Stone Age (6 page)

Stocking Up

7:05 A.M.

Rocky Point, Mexico

Max took a big bite out of his huevos con queso burrito.  Fragile wisps of steam emptied out of the bitten end, slithering by his face, slowed slightly by the brim of his blue Cub
’s cap, before emptying through the open air of his Jeep into the soup of the city’s aromas. It was a blended mixture ranging from foul to delightful.  A flavorful volcano of fire erupted in his mouth.   He put out the agreeable fire with a big swig of the remainders of this morning’s freshly brewed coffee currently residing in his large
to go
cup.  Eyeing his dwindling burrito, as a predator would its prey, he bit through the soft tortilla, taking in another mouthful.  Truly, very few things beat the taste of Pablo’s burritos in the morning.  He tried focusing on this diversion from what lay ahead for him and his friends.  Unfortunately, it was also a reminder of so many simple pleasures which would soon be gone.

Max was sitting in the driver’s seat of his Jeep Willys, left elbow resting on the door, hand holding the foil wrapped delicacy.  His right hand firmly held his plastic anti-spill coffee cup, or as Bill called it, his
adult Sippy-Cup
.  He mentally held back the onslaught of sounds and smells surrounding him, focused instead on every morsel of the masterpiece crafted by Pablo’s burrito stand, a few steps away from where he was double-parked. 

The typical bustle of locals came by car, truck, foot, or bicycle.  It never took longer than a couple of minutes to shout their orders in Spanish while handing Pablo’s wife, Maria, 10 pesos, and then collecting their two foil wrapped burritos from Pablo, leaving the same way they had come.  It was the best deal in town for the greatest burritos.  For less than $1 US, you would get two of either an egg and cheese, or potato and cheese burrito.  The only extra was a small container of salsa, homemade and equally tasty of course.  Always the same choices since he could remember hearing about this place over 20 years ago; always available only at 7:00 AM, 6 days a week; and always a steady stream of customers.   He learned that Pablo and his wife pre-made them, and rolled them the two blocks from home in their handmade cart.  Every day, since their first day, they sold out
, never deviating from the successful formula that served their family so well. 

Max took another bite and then looked up to watch the steady stream of customers.  He started work unwrapping his second burrito. 

He counted the traffic and calculated that Pablo and Maria took in about 2500 pesos in 45 minutes, which meant they had to make at least 500 burritos each day.  Burrito production took the whole Garcia family, Maria told him, including their four kids, starting the assembly line at 4AM.   Other than purchasing the cheese, milk, potatoes, spices, and foil for wrapping, they were self-sufficient for everything else.  The eggs came from an uncountable number of chickens in their back yard.  The tortillas were made fresh daily by Maria and their eldest daughter the night before.  The pushcart was also homemade, a combination of Pablo’s craftsmanship as a carpenter by trade, and Pablo’s father’s design.  Pablo Sr. came up with the ingenious scheme of hollowing the chamber surrounding the metal burrito storage area.  On the sides and below were sliding steel drawers, each with little grates, which held hot coals from a fire they prepared the night before.  The drawers slid into each side and below the chamber, keeping the burritos hot up until the time of purchase.

Max loved stories like this one, but it was a common tale down here.  He thought the Mexican people had far more ingenuity than most Americans he knew, which made sense since most had to live on and make do with a tenth of what an American typically did.   Most Americans would just buy what they wanted, whereas most Mexicans made do with the used castoffs from Americans who replaced everything with the latest and greatest.  Yesterday’s big screen TVs, cell phones, computers, and so many other appliances th
at were tossed out or sold to thrift shops in Tucson or Phoenix Arizona, and from local vacation homes, ended up in the homes of many of the Mexicans here in Rocky Point.

Their ingenuity and lack of dependence on technology, Max thought, might give some Mexicans an advantage over their American counterparts when trying to survive society’s coming downfall.

Max watched a pickup truck pull up behind him, barely stopping before pulling back out into traffic, leaving a tall, lanky, dark-skinned Mexican man who had hopped out of the bed and was already walking past his Willys to the burrito stand.  He barked off his order and handed a 10 peso coin to Maria, his new burgundy colored baseball cap nodding in the affirmative.  The man grabbed his burritos and walked towards the passenger side of the Jeep, where he opened the door and hopped in.

