Triple Crossing (28 page)

In a rush of images, Pescatore saw the Taylor Street of his childhood, the barred Italian shops and restaurants facing the
low-rise housing project where the blacks lived across the street. That was a border, he thought. That was a serious border.
He said: “Where I’m from was kinda like that too.”

Buffalo was adrift in his own words. “Never had shit till I hooked up with Junior. I’m down with Junior, all the way, to the
curb. But yesterday was bad, Valentín. Real bad.”

Buffalo sounded strangely nostalgic talking about his house and cars, his voice full of loss. It went beyond remorse. He seemed
convinced that the murder of Araceli Aguirre had a whiff of doom about it for all involved.

“The AFI gonna come after us?” Pescatore asked.

Buffalo puffed dismissively. “We own the federales. All we gotta worry about is the Diogenes Group.
Pinche
Méndez. Thinks he can sweat Junior. It’s all his fault, really. He was the one pushing the human rights lady.”

“That motherfucker.”

“Motherfucker is right. And he wants you bad.”

“Me?”

“Our friends in
la federal
say the Diogenes Group is huntin’ for you and Garrison overtime. Spreading around
lana
to informants. They say Méndez isn’t particular, long as he gets you. Dead or alive.”

Pescatore shook his head. He would have thought the Americans wanted him alive, cop-killer or not. Did that mean Isabel had
given up on him and told Méndez to do his thing? Or that Méndez decided he’d handle Pescatore any way he wanted on Mexican
turf?

Buffalo looked directly into Pescatore’s eyes for the first time since entering the kitchen. The sudden clarity of the stare
surprised Pescatore. “You’re not used to gettin’ high so much, huh, Valentín?”

Pescatore shook his head. Buffalo continued: “Stay away from
it, then. You got more discipline than these youngsters, your training from the
Migra. No seas pendejo.
You come with Momo and Sniper and me. We’re gonna stay close by Junior. Get yourself cleaned up now, drink some coffee.
Hórale.
”

Buffalo turned away, focused again, his moves brisk. Pescatore regarded his own haggard reflection in one of the kitchen windows.
He shook his head. How about that, he thought. I made supervisor in the Death Patrol.

“One thing.” Buffalo paused in the doorway. “You be sure an’ look sharp around Junior. Last week he told me we should cut
you loose, give you up to
la federal.
Throw ’em a bone for the
americanos.
I said no, you handle yourself good, you helped us out with Garrison, this and that. I vouched for you, homes. Don’t make
me look bad, you understan’ what I’m sayin’?”

Back in his third-floor room, Pescatore wedged the chair against the knob. He put the keys on the chair. He crouched in a
corner holding the phone, the gun within reach on the bed. He dialed Isabel’s apartment. She had told him to call land lines
whenever possible. The Santa Muerte skull leered at him from the decal on the phone.

“Puente.”

She sounded like she was in a bad mood. He imagined her just home from work, sitting at her kitchen table over a cup of Cuban-style
coffee the way she liked it, strong and sweet. He closed his eyes.

“Hello?” she demanded.

He whispered: “Isabel.”

Silence. She spoke finally in Spanish, voice trembling, her Cuban accent fierce.

“What did you do? For the love of God, what did you do? What have you done, crazy imbecile? Are you all right?”

He clung to the emotion in her voice, the purity of it. No way she was good enough of an actress to fake that on the spot,
right?

“I’m OK,” he whispered more softly, his eyes on the door. “Isabel: I did not shoot that highway patrolman. It was Garrison.
He damn near shot me too. You gotta believe—”

She switched back to English. “I believe you. Is it safe to talk?”

“No. But I had to call you.”

“Valentine, I thought you were…” Her voice broke. Then her tone changed, like she was getting control of herself. “Listen.
Can you tell me where you are?”

Pescatore’s grin was triumphant. “I don’t know if you’re gonna believe me.”

The boxing ring was in a private gym that took up a wing of the Ruiz Caballero family compound at the crest of Colonia Chapultepec.
One wall was mostly glass, offering a view of the brown beehive hills of Tijuana in the afternoon, the Pacific streaked purple
and crimson.

Junior was turning purple and crimson himself. Sweat leapt from his hair mashed beneath the helmet. Sweat cascaded from the
flab wobbling over the waist of his baggy trunks. He breathed arduously through the mouthpiece, making a distressed humming
sound as he threw punches. But there was power in his wide, round-shouldered frame, judging from the sledgehammer sound of
the impacts.

