Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle (68 page)

But he persevered and he double-checked everything they found through established dealers, eBay, Craigslist, Kijiji, and other places people trade parts. He talked to the Indian owners' clubs and even a few motorcycle customizers he knew, but they adhered to the same code of silence as bikers because their business sometimes came from people who would rather not have their name bandied around. If word spread that a parts supplier or customizer was giving out information to law enforcement, their business would quickly become extinct.

Although he knew it would likely come to nothing, Tovar kept going on the Indian parts, not only because of the slim chance it could yield something but also because he often got his best, most creative ideas while concentrating on something else.

* * *

As instructed, Ned did ask one of the girls to make him something to eat and to show him the “nice place” out back. As soon as he said it, he thought she would take it as a euphemism for sex, and was relieved when she didn't. The girl, Juana, guided him to an area behind the house that was surrounded by trees (the trunks of which had been painted in the red, white, and green of the Mexican flag), flowers, and other decorative plants. The wall of vegetation not only sealed the little spot from the sun, making it about ten degrees cooler than the rest of the area, but it made a string of tiny white lights necessary. Combined with the pristine metal-and-glass furniture, the little glade had an idyllic appeal, nothing like the slovenly, drunken dorm-room atmosphere in and around the house.

Juana soon returned with a bowl of
puchero
, a thick beef stew laced with chickpeas, corn, squash, and other hardy vegetables that grew in the dry parts of northern Mexico. It had become a favorite of Ned's since he had moved to the area. He asked her to join him, to talk for a while. She sat, but seemed nervous, even jumpy. When she demurred about what her tasks were at the ranch and how she had gotten there, Ned let her return to her duties.

Ned thought about the women in the house. Most of the men he knew in Mexico were very strict about what they considered women's work, and never lifted a finger to help the women they knew, whether they were relatives or romantic partners. He also realized that the women were expected to provide the men of the house with sex any time they wanted it. Twice since he had been at the ranch house, women had offered him sex and he didn't think it was because of his looks or personality. It was clearly just part of the job.

His reverie was broken by a man calling him. It was El Guason. Ned emerged from behind the trees and approached him. “Hey, what's going on?” he asked.

“Time for work,” he replied. “Same as yesterday, but this time, it's just me and you.” El Guason led him through the ranch house, in which there were signs of life as men started waking up. One of them, Ned noticed, was wearing a police uniform. Once out of the house, El Guason and Ned walked over to a bright red Ford Mustang and got in. “My other car is a Corvette, but there's no room to carry anything,” El Guason said to him. “All the other guys want trucks, they are a bunch of
güeys
, fresh off their dad's chicken ranch—they have no style.” He pointed his thumb at the back seat of the car. It was filled with dozens of identical brown paper bags, each with the top folded over and stapled shut. Each one had a number written on it with a Sharpie.

As they drove down the dirt road, Ned noticed that they were again waved through the roadblock. Indeed, one of the cops politely moved his SUV so that El Guason could get through. “How are you finding everything—the house, the food? Good?” he asked Ned while waving at the cops without looking at them. “You're comfortable?”

Ned was surprised that El Guason would take such an interest in his welfare. “Yeah, I'm good,” he said. “Just a little confused is all.”

El Guason looked genuinely surprised. “Confused? Why?”

Ned didn't want to anger him, but couldn't help trying to get answers. “Well, I know I work for you now, but I don't know who you guys are.”

El Guason snorted. “All you had to do was ask. We are just a group on entrepreneurs. The media calls us the Jalisco Cartel, but we prefer to be called the Rincon-Bravo Organization.”

“Cartel?” Ned instinctively knew these guys were involved with a drug cartel, but hearing it from one of them still sent a jolt of panic though him.

El Guason laughed. “Don't let that word scare you; the DEA made it up to make us sound scary,” he said. “Look, we know enough about you to know that dropping off bags of weed at gas stations, bars, and fruit stands isn't exactly the kind of work that will keep you awake at night.”

Ned couldn't help but smile. “Yeah, I'll admit that I'm no stranger to this particular business,” he said. “But when you say ‘cartel,' it makes me think about a lot of money, a lot of violence.” As they passed by the melon stand, Ned was reminded of El Chango's demise and it sobered him a great deal. He had been growing familiar with the ranch house, its people, and its way of life, but the image of the little Guatemalan being killed in front of him reminded him that he was being held captive and that he was still in an incredible amount of danger.

