Triple Crossing (34 page)

Pescatore made his way down to the dock. He stood listening to the thrum of insects and the burble of the lagoon.

Everything good? Oh yeah. He was marooned thousands of miles from the United States of America in a godforsaken hot-ass smugglers’
paradise. A forced recruit in a traveling gangster circus led by a crazy cokehead billionaire woman-killer.

Pescatore realized he was mumbling to himself. Glancing around in the dark, he sank into a deck chair. It was too risky to
call Isabel Puente; the hotel phones were not secure. Pelón’s cell phone was useless here. What if he found a U.S. consulate?
He imagined himself knocking on bulletproof glass, flashing his Patrol badge at a marine. By the way, I’m wanted for a cop-killing,
but I’m innocent, really. This chick at the Justice Department I slept with one time, she can vouch for me. Her and her Mexican
friend, who’d just as soon shoot me as look at me.

He needed a smart plan. He feared that word would eventually get back to Junior about his turncoat calls to Isabel. By now,
he had no doubt that the Ruiz Caballero organization had snitches in law enforcement all over the hemisphere.

He dozed. He watched the sunrise over the lagoon. The air was already burdened by heat. At 10 a.m., he returned to his floor
for the changing of the guard. As he reached Buffalo’s door, Junior’s voice froze him.

“Hey
gabacho.
You play ball?”

Junior stood barefoot and shirtless outside his room, hand on
gut as usual. His torso was an epic battle between fat and muscle. His bushy hair looked electrified. His eyes were red and
shiny. He licked and tightened his lips rhythmically. Pescatore suspected that he had just had a morning pick-me-up.

“Do you play ball?” Junior repeated, nasal and imperious.

“Ball?”

“Speak English,
güey?
Hoops. Basketball. You play?”

“Little bit.”

“There is a court here. I want to play. Get the
muchachos.
”

“I gotta tell you, it’s hot out there. Real toasty.”

“
Y qué?
Find somebody in this shithole to get us clothes.”

With Junior mouth-breathing over his shoulder, Pescatore rousted Momo and Sniper. Junior told them to let Buffalo sleep. Pescatore
harassed various hotel employees until they came up with T-shirts, shorts and a red-white-and-blue basketball.

Half an hour later, the foursome trotted through a rippling haze onto the basketball court, where they smoked a joint. In
the distance, a pair of elderly golfers shuffled off the links. Guests occupied one table on a second-floor terrace of the
hotel. Otherwise, Junior’s boys appeared to have the El Naútico Resort to themselves. Momo wrapped their pistols in towels
and placed the towels behind the base of the basketball pole.

“Two on two,” Junior ordered. His shorts and T-shirt were too big for him; they made him look even more like a powerfully
built, foul-tempered child. “Me and Sniper against Momo and the
gabacho.
”

Pescatore stood at the top of the key facing Junior, who was the same height but a good thirty pounds heavier. Junior whipped
the ball at him and grinned, squinting against the harsh pale sun.

“Check.”

As a kid, Pescatore had not been the most impressive player on the playgrounds of his neighborhood. His repertoire consisted
mainly of a jump shot that was accurate on the rare occasions that he got the ball.

On the court at El Naútico, though, he was Michael Jordan in the land of the gumps. He wanted to laugh at the TJ mafiosos,
the
pinche
Death Patrol. They were scrubs. Like sorry-ass girls. Look at droop-eyed Sniper, tall but hopelessly gawky with a shot that
came from behind his ear to clang off the rim. And muscle-bound Momo: stiff, strictly horizontal. Pounding holes in the blacktop
when he dribbled. Momo didn’t even try to shoot.

Junior was better. As in the boxing ring, he gave signs that he had once been quite an athlete. But he was desperately out
of shape. He refused to accept his limitations. He played TV ball: fancy drives, behind-the-back passes. He crashed around
like a runaway tank. Within minutes, his breath came in heaves and his moves in slow motion.

As for Pescatore, he was in great shape after two years of training, chasing and brawling in the nonstop nights of Imperial
Beach station. He shot every time he got the ball. If he missed, he swooped in for rebounds and hit layups while the others
flailed like men in quicksand. For the first time in a long time, he was having fun.

Junior offered grudging compliments at first. But his mood darkened as the score grew lopsided. He berated Sniper. “Help me
out,
pendejo, qué te pasa?
”

Pescatore blew past them and banked in a reverse to win the first game. Junior declared a rematch. He lost the second game
too. Before the third game, Junior mopped his puffy face with his T-shirt and caught Pescatore trying to restrain a grin.

