Gary Ponzo - A Touch of Greed

Nick leaned forward and dropped his elbows on the desk. “First of all, I don’t give a crap about the drug war. If it were up to me I’d legalize the stuff and let nature take its course.”

“Then what?” Decker said. “Revenge? You think you’re going to get to Garza when the entire force of eight thousand Border Patrol agents couldn’t?” Decker glanced around the room. “You three?” He laughed. “Boy, are you in for a surprise.”

Nick stood up and ran a hand through his hair. He wasn’t about to give out any more information than he had to. He pointed to Matt. “Give him the names.”

Matt pulled a card from his pants pocket and handed it to Decker.

“What’s this?” Decker asked.

“Get these guys in here now,” Nick said.

Decker examined the card. “These are three of my best agents. I’m afraid your information is faulty.”

Nick was growing impatient. His stomach simmered with an intense desire for answers, but he wasn’t sure how much to trust anyone. Even Decker. He sat at the edge of the desk and glared at the Deputy Director. “Now,” he said.

Decker didn’t seem to have options. Any hesitation on his part could cause the appearance of a cover-up. Even if he thought his men were clean, he couldn’t afford to be complicit. He grabbed the cell phone from his desk and made three calls. His tone was firm, but not forced or phony. When he finished the final call, he looked up at Nick and asked. “What now?”

Nick turned to look at the physical map on the wall behind him and pointed to a specific spot. “Now, you’re going to tell me everything you know about this region of the border.”

Decker’s face lost its angry tone and was replaced by a new emotion. Pity.

“Please don’t tell me you’re going to do what I think you’re going to do,” Decker said.

Nick said nothing. The frightened look on the Deputy Director’s face was enough to allow a shred of doubt to creep into Nick’s mind. He just wished his plan didn’t include so many variables.

Antonio Garza sat at the kitchen table helping Julio with his homework. School was starting earlier in the year and Garza was adamant about Julio’s education. He wanted the boy to grow up and live a clean life, without the stress and terror his father had to endure. The dirty dinner plates were still beside them on the table.

“Papa,” Julio said, writing in his notebook. “Donde esta mi madre?”

“En Ingles, mi hijo.”

“Por que?”

“Because,” Garza said, looking around to assure their solitude, “we may not always live in Mexico.”

“Why?” the boy asked.

“Well,” Garza said, “one day we may decide to live far away from here where English is the main language and it would be important for you to be able to speak with your neighbors.”

The boy’s eyes brightened. “You mean we could have neighbors? Like Pablo and Salvador? We could live next door to them?”

Garza smiled, ruffling up his son’s hair. “Maybe,” he said.

A thought seemed to cross Julio’s mind and his face became somber. “Is that where Mama is?”

Garza had waited as long as possible for this conversation, but needed to wait just a little longer. “Maybe,” Garza said, keeping the lie alive.

“When?” Julio asked, anxious to know his fate.

“I don’t know, hijo. Maybe soon.”

Through the upstairs kitchen window a pair of headlights could be seen traveling up the dirt road toward the complex. The road was three miles of pure desert landscape with no shelter along the way. It was the only way in and the only way out.

Following his father’s gaze, Julio began to gather his homework.

“Yes, Papa,” Julio said without being told a thing. “You have a business meeting, I know.”

Garza sighed. He took his son in his arms and said, “I do everything for you, Julio. Do you understand?”

Julio looked up into his father’s eyes. “No, Papa.”

Garza pulled him into his chest and smiled. “Someday you will, hijo. Someday.”

The boy left the room and Garza headed downstairs, passing three soldiers on the way. The last one was bigger than the rest and didn’t carry an assault rifle around his shoulder. When Garza saw him, he slowed his stride down the final couple of steps.

“Visitor, Jefe,” Victor Sanchez said.

“Yes, I know,” Garza said. “Bring him to the basement.”

“As you wish.”

Garza grabbed Victor’s arm. “Make sure you check him thoroughly, eh?”

Victor nodded.

Garza crossed the tiled foyer, down a wide corridor to an open room where five of his soldiers sat around a card table, playing Mexican Poker. One wall was lined with large surveillance monitors, two of which were infrared cameras scanning the perimeter of the facility.

Garza pointed to the wall. “Is anyone paying attention?”

They all looked at their boss with startled expressions and three of them spoke at once. Their voices overlapped, but two of them gestured toward a soldier at the table with no cards in front of him. It took Garza a moment to realize they were telling him that one person sits out each hand to watch the monitors.

Garza waved the back of his hand, then headed down a second set of stairs. The basement was bare cement walls with no pictures or decorations of any kind. There were dim spotlights recessed in the ceiling and a large screen television fronted by a leather sofa and wooden coffee table. It was a place for Garza to relax and watch baseball games at night. He’d grown to love the sport and became a big Los Angeles Dodger fan. There were a couple of recliners on either side of the sofa, but Garza always preferred to stretch out on the couch and rest his feet on the coffee table.

Garza chose the basement for his meeting because it was out of eavesdropping distance from the rest of the building. Once the door was shut it offered complete solitude. There was a bar at the far end of the room and Garza felt the need for a drink.

He poured himself a shot of mescal, then threw his head back and downed it in one gulp. The door at the top of the stairs opened and Victor Sanchez came down the steps followed by a man wearing a white Polo shirt, chinos and topsiders with no socks. He had a neatly trimmed beard and a large briefcase. The man looked like a tourist, but for the aged eyes. Two piercing tunnels of intensity which had Garza checking with Victor and getting the nod that the man was unarmed.

The man approached with his hand extended. “Mr. Garza. I’m Sadeem.”

Garza gave Sadeem, or whatever his real name was, an extra firm handshake, then pointed to one of the recliners. “Have a seat.”

The man sat and put the briefcase between his legs. Victor took a few steps back to stand guard, but Garza motioned him out of the room and Victor hesitantly complied.

Garza knew some negotiating techniques from the many books he’d read and when he sat down in the opposite recliner, he crossed his legs and kept his mouth shut. According to his books, the first person who broke the silence was the weaker of the two.

But when Sadeem finally spoke, it was with a Mid-Eastern accent that Garza couldn’t quite determine. It was either the accent or those cold vacant eyes which made Garza’s book knowledge seem irrelevant.

“You have quite a reputation, Mr. Garza,” the man said with a sly grin, which passed as his smile.

“Yes, I do,” Garza said.

Sadeem positioned the briefcase onto the coffee table and fell back into his chair. Garza couldn’t help but gaze at the case.

“The shipment will be ready in two days,” the man said. “Will you be ready?”

This was meant to be antagonizing, but somehow it came out as a threat to Garza’s ears.