“There is money, no doubt, and some violence, too, but not the way you're imagining,” El Guason told him as he threw his cigarette out the window and lit another. “But look at what you've seen—the cops are no problem here. People just buy our weed and pay us our money. We keep things quiet.”

“Keep things quiet?”

“Yeah, this area used to be run by the Caro-Quintero Organization, what you people would call the Sonora Cartel, but when they went down, Sonora became a battleground between what you call the Tijuana Cartel and the Sinaloa Cartel. Bodies were everywhere—hanging from bridges, mailed in pieces to police stations, rotting in the streets.” El Guason sounded bored as he described the carnage. “But there was a summit and it was decided that we would control this area—the TJs and the Sinaloans still get their cuts, but it's our place now.”

“What do you mean by ‘control'?”

El Guason looked at Ned like he thought he was stupid. “You know, sell weed, move product, pay off or threaten cops, keep the bad guys out,” he said. “Just like you do up north.”

“Seems like you're doing a great job.”

“Yeah, every once in a while one of the old Caro-Quintero loyalists will do something stupid or a TJ will step on some toes,” he said. “But they get taken care of pretty quickly.”

El Guason wasn't trying to sound ominous, but that's how it hit Ned. He, too, was a member of a cartel. He wondered why they would want someone as conspicuous as him, with his blue eyes and halting Spanish, to be part of their group. But that was not the kind of question one asked El Guason.

Their first stop, just like their previous run, was a now-familiar Pemex station. El Guason parked outside and told Ned to take care of things. He went inside and was met by the one-handed cashier, Pedro. “Ivan is not here,” he said. “You can just give me the bag.”

Ned remembered that he had been told not to give the bag to Pedro. This could be a test, he thought to himself. And even if it wasn't, it could be the kind of classic fuck-up that could put him in a lot of trouble. “No, I can't,” Ned told him. “I'll wait for Ivan.”

“Could be a while.” Pedro shrugged and went back to what he was reading. Ned had three choices: give the bag to Pedro, wait for Ivan (potentially angering El Guason who was idling in the Mustang outside), or go back to the car and ask El Guason what to do. Then he remembered something his boss at Hawkridge had told him—the best employee is one the boss doesn't have to worry about. He took that to mean that El Guason would have more respect for him if he solved the problem himself. He decided that he would wait for Ivan.

It did not take long. Ivan soon popped out of the door with the “Employees Only” sign while Ned was leafing through a stack of magazines, many of which were months out of date. “You're El Guason's
guero
friend,” he smiled. “You have something for me?”

“Yes,” Ned said, producing the bag. “And you have something for me?”

Pedro went behind the counter and pulled out a plastic bag full of cash. “It's all there,” he said. “So, you're our man now?”

“Looks like,” Ned said, nodding. “Can I get a bag of chips, those, the Barcels, the El Diablos, with lime.”

Ivan handed him about a half-dozen bags. Ned said he only wanted one and asked how much they were. Ivan looked shocked. “For you? Nothing, everything in here is free for you. Here, take a couple of
pulques
with you, El Guason loves it.” Ned couldn't stand the milky, opaque, and mildly alcoholic drink himself, but took both cans to shut the guy up and because he knew El Guason would indeed enjoy it.

Back in the Mustang, Ned handed the
pulque
to El Guason. “I was going to complain about how long you took, but not anymore,” he said. “How did you know I love
pulque
?”

“Ivan told me,” Ned said, handing him the bag with the cash.

El Guason took a swig of
pulque
and pointed to the back seat. “Just tie it up and throw it back there,” he instructed. “That
pendejo
Pedro wasn't in there was he?”

“Yeah, he even asked me for the product,” Ned told him.

“What? Really? That son of a whore,” El Guason looked really angry.

“Why is it such a big deal?” Ned asked. “It's just a bag of weed, and it's not like we don't know where he works.”

“You don't understand.” El Guason, his voice rising. “Pedro can't handle anything. He's not allowed. He stole an entire kilo of meth from the Caro-Quinteros two years ago. Didn't you see his left hand had been cut off? He's a thief.”

Of course Ned had noticed that Pedro was missing his left hand, but he hadn't read the significance of it. He had seen plenty worse since he'd arrived in Mexico. “Well, he didn't really ask for the bag, he just . . .”

“Don't try to defend him,” El Guason said. Before Ned could reply, El Guason stopped at a car wash. Like most other cash washes in Sonora, this one—the Crystal Clear—was really just a couple of covered parking spots and some guys with hoses. “Okay, now take this package to Miguel Ricardo, not Miguel, Miguel Ricardo, you got that?”

