Tequila Sunset (36 page)

SIXTEEN

T
HE WEEKEND CAME AND WENT
. F
LIP TOOK
Graciela dancing at a new club, one José and the Indians did not frequent. It was a good time and afterward they went back to the new apartment for the night. In the dark he thought about asking Graciela how José had known she was pregnant, but the moment did not seem right and by the time the thought occurred to him again it was morning.

Flip hadn’t told his mother he was moving. Eventually he would have to, but he did not look forward to the reaction the news would bring. He was not a boy anymore, but to his mamá he would always be. Maybe leaving was a good thing.

Flip was on his lunch break at the warehouse when the call came. No one noticed when he stepped away from the picnic tables, or remarked when he turned his back to the others to speak. Flip was still ill at ease.

“Flip, it’s José.”

“José. What do you want?”

“Hey, I’m sorry I called you at work, okay? I just thought you might want to know: our first truck is coming through on Wednesday. I want you to tell that boss of yours which one to look out for. You got a pen?”

“Yeah, I got a pen.”

“Write this down.” José gave Flip an identifying number that Flip scrawled on the palm of his hand. “You know what the truck
looks like, right? When you see it, you call me. And make sure your boss puts it somewhere out of the way. Nobody touches that truck until our people come to unload the stuff.”

“People are gonna ask why’s that truck just sitting there,” Flip said.

“Tell them you don’t know. Tell them it’s none of their business. It’s your boss that has to worry about that kind of thing. So long as he keeps up his end of the deal, I don’t care what he says to them. Remind him that I’m paying him a thousand bucks to do nothing. He’ll take it and like it or he’ll get another ass-whipping.”

Flip looked at the ground. “I’ll tell him,” he mumbled.

“Now listen to me, Flip. Listen carefully. I don’t want you around when the truck gets unloaded, all right? You leave that to the people I send. You’re my lookout, my man on the inside. That’s what you do.”

“Okay, José, I won’t stick around.”

“Good boy. Hey, how’s the new place working out?”

“It’s great, José, thanks.”

“You don’t need to thank me. I told you before, you’re my investment. You got to have nice things when you work for me. It means you’ll do good work. Anyway, I’ll talk to you later. Say hello to Graciela for me.”

“I will. Good-bye.”

Flip shut his phone and glanced back over his shoulder at the picnic tables. Not one curious eye was turned his way. He put the phone away and walked back toward the warehouse on heavy feet.

Since he came back to work, Alfredo had stopped taking his meals outside with the other workers. Instead he lurked in his office, filling out paperwork with one hand while eating with the other. He used to come out more often and talk to the guys on the job, but that had ended, too. Flip thought maybe it was because Alfredo did not want to see him.

He knocked on the office door. Alfredo looked up, saw him through the window, and looked back down at his work. Flip opened the door and came in.

“What the hell do you want?” Alfredo asked.

“José just called me.”

“The great José,” Alfredo remarked. “What the hell does
he
want?”

“The first truck is coming Wednesday. I don’t know what time. José wants to make sure you have an eye out for it. Here’s the registration number.” Flip wrote the number from his palm on a piece of notepaper and passed it to Alfredo.

Alfredo finally lifted his gaze to glare at Flip. “You people are really going to go through with it, aren’t you? This stupid plan to ship drugs into the country? All it would take is one phone call from me and the police would be all over this place just
waiting
for the chance to throw your worthless ass in jail.”

Flip thought he should be tough, but instead he wanted to throw himself down and beg Alfredo for forgiveness. He didn’t care how it would look, or anything about his pride. What he wanted was for things to be good again. Finally he said, “You wouldn’t snitch on José. You can’t.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“If you tell the cops, you’ll never be safe. José would put a green light out on you. Every Azteca in the city would have your name. You’d be a dead man.”

Alfredo said nothing for a long time, though his eyes were flinty. “You really are some piece of work. If I didn’t know better, I’d say there was no way Silvia could have raised a piece of shit like you. Your father would disown you.”

“Don’t talk about my father.”

