The Lord of Opium (5 page)

“It isn’t easy being good, is it?” said Cienfuegos, cleaning his fingernails with the stiletto.

6

MIRASOL

Y
ou need Cienfuegos’s help,” said Celia. She and Matt were sharing an uneasy lunch in the kitchen. Celia insisted that Matt had to keep up his image. No more lounging around the servants’ quarters or deferring to people like Daft Donald or Mr. Ortega. He needed to act like a proper drug lord.

Matt, just as insistently, said that drug lords did whatever they wanted. That was the whole point of having power. And so the two of them were eating hamburgers at the old farmhouse table and trying to look comfortable about it.

“I didn’t want to call Cienfuegos in,” Celia said now, “but there were so few Real People left and thousands and thousands of eejits to control.”

Matt reached for the plate of hamburger patties, and Celia firmly took it away from his hands. He was not to prepare his own food, she said. She began to assemble the hamburger, adding pickles, onions, and
pico de gallo
salsa.

Matt thought that not being allowed to do things for yourself could get old quickly.

“I hate the Farm Patrol. I
despise
them. But what was I to do?” Celia said, depositing the hamburger on Matt’s plate. “Tam Lin always said that Cienfuegos was the best of the lot, and we certainly needed help.”

“Do you trust him?”

“Not really. At least he’s not like the other Farm Patrolmen. He wants to end the opium trade.”

“
¡Claro, y los chanchos vuelan!
Sure, and pigs fly, too!” said Matt.

“I think he means it. Cienfuegos wasn’t the usual thug El Patrón hired. He studied agriculture at Chapultepec University. He told me that the soil in Aztlán had been devastated by industrial waste and that he set out for the United States to find a cure. The Farm Patrol tracked him for three days in and out of the mountains. Cienfuegos killed five of them before they cornered him, and then El Patrón was so impressed by his courage that he recruited him. But Cienfuegos never wanted to be a hired gun. He has never forgotten his mission to heal Aztlán.”

“What does he plan to do with the eejits?” asked Matt.

Celia sighed. “I don’t know. He says they’re incurable.”

El Patrón would work them until they died,
thought Matt. No one seemed to think they were worth saving.

Until he had met the boys at the plankton factory, he hadn’t thought much about the zombielike workers. He felt sorry for them, of course, but like everyone else, he believed they were incapable of feeling. Did it matter what kind of life you had if you couldn’t feel pain?

The boys at the factory had been left behind by parents who had crossed the border. Chacho’s father had been a guitar maker. Imagine creating something that good and then being turned
into a zombie. Chacho’s father was probably bending and slashing opium pods along with Ton-Ton’s parents and Fidelito’s grandmother.

Or, more likely, they were buried under the poppy fields with thousands of other Illegals.

“Cienfuegos paid a price for his life,” Celia said, breaking into Matt’s thoughts. “He was implanted with a microchip.”

Matt looked up, startled. “He’s a . . . he’s an
eejit
?”

“Don’t even hint that you know about it,” warned Celia, lowering her voice. “It enrages him. All the Farm Patrolmen are chipped to make them more docile. You can’t have murderers and terrorists running around without some kind of control.”

“They don’t act like eejits.”

“There’s more than one type of microchip. This kind doesn’t blunt intelligence, but there are certain things a Farm Patrolman can’t do. He can’t harm the
patrón
, for example, or cross the border. If he tries, he’s struck by pain so severe that he’ll die of shock. Even thinking about it makes him sick.”

Matt let out his breath slowly. El Patrón
had
been a genius at maintaining order, and he did have more secrets than fleas on a coyote. There were the hidden underground treasure chambers and the secret passages throughout the hacienda where the old man could spy on people. There were the emergency escape routes and now the invisible chain that encircled the necks of his trained dogs, the Farm Patrol. It was a beautifully constructed system to bring power into one man’s hands. El Patrón’s hands. And now Matt’s.

“Tam Lin told me this privately,” Celia said. “Farm Patrolmen never admit to the operation because it makes them seem less than men. It’s why they’re so cruel to eejits. To prove they have nothing in common with them.”

A sudden thought struck Matt. “The bodyguards. Were they chipped?” She nodded. “And Tam Lin?”

