On the third day, Pescatore felt safe enough to start looking for a telephone he could use to call Isabel. Even if he made just a short call, he wanted her to hear his voice, to let her know he was alive. But he had already determined that the house had no land lines. The only homeboys he saw using cell phones were Momo, Sniper and Pelón. He knew the organization was careful about communications. Isabel had told him they had sophisticated intercept technology and countersurveillance techniques. Once he got his hands on a phone, it would be like carrying a time bomb. He would have to dispose of it or risk somebody finding it on him.
Pescatore spent the morning sneaking around rooms and hallways in search of a stray cell phone. No juice. He set himself up in front of the TV, hoping a vato might leave a phone unattended while getting wasted. It didn’t happen. The next morning, Momo, Sniper and Pelón left early. That night, the news reported that a Mexican federal prosecutor had been machine-gunned in his driveway after his retirement party; Sniper and Pelón reached over and slapped each other five. The TV news showed a quick image of Méndez walking into a building past cameras. A voice-over explained that the Diogenes Group was on the case.
“That cabrón right there needs to get got.” Pelón gestured at Méndez, his bald profile making him look like a warrior-monk. “Fuck sending messages. If we’re gonna do ’im, let’s do ’im, homes. Boo-ya, boo-ya”-he pantomimed the recoil of a shotgun with both hands-“y se acabó.”
Momo took a swig of beer, wiped his mouth, and without looking at Pelón told him to shut the fuck up.
At breakfast the next day, Buffalo appeared in the kitchen. Without preamble or explanation, he handed Pescatore his Glock. Pescatore nodded, exhilarated but trying to come off like it was all business. Buffalo did not give him back his cell phone or mention it. Pescatore thought fast and made a decision on impulse: If they trusted him enough to give him his gun back, a phone was maybe not that big a deal.
“Thanks, Buffalo,” he said. “Think I could get my phone too?”
Buffalo’s expression made him wish he had stayed quiet. “Who you gonna call?”
“Nobody!” Pescatore looked shocked at the notion. “Nobody. It’s just I had a lotta numbers stored in there for people, family back home, you know.”
Buffalo’s forehead furrowed. “I don’t think I gotta explain why it’s not a good idea for you to call anybody right now, Valentín.”
“Yeah, I know, I sure wasn’t-”
“You’re a fucking fugitive. Murder One. Low profile, silencio radio, this and that.”
“Sure, you got it, man, of course,” Pescatore said. Now I’m fried if they even catch me looking at a phone, he thought. Nice work, Valentine.
“Anyway.” Buffalo brightened. “Remember what I said about earning your keep? I got a chamba for you.”
They drove out to Junior’s ranch on the road to Tecate. Pescatore squinted, unaccustomed to daylight. At the target-shooting range they met a handful of youths, a mix of U.S. gang members and Mexicans. Like motley soldiers, they stood at attention as Buffalo told Pescatore to instruct them in rudimentary pistol technique-loading, cleaning, handling-then lead close-range target practice.
“Introduction to guns, man, basic basics, like they don’t know a fucking thing,” Buffalo said. “These youngsters, they’re always wavin’ cuetes around, but they’re ignorant. They’re lucky they don’t shoot themselves or each other. Me, I don’t have the time or the patience.”
The assignment surprised Pescatore. But he warmed to the task. His pupils were diligent and respectful. He gave the demonstration in Spanish and English, improvising, mimicking his Patrol instructors from the academy days. Buffalo nodded approvingly. During the next week, they came back three more times and Pescatore led more sessions of target practice. Buffalo sat on a picnic table, watching intently. He looked grim.
About two weeks after Pescatore’s arrival in Tijuana, the house had visitors: Moze and Tchai, the smooth cheerful Brazilians from the night of the arms deal. The word was that they were waiting for a kingpin named Khalid to visit from South America. They sat in lawn chairs by Buffalo’s pool, listening to Brazilian party music on iPods plugged into a little speaker.
Isabel Puente would be interested in this development, Pescatore thought. He was still undercover, recording details, writing reports in his head. But he was starting to feel cut off. Like the Imperial Beach station, Puente seemed to belong to a remote and improbable previous life. He still thought about her, especially when he was high. But it was as if she were becoming unattainable again: a fantasy as much as a memory.
That evening, the Death Patrol stood guard at a restaurant. The operation reminded Pescatore of the precautions the U.S. feds took before a visit to the border by the attorney general. At dusk, he walked through the restaurant with Buffalo, Momo, Pelón and Sniper. They checked entrances and bathrooms, frisked waiters and cooks. More gunmen arrived: homeboys, Mexican gangsters, state police detectives in cowboy boots, stiff-legged slacks and leather jackets. They deployed sentries with radios on rooftops and corners, on foot and in cars.
Buffalo and Momo left. Pescatore waited with Pelón and Sniper in the entrance vestibule. He was excited about the action-and about the fact that they had brought him along. Once he started getting access to the street, an opportunity for escape could develop. At least he might be able to slip off somewhere for a couple of minutes and find a way to calclass="underline" maybe a pay phone, or he could buy a cell.
The restaurant was decorated like a hacienda, long tables, white lace and dark wood, vegetation around an indoor waterfall. A trio strummed guitars in a corner. The place was all fancied up for a Friday night, but bereft of customers. It stayed empty until 10 p.m., when the dignitaries arrived.
First came Mauro Fernández Rochetti, commander of the Tijuana homicide unit. He looked grayer than on television but easily recognizable: withering stare, strong-boned profile, womanly mouth. He was escorted by a chubby-cheeked bodyguard in a cowboy hat. Then came the Brazilians. They held the doors for Mr. Abbas, their sharp-dressed Arab boss. Abbas hovered in turn around an older Arab in metallic eyeglasses who carried himself like an ambassador. Khalid, Pescatore thought. A nervous maitre d’ in a tuxedo led them to a long table off by itself.
A few minutes later, the walkie-talkies chattered. Sniper straightened and told Pescatore to look sharp. “El jefe. Aguas, ponte truchas.”
Momo glided into the vestibule. He held the Tek-9 under a jacket draped over his arm like a Secret Service agent. Buffalo filled the doorway, looking the place over. Pescatore felt a rush of expectation.
Junior Ruiz Caballero’s swagger verged on a waddle. He was built wide and thick. A two-tone leather jacket exaggerated his shoulders. His brown hair was shaggy, with blondish sun streaks. The word that occurred to Pescatore was “user”: the tanned face had the strained mouth and charged-up grimaces of a cokehead. The features were handsome, almost pretty, a broad nose and sullen lips. But a layer of jowl spread on the sides and below the chin like a balloon inflating. His belly bulged in a shiny silver shirt. Junior was a user, if not an abuser, and getting sloppy.
Junior’s green eyes glistened. He walked stiff-armed and bowlegged. He swept into the vestibule and gave Sniper, Pelón and Pescatore an unexpected sleepy grin. Pescatore, feeling the same flunky’s smile on his face as on everyone else’s, wondered if the guy knew who the hell he was.