The Second Saladin

“A guarantee,” said the man.

“I said, no guarantees. Don’t you hear so good, mister?”

Ramirez at last spoke.

“Once every twenty nights out, they get you, mister. That’s a law. You may go thirty-eight nights clean, then they get you twice. Or they may get you twice, then you go thirty-eight. But one out of twenty. I can’t control it. God himself, the Holy Father, He cannot control it. It’s the law.”

Oscar said, “You listen good, mister. It’s the true law.”

“Send this stupid man away,” the man said to Ramirez. “He makes me want to hurt him.”

“I’ll hurt you, mister,” Oscar said. “I’ll cut you up damn quick.”

“No,” Ramirez said. “Go away, Oscar. Get me another Carta Blanca.”

Oscar scurried off.

“He’s a stupid man,” said Ramirez. “But useful in certain things. Now. Say your case.”

“You go a special way. There’s a special way you can go. High, in the mountains. The direction from here is west. A road to a mine which is old and no longer used gets you there. Is this not right?”

The maybe-American spoke an almost-English. It was passable but fractured. Even Ramirez could pick out the occasional discordant phrase.

Ramirez looked at him coldly.

“You go this route,” the man continued. “Once, maybe twice a year, depending. Depending on what? Depending on the moon, which must be down. And depending on the drugs, which you take across to the Huerra family in Mexico City for delivery to certain American groups. You are paid five thousand American dollars each trip. And the last time the Huerras gave you some extra because it went so nice. And I hear it said you don’t give one dollar to the priests of your church, because you are a greedy man.”

Ramirez stared at him. He had known such a moment would one day come. A stranger, with information enough to kill him or own him forever. It could only mean the Huerras were done with him and had sold him out, or that the police had finally —

“The last run was January sixteenth,” the man said. “And the next one will be tonight, moon or no moon, and that’s the true law.”

Ramirez fought his own breathing.

“Who sent you?”

“Nobody sent me.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I have friends.”

“Important men?”

“Very important. Very knowledgeable in certain areas.”

“You should have come to me and explained. You are a special man. I can see this now.”

The man said nothing.

“You better watch yourself, though. Somebody might put a bullet in your head.”

“Sure, okay; somebody might. And then somebody might come looking for him and put a bullet in his head too.”

Ramirez struggled to take stock. The man had not had anything to drink, he was not talking wildly, he was not a crazy man. He had much coolness, much presence. He was a man Ramirez could respect. You wouldn’t fool him too easily. He wouldn’t make mistakes. He would make others make the mistakes.

“All right,” Ramirez said. “But it will cost you more. The distance is a factor, the increased risk, the danger to my way of doing business. This is no easy thing — it’s not running illegals into Los Estados. You want to go the guaranteed way, you got to pay for it. Or go someplace else, to some man who’ll cut your throat in the desert.”

“Nobody cuts my throat. How much?”

“A thousand. Half now, half later.”

“You are a thief as well as anything else.”

“I am a man of business. Come on, damn you, pay up or go someplace else. I’m done with talking.”

“As God wills it.” He handed over the money, counting out the bills.

“Out back, at eleven. Beyond the sewer there’s a small shop called La Argentina. Wait behind it in the yard with the trucks. A van will come. You’ll be in Arizona tomorrow. Pay the man in America, or he’ll give you to the Border Patrol.”

The man nodded.

“If nothing goes wrong,” he said.

“Nothing will go wrong. I’ll drive the damned truck myself.”

The man nodded again, and then turned and left.

Oscar returned.

“A gringo pig,” he said. “I’d like to cut him up.”

Ramirez would have liked to have seen Oscar try to cut the man up. But he said nothing. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief scented with persimmon, took a sip from the new glass of Carta Blanca Oscar had brought him, and looked about.

“Did you notice?” he said to Oscar. “Even the whores left him alone.”

But now at least he thought he knew why, and he guessed that tonight the man would have with him enough cocaine for all the noses in America.

The tall man crouched in the yard behind the small shop called La Argentina. The odor of human waste from the open sewer in a gully next to El Palacio was disagreeable and thick. He could hear the music the Mexicans like, all guitars and vibration. He could see poor Mexican men gathering in the pools of light along the cobbled street that curved up the hill behind him. The few minutes passed and a drunk and a whore wandered into the yard and came to rest not far from him. Their conversation, in English and Pidgin Spanish, was all of money. The act of sex that followed lasted but seconds.

The man listened to it dispassionately, the two rutting against the side of the shop, in the dim light of half a moon. There was a swift cry and they were done and then another argument. Finally a deal was struck. Contemptuously, the woman strode away.

“Whore!” the man called, as though he’d just learned it. Then he too left the yard.

A truck pulled into the yard; its lights flashed twice.

“Hey! Where are you?” called the fat Mexican.

The man waited, watching.

“Damn you. Tall one. Gringo. Where are you, damn you?”

At last he stepped out.

“Here.”

“Jesus Mary, you made me jump. Make some noise next time.”

“Get on with it.”

“In back. There are others. Poor men, looking for work with Tio Sam.”

“Others?”

“Just don’t bother them. They know nothing of you and care nothing.”

The man shook his head.

“Two hours now,” Ramirez said. “Longer, because of the special route. Bad roads, much climbing. But it will go fine. Just don’t make no trouble.”

The tall man spat. He climbed into the back of the truck.

“No policemen,” he warned.

The truck crawled up the dark and twisting roads through west Nogales. The shacks began to separate, giving way to wider spaces and the vehicle moved out of the edge of the city, into rough scrub country. Then it began to climb slowly and after a while the road became a track, jagged and brutal.

Ramirez had watched this progress many times; it did not interest him by now. He was thinking of the man in the back. Yes, the man had had a bundle with him, a pack of some sort. It could carry twenty pounds of cocaine. Twenty pounds? Close to a million dollars’ worth. Ramirez reached inside his jacket and touched the butt of a Colt Python 357 magnum in blue steel, his favorite pistol.