Ned assured him he did and took the bag to the car wash's office. He asked for Miguel Ricardo and was directed to one of the guys sitting out front waiting for a car to wash. After making sure he was the right guy, Ned handed him the bag. Miguel Ricardo went into the office and returned with a thick manila envelope that he handed to Ned.

The pair continued to visit locations all over the south side of Nogales until all twenty-six bags of weed in the back seat had been replaced by twenty-six bags or envelopes of cash. This was going to be Ned's delivery route, said El Guason. He would take him around for the first week or so to get him familiar with the people and all the stops. After that, he said, Ned would do the route alone or with a friend if he had one he trusted. The organization would get him a car, find him a nice place to live, all he had to do was make deliveries. He would get 5 percent of the money he brought in. Ned asked if he would need to bring any muscle along, and El Guason laughed. “Nobody ever holds out,” he said. “Nobody doesn't pay.”

Ned knew it wasn't an ideal situation, but also that he didn't have much of a choice. It certainly beat the screen-door factory and it could be a springboard back to a little cash and independence. He agreed.

Ned slept at the ranch house that night and went with El Guason on the same route at about noon the next day. The first stop was the Pemex station. Ivan ran out to see Ned. Pedro wasn't there.

Ned never saw him again. But thousands did. During the night, someone hung Pedro's now completely handless body from a tree in the park on the east side of the city. Tied to it was a pair of signs—one in the front, one in the back. Both read “I stole.”

It was an absolutely beautiful morning. The sun hadn't scorched off all the moisture and coolness yet, so Ned sat on the veranda and looked at the ranch for the first time without assessing it for danger and possible escape strategies. Ordinarily, he was unimpressed by, even contemptuous of, Sonora's the dry, bleak landscape, but at this moment, it was ruggedly beautiful. His attention had turned to a little roadrunner that was frantically pacing among the scrub and occasional cactus on the lot in front of him, looking for lizards and snakes and caterpillars. Every time Ned moved, the roadrunner darted away, only to regain its confidence and scamper back.

Ned's five-day trial period with El Guason—the cartel worked Monday to Friday—was on its last day. It seemed to Ned to be going very well, but the two had not become friends. Ned found El Guason so obsessed by his appearance and possessions—especially his cars and jewelry—that they had little else to talk about. Of course, that didn't mean El Guason didn't talk. In fact, he went on and on, constantly bragging about this or that, as though he had a deep-seated need for Ned to be envious of him.

And, as Ned had experienced before when he joined the Sons of Satan, his immediate superior felt not just that he could tell Ned what to do all the time but also that Ned had to perform tasks and jobs that were well beneath him or even humiliating. Cleaning El Guason's guns and washing his cars were one thing, but doing his laundry and preparing his food was another. Ned noticed that none of the other men did such work, and wondered if his refusal to take advantage of the house girls—who came and went, sometimes on the same day—led them to believe he was less of a man than the rest of them.

It didn't matter now. If they were telling him the truth, it was the last day he'd have to ride with El Guason, who had told him that he was getting bored with teaching him the ropes and wanted to go back to his old job. When Ned asked what that job was, he quickly changed the subject.

The deal they had worked out was that, if Ned passed his trial period, the organization would set him up with a car and a place to live. Although Ned knew it was hardly an independent life, it would be a great step away from the claustrophobic feeling he had in the ranch house.

He was just killing time before one of the girls showed up. He had hoped Juana would be the first he'd see. He still hadn't managed to get three words out of her, but she was easily the best cook of the lot. If he could get her to whip him up something, he could retire to the nice spot out back and enjoy a few more quiet moments before the sun and work made life in Mexico a reality for him again.

As he walked back inside, he heard a phone ring. One of the men Ned knew simply as El Ardilla Voladora sprung awake from the sofa in the main room. He answered the phone, said yes a couple of times and hung up. Immediately, he started shouting for everyone in the house to get up. He ran upstairs and out back. Once the other men started to wake up, they all looked very serious. Every man in the house was doing something, obviously in preparation for a major event, but Ned didn't know what it was. When El Guason—who, as he often did, had stayed the night to avoid his sharp-tongued wife—appeared, Ned asked him what was going on.

El Guason looked startled, as though hearing Ned's voice had broken his concentration. “Oh, yeah, yeah, El Espagueti,” he said. “This is not for you; go wait upstairs until I call you. I can send up . . . uh, uh . . . Monica.” He paused as though he had caught himself in a faux pas. “To bring you some food.”