“Hola, Señor Max,” he said with his smiling fully mustached mouth.

Max already had the Willys in gear, and started to pull into traffic. “Hola, Miguel, right on time.  Thanks for coming on such short notice,” Max responded, seemingly focused on traffic and not on his passenger, who was already tearing into his burrito like a shark might take to a sea bass.

A couple of minutes later, they were headed southeast on Highway 37 to Coborca and Santa Ana.  Then, they would head north on the 2 through Magdalena and Cananea before heading back south again on the small long roads that led to his ranch in the mountains.  It would take them about eight hours to get there and that much time to get back.  He figured about two hours to drop off the extra ATV that was taking up space in his RP garage and pack up the trailer.   If the police, military, and occasional drug gang checkpoints did not stop them too many times, they should make it back tomorrow, long before Bill and Lisa’s party.

Max accelerated the Jeep and trailer up to the speed limit of 80 kilometers per hour.  The wind bellowed at him from everywhere, with only the windshield, and side door windows abating the onrush of air already heated by the morning sun.

“Maria is not too mad at me for taking you away for a couple of days, is she?” Max yelled at him in Spanish, trying to be heard over the air screaming through the Jeep’s cockpit.

“No, Señor Max.  You never wrong in her head.  She just worried bout our little boy.” Miguel yelled back in English.

“When is the big date?”  Max switched back to English because it was still easier and because Miguel wanted Max to always practice with him.

“She say maybe fif-weeks now.  She get big as house.”  Miguel was holding his two hands about three feet apart to demonstrate, in case Max didn’t understand the analogy.

Acknowledging the humor, Max smiled back.  His face then sagged.  “When we get back, you tell her to stay inside the special room we built until the baby is born, okay?”

Miguel’s face turned dark.  “What happening, Señor Max?”

“I just want to be cautious, but I am a little worried.  I won’t lie to you.  Just promise me you will try to keep her there, especially during the day?”

“Okay, Señor Max.  Gracias for always take care my family.”

The jeep and trailer, and its two passengers headed down the highway, already baking in the mid-morning sun, along a path it had taken many times before.

El Gordo

3
:33 P.M.

Northern, Mexico

Luis
“El Gordo” Hernandez Ochoa was the third biggest drug lord in Mexico.  Rising to become the ruler of a two billion peso per year illegal enterprise taught him many things: use the talent God gave you, initiative creates opportunity, reward loyalty, and perform immediate cruelty to create respect and fear.  He was as ruthless as his reputation.  Nothing scared him and he feared no one, except of course, God.  Raised in a devout Catholic family, he learned what it meant to fear God, and to watch out for signs.  Like most Catholic Mexicans, his Madre taught him first about signs.  “There are signs everywhere, Luis, you just have to watch for them,” she taught him every day she was alive.   However, it wasn’t until her death that he came to believe in signs.  

Five years ago, a competing gang seeking reprisals for his killing the leader’s whole family blew up his Madre along with much of his villa.  On that morning, he had awoken from a bad dream, where he remembered feeling sadness and loss.  When his sweet Madre was later blown to pieces, he learned never to ignore
a sign, especially one in a dream.

Now, just moments ago, while sleeping through a hangover from alcohol and coca, El Gordo woke from the worst dream of his life.  His dead Madre was standing in the middle of a road that he knew well
.  While he watched, she threw the red hair ribbons she wore all the time into the air.  Each ribbon fluttered upward, ascending with the wind, waving back at him.  Then, the first and second ribbon combined and became a larger ribbon.  Then, the third joined into the collective and so on.  The growing mass of undulating ribbons transformed further into a fiery form in the sky.  Each subsequent ribbon rose and combined with the burning formation in the sky.  Now, he could feel the heat, and he started to sweat profusely.  He looked down and realized he was on fire.  He could smell that his clothes, hair and skin were ablaze.  He didn’t feel any pain, but watched horrified, as his fingers started to melt. His skin liquefied and then started sliding off the boney protrusions of his digits onto the ground below him.    He could see that he was shrinking, now melting into a molten pile of flesh and liquid.  It reminded him of that American movie he saw as a child, called The Wizard of Oz, with the ugly green witch melting.  Faster, his mass was sliding into an El Gordo soup.  He screamed!