Celia smiled sadly. “Him too.”

Matt could hardly bring himself to ask the next question, but he had to know. “What about you, Celia?”

Her eyes turned as cold as those of an idol Matt had seen on TV, the Aztec goddess Coatlicue, who wore a necklace of severed hands. He remembered that it was Celia who had brought about El Patrón’s death when the armies of Aztlán and the United States had been unable to touch him. “I wasn’t worth worrying about,” Celia said. “I was only a woman.”

Silence hung heavily in the room. They weren’t alone, though they might as well have been. Several eejits worked at their appointed tasks. One washed dishes, going over each plate exactly five times with a sponge. He passed it to another man, who dunked the plate exactly five times in rinse water. A woman kneaded bread dough: push, fold, turn . . . push, fold, turn. A teenage boy, who reminded Matt unpleasantly of the boys at the plankton factory, was slicing onions. It took a lot of servants to prepare a meal, because each of them knew how to do only one thing.

“Could I have some ice cream?” said Matt, to break the tension.

“Oh! Of course!” Celia woke up. The goddess Coatlicue disappeared. “Do you want pistachio, mango, or
dulce de leche
?”

“Dulce de leche.”

She opened a giant freezer and hauled out a gallon tub of ice cream. Fog swirled around her as she kicked the door shut with her heel.

Matt tried to think of something to say. “What do you know about Waitress, the girl who serves me meals?”

“Her? Why are you asking?”

“No reason. She just seems more alert than most eejits.”

Celia dug out scoops of ice cream and poured marshmallow syrup over them. “As I said, not all implants are the same. Most dull the mind so that a person can perform a simple chore for hours without stopping. A few leave a person’s basic skills intact. I have a helper who’s very good at making sauces. He used to be a French chef.”

Matt ate the disgustingly sweet dessert, which he loved, and thought about Waitress. “I want to change her name. Is that possible?”

“Ask Cienfuegos,” Celia said impatiently. “He’s in charge of training.” She went over to tell the boy, who’d run out of onions, to stop chopping.

*  *  *

That afternoon Matt had the old mattress on El Patrón’s bed burned. He gave orders for quesadillas, coffee, and fruit to be served for breakfast. He sent the bath eejit away to be retrained.

In the evening he and Cienfuegos sat down to dinner in El Patrón’s grand dining room. Now that Matt took the time to study it, he saw how unusual it was. The walls were covered with priceless Spanish paintings of kings and queens. Royal children, dressed in stiff clothing, stared dolefully out of dark nurseries. They didn’t look as though they knew how to play, and their only entertainment seemed to be dwarfs. Spanish kings collected dwarfs, to go by the number of them, the way other people collect stamps. A brooding misery hung over all the scenes. There was even, in one shadowy corner, a painting of heretics being burned at the stake.

“Those are all originals,” said Cienfuegos.
“Muy, muy valioso.”

“I don’t care how valuable they are. I think they’re creepy,” said Matt.

“They’re marks of prestige. A man who can afford such things is like a king.”

“Who am I going to impress?” asked Matt. With the border closed, no visitors came to the hacienda. Its rooms and halls were deserted except for the occasional shadowy figure of a servant dusting a statue.

They sat across from each other. The crystal chandelier shed flecks of light over the tablecloth, and they also had a heavy gold candelabra, for the room was large and dark. Waitress served them dinner. She poured
pulque
for Cienfuegos and water for Matt.

“This was where El Patrón entertained his most important guests,” said the
jefe
. “Presidents, dictators, and drug lords. Ah, those were the days!”

“Were you invited?” Matt shook his head at Waitress when she tried to cut up his meat.

“I was one of the bodyguards. We stood around the walls and watched the guests.”

Unlike now,
Matt thought, realizing he might have made a mistake by inviting Cienfuegos to eat with him. It seemed important to show underlings that he was too important to be friendly. Celia had told him he should hire more bodyguards, too, because Daft Donald wasn’t enough. A drug lord with only one bodyguard, she said, was like a general with only one soldier. The other drug lords would make fun of him.

