The Power Of The Dog (25 page)

“My uncle is very unhappy about this.”

Art shrugs.

“You called him Tío,” Adán says. “Just like I do.”

“That was then,” Art says. “Things change.”

“That doesn’t change,” Adán says. “That’s forever. You accepted his patronage, his counsel, his help. He made you what you are.”

“We made each other.”

Adán shakes his head. “So much for an appeal to loyalty. Or gratitude.”

He reaches into his lapel pocket and Art takes a step toward him to check him from pulling the gun.

“Easy,” Adán says. He takes out an envelope, sets it on the edge of a sink. “That’s a hundred thousand U.S. dollars, cash. But if you prefer, we can make deposits for you in the Caymans, Costa Rica …”

“I’m not for sale.”

“Really? What’s changed?”

Art grabs him, pushes him against the wall and starts to pat him down. “You wearing a wire, Adán? Huh? You setting me up? Where are the fucking cameras?”

Art lets him go and starts searching the room. In the top corners, the stalls, under the sinks. He doesn’t find anything. He stops searching and, exhausted, leans against the wall.

“A hundred thousand right now for good faith,” Adán says. “Another hundred for the name of your soplón. Then twenty a month just for doing nothing.”

Art shakes his head.

“I told Tío you wouldn’t take it,” Adán says. “You prefer a different kind of coin. Okay, we’ll give you enough marijuana busts to make you a star again. That’s Plan A.”

“What’s Plan B?”

Adán walks over, wraps his arms around Art and holds him tightly. Says quietly into his ear, “Arturo, you’re an ungrateful, inflexible, güero-wannabe prick. But you’re still my friend and I love you. So take the money, or don’t take the money, but back off. You don’t know what you’re fucking around with here.”

Adán leans back so he’s face-to-face with Art. Their noses are practically touching as he looks him in the eyes and repeats, “You don’t know what you’re fucking around with here.”

He steps back, takes the envelope and holds it up. “No?”

Art shakes his head. Adán shrugs and puts the envelope back into his pocket. “Arturo?” he says. “You don’t even want to know about Plan B.”

Then he walks out.

Art steps to the sink, runs the tap and splashes cold water on his face. Then he dries himself off and goes outside to meet his family.

They’re standing on the edge of a small crowd in front of the stage, the kids hopping up and down in delight to the antics of two actors dressed as the Ángel Gabriel and Lucifer, banging each other on the head with sticks, fighting for the soul of the Christ Child.

When they leave the parking garage that night, a Ford Bronco pulls off the curb and follows them. The kids don’t notice, of course—they’re sound asleep—and neither do Althea, Josefina and Guadalupe, but Art keeps track of him in the rearview mirror. Art plays with him for a while through the traffic, but the car stays with him. Not even trying to disguise himself, Art thinks, so he’s trying to make a point, send a message.

When Art pulls into the driveway, the car passes, then turns around, then parks across the street a half-block away.

Art gets his family inside, then makes an excuse about forgetting something in the car. He goes out, walks over to the Bronco and knocks on the window. When the window slides down, Art leans in, pins the man to the seat, reaches into his left lapel pocket and hauls out his wallet.

He tosses the wallet with the Jalisco State Police badge back onto the cop’s lap.

“That’s my family in there,” Art says. “If you scare them, if you frighten them, if they even get the idea you’re out here, I’m going to come back, take that pistola you have on your hip and shove it so far up your ass it’ll come out your mouth. Do you understand me, brother?”

“I’m just doing my job, brother.”

“Then do it better.”

But Tío’s message has been delivered, Art thinks as he walks back into the house—you don’t fuck your friends.

After a mostly sleepless night, Art gets up, makes himself a cup of coffee and sips at it until his family wakes up. Then he fixes the kids’ breakfast, kisses Althea good-bye and drives toward the office.

On the way he stops at a phone booth to commit professional suicide—he calls the Pierce County, Arizona, Sheriff’s Department. “Merry Christmas,” he says, and tells them about the eight hundred boxes of cocaine.

Then he goes to the office and waits for a phone call of his own.

Althea’s driving back from the grocery store the next morning when a strange car starts to follow her. Not even being subtle about it, just getting on her tail and staying there. She doesn’t know what to do. She’s afraid to drive home and get out of the car, and she’s afraid to go anywhere else, so she heads for the DEA office. She’s absolutely terrified—her two kids are in car seats in the back—and she’s three full blocks from the office when the car forces her over and four men with guns get out.

The leader flashes a Jalisco State Police badge.

“Identification, Señora Keller?” he asks.

Her hand shakes as she fumbles for her driver’s license. As she does, he leans through the window, looks in the back and says, “Nice children.”

