The Jaguar (8 page)

Luis' features hardened. “So that's how you deal with employees who cause you trouble? Do you think that hitting a sixteen year old girl in the stomach makes you a big man?”

The manager at last realised he had taken the wrong tack. He gave up trying to hold Luis' gaze, drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it across his brow. “I thought she might be trying to hide that she was pregnant. You know no one stays on if they are expecting.”

Luis exploded, jumping to his feet, his chair clattering to the floor. “She
was
pregnant, you idiot. Apparently, she was raped by one of the supervisors you're so keen to protect. Now the baby's dead, the girl is fighting for her life in hospital and half of your workforce is out on strike. “

“I'm sorry.”

“You're not sorry,” Luis shouted across the room, “you're just scared for your own skin.” He turned towards a greasy, multi-paned window which overlooked a drab concrete courtyard. He folded his arms and looked out upon the scattering of individuals soaking up the winter sunshine below. “Have you got a daughter?”

“Please!” The manager shrank back in his seat and issued a plaintive visual appeal to the man on either side of him.

Luis walked slowly towards him, leaned on the desk, grabbed him by the hair and smashed a left hook into his face. As the man spluttered and bled onto the papers in front of him, Luis turned to retrieve his own chair. He sat down heavily and tried to recover his breathing, shocked by the depth of rage that had swept through him.

“You,” he growled, “are going to sort out this mess - I don't care how, or how much it costs, then you're going to resign and get your wretched arse out of this town!”

“Boss.” One of Luis' minders was holding out his cell-phone. Luis snatched at it, letting it ring several times as he gestured to the bloodied figure to leave. “If I were you, I'd get your family out now, just in case that girl dies,” he hissed.

“Yes?” he yelled at the phone.

“It's Gennaro. Don Felipe has been murdered.”

Luis disconnected. He did not react. He knew at once that he must not be seen to react. He calmly handed back the phone, his face the same impassive mask he always adopted when forced to do things not to his liking. He gestured to the others then waited for one of them to hold open the office door. As he descended the stairwell to his jeep the urges both to swear and to cry fought for supremacy. He did his best to do neither. Again he waited patiently as the passenger door was opened for him and his driver took his seat. Several bystanders now stood where they had previously sat, out of respect for Luis. He smiled an awkward smile of acknowledgement, but everything external was now a dream, whilst everything meaningful was drowning in turmoil within.

As the car passed the security checkpoint and sped out into the open landscape beyond, Luis did his best to focus on the detail of what was passing. He needed to get back to this world and to take control, even though he knew it was now one in which everything had changed. He could almost feel his family's grip on power starting to weaken. In the ditch beside the road he saw the metallic blue sheen of water which did not reflect the sky: a soup of dye and other chemicals released whilst bleaching jeans in the factory. He remembered a previous labour dispute, with those who then farmed the wasteland he now stared across. The farmers complained the runoff from the factory gave their fields and crops the same metallic sheen. They'd waived a positive test for heavy metal contamination at him and he'd responded by buying their land off them at the full market rate. To Luis this had been a simple, humane and entirely satisfactory conclusion, but the looks of pain and defeat that had greeted his generosity now returned to haunt him. He wondered how it might feel to be torn from all that you know.

Luis understood, instantly, what Felipe's death meant. It meant an enemy more powerful than they. The prison at Rochas Blancas had been in the absolute control of the family: that was why Felipe had chosen to serve his sentence there in the first place. Luis mentally scrolled through the options for what may have occurred. If someone at the jail had gone rogue, Gennaro would have mentioned it and it would already have been dealt with. Barrio Fuerte had the most obvious motive for murder, but they surely did not have the manpower or the financial resources on this side of the border? It was unlikely to be the Mexican Government, as they could not be seen to be favouring one criminal organisation over another. It could possibly be the CIA, but why would they do something as difficult as infiltrate a Mexican jail, when they could take out Luis or numerous others on the streets of Juarez? That left either another family or one of the sprawling, faceless, drug cartels that had taken over the eastern and western seaboards. Luis hoped it was the former. At least then he would know the nature of the threat.

