He moved carefully through the now vacant offices, AK still ready for anything, but sensed and saw no one. For good measure he fired up at the camera, blowing it to pieces with a four shot burst, and watched with interest as the bulk of it hung by its cable for a few seconds before tumbling end over end and shattering on the floor. He smiled for the second time that day, and felt for the car keys in his pocket. Losing three good men was unfortunate, but he’d succeeding in taking out one of the primary contenders for the throne of the Templars. On balance, it had all been worth it.
The big HEMI V8 cranked over with a deep roar, and Batista pulled out of the parking area as neighboring business occupants nervously exited their buildings, panicked by the sound of the gunfight. He’d need to switch cars, and had provided for that by parking a Honda Accord three blocks away.
Batista had prevailed again. He’d need to call a meeting of his chiefs to fill them in on his latest exploit and secure some reliable replacements — never a problem, because the wages of a cartel enforcer exceeded those of the military by a factor of twenty. Every year, roughly ten percent of the Mexican army made that same calculation and deserted, many to go home, but others to sign up with the very adversaries they’d been fighting.
A matter of simple economics.
Just as everything ultimately was.
Cruz met Julio at a Starbucks near one of the big commercial malls downtown. They’d chosen the location because they were unlikely to be stumbled upon by one of Julio’s contacts. Cruz was wearing civilian clothes that he kept in his office; he looked unremarkable when out of uniform.
Ignacio joined them, and the update began.
“I have good news. I think I found a line on El Rey,” Julio announced.
Ignacio and Cruz exchanged glances and stared at him in disbelief.
“So soon? That’s incredible!” Cruz exclaimed.
Julio filled them in on his meeting, omitting the raucous night with the bartender. Julio looked worked after an all-nighter with her, but it had been worth it. They’d hit a few clubs after her shift and wound up back at his condo, where she’d demonstrated with gusto why Argentina was famous the world over for its exports. Julio looking like warmed over shit wasn’t an unusual occurrence; he often had a two day growth on his face and deep circles under his eyes — in keeping with his persona as a debauched criminal playboy.
“When are you going to hear something?” Ignacio asked.
“Any time. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow. I don’t want to push and seem too anxious. Baby steps on this one.”
“Did your boy, Felipe, give you any hints as to who the contact is?” Cruz asked.
“No. But he did underscore about a dozen times how fucked I would be if I couldn’t consummate. Apparently El Rey doesn’t approve of tire kickers,” Julio quipped.
“I’ll bet. So how would you propose we proceed once we’re in?” Cruz asked.
“I think you and I go in together to see him after we gel your hair differently and darken your skin a little, and you play the rich industrialist with the multi-million dollar grudge. We try to glean as much as possible, and if we can’t get a meeting with El Rey, we lean on the contact and stick him under the jail. A few nights in the Mexico City Jail can be startlingly effective for bringing clarity to confused folks who are on the fence as to whether to help law enforcement…” Julio said.
“All right, we’ll follow your lead. But the clock is ticking, and we’re stuck running in place right now. What about you, Nacho? Anything to report?” Cruz asked, turning to Ignacio.
“It’s weird. Every time I bring up El Rey’s name, even the desperate cases go cold — and these are guys who would sell their mother for a hit of crack. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. The fucker has everyone terrified of him,” Ignacio reported.
“Let’s hope that Julio’s channel works, then. I’d stand down on any other overtures now that we’re in play — we don’t want to spook him, and it would seem a little odd if the streets were suddenly buzzing with clients anxious to throw a few million his way,” Cruz observed.
“Which introduces another potential issue. I think we need to make arrangements to be able to transfer a million dollars, minimum, via wire transfer from a clean account. If the contact delivers, the only way we’ll be able to contrive a meeting is if we’ve dropped some earnest money in his lap,” Julio said.
“I’ll get on it. Shouldn’t be too big a problem. Anything else?” Cruz asked.
“Anybody got a cigarette?” Julio asked.
“I’m trying to quit. Go home and get some sleep. You look like you went nine rounds with a gorilla and lost,” Cruz advised.
“You don’t know the half of it.”
~ ~ ~
Batista swaggered into the nightclub he owned at seven p.m., cocky after having cheated death again. His men were making their way in, and two of his main street operatives were already there, drinking Negro Modelo and smoking as they flirted with the cocktail waitresses, who were arriving in preparation for the night’s partying. Cruz had the club swept for surveillance weekly, and disliked cell phones for communications of any note, preferring in-person meetings to lay down the law. Mexican law enforcement was still light years behind the Americans, but they’d started intercepting cell calls, which had become a game-changer for communications.
Batista high-fived the two men, and then bumped fists in a classic Mexican street greeting. Both of the seated gangsters had garish tattoos running down their arms, and their style of dress emulated that of American rappers, with oversized pants and shirts, shaved heads, and flat-brimmed baseball caps perched precariously askance. These were veterans of the trade, having run their own operations on the streets for years. Both had killed multiple adversaries as a normal course of their business.
Three more of his crew wandered in over the next twenty minutes. The men retired to Batista’s sumptuous office at the back of the club. Most of the cartels were big in the club and bar scene, as well as in the hotel trade, such venues offered the perfect mechanisms to explain huge amounts of cash income. Tourist towns were full of massive nightclubs with nobody in them, but they still managed to take in millions of dollars every month. Tougher banking regulations intended to curb the illicit drug trade had little effect on the industry — there were always plenty of ways around the system for the big guys, just as in every country. The rules mainly served as an inconvenience, at best, for the small time hustlers. Just as the cartel wheelers and dealers had no problems buying tractors for their farms or Escalades and Benzes for their girlfriends, likewise, they had no issues laundering billions in cash every year. The economies of many neighboring countries depended on it, including the U.S., where in spite of protests to the contrary, billions still washed through the system every year — the Miami Federal Reserve saw more hundred dollar bills than any other bank in the world, indicating that either geriatric retirees from the East Coast had virtually infinite numbers of C-notes stuffed under their trailer-park mattresses, or the Mexican and South American connections were still flourishing.
Batista filled the assembled men in on the day’s events and ended with a renewed call for vigilance against attacks from his rivals, now reduced to two — Miguel ‘El Chavo’ Herrera and Paolo ‘Poncho’ Gallermo. Both were equally as dangerous as Batista, and it was not a question of whether they’d be coming for him, but rather a question of when and how. The chances that they’d want to reach some sort of an arrangement or division of power were non-existent, just as the likelihood of Batista compromising with them. That wasn’t how the business worked. You either fought, or died. Like dogs or roosters in a ring, all engagements ended in death. That was the life. And the egos involved prevented any intelligent conversation. Young macho males for whom killing was a daily occurrence, who made millions every month and who ruled with absolute power, were not willing candidates for building bridges or mending fences. Throw in all the free stimulants you could handle, and it was a recipe for bloodshed.