In a pool of sweat, his silk pajamas and silk sheets soaked through, Luis sat up in a start.  The mop of his artificially blackened hair stuck to his forehead and covered his right eye.  He pushed it away and hurriedly took an account of his fingers, his body, and then his vast bedroom.  The partially exposed naked forms of two young women lay beside him undisturbed. The smell of his sweat and urine was overpowering.  He had wet himself. 

This was a fear he had never felt.  Worse, it was without reason.  “Why was he afraid and of what?”  He considered this, as he tried to calm his breathing.

Then, it hit him like a slap from one of his jealous lovers.  He knew what he had to do right this minute, no, this second.

He swung his soaked flabby frame out of bed, and pulled off his clothes, leaving a trail from his bed, as he ran to the shower, a swiftness his hefty body hadn’t seen in years.  He had purpose.  He didn’t know why or what exactly it was; only that he had to do it and do it now.  He slapped the intercom button as he passed into his bathroom, heading for the shower.

“Si El Hefe,” chimed in his Number 1.

“Get the truck ready with Chaco and Bingo.  We’re going to the checkpoint in five minutes,” he yelled, already in the giant shower, its jets automatically engaging, shooting hundreds of raindrops from all directions and drowning out the response from the intercom.

Four minutes later, Luis, in his black Tahoe, his hair still wet, raced to the road he saw in his nightmare.  The afternoon light sparkled off the truck’s gold highlights on the bumpers, molding, and headlamps.

None of his men asked where they were going, but they had their AK’s at the ready for whatever trouble they must be headed towards.

“Who is covering the gate?”  He asked of his driver.

“No one today,” the driver answered somewhat sheepishly, his lips and the scar on his cheek moving rapidly.  “Remember, El Hefe, the local police have been cracking down on checkpoints.  We were going to wait for a week or two after Mayor Renaldo could say that he has been cutting down on crime and mordita to get our men set up again.”  The driver spoke with a little more confidence.  “Besides the cameras, as you told me, we have men every 200 meters around the villa and down the road.  So if anyone comes, we’ll know it long before they get close.”

“Okay, thanks, Chaco.  I can always count on you,” he said looking up to the sky, but not seeing any red.

It only took five minutes before they were already at the intersection where for years they manned the checkpoint on the dirt highway, if you could call it a highway.  Only one vehicle every hour or two ever used it.  Either you owned a ranch or villa around here or you were one of its workers.  The owners paid him a protection fee at the gate to keep their streets protected from other gangs or crooked police.  In truth, El Gordo wanted to keep tabs on who was coming and going near his residence: No reason why he couldn’t make a little money off of his investment in personnel.

In the distance, coming from Hwy 2, a cloud of dust was approaching, maybe three kilometers away.

Luis got out and looked down each straight away of the highway, the fear from his dream coming back.  He just didn’t know what he was looking for.  It wasn’t his Madre, since she was dead, but maybe something or someone that reminded him of her.  He knew he had to be here at this place, but he didn’t know why.

The approaching engine and dust cloud were less than a kilometer away.  He looked through the binoculars.  It was an old but familiar Jeep trailing an ATV.  It must be Señor Max coming again to his ranch. 

He liked Señor Max.  He always paid his fee, kept to himself, and sometimes could get him weapons and other goods that no one else could, including a giant gun that could hit someone farther than he could see.  However, it was strange to see Max again.  His men told him that he had been to his ranch over a dozen times in the last two months.  Each time, he transported supplies to his other house on the beach.  Luis didn’t care what this man did.  Certainly didn’t care if he moved his belongings back and forth.

Then it hit him like the desert heat on a summer day often slapped his face when exiting his patio door, before a dip in the pool
.  His memory was now crystal clear.  Señor Max always bought red ribbons for his Madre.  He didn’t know what this had to do with his dream, but he was sure it meant something.  Luis thought of his Madre’s face the last time Señor Max handed her a ribbon, years ago now. 

Max slowed and then stopped a few feet from Luis.

“Hola, Señor Max,” Luis warmly greeted a surprised Max with his sweaty mitt. 

Max accepted it and shook back, “Buenas dias, El Heffe.  It is an honor to see you here.”  Max tried desperately to show respect, while being genuinely scared to see the leader of the area’s biggest drug gang at this checkpoint, always manned by someone at least four men below the boss in the org chart.  What the hell was he doing here?  Now?

