The House of Wolfe (19 page)

Actually, it leaves us with four million, Galán said.

Melitón tilted his head and studied him narrowly. I see. The security chief is in for a surprise.

He's the only one of us they can identify, Galán said. If they track him down, he'll betray us. Look what he's doing to his own men.

Yes, I understand. Still, the captives will know you, too.

They'll know our faces, our nicknames. No matter. I've already frightened them with the possibility that any police officials they deal with might be friends of ours. But why would they go to the police? To try to get their money back? For
justice
? At the risk of angering us? Of having us revisit them? And even if they go to the police, so what? There are hundreds of known kidnappers at large. Untold hundreds of killers. The police have more important business than searching for unknown kidnappers who release their captives unharmed.

Unless some of them are not released unharmed, and especially if they are rich, Melitón said. Unexpected turns can occur. Exigencies arise. Dire surprises.

Yes, the unexpected is always possible, Galán said. You try always to plan so that the possibility is minimal.

Naturally. But
if
an exigency should arise?

Then you do whatever must be done.

Melitón smiled.
That
, he said, raising a finger for emphasis, is the creed of the top ones. It is the creed that carries them to the top and keeps them there. He leaned closer and said, Tell me, do you know of the Zetas?

Of course he did. They were the enforcement arm of the Gulf organization, most of them deserters from the Mexican Special Forces. They were widely regarded as the most fearsome enforcers in the country.

They are everything you have heard and more, said Melitón. Not so long ago they persuaded their Gulf employers to let them operate their own drug trade, and now it is said that their aspirations have grown even larger. The Gulf bosses have become very nervous about them, and they have reason to be. The Zetas are on a rapid ascension. Indeed, if I were a small gang seeking to join with a major organization, I might pass up a larger one that's afraid of its own enforcers and turn instead to the feared enforcers. It is only a matter of time before the Zetas establish their independence from the Gulf clan, and I have it on good authority that they have already begun to recruit their own network of undergangs. I think they would be highly receptive to a million-dollar membership fee from a gang they might otherwise reject as, ah . . . insufficiently seasoned, let us say.

And who better to carry my offer to them, Galán said, than someone of their acquaintance who is himself ready to transfer his full allegiance to them? Who may even be awarded a cut of the membership fee.

Melitón smiled back and said, What is friendship but a bond of mutual advantage? The important question is whether you and your boys would rather serve a large but nervous organization or join with a small self-confident one that will do whatever it must to achieve its high ambitions.

I take your point, Mr. Engineer.

Melitón smiled. Well then, you and your men have a decision to make.

I'll call you tonight, Galán said.

That evening he gathered Los Doce at El Nido and explained their choices and stated his preference. Every man of them opted for that choice too. He then called Melitón and said, You may take our offer to the Zetas, Mr. Engineer.

The next time they met at La Golondrina, Melitón introduced him to another fetching companion and then excused himself and escorted her out to the Chrysler. Then he returned to the table, resumed his seat, leaned toward Galán and said, It's a deal.

The light rain persists. As the waiter clears away their dishes, Galán excuses himself and tells Melitón he will be right back. He goes outside and stands under the Golondrina's entranceway awning and takes out an old clamshell phone, then waits for an arriving couple to walk by him and enter before he makes his call.

Señor Belmonte sounds alarmed when he answers on the special phone Espanto gave him,
Yes?
Hello?

This is X, Galán says. Is everything well?

As if baffled by the question, Belmonte hesitates, then stammers and says, Yes, yes. I will be . . .
we,
we will be leaving for the bank soon. They don't open until—

Be calm, Mr. Belmonte, Galán says, watching the traffic hissing past in the rain, the world proceeding about its business. I know the bank hours. You and Mr. Sosa must be calm when you deal with the bankers. I am calling only to reassure all of you that your children are well and safe. Also to ask if you have spoken to anyone else of the situation.

No, no, certainly not. We won't in any—

Not even other relatives of the party members?