His sparring partner was Kid Avila, the rangy pro from Northern California who had defended his championship title a month
earlier at Multiglobo Arena. Kid Avila patiently withstood Junior’s flailing and lunging. Kid Avila moved now and then, catching
blows on his forearms and gloves. He threw periodic measured punches to sustain the illusion of combat. He allowed Junior
to connect, reacting with theatrical grunts and headshakes.

“There you go,
jefe,
way to stick!” Avila said.

Buffalo, Momo, Sniper and a half-dozen men lounged outside the ring on bleachers and folding chairs, echoing him.

“
Muy buena,
Junior.”

“Dale duro.”

“Get it on, get it on.”

Mr. Abbas did not participate in the commentary. The gangster from South America sat on the other side of the ring in a folding
chair by the glass wall. He drank from a tall glass and checked his watch periodically. He was alone; Moze and Tchai had left
with Khalid before the assassination.

Judging from what Pescatore had seen on the way in, the Ruiz Caballeros lived and did business in a complex that was a hilltop
fortress done in red-roofed hacienda style. The well-guarded walls enclosed buildings on terraced levels connected by wooden
decks and walkways. There were corporate offices, a recording studio, the gym, separate residences for Junior and his uncle.
Statues of cavorting cherubs filled a fountain in the middle of the circular driveway. There was a barn-size garage with rows
of antique cars under plastic covers.

Pescatore sat miserably on the low bleachers. He was drinking Coke from a can, hoping to get hydrated and alert. Despite the
air-conditioning, he was perspiring. His head throbbed. He felt uncomfortably well armed with the pistol in his shoulder holster
and the AK-47 by his side.

Buffalo’s comments in the kitchen had amped Pescatore’s paranoia to full volume. So Junior had wanted to give him up to the
Mexfeds as a fall guy. But Buffalo had made it sound like he had stood up for Pescatore. Buffalo was his protector, believe
it or not. Not totally reassuring after seeing him go off on Pelón, who had disappeared. Had they whacked Pelón just for talking
shit? It made things easier for Pescatore as far as hanging on to the cell phone.

Junior’s voice startled him; Junior stood at the ropes shouting. Except for the swear words, his Spanish sounded different
than that of the homeboys or the aliens at The Line. More Mexico City than TJ, ideal for bossing around servants. Between
croaks
for oxygen, Junior berated an older Mexican bodyguard for bothering him. The bodyguard extended a phone at him plaintively,
saying it was the third time the Senator had called long distance from
El D.F., urgente.

Junior spat out his mouthpiece, extended his arms to his sides and waited. He gave Mr. Abbas a frown that said: This is the
kind of shit I put up with from these mopes. Mr. Abbas nodded sympathetically.

A hunched trainer in a warm-up suit scuttled through the ropes and set to work removing Junior’s gloves and helmet. The bodyguard
clambered up to hold the phone to Junior’s ear.

Once the gloves were off, Junior roamed the ring with the phone. Pescatore caught fragments of the conversation, mainly Junior
cursing and telling his uncle to calm down. At one point Pescatore understood him to say: “Everything’s fine here. Stop whining
and handle your part. And tell those guys to stop worrying like little sissies. I don’t care. Reevaluate the relationship?
That’s funny. Tell them careful or
we
reevaluate relationships. One by one. No, that’s exactly what you tell them. Stop calling me every five minutes.”

End of conversation. Sitting near Pescatore on the bleachers, Buffalo sighed heavily. Junior tossed his head, geysering sweat.
He pasted his hair back with his fingers and leaned on the ropes.

“Yo big man, whassup?” Junior’s English had barely any accent at all. Pescatore remembered that he had spent time at colleges
in the States. He sounded like a frat boy talking street.

“This and that, you know,” Buffalo said.

“What’s the matter? Still pissed at me?”

Buffalo seemed both proud of and uncomfortable with Junior’s public admission that Buffalo was authorized to get pissed at
him.

“You know I ain’t,” Buffalo said. “You know I’m just watchin’ out for you.”

“Enough. My uncle is whining like an old woman. I know what I’m doing.”

“OK.”

“The bitch wanted drama, Buffalo.” Junior cocked back his head to squirt water into his mouth from a plastic bottle. He spat
emphatically onto the canvas. “We gave her drama.”

Buffalo nodded.

