“Is it really Herr-”
“Herredia sits behind the desk with a fifty-caliber Desert Eagle in his hands and his eyes locked on my face. I bow and set the plastic tub down on the floor beside me. Then I take each of Terry’s suitcases by their handles and roll them over next to the box. I’m winging this by now, son. Believe me. But I’ve got a beginning.
– I have journeyed long, I say to Herredia, whistling a song, in search of El Dorado.
– In the poem he sings the song.
– I forget words but I never forget a tune.
– I forget nothing. Explain this spectacle.
– My name is Coleman Draper. This man is Terry Laws. We came to offer our respect and ask your favor. We brought gifts.
“Herredia’s gaze goes to the plastic box. He’s a big man, thick and wide, with curly black hair and a round, clean-shaven face. His eyebrows are bushy and slant upward toward each other, which gives him a soulful, suffering look. His nickname is “El Tigre,” and there’s some truth in it-he looks like a big lazy cat but you know he can turn it on when he wants to. He’s wearing a white guayabera and a gold watch. Forty-six years old, I know. What else do I know? That he runs the North Baja Cartel to the tune of an estimated half million dollars a week profit. And murders his enemies often and theatrically. And donates millions of dollars to Mexican politicians, law enforcement and military personnel, at all levels. That he’s influenced state elections in Nayarit and Sinaloa and Baja California for more than a decade. And lost two brothers, a wife and two children to the drug wars. That he loves deep-sea fishing and American fast food. The fishing and fast food I learned from Avalos in L.A. Herredia stares at me and then, in a soft voice, asks me to show him the gifts. So I kneel and pry the plastic lid from the tub and set it aside. I pull out a box and open it.
– I say: This is the new Accurate Platinum Twin-Drag. The ball bearings are impregnated with Teflon, it’s got anti-reverse dogs and a removable spool stud. You can’t overheat these things, no matter how fast they’re screaming out line. And they’re beautiful. This one is the ATD-130, rigged with a thousand yards of one-hundred-thirty-pound monofilament. For large tuna and marlin.
“I look into Herredia’s deep-set black eyes. I hold the open reel box in both hands, place it on the iron desk near the patron, then step back to the plastic tub and lift out another box.
– We also brought you Daiwa’s new Tanacom Bull TB100 power-assist reel, I say. It’s sleek and powerful, nothing like commercial winches or those add-on contraptions. It’s powerful. It comes with a power cord and a battery clip. It will save your strength, believe me. I thought at first that these power-assist reels were for fags but I’m telling you, if you’re looking to drop a thousand feet of line and get it back up again, you might like the electric help. Let me know what you think.
“Herredia’s eyebrows lower into a glower. His face goes from pensive to implosive. I step forward and set the Daiwa next to the Accurate, then return to my box of goodies.
– You’ll recognize this, I tell him-the Penn International V 80VSW, rigged with fifteen hundred yards of two-hundred-pound test. It’s considered a classic because it really is a classic. I’m partial to these reels, I say.
“Then I set it on his desk and go back to the tub.”
“What’s he thinking?” asks the boy. He blows a plume of smoke into the air.
“How can I know? Where to shoot me with the Eagle? Where to fish the Penn? Reading Herredia is like trying to read an Olmec head. So I continue.
– Mr. Herredia, I say, we also brought this Shimano Stella FA rigged up with one hundred and seventy yards of fourteen-pound test. Just a little goof-off reel, but the slow oscillation lays down line straight and fast, and the magnesium frame weighs hardly anything. Waterproof gasket, natural wool washers for low start-up inertia. Plus, I like the name, Stella. I knew a Stella once and she was tons of fun.
“I smile and set the box on the desk beside the others. Herredia trades hands with the Desert Eagle and picks up the Accurate, and starts turning its platinum-hued solid-block aluminum frame in the light of the chandelier. There’s seven thousand dollars’ worth of stuff on the desk in front of him. Then Herredia sets down the Accurate and picks up the Daiwa. He has sportsman’s hands, dark and weathered on the tops and pale on the bottoms. I wait.
– I own all of these things, he says. All of them, except this electric reel.
– Then give them to your friends, I say. Or to your church. They’re tokens of respect.
– But what else do you have for me?
“I reach into my shirt pocket. The Desert Eagle finds my center. So I show both my hands, then very slowly deploy two fingers into my shirt pocket. I bring out the small envelope. Inside is a card. The envelope has a cartoon hamburger with a smiling face on it.
– I know you like these restaurants, Mr. Herredia. There are plenty of them here in Mexico. You can load these cards in different currencies now-it’s a new thing. So this one is loaded with fifty thousand pesos. The new third-pound Angus Thunder is good, if you haven’t tried it yet.
“I step forward and waggle the gift card and set it on top of one of the reel boxes.
– Don’t tell me you have one of these, too, I joke.
“So Herredia holds the huge pistol on my chest, and pulls the trigger. The action of the Desert Eagle is tremendously loud, and I hear every machined part click and clunk into place until the hammer drives the firing pin into the empty cylinder. Terry hits the deck and the old man points the shotgun at him, cackling. Herredia is smiling, so I smile back.
– No, I don’t own one of those, he says.
– And that’s not all, I say.
“I help Terry up and feel the trembling in his hand. I ask him to wheel the suitcases over and put them on the big desk. He rolls them over and has trouble getting the retractable handles back down. He’s beyond nervous now; he’s just plain scared. When he gets them on the desk in front of Herredia he unzips them and folds open the tops. Herredia looks into them, then back up at Terry, then at me.
– We recovered this two days ago at a crime scene near Lancaster, I tell him. We arrested the man who killed your friends. He was armed. There was a struggle, which came out in our favor. But it didn’t seem right that your hard-earned money should sit in a property room in Los Angeles, so we brought it back to you. It’s all there, except for seventy-two hundred dollars. Two pounds of your five-dollar bills were found in the killer’s vehicle and therefore booked as evidence. Another pound was left behind in the luggage to form an evidentiary link from the suspect to the couriers. Not one dollar more has been lost. We weighed it. Twice. There are three hundred and forty-seven thousand, eight hundred dollars.
“So, Herredia sits back and watches me from behind that heavy brow. I turn to see the old man puffing on a cigar, the shotgun across his lap.
– What do you want? asks Herredia.
– We want to be your couriers, sir, I tell him. We want to make this drive every Friday night, and deliver your money to you. We’ve got our own vehicles and guns, uniforms and badges, and our contacts, as necessary. We are American law enforcement officers in good standing. All we ask is to be treated with respect and to be paid four and a half points. I suspect that’s a point and a half higher than your former employees made, but they were obviously not competent. Look how well they protected what belongs to you. We, as you see, are extremely competent. We’re worth the extra pay, for punctuality, dependability and the security of having your assets handled by sworn law enforcement professionals.