going, opened his spatulate hands. Besides, he wasn’t altogether certain what hubris meant. “Is this the problem?”
“It is a problem, a discussion for another day. It is not the problem.”
Encarnación savored a draft of the chilied chocolate foam, sweet and spicy. “Yes,” he said, licking his lips. “The problem.”
Extracting a pen and pad from his breast pocket, he scribbled something on the top sheet, tore it off, folded it in half, and passed it across the table. The Aztec looked at him for a moment, then lowered his gaze as his fingers took hold of the folded sheet and opened it to read what Encarnación had written.
“Thirty million dollars?” he said.
Encarnación bared his teeth.
“How could this happen?”
Encarnación, rolling the hot chocolate around his mouth, looked up at the ceiling. “This is why I asked you to meet me at the airport. Somewhere between Comitán de Dominguez and Washington, DC, the thirty million disappeared.”
The Aztec put down his cup. He looked distressed. “I don’t understand.”
“Our partner claims the thirty million is counterfeit. I know, I couldn’t believe it myself, so much so that I sent two experts, not one. Our partner is right. The real thirty million that started its journey in Comitán de Dominguez ended up counterfeit.”
The Aztec grunted. “How did the partner find out?”
“These people are different, Don Tulio. Among other things, they have a great deal of experience counterfeiting money.”
Don Tulio wet his lips, his brow furrowed in concentration. “The thirty million changed hands a number of times over many thousands of miles.” Comitán de Dominguez, in the south of Mexico, was the first distribution point for the drug shipments originating in Colombia, transshipped through Guatemala, crossing the border into Mexico. “It means there is a thief inside.”
At that, Encarnación’s fist slammed down on the table, upsetting his cup, spilling hot chocolate over the embroidered lace tablecloth, a present his paternal grandmother had received on her wedding day. The Aztec’s eyes opened wide even as his body froze.