Oh! . . . Yes, I see what . . .
Yes
, we told them the wedding party decided to spend today at my ranch in Cuernavaca . . . riding horses, canoes on the river, a barbecue. There are only four in the party who are not our children, and so—

I know, Galán says. Your nephews Carlos and Colón, Mr. Sosa's niece Francesca, and the American girl. And I know Mr. Sosa spoke to his cousin and you spoke to yours. I know Sosa received no answer at the apartment of the American girl's cousin, but he left the same message on her phone. As I have told you, Mr. Belmonte, we are aware of all communications transmitted from or to your home. I wanted to remind you of that—and to say you did well in ensuring the relatives will not become alarmed. Continue to do as well for the remainder of this day.

Yes, yes, we will. Whatever you—

Do not for a minute forget that your children's welfare depends completely on the four of you.

Yes, sir, yes . . . we understand, believe me. I—

Very good. I await your call at four.

Yes. At four. Exactly.

Until that time, Mr. Belmonte. Stay calm and be strong.

Galán ends the call. He goes into the men's room off the foyer, finds it unoccupied, breaks the little phone apart in a sink, and deposits the pieces in a trash receptacle. Then washes his hands and returns to the table.

Melitón smiles. Your face suggests that all is well.

My face cannot lie, Mr. Engineer, Galán says, and they laugh.

Lingering over coffee in the pleasant warmth of the café, they are content in each other's company. They talk of music, of a new exhibit at the Palacio de Bellas Artes featuring the fascinating collection of a young photographer from Morelia.

Galán will soon repair to El Nido, where he will pass the day contemplating the future of Los Doce, reading, taking phone reports from Espanto. Waiting for Belmonte's call.

19 — THE BETA HOUSE

The stink in the Beta hold house is unyielding. The place is far from the Alpha house but in a similar neighborhood of rutted streets littered with trash and rattletrap motor vehicles. But this house is smaller—a one-story, four-room structure of cracked block and weathered wood.

The Beta chief is Barbarosa, so known for his short red beard. His two-man crew consists of Cisco and Flaco. The three male hostages have been put in one of the small bedrooms under Cisco's watch, the two women in the other, with Flaco guarding them. The sole furnishings in each bedroom are inflated camping mattresses on the floor for the captives, a chair for a guard, a little table with a lamp. The crew has brought bottled water and sandwiches, but the awful smell has stoppered all appetites.

They have determined that the stink comes from the basement. It seeps up through cracks in the wooden floor and from under the basement door at the bottom of an enclosed stairwell off the kitchen. But they can't investigate the source because the heavy door is secured by a padlock the size of a brick, its shackle protected by shoulder shrouds, and the reinforced steel hasp has no exposed pins or screws. The door's hinges are also on the inward side. The men had taken turns trying to cut into the lock with a hacksaw but gave up after half an hour, having made but a minor scratch in the metal and blunted the saw's teeth.

Cisco had suggested they shoot the lock off. Barbarosa asked if he'd ever tried shooting off a padlock, or even seen anybody try it outside of the movies. Cisco admitted that he had not, but it seemed a damn good way to him and he'd like to see the lock stand up to a nine-millimeter bullet. Barbarosa said he once witnessed someone try to shoot a padlock off a clothes trunk with a .45-caliber pistol. There were four guys there, and in less time than it takes to blink, the bullet ricocheted around the room and hit one of them in the arm and crippled it. That was in a
room
, Barbarosa said. In a stone stairwell like this, the ricochet will be like a machine gun burst. You want to try it, that's fine, but wait till I go upstairs. Cisco declined to try but wanted to know if the bullet opened the lock. Barbarosa said it did not, but it bent the cylinder, and when the key was found five minutes later it no longer fit the keyhole. The owner of the trunk then tried using an axe on the lock but the blade glanced off it and chopped into his boot and maimed his big toe. The guy howled and swore like the devil while they bandaged him, then said fuck it and had another guy hack the trunk apart to get the clothes out.

That
worked, Barbarosa said. I don't believe that option would succeed with this door, but if you want to try chopping through it, I have no objection.

Cisco declined that opportunity as well.

