Echoes of a Distant Summer (94 page)

Elroy began speaking again. “I’ve been here thinking about whether I want to live or die, whether there was anything worth living for. I even relived pieces of my life over again searching for clues. I never got anywhere close to a clear-cut answer to those questions, but I did get clear on a couple of things. First, I’ve spent my life blaming somebody for leaving me in that orphanage. I blamed all the things I didn’t know on being raised in an institution. When I read about you and Pug, I hated you, hated you both. I blamed you for everything, like I didn’t have a thing to do with my life. That’s all a lot of bull! I realized when I was lying there in DuMont’s house, with my blood trickling onto the floor, that I had no one who I could call, that I had lived my whole life and didn’t have a friend or relative that would gladly come to my assistance. It occurred to me then that I was responsible for that. I’m the one responsible for my life. I had every chance to learn the things I didn’t know and I ignored those lessons and kept ignoring them until it was too late.

“When I get out of here, I’m going to change my life. I know I want people in my life. I want to find my remaining son and try to develop a relationship with him. He may not need a daddy, but maybe he still needs a father. I’ll look for a larger apartment when I get back, so he and his girlfriend can stay with me. And maybe, just maybe I can be an uncle to your grandson Jackson. He looks just like my oldest boy, Denmark. Maybe I can show him the love that I was too foolish to give my own sons. But the first step in all of that is taking the weight and blame off of you. My shoulders are broad enough to carry the weight of my life. If I have any power to forgive, then let it be known I forgive you. I forgive you! Let’s go on from here.”

With her lips trembling Serena said, “Thank you!” She blinked back tears and slowly reached out again and took Elroy’s big callused hand in hers. She began speaking tentatively: “I have a big house, er … with lots of room. While you’re recuperating maybe you could stay with me. I could make sure you get all the medical attention you need and physical therapy. I’ve got people working for me who can assist you when you need it. Your son and his girlfriend would be welcome. Please, think about it. You don’t have to answer right away. It would be no problem, in fact … in fact it would be the best thing that has happened to me in years.” Tears began streaming down Serena’s cheeks. She didn’t bother to wipe them away. She held his hand in both of hers and said, “If you would stay with me, if you would allow me to take care of you, it would be a gift to me. Because … because I could really use a son right now. I could really use a son.”

D
eleon, San Vicente, Alejandro, and Tercero pushed through the glass doors of Big Boy Bob’s on Agua Caliente Boulevard in downtown Tijuana. Big Boy Bob’s, called “El Big” by the locals, was an informal meeting place of Tijuana’s power merchants. On any given evening, one could find representatives of all the local drug kingpins, the mayor, the commander of the regional federal police force, the municipal police chief, and the head of the state police. Among this bejeweled and mustached assembly were also the heads of the various gangs that trafficked in smuggled flesh; these men, who, when it suited them, raped, robbed, and murdered, were completely at home with their proximity to Tijuana’s law enforcement. After all, everyone who had authority with a badge had been paid off. In fact, for the right amount of money, almost anyone could hire law enforcement bodyguards to protect their criminal activities. Deleon had been told all this in the car while en route to town from San Vicente’s mansion. He sensed that things were perhaps a shade too joyful. Something wasn’t right. This feeling was separate and apart from his unexpressed judgment that it was dangerous to go into Tijuana to see a jai alai match
days prior to their scheduled meeting with Jackson. Then, if that wasn’t obtuse enough, San Vicente’s waltzing into a place like Big Boy’s, announcing to everyone that he was on the scene, was utter stupidity. San Vicente had the kind of arrogance that would lead to an early death. It was a weakness that Deleon felt gave him the edge.

As soon as they pushed through the door, heads turned in their direction. A green-uniformed waitress grabbed several menus and deferred to San Vicente’s choice of tables. San Vicente led the way to a corner booth as he waved to groups of men along the way. Deleon was offered the opportunity to sit next to San Vicente, so he slid across the padded, red plastic upholstery behind the beige Formica table. Without inquiring of his companions’ desires, San Vicente ordered hamburgers and shakes for everyone.

“You see those three people, the two men and a woman sitting by the door,” San Vicente said, nodding his head vaguely in the direction they had entered.