“Not to worry, my friend.  I was waiting for someone and I saw you pull up.  Are you coming to get more supplies?”

Max hated that this drug kingpin knew his business so well, but that was part of the game he played and he certainly didn’t have to worry about burglars.   The Ochoa clan would dispose of any busybodies that ventured on to his property.  Nevertheless, he wondered what would keep the Ochoa clan from taking from him, not that their offerings of protection services provided him with anything resembling a choice.  He paid, without negotiation, because anything less would be suicide.

“Si, we’re picking up supplies for my house and a few others in Puerto Penasco,” Max offered, “Do you need anything, El Hefe?”

“Thank you, friend, no.  Seems like you’ve had to get supplies a lot and such a far drive for you and Miguel to travel.  I will have two of my men help you so that you can rest longer for your return trip.”

“Oh, El Hefe, that is a most generous offer, but, I couldn’t impose on you or your men…“

“I insist,” Luis broke in.  “What kind of friend and neighbor would I be if I didn’t help?”  With that, he turned and barked off a command to his men standing outside the Tahoe parked on the side of the road.  Two of them started toward Max’s jeep.

Max saw El Gordo’s men coming to his jeep, realizing his options were evaporating by the second.  If El Gordo’s men came with them, they would see all his supplies, what they were, and where they were stored.  Everything was kept in one underground bunker with hidden access.  Only Miguel knew its location and contents.  Revealing his secrets to this drug kingpin would be tantamount to handing him the keys to his ranch and saying, “Take it all, please.”  What the hell was he going to do?

Max reached down with his right hand, underneath the steering column, feeling for a specific wire.  He whispered to Miguel, “Play along with me and what I’m about to say. “

Miguel’s face turned from frown to smile, recognizing with relief that his friend had a plan.

“Hola, Señor Max,” one of
El Gordo’s thugs said, as he and the other climbed into the back of the Jeep.

Max continued feeling and then found what he wanted, while turning to the man who spoke to him.  “Gracias Chaco par su asistencia.”   He pulled on the wire and the Jeep’s engine died.  He turned his head to the ignition, feigning confusion, and then he turned the ignition. 
Brum-rum-rum-rum
.  Again,
Brum-rum-rum-rum
.   Once more,
Brum-rum-rum-rum
.

“Mierda!”  Max yelled and banged on the steering wheel with both hands. 

“Miguel, take the ATV to the house, which is only a couple of miles away, and get my tool kit, and the ignition assembly on my bench in the garage.  Here is the key.”  Max handed him an old key that Miguel knew wouldn’t work any of the doors except the work area of his garage, where he would find the useless items Max just requested.

“Si, Señor Max,” Miguel responded and then spun out of his seat and walked back to the trailer.

“Sorry, Chaco.  I thought my ignition system would hold out till I made it to the house.  It will take about two hours for Miguel to bring me the supplies I need and then for me to fix the engine.  Do you want to wait with me?”  Max continued his act, while Miguel was already dropping the ATV ramp on the trailer.

“El Hefe?  Compermiso, El Hefe.”  Chaco and the other man, who said nothing, were out of the Jeep and jogging to Luis, catching up to the portly cartel king while he was talking to his other thug. 

Max got out, popped the hood, and acted as if he was starting his work to repair the ignition.

Chaco turned back and jogged up to Max and Miguel who pulled the ATV up to the front of the Jeep and acted as if he was getting further directions.

“El Hefe say, he sorry, but we are needed on other duties right now, unless you need further help with your engine,” Chaco said, out of breath.

“Tell El Hefe again, thank you for your offer of help, but we’ll be fine.”

With that, Chaco turned and left, and two minutes later, the Tahoe left in a trail of dust with one of the three guards, the man who accompanied Chaco but didn’t say anything standing by a makeshift gate El Gordo and his band of thugs maintained at times.

Max turned back to Miguel and said quietly, “I’m sorry, Miguel, but you’re going to have to go back and pull out the major supplies I told you about by yourself and put them in the garage.   After an hour, get the things I mentioned and race back here.   I’ll pretend to work on the Jeep while you’re gone.  With luck, none of
El Gordo’s men will want to accompany us, but if they do, we’ll show them only the garage and the house.  Got it?”

Miguel nodded and accelerated the ATV like a crazy drunk tourist on Spring Break until his image and the sound of the engine disappeared in the dust cloud down the road.