Gary Ponzo - A Touch of Greed

Garza nodded to Victor and his number one opened the door and approached the tent. Victor held up his hands as the two soldiers frisked him for weapons. Once they were satisfied, they motioned him inside the makeshift meeting place.

Victor emerged a few minutes later with his right hand balled into a fist. This signaled to Garza there were no soldiers inside the tent. If he suspected something, he would’ve been scratching his shoulder. It was safe to enter.

“Stay here and keep watch,” Garza instructed his two men in the front seat.

As Garza approached the tent, he took off his sunglasses and placed them in his shirt pocket. He held out his arms as the soldiers frisked him, then gestured for him to enter.

Once inside, Garza met a man wearing khaki clothes and sandals. The man was older than Garza remembered, a mop of curly hair turning gray down his sideburns.

The man opened his arms with a genuine smile. Garza hugged the man and returned the back pat.

“It is good to see you again, my old friend,” the man said in Spanish. “El Carnicero.”

“Yes,” Garza returned the greeting in Spanish as well. “You look well.”

The man pointed to a beach chair in the middle of the tent. “Please, sit.”

Garza lowered himself into the seat and smiled at Francisco Rodriguez. One of the most powerful men among the world of cartels. The Mexican government was bringing down massive heat on the cartels and Rodriguez was their way of infiltrating the system. He was the opposition to President Salcido and if he took power, the cartels would control the country from the inside.

Rodriguez removed a flask from a canvas bag on the floor. He poured tequila into two separate shot glasses and handed one to Garza. They raised their glasses.

“To the future,” Rodriguez said.

“To the future,” Garza said.

They downed the drinks together. Rodriguez wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “So how is Julio?”

“He is very well. Thank you.”

“Getting prepared to take over the family business?” Rodriguez said with a grin.

Garza wanted nothing of the sort, but knew the correct response. “Of course. He is a good student.”

“Good, good. So, tell me, how do you do it? How is it you find a way to transport goods over the border without any trouble?”

Garza smiled. “If I told you that, then why would anyone need me?”

Rodriguez laughed. “My friend, you will always be needed. Especially when I become president. I am here to tell you the three cartels leaders are all in debt to you. They call you, ‘El Presidente de la Frontera.’”

Garza certainly was the president of the border, but it was good to hear the cartel leaders speak of him that way. He held up his shot glass. Rodriguez filled both glasses and they downed the tequila with a satisfying, “Ah.”

“Antonio, once I am in office I will parcel out the territories and eliminate much of the violence. The leaders have already agreed on their specific regions and have arranged for a treaty amongst themselves. Once the violence subsides, the civilians will appreciate the calm and the protests will stop. This is my platform and I will perform my duty with honor.”

Rodriguez sounded more and more like a politician now and Garza could see the transformation in front of his eyes. A marijuana farmer turned drug runner turned ruler of the cartels. Then a familiar smile came across his face.

“When I am president,” Rodriguez said, “we will both rule this country together.”

“Pardon me, Francisco, but I already rule this country. And I do not need voters to keep me in power.”

“This is very true.” There was a gleam in Rodriguez’s eyes. He held up the flask with a questioning look.

“No, thank you.”

In the distance, the sound of helicopter blades emerged from the silence of the desert. Outside the tent, Rodriguez’s soldiers were shouting, “Federales, Federales.”

Rodriguez looked at Garza. “Something I should know?”

“I have brought you a present,” Garza said. “Something for you to offer our friends. They will know our relationship is sound and not question your authority.”

Rodriguez stepped outside and saw the helicopter heading their way, low to the ground, nose down. Below the Federale chopper, following its path, was a white panel truck. It looked like a medium-sized moving van, spitting dirt as it moved along the desert floor.

As the helicopter advanced, Rodriguez’s soldiers were ready to fire their weapons. When Garza saw this, he yelled, “No. They are with me.”

Rodriguez’s men all turned toward Garza with confusion on their faces. There was a unique trust between Rodriguez and Garza, so the presidential hopeful told his men to lower their weapons.

Garza pointed to the truck as it slowed to a stop in front of the tent, then signaled the pilot of the helicopter. A Mexican policeman waved back to Garza from the pilot’s chair, then lifted up the chopper and turned toward the direction he came.

Garza had the impulse to put on his sunglasses and smile as Rodriguez looked at him with complete astonishment. It was one thing to own the police, but quite another to have them actually escorting your illegal substances for you. Such a brash display of power.

Garza greeted the driver of the truck as he moved to the rear of the vehicle and pushed up the sliding door until it was completely open. Once the contents were exposed, Rodriguez shook his head in amazement. The entire wagon was filled with wooden crates.

Rodriguez followed Garza who hopped into the back of the truck. Garza grabbed a hammer from the floor and pried loose a panel of wood from the top of a crate, then another, until the entire lid was gone. Garza reached down and spread apart the bubble wrapping until a layer of assault rifles was exposed.

“There are three hundred fifty of them,” Garza said. “Plus ten thousand rounds of ammo.”

Rodriguez’s expression told Garza all he needed to know. He gazed at the bulk of weaponry with absolute intoxication, as if he were imagining the amount of clout he would acquire with such a gift and it pleased him to a childlike smile.

“You will let them know where this came from,” Garza said. “It will solidify our bond and they will show you the support you need for election.”

“Yes,” Rodriguez replied, still appearing dazzled by the display of power Garza had produced. He peeled his attention from the box of toys to take in his friend. “I certainly will,” he said, glancing at the Federale helicopter in the distance.

Garza held out his hand. Rodriguez slapped it away and pulled Garza into a bear hug.

“There is so much backstabbing in this country,” Rodriguez whispered in Garza’s ear. “It is good to know there is still loyalty among old friends.”

“Always,” Garza said. “Always.”

Florence State Prison was only a couple of hours from Payson so Tommy had no problem making his 1:00 PM appointment. The facility was over a hundred years old and looked and smelled the part.

Tommy sat in the interview room waiting for the prisoner to arrive. He’d never been offered the interview room to visit a prisoner before, but he’d never visited someone of Frank DeRosa’s stature. A simple wooden table sat in the middle of the room with names and initials carved into the wood. Tommy thought he might have seen Jesse James’s name etched in there somewhere. On the table was a pair of old-fashioned microphones.

The jail cell doors opened and an older man with a full head of white hair strolled in without any cuffs or chains. He wore a freshly ironed orange jumpsuit and had freshly manicured nails. Tommy held out his hand to greet the man and smelled expensive Chardonnay on his breath.