It was nearly ten p.m., and Johnny Sanchez was alone in his hotel room, typing furiously on his notebook computer after having just inhaled two cheeseburgers and a large order of fries, the grease-stained wrappers and containers lying on the desk near his mouse. The city’s lights were gleaming, and the U.S. Consulate was just five hundred yards off and clearly visible through his window. He pushed back his desk chair and reread what he’d just written:
EXT. BURNING HOTEL — NIGHT
As Corrales falls to his knees in the street, the fires raging skyward: an inferno of an old life turning to ashes. The boy looks skyward, the flames reflected in his tear-filled eyes, and he rages aloud against the heavens. We cry with him …
“That is fucking beautiful,” Johnny shouted at the computer screen. “Fucking beautiful! Who’s the man? You the man, Johnny! This bitch is going to sell big-time!”
A slight click came from the hallway, and as Johnny looked up, the front door opened. Johnny bolted from his chair and gasped at a man dressed in dark slacks, a black shirt, and a leather jacket. The man was over six feet, with a closely cropped beard, an earring, and long hair pulled back into a ponytail. He appeared either Arabic or Hispanic, Johnny wasn’t sure, but he felt pretty certain about the make of the pistol in the man’s hand. It was a Glock, all right, most certainly loaded, and pointed at Johnny’s head. Attached silencer. Johnny’s pistol was in the nightstand drawer, out of reach, damn it.
“What the fuck is this?” Johnny asked in Spanish.
The man answered in English. “This is me saying, ‘Hi, Johnny. I read your article. Good stuff. You’re a good writer.’”
“Who the fuck are you?”
The man’s expression twisted. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you to respect a man who’s got a gun to your head? These are those little life lessons she should’ve taught you.”
“Are you done with your alpha-male bullshit? What the fuck are you doing here?”
“How long did you think it would take? Did you think you could come down here to Mexico and hang out with a drug cartel and not gain anyone’s attention?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m an investigative journalist. I report on criminal activity. You read my fucking article. You think I’m in bed with them? You’re fucking nuts. And I’m calling the police.”
The man shifted up to him, raising the pistol even higher. His playful tone vanished. “Sit down, motherfucker.”
Johnny returned to his chair. “Jesus Christ …”
“The wheels are spinning now, huh? You’re thinking,
“Look, asshole, all I’m doing is writing. I’m not hurting anyone. I’m not taking from anyone.”
“But you’re not helping anyone, either.”
“Bullshit I’m not. I’m taking the American public into the trenches of the drug war here. This is a behind-the- scenes tour into hell, into how screwed up this community has become.”
“That sounds pretty fucking dramatic, and I guess it is, since you’ve got a gun to your head right now. Are you going to put me in an article?”
“Who the fuck are you?”
The man widened his eyes. “I’m your last friend in the whole wide world. Now show me your hand.”
“What?”
“Show me your hand.”
Johnny extended one palm, and the man used his free hand to grab Johnny’s and turn it backside up.
“Here, hold this,” said the man, offering Johnny the gun.
“What the fuck?” Johnny cried.
“Oh, don’t worry. It’s not loaded.”
The man shoved the gun in Johnny’s free hand, then reached into an inner breast pocket and produced a large syringe that he shoved into the soft tissue between Johnny’s thumb and forefinger. The pain was sharp for a second, and Johnny screamed and demanded to know what was happening. The man released him and said, “Gun?”
“Are you for real?”
The guy made a face. “Gun?”
“What did you do? Poison me?”
“Easy, Shakespeare. It’s just an implant. GPS. So we can keep you safe.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“There are a lot of letters in the alphabet, Johnny, and I’m betting as a writer you can figure that out.”
“DEA?” Johnny asked. “Oh my God.”
“Sorry,” said the man. “I’m afraid you’ve just climbed into bed with the United States government.”
Johnny’s shoulders shrank. “This cannot be happening.”
“Look, you can’t talk. It’s already too late for that. If you go to Corrales and tell him we’re here, you’ll die. We won’t kill you, he will. Like I said, I’m your last friend. You won’t make it out of Mexico alive without me.”
Johnny’s eyes began to burn, and he was fast running out of breath. “What do you want? What am I supposed to do?”
“The Juarez Cartel is being led by Jorge Rojas.”
Johnny burst out laughing. “Is that what you dumbass Feds think? Oh my God …stupidity run amok!”
“I got that from Zuniga.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Then you know who he is, and I’m sure Corrales can confirm that Rojas is his boss. I need you to pump Corrales for everything you can get on Rojas.”
“Do I have to wear a wire?”
“Not right now. But we’ll see.”
Johnny stiffened. “I won’t do it. I’m leaving Mexico tonight; you Feds can go fuck yourselves.”
“Yeah, and the moment you step off the plane in California we’ll place you under arrest.”
“For what?”
The man eyed the junk-food wrappers on the desk. “For failing to eat a balanced diet.”
“Dude, you’d better leave now.”
“You are the son of Corrales’s godmother. He trusts you like you were blood. And you feed his ego. That’s very important to us, and you can do the right thing here. You might be afraid now, but I need you to think how many people will be saved because of your help. I can sit you down and spend a week showing you how many families have been ruined by drugs.”
“Spare me the bleeding-heart bullshit. People choose to buy and use drugs. Corrales and the cartel are just the suppliers. You want to talk politics, then let’s talk about the Mexican economy.”
The man waved Johnny off and pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to him. The guy’s name was Scott Howard, and he was president of a solar-energy company. “So you’re Mr. Howard? Yeah, right.”
“My number’s there. You let me know the next time you’re going to make contact with Corrales.”
Howard — or whatever his name was — pocketed his “empty” weapon and moved swiftly to the door.
Johnny sat there as a shudder ripped through his shoulders. What would he do?
20 DIVERSIONS
It was seven A.M., and Dante Corrales was not in the mood to wait for a man who was supposed to be
