“I’ve been told you did very well, El Barquero,” the man said as he pulled a thin sterling silver case from the inside pocket of his expensive-looking suit coat. “Very well indeed,” he continued, offering one of the thin cigars to El Barquero.
“No, gracias,” El Barquero said as he sat down next to the man. “It’s good to see you, Padre.”
“Good to see you as well, my clever friend,” the Padre replied as he returned one of the thin cigars to his case.
“Allow me, Padre,” El Barquero said as he pulled a silver Zippo lighter from his pocket and sparked the wheel.
“Gracias,” the Padre replied as he leaned toward the flame and puffed several times to light the cigar. Pulling away from the flame, he held the cigar’s glowing end toward his face to ensure it was properly lit. “My people at the port said that you delivered everything precisely as planned.”
“Yes, Padre, everything went smoothly.”
“And your compatriot? The Guardsman?”
“He’s taken care of.”
“Good,” said the Padre as he took a long drag from the cigar. “Then I won’t need to arrange a hacienda in La Pesca for him after all. Even if his retirement would have been a short one.” The Padre placed his hand on El Barquero’s shoulder. “This was an important delivery, my friend. It will change the way we do business,” he said as he smiled and pounded El Barquero twice on his back. “Men,” he pointed around the crowded barn, “men I can get. They come to me. We used to advertise with billboards and videos, but not anymore. They know who we are. They come to me because I pay better than the army. I pay better than the police. Hell, I even give them health insurance. I give them life insurance. The best thing that can happen to some of their families financially is for them to die working for me,” he laughed. “Men, they come to me for work because I can protect them and give them money. Give them better lives. But guns, they’re the key. Men without guns are nothing but expensive bodies to feed and shelter. The weapons you have acquired will allow us to attack entire police stations if we want, mine roads into areas we control, and expand our territories even further to the west and south. No more shooting government officials and rivals with pistols in the middle of the night. Now we can attack like an army. You have made me very proud, and you will be well compensated for your work.”
“Thank you, Padre.”
“Do you like the roosters?” the Padre asked as he motioned down toward the ring.
“When I was a boy, I used to watch them in the village I grew up in, at the fairs to celebrate the patron saints, but I always preferred the bullfights.”
“The Corrida, of course you did. Look at you! You are the Toro!” the Padre replied as he laughed heartily and pounded El Barquero on the back again. “I prefer the roosters. The bull stands no chance. Only the matador carries the blade. His fate is sealed before he enters the ring. He’s nothing more than a magnificent warrior with his hands tied behind his back asked to put on a brave performance for the crowd in his death. But the roosters, the roosters are different, my friend. Each stands a chance. Each can determine its own fate. They may choose to die, but they can also choose to live. Look at this here,” the Padre said, pointing to a handler entering the pit with a black bird with white neck feathers. “See how the feathers around his neck flare out in anger. He has the spirit. He will not simply stamp and snort and vainly charge the matador while waiting for the inevitability of the blade.”
“He’s much smaller than his opponent,” said El Barquero, noticing the large black rooster with red neck feathers now being carried into the pit by another handler.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, my friend, but the size of the fighter means nothing. Why are men afraid of you? Because they think you look dangerous? No. Men are terrified of you because you are dangerous. They know because of the strength of your will, you fear nothing. That makes you dangerous, and that’s what men fear. Sandro!” the Padre yelled to a tall, shirtless man, his chest and arms covered in tattoos, walking the perimeter of the pit. Sandro’s hands were full of money, and he was taking bets from the crowd on the upcoming fight. “What odds on Raul’s rooster?”
“Eight to one to win,” yelled Sandro over the din as the rowdy gamblers waved stacks of bills to get his attention. “Three to one if he makes it past thirty seconds.”
“Five thousand to win,” yelled the Padre.
“Sí, Padre!” Sandro replied as he turned to take another bet.
“Now you watch, my friend,” the Padre said to El Barquero as he leaned back on the railing behind the last row of bleachers and inhaled on his cigar. “Now I’ll show you why having no fear is more important than size,” he continued as he exhaled a nearly perfect ring of smoke.
The handlers held their roosters with both hands and repeatedly shoved the birds toward each other to agitate them. Sandro finished taking the last of the bets and hopped out of the ring and into the bleachers. Several more times the handlers taunted the other’s rooster with their own. Finally, on a count of three from Sandro, they released them.
The cockfight was a blur of motion and noise and feathers as the two black roosters leapt and attacked one another. Even with the different sizes of the birds and the uniquely colored neck feathers, it was difficult to tell them apart as they spun and jumped. Again and again the roosters flew at each other, their legs, with sharp metal gaffs attached, kicking at their opponent in fury. The crowd of raucous men had clearly bet the favorite. They lustfully cheered on the larger rooster. El Barquero looked over at the Padre, who smoked his cigar with a knowing smile on his face.
“Just wait,” said the Padre. “The little white-necked rooster has no fear.”
After less than a minute, it was over. The losing handler had tried to revive the larger rooster several times. He even put his mouth over the bird’s beak and sucked the blood from its throat in an attempt to get the bird back on its feet. Raul held the smaller rooster with the white neck feathers high into the air. Its white neck plumage was splattered with blood. Only a few men in the crowd stood and cheered the unexpected winner; most grumbled as they passed around shared bottles of tequila to drown their temporary sorrows. The handlers took their roosters from the pit as another pair climbed in with a fresh match-up of competitors. Sandro jumped into the pit and paid the few winners and assuaged the many losers by promising he would give them special odds on the next match.
“And that, my friend,” said the Padre as he ground out his cigar on the bleacher in front of him, “is why I prefer the roosters to the bulls. You’ve had a long night and a long day. I want you to stay here tonight as my guest. I’ll have a room prepared for you in the farmhouse. I have business in Nuevo Laredo tomorrow. I’ll be leaving in the morning. You can leave then.”
“Thank you, Padre.”
“Come with me,” the Padre said as he rose to his feet. “I’ve grown tired of this game. Walk with me to the house.”
The two men descended the bleachers and headed toward the barn door while the yelling and shouting of the gamblers surrounding the pit reached a fever pitch as the next bout prepared to begin. As they approached the door, young Miguel again gazed in awe at El Barquero as he past.
“I was wondering,” the Padre began as they crossed the compound toward the farmhouse. “Have you heard anything about bandits robbing cartel mules across the border around Juarez?”