“Why not? You going to kill me yourself?”

“Just don’t talk about him. You want to be mad, then be mad at me.”

Alfredo paused. Flip saw he was gripping a pencil tightly. He was almost curious to see if it would snap. “You need to get the hell out of my sight,” Alfredo said. “Get out. Take the rest of the day off. Just go away.”

“I’ll finish my shift,” Flip said.

“What’s that supposed to be? You being responsible? Don’t make me laugh.”

“I’ll finish my shift,” Flip repeated.

“Then finish your goddamned shift. See if I care. If you won’t go away, then get out of my office. I don’t like the smell.”

Flip let himself out and did not slam the door. Walking away he could feel Alfredo watching him. He was glad to be outside again.

SEVENTEEN

I
T WAS THE FIRST TIME
C
RISTINA HAD SEEN
the whole group together since the first day she and Robinson were brought in on the operation. Everyone was there around the conference table and McPeek was at the head with her remote in her hand and a PowerPoint slide already displayed on the big screen. She waited until the room had settled and then she cleared her throat. “Welcome back,” she said. “We’re about to see everything come together.”

Cristina sat elbow to elbow with Robinson. When she glanced at him his attention was on McPeek. Where she was tense, he was relaxed. It was always that way between them.

“D-Day is
tomorrow
,” McPeek continued. “Yesterday we got confirmation through two sources that José Martinez and his crew are going to receive a shipment of narcotics from Mexico sometime Wednesday evening. You all got the packet I emailed about the target site, but here it is again: a food-shipping warehouse on the east side. José’s people will be on that site, collecting the goods, after they close for work at five o’clock.

“Representatives of the FBI, DEA and local law enforcement will be on hand for the bust. Meanwhile other elements of the operation will stand ready to execute arrest warrants for forty-three suspected Aztecas, including José Martinez. We expect to haul in more dope and more guns when we make the arrests. Special Agent Muir of the ATF can give us some information about that.”

The man spoke up from his spot at the table: “We know that last week José Martinez’s outfit shipped twenty-four brand new AK-47s, purchased from one of our agents, into Juárez. The Mexican police have the serial numbers of the weapons and, upon seizure, will be able to confirm the transaction. They also sent a thousand rounds of 7.62mm ammunition down south. Clearly they don’t plan on letting those guns sit around picking up rust.”

“How do we know those guns haven’t already disappeared?” Cristina asked.

“I received word at a meeting with my opposite number in Juárez that the weapon situation was under control,” McPeek said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means it’s
under control
,” McPeek said more firmly. “The Mexican authorities now know who receives weapons and where they’re kept after they make the crossing. It’s a real coup, and on this side of the border we get to stack gun charges on top of everything else José’s people are on the hook for.”

“Our agents have sold the Aztecas a pretty sizable arsenal of arms,” Muir said. “Pistols, shotguns, semiautomatic rifles. I want everyone here to know that they could be looking down the barrels of these guns when it comes time to put people in handcuffs. Every entry is considered high-risk.”

Robinson nudged Cristina’s arm and leaned in close. “When isn’t it?” he asked.

“We don’t want a shootout or a standoff on our hands when we go in,” McPeek said, “so our agents and officers on the ground are going to execute these warrants hard and fast. Are there any questions? Then let’s move on.”

There was more, but Cristina had heard all she needed to hear. At her level, they would be responsible for executing warrants, cleaning up the trash. She hadn’t expected any more than that and was not disappointed. The questions she had could not be asked in an open room. McPeek never mentioned Flip by name, but all of
them knew that there was someone on the inside and that someone had given up José’s secrets.

The slides came and went. Cristina pretended to take notes. When finally it was over, she lingered to shake hands with a few people she knew. She saw McPeek deflecting invitations for more talk, and once when their eyes met, McPeek nodded to her.

It took fifteen minutes for the room to clear. McPeek took her time stripping the cables from her laptop. The big screen had gone blue. Robinson closed the conference room door.

“Excited?” McPeek asked.

“Of course,” Cristina said.

