Man in the Middle

family’s madama—the head of their house. And he believed in her black magic, the spell she held over men and women. Carlos wished, above all else, he could have been of her blood so he might have inherited her intelligence, been born of her loins, not his own mother’s disgusting choca.

As he pulled his car up to the front door, an armed valet bowed and took his keys while Carlos fantasized how he would handle Sarah’s brother-in-law, Fernando Guzman. One thing he knew with certainty: Sarah Guzman’s solution to this uprising would be genius.

Carlos approached the outer gate with its stone pillars and wrought iron spikes. When he snatched the lion’s paw door-knock and prepared to announce himself, drops formed on his upper lip. Every time he arrived at this place and took in its unimaginable wealth, he felt humbled.

Knocking, Carlos pointed his face at the camera mounted just inside the courtyard. The guard, already alerted by those at the front entrance, verified Carlos’ identity and buzzed him into the patio. A noisy fountain, spewing water from the mouths of posed statuettes—naked cupid-like creatures with tiny penises—greeted him as he stepped toward her house.

He continued along an open-air esplanade lined with red tile and adobe archways. Above him, additional soldiers with high-powered weapons nodded in deference to him—as an important man, they respected him.

Carlos turned, went up a flight of stairs, and down a second open walkway. A sea breeze, swirling off complex architectural angles, flowed through his slicked-back hair, parted with a razor’s edge on his right side— an extension of the long mound of tissue distorting his face.

He signed the Catholic cross against his chest, whispered the words of the Holy Trinity, and knocked.

A half-second later, she said, “Enter.”

Carlos stood just inside the office door and waited. “We have three hundred million set up with a two-trade,” Sarah Guzman said into the phone. “Second broker-bank is First Cayman. They have booked a gain of three ten, looking to clear ten net of the transaction. Understood and acceptable.”

Sarah listened to the voice on the other end, then said, “Yes. I am aware the Thai Baht declined eight percent last night. I agree. That is a good spot to book gains and build up the account value. Howard, I leave those details to you.”

Sarah glanced over the top of her reading glasses at Carlos. She liked the boy and admired his intensity. He was her husband’s twenty-eight year-old nephew, and one of several bright family members she retained after Enrique Guzman had died three years ago. Short at under five-foot-seven, Carlos had pockmarked and oily skin but a lean, strong body. Because of his looks, he became her husband’s least favorite relative—another reason for her deep affection.

Sarah sat behind a hand-carved mesquite desk. In a corner, an arched adobe fireplace showcased a bonfire that roasted every corner of her thousand square foot office. Fur area rugs—glass-eyed brown bear and mountain lion—warmed the Spanish tiles beneath an umbrella of oak beams crisscrossing a peeked ceiling. She noted the raised tissue zippering across Carlos’ right temple and down his cheek, chin, and neck—the result of a knife-fight at the age of twelve. The boy received a disfigurement, but his two attackers had landed in paupers’ graves. Since that day, Carlos had no annoying second thoughts when doing whatever she found necessary to maintain order.

He removed his aviator sunglasses and slid them into a breast pocket.

Once she hung up, Sarah said, “That was Howard Muller. We have moved another four hundred from our Tijuana friends to our investment partners.”

Carlos only nodded. Sarah understood he disliked Muller. So did she, but, to her, likes and dislikes had nothing to do with business. She hoped the tension between these men never boiled over. It would be such an unfortunate mess.

“I understand that the aftermath of the Cannodine and Drucker affair has been satisfactory,” she said.

“Si, senora. We have laid those matters to rest.”

“Good.” The only thing Sarah regretted about that unfortunate affair had been the necessity of sacrificing the man calling himself Zerets. On several occasions in the past, he had proven an asset. But, better than anyone, she understood unpleasant choices sometimes had to be made for the long-run good. Still, she grew angry when slip- ups demanded such sacrifice.

“Now,” she continued, shaking free of these thoughts, “you indicated another matter required my attention.”

“Regretfully, yes. Fernando Guzman.”

“My husband’s brother? He is causing problems again?”

“Si. He tells the family he is tired of your ascendancy. He calls you a gringa who married his brother and stole the family business. He says we should never have forsaken the old ways. That you need to be replaced.”

“He wishes to go back to the dangers of brokering drugs when we can broker money, safely, more profitably? He is a dangerous fool.”

“I agree. What would you have me do?”

Against Sarah’s snowy skin and white hair, rage appeared like a red mask, flaming her cheeks. She considered the situation for a moment. “You will get a large, wooden box. It will have enough space to fit Fernando Guzman and three days’ water and food. You will put a hole in that box. You will attach an eight-foot pipe—a hollow pole—to that hole. Air will flow through, just enough to keep the traitor from suffocating. You will bury that box, with Fernando in it, six feet deep, in a cool, shaded spot that no person will pass by. Like our Lord Jesus, on the third day—that is, after three complete days and nights—you will take several of the family members on a picnic near that shady grave. You will comment on that pole, poking from the ground. You will organize the men and dig until you solve this mystery. When you uncover the box, with my dead husband’s stupid brother, you will open it. Before you raise Fernando from the dead, you will tell him: ‘It is a lucky thing Sarah Guzman suggested this picnic.’ He will understand.”

“This is a good plan, Tia. I believe we cannot kill the fool, lest we create additional dissension. Some do not believe your husband, Enrique, committed suicide—that such a devout Catholic would allow his soul to be damned.”

“They believe a man, such as my husband, would buy and sell drugs, and have men murdered for stealing a gram of cocaina, but would not commit suicide?”

“Indeed. It is loquera. Still, you make a wise and merciful solution to the problem of Fernando.”

“You will have no trouble completing this task?”

“None. I will use people unknown to the family.”

The rumble of thunder gave a gentle shake to the house, while the scent of ozone filtered through the window.

“That is good, Carlos,” Sarah said. “Since we have now completed our business, feel free to help yourself to food—the cook has put out fruit, breads, an ample bounty in the sitting room. If you wish to avoid the approaching storm, stay here today and tonight. My home is, as always, your home.”

“Muchas gracias.” Carlos bowed and backed away.

As did most of their conversations, this one ended with many unspoken understandings.

CHAPTER SIX

 FROM THE AGE OF THIRTEEN, PETER HAD WORKED AT LEAST TEN FIRST-days on the job. His various occupations had included construction, gardening, motel clerk, camp counselor, and a host of other non-memorables whose only attraction was the paycheck that kept him marginally solvent. But this represented more than simply a new job. It was a high-paying job for which he had little grounding. It was also something he sorely needed.

For six hours, Peter spun in his bed, filled with the anticipation of a runner, waiting endlessly for the starter’s pistol to fire. His mind, reviewing and re-reviewing future roads he might travel down, allowed little more than a