Deleon followed his gesture and replied, “Yeah, one of the men has gray hair?”

“They are journalists,” San Vicente said with a frown, as if the word
journalist
caused a bad taste. “They are here every night. Sometimes they write their columns about extortion, murder, assassinations and never leave here.”

Tercero chuckled. “They don’t chase news. It comes to them.”

San Vicente continued, “Those four men in the booth across from them are federal police.”

Tercero scoffed,
“Pelotón!”

“What’s the Pelotón?” Deleon asked.

San Vicente answered, “It’s an organization within the federal police that does dirty work for the Arellanos organization.”

Tercero spat, “They kill women and children! Anybody! They don’t care.”

“They seemed friendly to you,” Deleon observed to San Vicente. “They waved and smiled at you when you came in.”

“Well, I’ve hired them to provide security next Tuesday in San Diego for the meeting with Tremain.”

Deleon said nothing. He was remembering the hard look he had received from one of those men as he had passed their booth. It all came clear to him. San Vicente had contracted out the hit on him to the Pelotón. He would be taken care of after the meeting with Jackson.

A bald-headed man with a thick black mustache from a nearby booth called to San Vicente, “Hey, Cisco! Carnal! I knew you would be in town. It’s jai alai night tonight! El Palacio Frontón hasn’t had such a lineup in years. We have ten of the top twenty players in South America here tonight for the opening celebration of Fiesta Santiago. Betting money is flowing like water. I’m putting ten thousand dollars on Nestor Esquival to win it all! I might have a couple of thousand extra for a side bet with you, because I know you’re a supporter of García Lomas, the man from Sinaloa.”

San Vicente responded enthusiastically: “Aburto, I’ve got twenty-five thousand in my pocket that says Lomas walks away with everything! And I’m willing to put more money on that new boy, Reynoso, from Mexico City! He will come in second ahead of your Esquival.”

Aburto sat silent for a moment doing some mental arithmetic, then he asked, “How much are you willing to put on Reynoso?”

San Vicente retorted, “How much cash do you have?”

“What does it matter?” Aburto shrugged. “You know I’m good for it! I’ll give you a check if I lose.”

San Vicente shook his head. “The banks will be closed tomorrow and on Monday for the national holiday. Cash bets only. You know your brother still hasn’t made good on the IOU he wrote to me. If I see him, I may have to show him how displeased I am about that.” San Vicente’s tone carried a hint of threat. Aburto shrugged in response and said nothing, but his silence seemed to cover anger.

Further conversation was halted due to the arrival of the shakes and burgers. Throughout the eating of their meal, San Vicente pointed out to Deleon the various tables and booths in which members and henchmen of the drug cartels and human smuggling rings were sitting. As he was munching on a french fry, Deleon asked, “Who’s the guy who wants you to accept his check for a bet?”

San Vicente smirked. “He works for the Gaxiola clan, part of the Gulf drug cartel. They’ve been trying to move in on my territory since spring. I’ll take care of them after I deal with Tremain. I’ve got something planned for those
chenchos
!” Tercero and Alejandro laughed nastily, as if they knew what was in store for Aburto. San Vicente said to Deleon, “You notice even with my enemies sitting ten feet away, I do not carry a handgun. Only bosses who are afraid and insecure carry such weapons! I know no one who is foolish enough to attack me in Tijuana. But even if there were such fools, I would not carry one.” San Vicente
gestured to Alejandro and Tercero and the members of the Pelotón. “My people would deal with them.” He pulled his knife and set it on the table. “If the attackers are close, I will take care of them myself. This blade has taken many lives and will taste the blood of many more.” Deleon merely nodded in response. There was no more conversation. The food was finished in silence.

When they left the restaurant, San Vicente waved cheerfully to Aburto and stopped along the way to talk with the men in several other booths and tables. From the way he was greeted it was obvious that San Vicente was among his own and was respected. Deleon filed the information away as he sought to figure out the best method to upset San Vicente’s intended plans.