“No, really, if it's part of my job . . .”

El Guason looked very angry. “Look, I've been told this is definitely not part of your job,” he ordered. “Now, go upstairs, close the door, and stay in there until I or someone else comes to get you.”

Ned knew better than to argue. Just as he was turning to go upstairs, he saw the front door burst open. Two Federales burst in with AR-15 assault rifles. Sure the shit was going down, Ned put his hands up. The first Federale laughed. “Put your hands down, you
guero
asshole,” he said. “You're on our side.”

Behind the two cops (who Ned quickly realized were members of his own organization in stolen uniforms) were three men who were in handcuffs. They were shirtless and masked. The first two shuffled silently behind the fake cops, while the third, a much smaller and younger man, wept and begged for his life. Behind them were six more armed men, one in a Sonora state police uniform, the rest in street clothes.

El Guason grabbed Ned by the arm. “Upstairs! Now!” he ordered. Ned complied, going directly to the room in which he slept. He immediately went to the window, but it pointed east and the group had gone out the back of the building on the south. Ned jumped when he heard the door open behind him. It was Monica, one of the girls. She sat on the bed, holding herself tight. She looked at Ned expectantly, then turned and looked straight ahead, rocking slightly on the edge of his bed. As Ned turned back to the window, two more girls rushed into his room—one he had never seen before and one whose name he could not remember—and joined Monica. They huddled together as though they were very, very cold.

Although he still couldn't see, Ned heard some indistinguishable shouting and then what sounded like popcorn popping, just a few random cracks that increased in frequency then died down. One of the girls screamed and began to cry. The others tried to calm her down, but were obviously stressed themselves. When the popping stopped, there was a quick
budda-budda
, sounding almost like a muffled drum roll, then a great deal of celebratory shouting.

Once the shouting started, the girl who had been crying fled from the room, running downstairs. The others followed her. Not knowing exactly what to do, Ned went downstairs, too. The men, led by El Ratón, were coming back in the house. They were smiling and laughing. El Guason ordered the girls to get them food and beer and to put on some music. They complied. As she was headed toward the kitchen, Monica was intercepted by one of the younger men. He grabbed her right hand and put his left around her waist, forcing her into a poorly executed waltz before releasing her to her duties. Clearly the men were celebrating.

Ned separated El Guason from the crowd. “What's going on?” he asked.

“Nothing,
guero
,” he answered grinning. “It's a great day for the organization today, really good.” He grabbed one of the younger men and held him firmly in a half-hug. “We have such good men, the best!” he boasted. “You know what?
Guero
, today is such a good day that you can do the route by yourself.”

Ned wasn't sure why that announcement constituted a reward. But he knew it would be prudent to let El Guason stay and drink himself silly with the boys, so he agreed with what he hoped looked like enthusiasm. “I'll need a car,” he said.

“Yeah, we got you one,” El Guason said, and reached in his pocket for some keys, and handed them to Ned.

They were attached to a keychain with a figurine of a popular Mexican children's TV clown, Poco Loco. “I won't need this,” he said, starting to remove the keychain. All the men within hearing distance laughed.

“Yes you will,” El Guason told him sharply. “You get stopped by the cops or the army, just show them Poco Loco and tell them that's who you work for.”

“Seriously?” Ned asked. “Poco Loco? The kiddies' clown?”

“Yeah, didn't you see mine?” El Guason held up his keys with a similar, but more battered keychain.

Ned told him that he hadn't, and the others laughed again.

“Just take the damn thing, and if you get into any trouble, the clown will get you out,” his boss ordered. “The car's outside. It's a Mazda or some other thing I wouldn't be seen in. You can take the bags out of the back of the Mustang. It's unlocked.”

* * *

Although she didn't like the Midwest as a rule, Agent O'Malley liked the time away from the office and its boys' club atmosphere. And it was also a chance to advance the case, which had shown little forward movement thus far. A suspicious fire at a warehouse in Hillsboro, Illinois, had attracted the agency's attention. Not only was the formerly sleepy town said to be a major distribution center for drugs, generally handled by bikers, but also the fire had all the hallmarks of an attempt to hide evidence. The crime scene investigators found a number of indications of fire accelerant (probably gasoline) and many items that one would rarely find in an abandoned warehouse. Among the suspicious items was the frame of an American-made motorcycle that was at least fifty years old. Meloni thought it could be the Indian that the FBI could link back to Ned Aiken. Bikes like that are rare. Aiken was originally from the Midwest and the fact that organized crime was probably involved also pointed to him.

