The Power Of The Dog (47 page)

“No problem,” Art says.

Then starts to pull him into the United States, just starts yanking him through the hole in the fence, but one of the jagged pieces of the cut fence snags Quito’s pants. But Art keeps pulling, and the sharp wire pierces Quito’s butt, then pokes out the other side.

So he’s lying there basically impaled through the left butt cheek, and he’s screaming, “I’m stuck! I’m stuck!”

Art doesn’t care—he braces his feet against the American side of the fence and just pulls. The wire rips through Quito’s butt, and now he’s really screaming because he’s hurt and bleeding and in America and the Yanquis are punching the shit out of him, and then they stick a rag in his mouth to shut him up, and handcuff him, and they’re carrying him toward a jeep, and Quito sees a Border Patrol agent and tries to scream for help, but the migra just turns his back like he don’t see nothing.

Quito
tells all this to the judge, who looks solemnly down at Art and asks him where the arrest took place.

“The defendant was arrested in the United States, Your Honor,” Art says. “He was on American soil.”

“The defendant claims you pulled him through the fence.”

Then, as Quito’s public defender literally hops up and down with indignation, Art answers, “There’s not a word of truth to that, Your Honor. Mr. Fuentes came into the country of his own volition, to purchase an illegal firearm. We can offer a witness.”

“Would that be Mr. Méndez?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Your Honor,” the PD says, “Mr. Méndez obviously has made a deal with—”

“There was no deal,” Art says. “My hand to God.”

Next.

The Doctor’s not going to be so easy.

Doctor Álvarez has a thriving gynecology practice in Guadalajara, and he isn’t leaving. There’s nothing on earth that’s going to lure him across or even near the border. He knows the DEA is aware of his role in the Hidalgo murder, he knows how badly Keller wants him, so the good doctor is staying put in Guadalajara.

“Mexico City’s already screaming about Quito Fuentes,” Tim Taylor tells Art.

“Let them. “

“Easy for you to say.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“I’m telling you, Art,” Taylor says. “We can’t just go in and grab the Doctor, and the Mexicans aren’t going to do it. They’re not going to extradite him, either. This isn’t Honduras, this isn’t Coyote Canyon. Case closed.”

Maybe for you, Art thinks.

Not for me.

It will never be over until every person involved in Ernie’s murder is dead or behind bars.

If we can’t do it, and the Mexican cops won’t do it, I just have to find someone who will.

Art goes to Tijuana.

Where Antonio Ramos owns a little restaurant.

He finds the big ex-cop sitting outside with his feet up on a table, his cigar clenched in his mouth and a cold Tecate at the ready. He sees Art walk up and says, “If you’re on a search for the perfect chile verde, I can tell you this isn’t the place.”

“Not what I’m after,” Art says, sitting down. He orders a cerveza from the waitress who comes over like a shot.

“What, then?” Ramos asks.

“Not what—who,” Art says. “Doctor Humberto Álvarez.”

Ramos shakes his head. “I retired.”

“I remember.”

“Anyway, they broke up the DFS,” Ramos says. “I make one grand gesture in my life, and they render it inconsequential.”

“I still could use your help.”

Ramos swings his legs off the table and sits forward in his chair to bring his face closer to Art’s. “You had my help, remember? I gave you fucking Barrera, and you wouldn’t pull the trigger. You didn’t want revenge, you wanted justice. You got neither.”

“I haven’t quit.”

“You should,” Ramos says. “Because there is no justice, and you’re not serious about revenge. You’re not Mexican. There aren’t many things we take seriously, but vengeance is one of them.”

“I’m serious.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’m a-hundred-thousand-dollars serious,” Art says.

“You’re offering me a hundred thousand dollars to kill Álvarez.”

“Not kill him,” Art says. “Kidnap him. Bag him, put him on a plane to the States, where I can bring him to trial.”

“See, this is exactly what I mean,” says Ramos. “You’re soft. You want revenge, but you’re not man enough to just take it. You have to mask it with this ‘fair trial’ mierda. It would be a lot easier just to shoot him.”

“I’m not interested in easy,” Art says. “I’m interested in hard, long suffering. I want to put him in some federal hellhole for the rest of his life and hope it’s a long one. You’re the one who’s soft, wanting to put him out of his misery.”

“I don’t know …”

“Soft and bored,” Art says. “Don’t tell me you’re not bored. Sitting here day after day, cranking out tamales for tourists. You’ve kept up with the news. You know I got Mette and Fuentes already. And next I’m going to get the Doctor, with or without you. And then I’m going to get Barrera. With or without you.”

“A hundred grand.”

“A hundred grand.”

“I’ll need a few men …”

“I have a hundred grand for the job,” Art says. “Split it any way you want.”