He focused again on the passing scene. They'd entered a grid of squalid dirt streets on the edge of the industrial zone. He could smell the rotting garbage, the rancid swamps of winter and the open sewers. They passed a school, the pupils in the overcrowded yard resplendent in brilliant blue and white uniforms. There was the hope, he thought, but his eyes couldn't help but wander to a younger child beyond the gates. He was drinking, knelt as if in prayer, from a fetid pool. Home after home flashed by in an endless reconfiguration of cardboard, plastic, stick and sheet metal construction. The jeep dodged barking dogs and muddy wallows as it slid along the street. Luis leaned forward.

“Where does the girl live?”

His driver didn't hear him. Luis shouted and the vehicle pulled over. There was a turn, half a block in front of them and to the right. “I want to walk - you follow. Sound the horn when I get to the right house.”

He stepped out into the familiar muddy ochre, and hopped onto the broken concrete slabs which served as a sidewalk. Fat women in narrow doorways held their babies a little closer as he passed. A drunk span away from him, mumbling. Three small children laughed as they poked a kitten with a stick. He crossed behind a swaying, smoking bus and briefly stopped at a metal-grilled kiosk to buy cigarettes he didn't need. Marcelo must die like his brother, he reflected. There was no other way. It was his organisation which had started this war, whether they were responsible for Felipe's death or not. His father would know how to do it.

Luis turned the corner, still deep in thought. Marcelo's death would solve nothing, but it would reduce the number of variables. Alfredo was in exile because of Marcelo, but Luis was not a vengeful man. “It's just business,” he mouthed to himself, but it left a more bitter taste than his newly acquired cigarette.

The horn sounded and he looked around him. His destination was just another hovel, just another woman on a doorstep. As he approached, she turned and called to those within. An old man and two teenage sons parted a dirty net-curtain screen and shuffled nervously up behind her, over-awed by the appearance of three sharp-suited gangsters.

“Is this the home of Gabrielle Jimenez?” Luis enquired.

The men of the house dropped their wary stares and looked at the woman. She gazed fiercely back at Luis through a traditional braided headband, weighing him up with the stubbornness of someone who'd suffered more than anything Luis might be able to inflict. Eventually she nodded in tired affirmation.

“I'm sorry for what has happened. The men responsible have been dealt with.”

The woman still said nothing. She stared straight through him with piercing green eyes, but nodded again. Luis stretched a hand behind him and passed the thick wad of notes that was promptly placed there on to her. Immediately the old man shuffled forward, took the pile and disappeared, with a wary glance, within.

“All the hospital bills will be paid. Your daughter's getting the very best care. I hope she pulls through.”

There was no response. Luis and his two attendants turned to leave. The woman spoke at last in a deep and distinctive voice, betraying her southern, Mayan origins: “For one who is alive, nothing is quite enough. For one who is dead, anything is too much.”

Luis knew the expression well, but had never felt its force or futility before. He half checked his stride, thinking of Felipe and wanting to cry. Then he walked mechanically away.

Throughout his current sojourn in Jaurez, Don Paulo had been staying at Hotel Catalina, the same pink-fronted establishment that his son, Luis, used. More precisely, he was staying in Luis' room. His bodyguard, Eusabio and the rest of the team, which included Paulo's personal cook and medic, occupied the remainder of the top floor. This had no impact upon Luis, who lived quietly with his American wife, Alex, in a distant desert suburb of El Paso. Like thousands of other Mexicans legally ensconced in the USA, Luis commuted back and forth across the border. Except for the recent addition of the scar on his face, this middle-aged and seemingly respectable businessman looked much like any other.

That morning's commute had gone smoothly, but rarely had Luis felt less like meeting his father. He had arrived home in El Paso late the night before, after his diversion to meet the woman in the township. He had neither had time to process the news of Felipe's death, nor to tell his wife of their loss.