She had privately hoped that all the local cops wouldn't be shaven-headed muscle boys or beer-bellied goofballs, but she was disappointed. The evidence had long been removed from the scene, and she was taken to the Montgomery County sheriff's department to see the frame. She'd been e-mailed some details, but they weren't very specific. The locals had determined it was American made, somewhere between 1946 and 1953. It was probably an Indian, but could have been any of a number of different makes.

It didn't look like much to O'Malley, just a piece of twisted metal with burn marks and ash stuck to it. The Montgomery cops had brought in a local expert. He was a short man, but not small. Maybe five-foot-three, he must have carried over 300 pounds on him. Despite it being indoors, he wore a broad-brimmed straw hat. Long strands of white hair stuck out from underneath it, in contrast to his much darker beard. He took off his hat to shake the agent's hand, revealing a bald head and a wide, red face with thick-lensed, wire-framed glasses.

“Ma'am, am I to understand that the motorcycle frame you are seeking is that from a 1948 Indian?” he asked in a condescending tone.

“Yes,” O'Malley said, looking at her notes. “It's a 1948 . . .”

“I don't need to know the model, ma'am,” he interrupted her, holding up his hands to shush her. “This is a 1951 or later . . . I can tell because of the welding style. It's not your frame.”

O'Malley smiled. She was used to such treatment. “Your opinion will be noted in the record,” she said as officiously as she could. “But it is now the property of the FBI. I'll have my people ship it to FBI headquarters Quantico; if it's not the one we want, we will send it back for your local investigation.” She did not wait for any arguments. Instead, she beckoned to the team of agents she'd brought to remove the frame, then turned on her heel and walked out to her rental car.

* * *

Ned left the celebration behind and walked out to the barren area where the men parked their cars. Immediately and without question, he could tell which car was his. Nestled in among the brightly colored and gaudily customized pickups and SUVs was one small, plain-looking sedan. It wasn't a Mazda as El Guason had guessed, but rather an ancient and battered Subaru Impreza. The reliability and sensibility of small, Japanese cars had yet to win over any of the Mexican men he knew, most of whom considered a truck of some sort to be absolutely vital to one's masculinity.

The Subaru was a sand color on the outside, and inside it was decorated with religious symbols and a few photos and stickers of kittens. It smelled vaguely of what Ned guessed was lavender. As he packed the back-seat full of the now familiar paper bags full of weed, Ned sighed behind the wheel and thought about the car's former owner. The way the interior had been treated indicated that it was a young woman. The make, model, and age indicated she was not wealthy, but at least had a steady income. He hoped that the loss of her car hadn't endangered that.

Ned realized it was pointless to worry about someone else when he considered the position he himself was in and gave a little chuckle as he turned the key. As soon as he passed the two guys at the gate, who waved at him, he realized he could be free. He had a little car, a tank full of gas, about three dozen bags of weed, and a gun (which, he made sure, was full of ammo). He could collect the cash for the weed and make a dash for it. “But where would you go, idiot?” he said to himself. Escaping these guys was still his eventual plan, but it was ridiculous to do anything about it now. These dudes would kill you for a dollar, let alone thousands. Sure he was armed, but what was a mere popgun when they had dozens of AK-47s? Besides, even though he had once accidentally killed a guy, he wasn't exactly the kind of person who'd be able to shoot his way to freedom. He'd need more money, he'd need contacts and, most of all, he'd need a place to go.

Ned was driving the familiar route into town when he slowed down for the roadblock. He had never seen any of the Federales there before, and noticed that one was pointing an assault rifle at him as he stopped and rolled down the little car's window. Experience had taught him to look at the type of gun any cop in Mexico was carrying as a first step in determining whether he was legitimate or not. This guy had an AR-15, which could go either way. Although the Federales did issue them, they were also very popular with the cartels. At least these guys were clean shaven, although some had conspicuous gold on their persons.

Another cop came up to the window and asked for Ned's driver's license. He produced the one his old boss, El Orangután, had made for him. When they asked for registration, he made a move for the glove box (even though he had no idea what was inside) when the guy with the assault rifle nervously shouted: “Keep your hands where I can see them! Keep your hands where I can see them!”

Ned complied and the other cop asked him to step out of the car. “I don't like the look of this at all,” said the cop. He was a very short man, who seemed not to be a very quick thinker as he meticulously pored over the driver's license and into the car. “Mr. Duncan, this picture on your license, it does not look like you.”