Thinking that electric fans might effect some relief, Barbarosa had sent Flaco to a twenty-four-hour store in the city to purchase a half dozen, but they only generated a foul cold wind through the house and caused a short in one of the outlets. The house lights have since flickered every so often as if preparing to quit altogether.

When Espanto called late last night to tell him of Fuego's death from wounds received in a gunfight with Huerta and that the Beta crew would have to operate with just three men, Barbarosa—who'd been close friends with Fuego and was angered by the news—had complained vehemently about the stink and the locked basement and the erratic electrical system. Espanto had expressed surprise. He said the house hadn't smelled too bad when he'd looked it over last month, no worse than most slum houses, anyway. He admitted, however, not having bothered to check out the basement, since the Beta crew wouldn't be making use of it. He said he would get in touch with the owner of the place and have him go there and see what he could do about the stink, but he doubted there was anything to be done about the flickering lights.

The remainder of the night at the Beta house had been an ordeal. They had partly opened all the windows in an attempt to ease the stink and had only made the place colder and danker. The two women ­captives—Linda Sosa, and her cousin Francesca—sniveled even in half sleep, hugging each other for warmth. In the other room, the complaints of the bridegroom, Demetrio, and his cousins Carlos and Colón, two of his groomsmen, grew so tiresome that Barbarosa threatened to gag them again if they didn't shut their snouts.

Early this morning Espanto had called again, to check on things and report that he was having trouble locating the house's owner, a man named Spoto—a slumlord from whom he has rented hold houses before and who knows Espanto only by a false name. Espanto said he would keep trying to get hold of him. He didn't call Barbarosa again until late morning. He had located Spoto but the man didn't have a key to the lock. Before Spoto rented the house to Espanto he had been letting his nephew use it, and the boy had confided that he and some pals were printing counterfeit government documents in the basement and swore to him they were being very careful to keep the activity secret. When Espanto rented the house, Spoto told his nephew he would have to stay away from there for a while, but he hadn't known the boy would padlock the basement. Because the nephew had complained about rats, it was Spoto's guess that he had set a bunch of traps before locking up and that a bunch of dead rats was the cause of the stink. He didn't know where the nephew might be but said he would try to find him and have him go over there and open the lock. Espanto told him to forget it. It would be quicker to send a locksmith.

I've called a guy who's a maestro with locks, Espanto told Barbarosa. Right now he's on a job that's almost done, and then he'll go straight to you. It's amazing the things I do for you pansies just so you don't have to put up with a little stink for a few more hours.

Hey man, Barbarosa said, if you think it's such a little stink,
you
come out here and wait till the payoff and
I'll
sit in a nice warm café drinking coffee and making phone calls.

Maybe next time, Espanto said, and they both laughed, but in different tones.

Now it's past midday and still no locksmith. Everyone's tired from lack of sleep, still damp and shivering from the cold rain blowing through the windows all night. As Barbarosa is debating whether to call Espanto and give him hell, his phone buzzes.

It's Espanto, informing him that the locksmith had been on his way to the Beta place when his fan belt broke. He was now waiting for roadside assistance and figured it wouldn't take long to get rolling again. He was only a few miles away from the hold house.

Jesus fucking Christ, Barbarosa says.

Hey man, the guy can't help it the belt broke. He'll be on his way again in a few minutes.

Yeah, right, Barbarosa says.

I'm telling you, the guy'll
be
there, Espanto says. You might still get a few hours free of the stink.
If
you find what it is, and
if
it's something you can do anything about. I mean, if it turns out it's a body, there won't be much you can do about getting rid of it. Even if you could, you know how
that
stink sticks around. Same for dead rats if there's a bunch of them.

Barbarosa hears the note of amusement in Espanto's voice. Fucker thinks this is funny. It occurs to him that Espanto's playing a joke, that he hasn't called a locksmith, that he probably hasn't talked to anybody about the stink. As the only one in the gang from a working-class family, Barbarosa is occasionally the object of mockery from the other members of Los Doce, all of whom come from the slums or the shanties and through a perverse turn of prejudice tend to view him as their social lesser. Barbarosa is so enraged he doesn't trust himself to speak.