By the time he reached the room, Gennaro, Eusabio and several others were seated around Paulo. Even as Paulo had aged, even after extended treatment for prostate cancer, he had maintained a defiant strength. Now Luis was struck by how incongruous this frail old man looked in a room full of gangsters. It was his time to be strong.

“Papa, I'm so sorry about Felipe.” Just the saying of it made Luis almost break down. They had lost one of the cornerstones of the family. More than this, Luis had lost his boyhood hero and the only older male with whom he could readily share affection. Being strong was not going to be easy.

His father gave him a baleful look then shook his head. Both understood that they would have to wait until they were alone to grieve for Felipe.

“I feel like raising that prison to the ground,” Don Paulo almost hissed.

“Someone wants a war and we shall give them one, but first we need to be clear who we are fighting.” Luis slumped into the chair that Gennaro provided for him then looked up, expectantly. “Do we know any more about what Marcelo was up to?”

Gennaro rested a comforting arm on Luis' shoulder. “We think that someone powerful has been leaning on Barrio Fuerte. Whoever this was forced them to take a shot at Alfredo. It was probably meant to make us turn on them. Don Paulo asked me to get rid of Marcelo, but then we heard from our sources in his organisation. They were clear that Marcelo had decided not to go through with the assassination. He was actually doing his best to stop his brother. Now that his brother is dead it would be wrong to go after him. He may even work with us again. Perhaps he will have little choice?”

“So who
are
we fighting?” Luis noted the frustration in his own voice, but Gennaro remained calm.

“We're still not sure, but it makes sense that when your brother, Alfredo, went away they would target someone else. Both your father and I know that we should have responded more quickly and increased security. I am very sorry for that, Luis. It must have been the same people who forced Barrio Fuerte's hand who arranged the death of Don Felipe. Either that or God has finally tired of us.”

“But how did they get to him, Gennaro?”

“We don't know that either. Money wouldn't do it, nor could they have just leaned on other prisoners, as they are mostly our men. Whoever we're dealing with was big enough to turn the prison governor, the mayor and the local police. That would take some serious muscle and a lot of organisation.”

“Xterra.” It was Paulo who spoke. Once again he held Luis' gaze.

“Madre de Dios!” Eusabio exclaimed, looking appealingly at Gennaro.

Gennaro continued. “Unfortunately, I think Don Paulo is right. They've been extending their operations inland from the east coast for a long time, and now seem to be opening up the south. What we don't understand is why they want a war with us?”

“Perhaps too many of their own border crossings are being blocked?” speculated Eusabio. “Ever since Calderon, our beloved leaders have been pouring troops into their territory. Violence begets violence, as our priests always say, but the government would never admit to that. They just want to keep the pay cheques coming in from our dear white American cousins, so they keep on stirring up trouble.”

“Maybe,” considered Gennaro, “but a lot of Xterra's operations are Caribbean based. They fly drugs into various islands. With all the tourist traffic it is easy for it to be shipped on to the USA. They also seem to be making money from the oil rigs out in the Gulf. We're not entirely sure how. Perhaps they've muscled their way into the supply and distribution companies, although commerce is not usually their thing. If they've changed tactics then maybe they're looking at our factories too?”

Paulo held up his hands. “If it is Xterra then what they want is our poppy fields. Nowhere they control can heroin be grown. The coastal lowlands are too hot and dry. They must know how our operations have expanded into the northern mountains, now we've discovered a strain that grows well there.”

Gennaro patted Luis' balding pate affectionately then returned casually to his seat. “What I don't understand is why they haven't left us a more obvious calling card?”

“Because,” said Luis, “they want to keep us guessing. Maybe get us to panic. If nothing else, it is a test of our strength and organisation. I was all for killing Marcelo, but you've done well, Gennaro. Killing him would have played right into their hands. Marcelo is still someone we can deal with and he's obviously not just a tool for Xterra. If it is Xterra and Marcelo knows this, he'll also know that he's not going to get drugs from them. It would make no sense for them to buy narcotics and then transport them all this way. It would be too obvious what they were up to, and the Authorities would have to act. There is also no simple means of shipment.”