“Tough guy.”

“You better believe it.”

Ramos takes a long pull on his cigar, exhales in perfect smoke circles and watches them float into the air. Then says, “Shit, I’m not making any money here. Okay. Acuérdate.”

“I want him alive,” Art says. “You bring me a corpse, you can whistle for your money.”

“Sí, sí, sí …”

Doctor Humberto Álvarez Machain finishes with his last patient, gallantly sees her out the door, says good night to his receptionist and steps back into his private office to gather up some papers before going home. He doesn’t hear the seven men come through the outer door. He doesn’t hear anything until Ramos steps into his office, points a stun gun at his ankle and shoots.

Álvarez falls to the floor and rolls in pain.

“You’ve seen your last funciete, Doctor,” Ramos says. “No chocho where you’re going.”

And shoots him again. Ramos says, “Hurts like a bastard, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Álvarez moans.

“If it were up to me I’d put a bullet in your head right now,” Ramos says. “Lucky for you, it isn’t up to me. Now, you’re going to do everything I say, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

They blindfold him, wrap telephone ties around his wrists and take him out the back door to a car waiting in the alley and shove him into the backseat, where they make him lie on the floor. Ramos gets in and sets his feet on Álvarez’s neck, and they drive to a safe house in the suburbs.

They bring him into the darkened living room and take off the blindfold.

Álvarez starts to cry when he sees the tall man stretched out in the chair in front of him.

“Do you know who I am?” Art asks. “Ernie Hidalgo was my close friend. Un hermano. Sangre de mi sangre.”

Álvarez is trembling uncontrollably now.

“You were his torturer,” Art says. “You scraped his bones with metal skewers, you shoved white-hot iron rods inside him. You gave him shots to keep him conscious and alive.”

“No,” Álvarez says.

“Don’t lie to me,” Art says. “It only makes me angrier. I have you on tape.”

A stain emerges on the front of the doctor’s pants and spreads down one leg.

“He’s pissing himself,” Ramos says.

“Strip him.”

They pull his shirt off and leave it dangling around his bound wrists. Jerk his pants and his shorts down to his ankles. Álvarez’s eyes widen in little orbs of terror. All the more so when Kleindeist says, “Take a whiff. What do you smell?”

Álvarez shakes his head.

“From the kitchen,” Kleindeist says. “Think hard—you’ve smelled it before. No? Okay—metal heating. A piece of rebar, over the stove.”

One of Ramos’ men comes in, holding the red-hot, glowing metal in an oven mitt.

Álvarez faints.

“Wake him up,” Art says.

Ramos shoots him in the calf.

Álvarez comes to and screams.

“Bend him over the couch.”

They heave Álvarez over the arm of the couch. Two men hold his arms and spread them wide. Two others pin his feet to the floor. The other man brings over the hot iron and shows it to him.

“No, please … no.”

“I want the names,” Art says, “of everyone you saw in the house with Ernie Hidalgo. And I want them now.”

No problema.

Álvarez starts talking like a comic speed-reader on crank.

“Adán Barrera, Raúl Barrera,” he says. “Ángel Barrera, Güero Méndez.”

“What?”

“Adán Barrera, Raúl Barrera—”

“No,” Art snaps. “The last name.”

“Güero Méndez.”

“He was there?”

“Sí, sí, sí. He was the leader, Señor.” Álvarez takes a gulp of air, then says, “He killed Hidalgo.”

“How?”

“An overdose of heroin,” Álvarez says. “An accident. We were going to free him. I swear. La verdad.”

“Pick him up.”

Art looks at the sobbing doctor and says, “You’re going to write out a statement. Telling all about your involvement. All about the Barreras and Méndez. ¿De acuerdo?”

“De acuerdo.”

“Then you’re going to write another statement,” Art says, “affirming that you were not tortured or compelled to make this statement in any way. ¿De acuerdo?”

“Sí.” Then, regaining his composure, he starts to deal. “Will you offer me some kind of consideration for my cooperation?”

“I’ll put in a good word for you,” Art says.

They sit him down at the kitchen table with paper and pen. An hour later, both statements are finished. Art reads them, puts them in his briefcase and says, “Now you’re going for a little trip.”

“No, Señor!” Álvarez screams. He knows all about little trips. They usually involve shovels and shallow graves.

“To the United States,” Art says. “We have a plane waiting at the airport. You’re going of your free will, I assume.”

“Yes, of course.”

Goddamn right, of course, Art thinks. The man just dropped a dime on the Barreras and Güero Méndez. His life expectancy in Mexico is approximately nil. Art hopes his longevity in Marion federal penitentiary will be of Old Testament proportions.