“Crocodiles can’t eat trees.”
“Things were different in those days. Do you want to hear this story or not?”
“I do, but I mostly want to hear the part about why you live in our tree.”
“It will come where it comes in the story-” Moie begins, but he is interrupted by a shout from below: “Amelia Paz, are you up in that tree again?” It is Miss Milliken, sounding upset. Amelia slides from the hammock and stands on a broad, nearly horizontal limb. “I have to go now. Will you tell me the rest of the story later?”
“It may happen that I will,” says Moie. She smiles at him and disappears amid the leaves below.
Prudencio Rivera Martinez, on what he had good reason to fear might be his final day on earth, waited outside the security barrier for the arrival of the early direct Delta flight from Dallas-Fort Worth. Gabriel Hurtado never entered the United States via an international flight. Instead, he flew to Mexico City, where his organization picked him up and drove him to the border at Ciudad Juarez. There, with the aid of excellent forged Mexican papers, he crossed the border as a businessman of that nation, untroubled among the thirty thousand vehicles that drove north into El Paso on that day and every day. Hurtado’s attitude toward the United States of America was amused contempt, rather like that of a peasant for a particularly stupid, if vitally necessary, burro. The Americans had been trying to catch him for years, and yet he never had any difficulty entering the country in this way, or staying for as long as he pleased. His only complaint about U.S. homeland security was that the border controls were so porous that amateurs were encouraged to enter the drug business in numbers, driving down the price of his product. From El Paso they had taken the highway to Dallas, whence he and his companion had enjoyed a restful first-class flight to Miami.
Martinez saw the men emerge from the gate, Hurtado and a man name Ramon Palacios, although this name was infrequently used. At the sight of this second man, Martinez felt some relief, because his presence meant that Hurtado was taking this crazy business seriously, that he thought their adversary was significant, and that therefore Martinez was not entirely to blame for the Calderon fiasco. The two men were both middle-sized and stocky, perhaps a little smaller than middle-sized, smaller than Martinez anyway, and dressed in similar pale sports jackets, open-collared pastel shirts, dark trousers, and shined slip-on shoes with brass fittings. Both had fat dark mustaches and dark hair combed back, although that of Hurtado was starting to recede. People said that Hurtado kept the man around because they looked alike, so that an assassin might become confused. Martinez thought this was a foolish opinion, since you would necessarily have to kill both of them together. Killing only one would do you no good, and Martinez thought also that if he had one shot at the pair he would hit Palacios before Hurtado, because while Hurtado was a dangerous enemy, you would have to be totally crazy to want El Silencio after you with a grudge.
Hurtado gave him a severe smile and a formal embrace, El Silencio offered an uninterested nod and continued his examination of the surroundings. Because of airport security, he was unarmed and therefore uneasy. They went to baggage claim in silence, and after the usual wait, the bodyguard picked out two small leather bags and an aluminum attache case, ignoring Martinez’s offer of help. At the curb waited a black Lincoln Navigator with tinted windows, bought for cash two days previously. Hurtado always rode in Navigators at home, and Martinez wanted him to be comfortable. They entered the vehicle, the boss and his man in the rear and Martinez in the front seat. Hurtado greeted Santiago Iglesias, who was driving. The man knew the name and face of every man who worked for him and a good deal about their personal lives as well-for example, where their families could be found. It was one of the reasons he had lasted so long in the business, that and El Silencio. As they pulled away from the curb, Martinez heard the click of a lock opening behind him and various other metallic sounds. El Silencio was arming himself.
“What’s the situation, Martinez?” Hurtado asked, switching without preamble from his joking with Iglesias. No joking with Martinez; he was not yet entirely off the hook.
“I have two men in each of the two houses, and two vans on the street in front of each one. I also have a man at the ferry terminal in a car. It’s an island, and that’s the only way on or off.”
“No boat?”
“We need a boat?”
“Pendejo,of course we need a boat. Both homes were vandalized, and whoever did it didn’t come on the ferry. Therefore, they have a boat. Also, we’re based on an island, so we need a boat. Get one-no, two-and people to handle them, and make them fast ones. How are the clients?”
“They’re shitting themselves since Calderon got it. No trouble there. They’re like lambs.”
“Police?”
“Thumbs up their ass. They’ve been around to both the Garza and the Ibanez place. We get tipped off and disappear while they come around. Not a problem.”
“Yes, that’s what you said before Calderon got it. You know why I’m not more pissed off at you for fucking this up, Martinez?”
Martinez admitted he didn’t know.
“Because this saves us some trouble. Calderon would have had to go in any case. He knew things that the others didn’t and was starting to be a pain in the ass. So, if he leaves the scene a little early, it’s not a problem for me, and also, as you say, the others are in line. The only one we absolutely need at this point is Ibanez, to handle the logs and so forth. So, as far as JXFC is concerned, I assume the son took over.”
“No, the daughter, is what I understand. The son is some kind of maricon. He’s in New York. The daughter is running the company.”
“Good. I’m starting to feel better already. She won’t be a problem when the time comes. Now, what about these twofregados in the painted van?”
“Not yet. The plates came up empty. There’s no such number.”
“Fake plates? That’s interesting. That suggests a serious organization.”
From the front seat, Iglesias said, “They were funny plates. The numbers weren’t orange like the ones on this car and there was no palm tree.”
“They were out-of-state plates,” said Hurtado half to himself. He was not particularly angry. There was no reason that a gang of Calichuteros should know that in America license plates varied from state to state. He explained this to his men.
“And it saidyova on the top,” added Iglesias.
“Yova?” said Hurtado. “What does this mean, yova?”
“I don’t know, boss, that’s what it said, in big letters and there were clouds and some buildings on it, too, no palms. I-O-W-A,yova.”
“Ah, yes, I see,” said Hurtado. “This is the name of a state far away, and obviously it would do no good to run the plates there because it wouldn’t give us an address in Miami. I think these people are very clever, for Americans.”
“You’re sure they’re Americans, boss?” asked Martinez.
“They’re using Americans, and there isn’t a sniff at home of anyone working against us in this operation. Or so my friend here assures me.”
He meant El Silencio. Martinez thought that if El Silencio had been unleashed on the Colombian underworld with orders to find out if anyone was interested in the Puxto operation or was playing games in Miami, and hadn’t found anything, then it was fairly certain that nothing was going on. Using the rearview mirror he stole a look at the man. If half what they said about him was true, he ought to have horns and fangs and a tail, but he looked undistinguished, an ordinary Latin American fellow, except for the heavy scarring on his throat. The legend was that when he was ten someone had been killed in front of the miserable little shop his family ran in Cali and, as usual, the killers had taken out all the potential witnesses, his whole family: mother, brother, three sisters. Or others said that the family had been running some racket and became too greedy and got wiped as a lesson. But without doubt the family had been killed and someone had cut the boy’s throat, failing to kill him but damaging his voice box, so that he could only make a croaking whisper, and also without doubt at the age of fifteen he had found the man responsible for the murders and kidnapped him and kept him alive for six days and delivered him back to the place whence he came, still alive, but in a condition that shocked even the criminals of Cali. Thus he was brought to the attention of Gabriel Hurtado.