“This time,” Junior grunted, showing the whites of his eyes, “I shut you down.”

Pescatore passed to Momo, who promptly passed back. Pescatore caught the ball going into his leap, released with a smooth
follow-through and swished the jumper. On the next possession, he drove. Junior clouted him, staggering him; Junior still
had his strength. Pescatore did not call a foul. He did not call fouls when Junior yanked his shirt, shoved and slapped him,
banged him
with elbows and hips. Pescatore kept scoring, and Junior kept hitting him. Finally, Junior swatted Pescatore’s hand so hard
that he had to walk off the pain, wincing, pulling at jammed fingers.

Junior snapped: “Play ball, bitch.”

“You’re hacking all over the place.”

“Cállate, puto.”

Pescatore cupped the ball in his wrist and returned the glare. Sniper and Momo looked worried. By now they were just going
through the motions. They caught Pescatore’s eye, signaling him to take it easy. A voice in his own head told him to back
off, cool down. But his fingers burned. The pain had spoiled his buzz. His thoughts spiraled. Fuck it, he told himself. I
don’t care how pissed he gets. I’m gonna make him look bad.

He scored baskets, fending off blows, slashing back as good as he got. It had become a street fight. He ached all over. They
were dripping as much as if they had fallen into a pool. Junior tottered, ranting bilingually.

“Keep talkin’ that shit,” Pescatore grumbled.

Momo interrupted plaintively:
“Oiga,
Junior, maybe let’s take a break, eh?
Nos tomamos una chela o algo.”

Junior paid no attention. His face, neck and arms had acquired a cherry-colored flush. He gave Pescatore a twisted smile.
“You’re hot shit, eh,
gabacho?
Eh,
chingón?
”

“Game point,” Pescatore said, tossing him the ball. He wanted to finish it fast, escape this trap, this stupid duel on oven-baked
blacktop. It occurred to him out of the haze that Junior was capable of having the homeboys cut his throat over a game of
basketball.

Junior returned the ball and set himself. Knees bent, hands wide. He growled: “Think you’re something”—Pescatore faked, drove
right, ball shielded by his hip—“but”—Junior scuttled crablike, arm windmilling—“I’m gonna”—Pescatore left the ground, propelling
high, Junior barreling toward him—“smack your
shit!
”

It was a near shriek. Pescatore lowered a shoulder as they slammed together in midair. Junior’s fist caught him across the
brow. He tumbled, rolled, ended up on his knees. He touched the blood on his forehead.

Junior had reopened the cut that Pescatore had suffered chasing Pulpo across the Line, long ago, in another life.

“Junior,
estás bien? Qué pasó?
Help him!”

Buffalo’s voice approached from the hotel. They gathered around Junior beneath the net. Pescatore realized that the second
impact he had heard, an echo of the collision, had been Junior hurtling backwards into the pole. Junior flopped on his side
like a landed fish, making strangled noises.

Buffalo cradled Junior’s head and roared orders. “Get some water. Do something,
mamones!
”

“No te enojes,
Buff.” Sniper’s voice shook. “He just got the wind knocked out of him. Look, he’s opening his eyes. Ain’t he?”

Buffalo slung Junior over his shoulder, waving off help, and carried him to his suite. Pescatore trudged behind. He told himself
that Buffalo was even stronger than he looked, because Junior hadn’t missed a meal in a long time.

Junior lay motionless. The hotel nurse arrived. Buffalo called Abbas, who sent a doctor.

The doctor had a pencil mustache and black-framed glasses that dwarfed his bald head. His diagnosis was exhaustion, dehydration
and a near concussion. He took Buffalo aside and stammered about blood pressure, cardiac issues, drug abuse. He recommended
repose and a number of tests.

Buffalo handed the doctor a wad of cash and told him to go away. He fired off phone calls to Tijuana and Mexico City. Junior’s
eyes had opened only for a moment. Except for the fact that he was breathing, he looked dead.

“What did you fucking do?” Buffalo hissed at Pescatore between phone calls.

“Nothing.” Pescatore sprawled in an armchair with a towel
pressed to his cut, more disgusted than afraid. “He wanted to play ball.”

“You played too fucking hard,
ese!
”

“Man, he was outta control. Look at my head.”

