was Tiger. Franklin had heard his voice talking on a tape once at Laredo PD. The Feds had a tap on his home wire at that time and they’d had his cell for a while. He’d stopped using it now that he’d become rich and famous and could afford a sat phone.
“Howdy,” Franklin said, not bothering to raise his voice. They could all hear him just fine. A minute later, Tiger had some of his guys file inside the ring and fan out in a circle, maybe thirty of them, all standing behind the wooden barrera not twenty yards away. The barrera was a five-foot fence all around the ring to keep the bulls from goring the spectators. The sweet stench of marijuana wafted up from behind the thing. Some small talk and laughing. Friday night gangbangers having a good old time.
“You didn’t get my message about the guns?” the amplified voice said.
“I’m not having a conversation with a loudspeaker. You come on down here and talk man to man. We’ll put the guns down.”
There was a silence while Tiger thought that one over and discussed it with his compadres in the broadcast booth up at the top of the stadium. A blue-white spotlight suddenly came on, shining right down in their eyes. It was blinding and he hadn’t counted on that.
There was a loud bark and then the sputtering staccato sound of one of the big choppers outside exploding into life. This was followed shortly by the fairly awesome sound of about thirty more bikes being cranked and revved under the concrete overhang of the stadium.
“They leaving?” Homer asked.
“I don’t think so. I think they’re coming in.”
The wavering beam of a bike headlamp was visible in the tunnel leading to the ring. The first motorcycle to enter the ring came in slowly and took a left just inside the barrera. The rider made a slow circuit of the ring. The next rider took a right, the next a left and so on, left then right, until there were thirty or more inside, executing a slow parade at the perimeter of the ring.
Behind him, Homer said, just loud enough to be heard over the deep rumble of the bikes, “Looks like Hell’s Angels wannabes to me.”
Franklin spoke to Homer in a low voice over his shoulder. “Listen. Take your weapon out of your holster real slow and lay it on the ground.”
“You sure about this, Sheriff?”
“Yeah. Do it now.”
Homer did it but he plainly wasn’t happy about it. Franklin kicked the gun away with his boot tip.
“You coming down?” Franklin asked, squinting in the bright lights above. “Turn those dang things off if you want to talk to me.”
A few seconds later the lights went out, snapping and popping.
Tiger Tejada came out from behind the barrera and started walking. He waited for a break between bikes, then strode across the ring toward them with a whole lot of attitude. Heck, he was just a kid. Franklin was startled to see he was wearing a shiny jacket that seemed to be made out of blue sequins. His long black hair was pulled back from his face and tied into a ponytail. His narrow face was set in a frown, his eyes black under a high forehead with the entwined letters PS tattooed there. He was wearing black jeans and shiny snakeskin kicks on his feet, looked like some kind of gangbanger rockstar.
Tiger was a high-ranking Mexican warlord in a gang known as the Para Salvados, or PS. The gang originally formed during the civil war in El Salvador during the 1980s, a war that killed a hundred thousand and left millions impoverished and homeless. Many thousands made their way to the United States and settled in Hispanic neighborhoods in cities like Los Angeles. Victimized by black gangs like the Crips or the Bloods, they soon formed their own self-protective society.
Over time, the PS, with a history of violence and business savvy, had grown to be one of the world’s preeminent importers of illicit drugs and weapons. By 2005, they had expanded far beyond the California borders. Huge cells of the gang existed from New York to Florida, and throughout the Midwest states of Illinois, Michigan, and into Texas and even Alaska.
“Ola, Tres Ojos,” Franklin said to Tiger, using the street moniker he’d picked up on the FBI taps. Franklin saw a sudden flash of strong white teeth. Maybe he wasn’t as stupid as everybody thought. He clearly enjoyed the gringo sheriff knowing his secret handle.
“Ola, Senor,” he said with a smile of exaggerated politeness. “Thank you for coming down to visit.”
“Pleasure’s all mine,” Franklin said. “Tell me something, how’d you come by that name?”
The smile became a smirk. “Tres Ojos. Three eyes. My third eye is my pecker. Always on the lookout for pussy.”
Franklin forced a smile. “Yeah.”
“It’s good we have this little chance to talk, senor. Tell me. What was it you wanted to discuss? You here to arrest me?”
“I’m here to offer you a way out of this.”
“You’re offering me a way out, senor?”
“Correct.”
Tiger turned and looked back at his boys lingering behind the barrera. They all had their gun barrels resting on the top of the fence now, pointed toward the center of the bullring. A couple of them racked the slides on their weapons.
Tiger signaled the motorcycles to stop. When they had done so, he spread his arms in a wide arc and pivoted on his bootheels.
“Muchachos! The man says he’s willing to offer us a way out of here!”
After the irony of that had a chance to jell there was a chorus of raucous laughter. Somebody behind the barrera fired his 9mm automatic into the air and that really brought the house down. Tejada turned back to Franklin with a glittery mescal look in his eyes.
“Apparently, they do not accept your offer, Sheriff.”
“Listen. You want to be a grown-up and have a serious talk, tell me now. If not, my deputy and I will leave. Your call, son.”
“I admit to curiosity. What is it you could possibly want from me?”
“I want what I can get.”
“What you can get.”
“Yes. I can’t get the boys back, so I’ll take the girls.”
“Las putas? What’s the difference? Really. I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. You wasting my time.”
“Tiger, listen to me. You see that big black thing up there, looks like the sky? It ain’t. It’s a big Yankee hammer about to come down on your head. I’m offering you a chance to get out from under it.”
“What is this fucking hammer?”
“Swift justice. It’s coming your way shortly.”
“You threatening me?”
“Yes.”
“What is it you want? Spit it out. I have other appointments.”
“I want you to work for me.”
“You are truly crazy, you know that, man?”
“Maybe I am.”
“Tell me. What you want, man?”
“Let’s take a walk.”
“Si. Whatever.”
“It’s called flipping,” Dixon said when they were out of earshot. “We start at the bottom which is you. We flip folks in your organization, find out who the guy above them is and go after him. We keep flipping until we reach the top of Para Salvados. The head honcho who’s getting you into so much trouble.”
“You lost me way back with flipping, man.”
“Whoever it is. At the top. We take him out. And you take early retirement where nobody can touch you. Guaranteed. You understand?”
“I understand. You think I’m crazy as you.”