“You should think like Khalid,” Junior said. “He understands this stuff. Psychology. He said, it’s your territory, you make
a statement—”

“I heard what he said,” Buffalo grumbled. He eyed Abbas, who had perked up at the mention of Khalid.

Junior noticed Pescatore.

“Who’s this
vato?
” he asked.

Pescatore got up.

“This is Valentín,” Buffalo said.

“The
gabacho
who was in the
Migra?
Who smoked the highway patrolman?”

“Sí-mon.”

Pescatore made his way down the bleachers. He thought to himself that it gets to a point where fear becomes comfortable, like
a coat you never take off.

He went up on tiptoe to shake a thick and extremely wet hand. The agitated eyes regarded him from within layers of chin and
cheek. From this angle above Pescatore, Junior looked like a malevolent man-child appraising a small animal.

“Valentín used to do some boxing hisself,” Buffalo said.

“Really,” Junior said. “The pride of the Border Patrol. You want to go a couple of rounds? How long you think you’d last with
me? How long you think you’d last with
him?
” He jerked his head at Kid Avila, who lounged in the far corner. “Thirty seconds? Fifteen seconds? That would be the last
Mexican you ever chase, my friend.”

There were chortles. Pescatore remained soldierly, remembering Buffalo’s admonition.

“Ready to go a few rounds?” Junior insisted.

“Hey, you’re the man.” Pescatore imagined himself flattening the tanned nose, which looked like it might have gotten a tweak
from a plastic surgeon, with a short straight right. “You’re the one helped me when I needed it, you and Buffalo. Say the
word and I’ll get in the ring with you, him, Julio César Chávez, you name it.”

Junior’s smirk, and Buffalo’s body language, made him think that it had been a good answer.

“Maybe later,” Junior said. “I’m still giving the champ his workout.”

Junior tossed the phone in the general direction of the older bodyguard. The trainer came forward to gird him into the mouthpiece,
helmet and gloves. This time, Kid Avila played punching bag. Junior went after him like it was Round 12 in Madison Square
Garden.

Pescatore drank deeply from the ice-cold Coke. He shivered in the air-conditioning. He wondered if he had a fever. He was
woozy, but seeing things with febrile clarity. Here he sat a couple of yards from the boss of the organization Isabel had
assigned him to infiltrate. You couldn’t get closer to the fire without getting burned. The murder of Araceli Aguirre had
jolted him awake. It was like coming out of anesthesia. And his call to Isabel had given him purpose. No more cringing and
getting high, no more scheming about escape. He was on a mission.

He imagined Isabel waiting for his next call. He saw her on the balcony where they had eaten breakfast, staring out at the
lagoon, worrying about him. He had to hear her voice again. Now that she was looking out for him again, he felt ready to take
on fat-ass psycho Junior.

Pescatore chafed and brooded. He listened to the leather thudding in the ring, the chorus cheering Junior. He watched Junior
bulling Kid Avila back into a corner. Junior built up a windmill rhythm. His furious staccato humming punctuated his punches.

This guy is bad news, Pescatore thought. He belongs in the zoo. But for the time being, I better look like I’m getting with
the program.

“That’s it,” Pescatore called. “Use that right. Way to hit, homes, way to hit!”

T
HE NIGHT AFTER THE ASSASSINATION
, Mauro Fernández Rochetti gave Porfirio Gibson an exclusive television interview.

It was a live feed to Mexico City to start the nightly national news. The homicide chief wore a gray suit and navy-blue tie.
His silver hair was combed in crisp waves and ridges. He sat in a high-backed leather chair with his hands laced together
on his desk. He looked grave and in charge.

“This individual who is our deceased suspect, César Oscar Ontiveros, worked for the Colonel in the prison,” Fernández Rochetti
said. “A flunky. A servant. And a thug of the lower depths. Arrests for drugs, petty offenses. When the Colonel escaped from
the prison, he brought César with him. César was as devoted as a dog.”

Gibson hunched earnestly in front of the desk. “And isn’t it true, Commander, as we reported exclusively today, that César
Oscar Ontiveros blamed Araceli Aguirre for the Colonel’s death? That he had become obsessed with her?”

Watching television in the Diogenes Group headquarters, Méndez slouched in his chair. Porthos and Isabel Puente slumped as
well, as if weighed down by so much deceit and perversity. Athos sat with his forearms on his thighs, his cap in his hands.