“Just chill and let him win, understand? Don’t you see the shape he’s in?

“The other day he was goin’ at it in the ring, looked good to me.”

“He’s hittin’ the coke twenty-four-seven, Valentín. And—” The phone rang. Long-distance from Tijuana. Buffalo told Pescatore:
“You just fucking do what I say…
Sí,
Dr. Guardiola?
Bueno? Me oye?
”

Buffalo turned away with the phone. Pescatore dabbed at sweat and blood. He listened to the quaver in Buffalo’s voice.

Outside, the big man had seen Junior was down and gone into action with paternal reflexes, effortlessly in charge. But now,
pacing by the bed, Buffalo looked lost.

I
T’S ALL VERY IRONIC
,” Méndez said. “Maybe it’s poetic justice.”

“What is?” Isabel Puente swept back her tresses with both hands. The plane tickets were fanned out on the table in front of
her like playing cards.

“The last thing I ever wanted to do was work for the American government. Long ago I saw Barbara Walters interview Fidel Castro.
She asked him a question. He avoided it. She insisted. Finally, Fidel said: ‘I won’t answer that. The CIA would love to know
the answer. And I don’t want to work for the CIA.
Ni pagado, ni gratis.
’ That’s how I have always felt.
Ni pagado, ni gratis.
”

Puente left her hands up in her hair for a moment and said with mock indignation: “I know what you are doing, Leo. You are
trying to goad me with that Castro stuff. Playing the
mexicano zurdo resentido.
Right?”

Méndez allowed himself a smile. The other Americans at the table watched blank-faced, probably perplexed—if they even understood
that she had called him a resentful Mexican lefty. It was strange having this conversation with Isabel in front of an audience.
He enjoyed watching her in action. Although her agency did not have the clout of the FBI and DEA, Isabel was running the Ruiz
Caballero case. Her bosses on the task force knew she had the best rapport with Méndez.

“I can’t blame you,” Puente continued. “It’s an unorthodox situation. Let’s be clear: You are
not
working for the USG. We talked to the Secretary: As far as he is concerned, you are still an employee of the Mexican government.
Even though you said you resigned.”

“The Secretary may say what he wants. I have cut all ties to him and I do not wish to speak to him again.”

“But you are still technically on the public payroll unless they remove you. You are only on loan to us. We’ll provide the
resources and the logistics, but you will lead the operation. With my assistance in an advisory capacity.”

She slid three of the four plane tickets across the table to him. Above her on the wall of the conference room was a bulletin
board with photos of suspects, drug busts and confiscated vehicles. A federal agent with artistic talent apparently had sketched
the in-house insignia: a puma, crossed pistols, a silhouette of the border fence under ornate letters: BAMCaT. The Border
Area Multi-Agency Corruption Task Force was housed in a discreet office park in an industrial zone near Chula Vista.

Méndez sighed. “Fine. I have already made my commitment. But I would like to discuss the implications in private with my comandantes.
I have dragged—”

Athos stirred on Méndez’s left. Méndez paused and Athos said: “It’s fine, Licenciado. I’m with you. After all, I’m a fugitive.”

Méndez had expected nothing less. But he knew Porthos had domestic entanglements: four children, a new house, a bakery owned
by his in-laws in La Mesa. The bearded commander was examining his slablike palms.

“Porthos?” Méndez said. “You could take time to think…”

“No, Licenciado, please,” Porthos drawled softly, head low. “I spoke to my old lady already. She’ll be fine. Who could pass
up a chance to see the world?”

That drew a smile from Balmaceda, the DEA representative, a rowdy cowboy who spoke Tejano Spanish. Like Isabel, he
seemed to relish the uproar set off by the transborder abduction of Mauro Fernández Rochetti: the media assault, the arrests
and indictments that had finally taken place on the U.S. side. The Americans had charged several border inspectors, a Border
Patrol agent, an ICE agent and a recently retired DEA supervisor. They had also indicted Garrison, who was missing and presumed
dead, and Mauro Fernández Rochetti. They had said nothing publicly about Pescatore.

Two days earlier, Balmaceda had been there in the garage of the task force when Méndez had opened the trunk to reveal Mauro
Fernández Rochetti in his inert handcuffed disgrace. The DEA supervisor had thrown a bone-crushing arm around Méndez’s neck
and whispered: “They should give you a medal, man. They should make you the fucking president of Mexico just for taking that
animal off the street.”