“Tam Lin was always present,” remembered the
jefe
. “I came when El Patrón wanted to know whether someone was lying. I’m very good at reading faces. For example, I know right now that you’re thinking about Waitress.”

Matt almost choked on his food. “I am not!” he objected.

“You’ve been casting shy little glances at her all evening,” said Cienfuegos. “She’s a pretty thing, isn’t she? I’m glad I didn’t train her for farm labor. She’s much more ornamental here.”

A surge of anger almost suffocated Matt. Cienfuegos had captured Waitress and turned her into an eejit. He could have saved her!

“Rage,” the
jefe
said calmly, pointing his fork at Matt. “Or perhaps jealousy. You like the girl and think that I’m a rival.”

“I’m not interested in her that way,” Matt said, trying to keep the anger from showing on his face.

“I’m afraid it’s a lost cause,
mi patrón
. Eejits can’t feel emotions.” Cienfuegos went on eating as though he were merely discussing the weather. “Now let’s forget pretty girls for a while and decide what to do about the border.”

Matt took careful breaths to calm down. He couldn’t afford to quarrel with Cienfuegos. He had too few allies. “Is there a way to communicate with the outside world?”

“The holoport has been locked down along with everything else. You could access it.”

“I see,” began Matt slowly, wondering what a holoport was. It worried him that Cienfuegos knew so much more than he did. It gave the man power. El Patrón would have surrounded Cienfuegos with spies who would report to him of any disloyalty. And he would have arranged a convenient accident if the reports were bad. Although, if what Celia said was correct, the man would be struck with lethal pain if he tried to rebel.

“I should negotiate with Esperanza first,” Matt said aloud. “I’d like to lower the security barrier briefly to allow her daughter María to visit.” From the look the
jefe
gave him, Matt realized that he knew about their friendship. “I’ll tell Esperanza I
must find a way to remove the microchips from the eejits’ brains before we discuss anything. It’s a humanitarian problem and should appeal to her. Until they’re free, the business of shipping opium and bringing in supplies must go on.”

Cienfuegos raised his eyebrows. “That’s exactly the sort of plan El Patrón would come up with. Esperanza is always bleating about the poor eejits, and we can deflect her until we secure our power base.”

“She didn’t do anything for them during Operation Cold Turkey,” Matt remarked.

“Oh, she wrung her hands and said no one told her what was going on. Esperanza likes to look like a saint.”

It hadn’t escaped Matt that Cienfuegos had said “we” would secure “our” power base. Somehow, he had to make the man understand that they were not sharing power. “I really do intend to cure the eejits,” he said.

The
jefe
held out his hands in mock submission. “One may intend anything,
mi patrón.
The reality, alas, is different. In the old days the drug lords used one microchip the size of a grain of rice. It wore out after a few months and had to be replaced. Now they inject thousands that are no larger than bacteria. These spread out over the brain and form a network, and if one fails, the others take over its function. The effect is permanent.”

Matt felt shaken. “If a surgeon tried to remove them . . . ”

“It would be like finding the right grains of sand on a beach.”

They ate in silence. Waitress brought them crème caramel custards and withdrew to stand by a painting of a Spanish infanta being amused by a dwarf. She looked hypnotized, and the dwarf’s face was twisted in an expression that might have been pain.

The windows of the dining room were open, and a cool breeze carried the smell of distant creosote bushes. Matt thought it must be raining somewhere out on the desert. “Please close the windows, Waitress,” he said.

Cienfuegos laughed. “You say ‘please’ to an eejit. You might as well say ‘thank you’ to a duck.”

“It does no harm,” Matt said, disliking the man’s attitude.

“It doesn’t bother me, but you can’t do it in front of important people. I’m telling you this for your own good.”

Waitress had closed the windows, but she still stood in front of the glass, gazing into the darkness.
What is she thinking?
Matt thought.
Does she know what she’s doing? Can she smell the creosote?

“Please meet me in Celia’s kitchen tomorrow morning,” he said, turning back to Cienfuegos. “Eight o’clock. You can show me the holoport.”

“You almost had it right,” said the
jefe
, grinning. “You don’t say ‘please’ to me, either.”

“It seems that being a
patrón
means being rude to everyone,” said Matt.

“Pretty much,” Cienfuegos admitted.