“All right. This is a good operation for everybody. Everyone will look great.”

Robinson stood beside Cristina, waiting for her to speak first. His arms were crossed in front of his chest.

“We wanted to talk to you about Flip,” Cristina said.

“What about him?”

“Well, we want to know how he’s going to be handled. If everything happens the way you say, he’s going to be swept up with the rest of the Aztecas. Then what?”

“He’s an informant. He’ll be taken care of.”

“We were hoping for something a little more concrete,” Robinson said.

McPeek packed her laptop into a slim case. She stopped and looked at both of them. “Why are you always coming to me worrying about your CI?”

“Flip gave us good information. He’s been loyal from the get-go. I want to know that if he sticks his neck out even further to testify, he’s not going to get it chopped off,” Cristina said. “Didn’t you just listen to your presentation? José Martinez is a criminal in two countries, dealing in drugs, guns and murder. I think we have a right to be concerned about Flip’s welfare.”

“Fine,” McPeek said. “What do you want?”

“If he testifies against the Aztecas, he has to disappear,” Robinson said.

“We can relocate him.”

“What about his family? If the Aztecas can’t get to him, they’ll go after his mother, the people he’s closest to.”

“Arrangements can be made,” McPeek said.

“Are you sure?” Cristina asked.

“I’m sure. Listen, I don’t know what you think about how the FBI does its business, but we’re not in the habit of using informants up and then letting them burn. I promise you we’ll take good care of Flip, whether he turns himself in voluntarily or he gets picked up in the sweep. Is that good enough for you?”

Cristina looked to Robinson and then to McPeek. “It’s good enough for me.”

EIGHTEEN

T
HE SHIPMENT LEFT THE DEPOT IN THE
middle of the day with Matías and a squad of Felix Rivera’s men watching. Matías got on the radio: “Paco, the truck is headed your way. Follow it to the bridge and make sure it makes no stops along the way.”

“You got it,” Paco replied.

Their black panel van was hot and Matías wiped a trickle of sweat from his forehead. There was nothing to be done about the perspiration gathering underneath his clothes and the vest he wore. When this was over he would feel dirty and itchy. He was already beginning to feel that way.

Matías changed channels. “All units, move in.”

The driver turned the engine over and the van leaped forward. At the same time Matías heard the sudden wail of sirens and up ahead local and federal police vehicles screeched up to the gates of the depot. The panel van shot through the heart into the open area before the building, surrounded on all sides by trucks loading and unloading. One of Felix’s men opened the side cargo door and Matías jumped out into the blazing sun with the others behind him.

Loaders and drivers already had their hands up as more vehicles poured in through the gates. Black-armored forms swarmed out onto the asphalt brandishing weapons. Matías climbed the steps up to the building’s entrance with his gun out. He pointed at a man.
“Gonzalo Flores. Where is he?”

The man indicated the door without lowering his hands. Matías was aware of two PF agents at his back as he passed through the entrance. It was much darker inside and Matías’ sun-dazzled eyes had to adjust. He saw an office through a broad glass window. Inside there were women and men, their hands going up at the sight of weapons.

Matías tried the door. It was locked. “Open it!” he commanded.

An electric lock buzzed and Matías was through. “Gonzalo Flores,” he said.

A man emerged from another door. Matías recognized him immediately. “I am Gonzalo Flores,” he said.

“Get down on the ground!” Matías commanded.

Flores obeyed immediately and Matías crouched over him to bind his wrists with plastic cuffs. The PF agents were into the connecting rooms now, herding out bodies, gathering everyone in one corner of the front office.

“Secure the files,” Matías told the agents. “The rest of you sit down on the ground with your hands on your heads.”

“What have I done?” Flores asked.

“You be quiet,” Matías replied. “You’ll have time to talk later.”

It took less then ten minutes to secure the entire depot. More than twenty employees and eleven truck drivers were detained, lined up on the concrete platform outside the loading docks. Everywhere there were police. An armored truck stood in the middle of the yard, squatting like an enormous black beetle.