The drive to El Palacio Frontón took five minutes, more because of traffic than due to distance. Bumper to bumper, the cars moved at a stop-and-go pace, while the sidewalks were filled with pedestrians, many of them dressed in traditional folk attire. There were small vendors with propane lights above their stalls and carts, calling out their wares, and strolling mariachis and groups of costumed
folklórico
dancers all drawing approving crowds. When Deleon asked what was going on, he was told that it was the eve of a national holiday, the Feast of Santiago. Tercero said that every campesino between Mexicali and Ensenada would be coming to town tomorrow dressed in their best clothes to participate in the festivities. The crowds would be much greater tomorrow when there was a
chareada
(a Mexican-style rodeo) scheduled in the Plaza de Toros. Alejandro added that it would be a day of drinking and feasting, that he would drink until his bottle was as dry as the Tijuana River.

San Vicente’s driver dropped them at a side entrance of El Palacio Frontón which allowed them to enter the huge, Moorish-looking structure without waiting in line. An usher led them through boisterous, milling crowds directly to San Vicente’s private box on the second-floor balcony. The box had an excellent view of the jai alai court. San Vicente ordered a bottle of añejo tequila and some cold beer, then began talking over the side wall to the people in the neighboring box.

Deleon sat down in a chair and focused his thoughts on developing a plan of his own. A preliminary jai alai match was already under way. Distractedly, he watched the two players, men in helmets with huge wicker scoops on their right hands, catch and fling a speeding ball
against the three-walled court. The crowds cheered every point, some of which were not obvious to Deleon, but he really didn’t care. He was assembling all the facts that related to his predicament and shuffling them around. The tequila arrived, along with an ice-cold bucket of bottled San Miguel beer. San Vicente poured shots of tequila for everyone and they toasted to a great night of jai alai. Deleon joined in with a smile. He had developed a plan. He would have to wait until the big matches with the star players began before he initiated the first step.

Esquival and Lomas were playing a hotly contested match when Deleon asked where the toilets were located. San Vicente gestured absentmindedly back toward the stairs that they had ascended. Deleon walked through a crowded hallway toward the stairs, stepped into an alcove, and turned his reversible jacket inside out, from white to blue. Within two minutes, he saw Alejandro looking for him. There was a line of men waiting to get into the second-floor rest rooms. Alejandro, disgruntled at having to leave the box during an important match, walked down the stairs pushing people out of his way. Deleon followed him through the crowds at an appropriate distance. Alejandro made his way to the first-floor rest rooms, which were located next to the food and drink concessions, and stood looking around. Deleon watched Alejandro from the foot of the stairs, trying to determine the best way to lose him. He needed to use a phone and he could not afford to have Alejandro see him using it. A sweaty-faced, fat, barrel-shaped man accidentally lurched into Deleon as he trundled toward the bar. The man looked at Deleon and continued on his way. His look indicated that Deleon didn’t merit an apology. On any other evening, Deleon would’ve been the last person the fat man would ever bump into, but this evening he had bigger fish to fry.

There was a roar from the crowd, then another. The contest between Lomas and Esquival was heating up. People started rushing away from the concessions, heading back to their seats. Alejandro stopped looking around for Deleon and went to stand by the tables overlooking the first-floor seating which had a clearer view of the match. Through a break in the milling people, Deleon saw that Aburto and three tough-looking men were sitting at a nearby table. He saw Alejandro and one of the men exchange glances and saw Alejandro make a derisive gesture to him. Deleon smiled. He now had the means to distract Alejandro. There was another roar and people began shouting in support of their
favorite. Deleon looked around and saw the fat man who had bumped into him hurrying with a cardboard tray filled with plastic cups of beer directly toward where Alejandro was standing. When the fat man bustled past him, Deleon stuck out his foot and gave the man a slight shove. The fat man stumbled and barreled right into Alejandro, who in turn was knocked onto Aburto’s table.

Deleon didn’t wait to see the results. He turned away immediately and went to the bank of phones that he had seen next to the betting windows. There appeared to be one on the end that was unoccupied. Deleon stepped into the phone booth and before he could close the door completely, a tattooed young tough in his early twenties wearing a baseball cap backward and a Dixie flag T-shirt pushed open the door and said, “Hey, gringo, you want to use the phone, you pay me first!”