“Not everyone is corrupted,” said Garza.
León opened his hands as though to concede the point. “The age I am now, I think more and more of mi papi, my poor father. I can never forget the expression on his face when he got himself out of bed every day. His back had been broken in an industrial accident. He was a wreck of a man physically. He was never treated properly and spent his life in physical agony. Still, every day he dragged himself out of bed and worked twelve hours a day selling newspapers in a little stand near the Palacio Legislativo. Every day, politicians came by his newspaper stand. They called him by name. I would see this, I would help him, hawking. This was back in the day when the PRI monopolized Mexican politics, of course. They all wore sparkling rings and fine suits. And they would flip me a ten-centavo piece because I was the broken newspaper vendor’s son. You know, ten centavos . . . it was worth less than nothing. They knew it and I knew it. And my father would always say to me, ‘That was Deputy So-and-So. He made sixty-three million pesos in bribes for putting a road across Oaxaca.’ Papi never said it, perhaps never even thought it, but to me the lesson was that, in a just world, those sixty-three million pesos would have gone to fixing the broken backs of the unfortunate men who hurt themselves in an industrial accident, and not to lining the pockets of politicians.”
His face looked almost clownishly sad, but that was his manner. León was a man of broad expression.
“But I never hated Mexico. My father made sure I would never follow his fate, and I did not. I built myself. But I was too ambitious at times. Too eager to meet with the wrong people. I had a bit of self-destruction about me. It seemed so remote, the violent source of the funds I was entrusted with moving and investing. I was willfully ignorant, I fully admit that.” He patted his knees, wanting to be done with his own story. “And so now I am trying to repay a debt.”
“You do not seem to be suffering,” said Garza.
“Not in the least. That offends you.”
“Yes,” she said.
León nodded.
“Which cartel?” she asked.
“The unofficial name was the Sonora Cartel, but these things change. People make pronouncements, naming this and that, but it is so fluid. I started low on the pole, I had my fingers in many pies. It was a different business thirty years ago, and yet very much the same. What knowledge I learned—I was always a good student—I have tried to put to good use here from the other side of the border.”
Fisk said, “You are an informant?”
“Bigger than that. I know informants. I still have several well-placed contacts in Mexico. I am an aggregator of information, Detective. I have assisted the Mexican government in curtailing the cartels’ activities, inasmuch as anyone can. The United States offered me this sanctuary in exchange for my offer of help in keeping such outrageous drug violence from drifting north, over its borders. And so I defected, though that is not the word that is used between friendly countries. To this end, I have been most helpful, I think. Until these past few days, that is.”
Garza nodded. She seemed to be hanging on the man’s every word.
“That is the language of Mexican crime now, is it not, Comandante? Atrocities. Meant to shock. It is terror.”
“Chuparosa,” said Garza.
Fisk felt she was uttering his name in order to watch León’s reaction. Fisk saw nothing in the man’s face to indicate anything out of the ordinary.
“I have heard the name,” said León. “Whispered, most often. Friends speak of him as though he is not real.”
“He is real,” said Garza.
“And he is here? He brings you to New York?”
Garza gave him a very brief summation of what she knew: nothing privileged, nothing revelatory. Fisk noticed a softening in her manner here, which confused him at first. Then he began to think it was a cultural thing, brought on by a conversation with this older, grandfatherly man.
Fisk admitted that there was something impishly likable about León, his blarney and bluster. But he needed to know more.
“He sounds like quite a gentleman,” said León. “Do you have a photograph, by any chance?”
“No,” said Garza.
“One wants to see the face of a man who could do such things, no?” León swiped at his mouth with his linen napkin, tossing it back upon the table. “Do you have any insight as to why he wants to bring down President Vargas? And perhaps die in the process? It seems so . . . extreme, no?”
Garza was appropriately cagey with León. “He holds a grudge, I believe. He is wedded to the old ways, the old Mexico. The one you seem to know. This treaty could—I think—effect real change in our country.”
León nodded, deep in thought. “You give me pause, Comandante. I wonder if it is wise for me to attend tonight.” He shook his head. “Forgive me, I am not a coward. But I am certainly not a brave man either. How I would hate to miss it.”
Fisk said, “Security is going to be incredibly tight. You can feel confident.”
“But nothing is ever guaranteed, Detective Fisk. You know that as well as I. My position here is precarious. In fact, I rarely leave this home. By rarely, I mean no more than once a year. I am a paranoid man, and rightly so. The restaurant is my only commercial enterprise. I miss the tastes of home, you see. These dishes I used to have prepared here, we started serving at Ocampo. Have you read our Zagat review? I’ll have someone hand you a copy on your way out. Extraordinary Mexican seafood cuisine! Others scoffed when it opened. We have three stars from Michelin! I am sorry to brag, food is a weakness.” He patted his belly. “I live too well. Living well is addictive.”
Fisk said, “So why is it that the president of Mexico chose your restaurant for his celebratory dinner?”
“It should be obvious to you both by now,” said León. “Umberto Vargas got his start in politics as a prosecutor, after leaving academia, roughly around the time I repatriated here. He made his name going after organized crime and the cartels.” To Garza, he said, “You know that started him on his stunning trajectory toward the presidency. He has been an anticorruption, antidrug guy all the way. And I, in my own manner, have been of some help to him. Some prosecutions, I helped make possible. Even from afar. I was his secret weapon, in a sense . . . though I do not want to be thought of as taking too much credit. President Vargas is the one whose face is out there. He is a man of valor, of principles. I have been, so to speak, his counsel in the shadows. Not to overstate it, but we have become . . . I don’t know what you want to call it. Friends? Associates? Neither. Strange bedfellows, perhaps. I have been very, very useful to him, and for that I feel wonderful. I still love our country, Comandante. I love it like . . . like an ex-wife I once wronged, who is still raising my many, many children. President Vargas is . . . an expression of my penance. I supported his campaign in every way, including financially. I honestly believe that a man like him comes once a generation. Now is the time to do great things.”
León grasped Garza’s hand for emphasis.
“You must keep him well and safe. We cannot afford to let these forces of evil stop the progress we have made. This antitrafficking accord with the United States is the greatest attempt Mexico has made at stemming the tide of violence, corruption, and terror. This treaty is a great step forward. And, in many ways, I am its crux.”
CHAPTER 57
With their service pieces and phones returned to them, Fisk and Garza waited until they were outside León’s gate before speaking.
“Okay,” said Fisk. “Now we know who he is.”
“You don’t like him,” said Garza.