She feels stupid as she hears herself say, “Thank you.”

She hands him the license.

“Passport?”

“It’s at home.”

“You’re supposed to have it on you.”

“I know, but we’ve been here a long time and—”

“Maybe you’ve been here too long,” the cop says. “I’m afraid you’ll have to come with me.”

“But I have my children with me.”

“I can see that, Señora, but you must come with me.”

Althea finds herself near tears. “But what am I supposed to do with my children?”

The cop excuses himself for a moment and goes back to his car. Althea sits, trying to get herself under control, for long minutes. She fights off the temptation to look in the rearview mirror to see what’s going on, likewise fights the urge to just get out of the car with the kids and start walking. Finally, the cop comes back. Leans through the window and with elaborate courtesy says, “In Mexico we appreciate the meaning of family. Good afternoon.”

Art gets his phone call.

Tim Taylor, phoning to say he’s heard something disturbing and they need to talk about it.

Taylor’s still yapping at him when the shooting starts.

Plan B.

First they hear the roar of a speeding car, then the cacophony of AK-47s going off, then they are all on the floor, crouching behind desks. Art, Ernie and Shag wait for a few minutes after the shooting stops and then go out to look at Art’s car. The Ford Taurus’s windows are all blown out, the tires flat and a few dozen large bullet holes punched into its sides.

Shag says, “I don’t think you’re going to get Blue Book on this, boss.”

The federales are there within moments.

If they weren’t here already, Art thinks.

They take him to the station, where Colonel Vega looks at him with deep concern.

“Thank God you were not in the vehicle,” he says. “Whoever could have done such a thing? Do you have any enemies in the city, Señor Keller?”

“You know goddamn well who did this,” Art snaps. “Your boy, Barrera.”

Vega gives him a look of wide-eyed incredulity. “Miguel Ángel Barrera? But why would he want to do such a thing? You yourself told me you are not investigating Don Miguel.”

Vega keeps him in the interview room for three and a half hours, basically interrogating him about his investigations, on the pretext of trying to determine who might have had a motive for the attack.

Ernie’s half-afraid he’s not coming out. He parks himself in the lobby and refuses to leave until his boss comes back out those doors. While Ernie’s camped there, Shag drives over to the Kellers’ house and tells Althea, “Art’s fine, but …”

When Art gets home, Althea is in their bedroom packing.

“I got us on a flight to San Diego tonight,” she says. “We’ll stay with my parents for a while.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I was scared today, Art,” she says. She tells him about the interaction with the Jalisco cop, about what it felt like to hear that his car had been shot up and that he was being taken to the federale station. “I’ve never been really scared before, Art. I want out of Mexico.”

“There’s nothing to be scared of.”

She looks at him like he’s nuts. “They shot your car up, Art.”

“They knew I wasn’t in it.”

“So when they bomb the house,” she says, “are they going to know that me and the kids aren’t in it?!”

“They won’t hurt families.”

“What is that,” she asks, “some sort of rule?”

“Yes, it is,” he says. “Anyway, it’s me they’re after. It’s personal.”

“What do you mean, ‘it’s personal’?”

When he hasn’t answered after about thirty seconds she says, “Art, what do you mean?!”

He sits her down and tells her about his prior relationship with Tío and Adán Barrera. Tells her about the ambush in Badiraguato, the execution of six prisoners and how he kept his mouth shut about it. How it helped Tío form his Federación, which is now flooding the streets of America with crack, and how it’s up to him to do something about it.

She looks at him incredulously. “You have all that on your shoulders.”

He nods.

“You must be a pretty powerful guy, Art,” she says. “What were you supposed to have done back then? It wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known what Barrera was up to.”

“I think,” Art says, “maybe a part of me knew. And just didn’t want to admit it.”

“So you feel you have to atone for this in some way?” she asks. “By bringing the Barreras down? Even if it costs your life.”

“Something like that.”

She gets up and goes into the bathroom. It seems to him as if she’s in there forever, but it’s really only a few minutes later when she comes out, goes into the closet, grabs his suitcase and tosses it onto the bed. “Come with us.”

“I can’t do that.”

“This crusade of yours is more important to you than your family?” she asks.

“Nothing is more important to me than my family.”

“Prove it,” she says. “Come with us.”

“Althea—”

“You want to stay here and play High Noon, fine,” she says. “If you want to keep your family together, start packing. Just enough for a few days. Tim Taylor said he’d arrange to have the rest of our things packed and shipped.”

“You talked to Tim Taylor about this?!”

“He called,” she says. “Which is more than you did, by the way.”

“I was in an interrogation room!”

“Which is supposed to make me feel better?!”

“Goddamn it, Althie! What do you want from me?!”