Don Winslow - The Power of the Dog

They go to a bar downtown.

“That’s beautiful,” Ernie says. “In the States, the cops bug the bad guys. Here, the bad guys bug the cops.”

Shag shakes his head. “So they know everything we know.”

Well, Art thinks, they know we suspect Tio is M-1. They know that we’ve tracked the plane to Nunez and Mette. And they know we can’t get shit after that. So what’s making them nervous? Why send in Vega to shut down an investigation that’s going nowhere?

And why now?

“Okay,” Art says. “We’ll broadcast to them. Let them think they’ve backed us off. You guys stand down for a while.”

“What are you going to do, boss?”

Me? I’m going to touch the untouchable.

Back in the office, he regretfully tells Ernie and Shag that they’re going to have to shut down the Barrera investigation. Then he goes to a phone booth and calls Althea. “I’m not going to make it home for dinner.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too,” he says. “Kiss the kids good night for me.”

“I will. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Every man has a weakness, Art thinks, a secret that could drag him down. I should know. I know mine, but what’s yours, Tio?

Art doesn’t make it home that night, or the next five.

I’m like an alcoholic, Art thinks. He’s heard reformed drunks talk about how they would drive to the liquor store, all the time swearing they weren’t going to go, then go in swearing they weren’t going to buy, then buy swearing they weren’t going to drink the booze they’d just bought.

Then they’d drink it.

I’m that guy, Art thinks, drawn toward Tio like a drunk to the bottle.

So instead of going home at night he sits in his car on the broad boulevard, parked a block and a half from Tio’s car dealership, and watches the office through the rearview mirror. Tio must be selling a lot of cars, because he’s there until eight or eight-thirty in the evening, and then he gets into his car and drives home. Art sits at the bottom of his road, the only way in or out of the housing development, until midnight or one, but Tio doesn’t come out.

Finally, on the sixth night, Art gets lucky.

Tio leaves the office at six-thirty and drives not to the suburbs but back downtown. Art stays back in the rush-hour traffic but manages to stay with the Mercedes as it drives through the Centro Historico and pulls up beside a tapas restaurant.

Three federales, two Jalisco state policemen and a couple of guys that look like DFS agents are on guard outside, and the sign on the restaurant door reads CERRADO-closed. One of the federales opens Tio’s door. Tio gets out and the federale drives the Mercedes away like a parking valet. A Jalisco state cop opens the closed restaurant door and Tio walks in. Another Jalisco cop waves to Art to keep his car moving.

Art rolls his window down. “I want to grab a bite.”

“Private party.”

Yeah, I guess, Art thinks.

He parks the car two blocks away, takes his Nikon camera with the 70-300 lens and sticks it under his coat. He crosses the street and walks half a block up, then takes a left into the alley and walks until he figures he’s at the back of the building across the street from the restaurant, then hops the fire-escape ladder and pulls it down. He climbs up the metal ladder, bolted to the bricks, until he makes it the three stories up to the roof.

DEA RACs aren’t supposed to be doing this kind of work-they’re supposed to be office creatures, liaising with their Mexican counterparts. But seeing as how my Mexican counterparts are across the street guarding my target, Art thinks, the liaison thing isn’t going to work out.

He ducks and crosses the roof, then lies down behind the low parapet that edges the building. Surveillance work is hell on the dry-cleaning bill, he thinks as he stretches out on the dirty roof, rests the lens on the parapet and focuses on the restaurant. And you can’t turn it in on your expense account, either.

He settles down to wait but he doesn’t have to wait long before a parade of cars pulls up alongside Talavera’s tapas place. The drill is the same-the Jalisco police stand guard while the federales play valet, and a major player in the Mexican drug trade gets out and goes into the restaurant.

It’s like a Hollywood opening for drug stars.

Garcia Abrego, head of the Gulf cartel, gets out of his Mercedes. The older man looks distinguished with his silver hair, trim mustache and businessman’s gray suit. Guero Mendez, Baja cartel, looks like the narco-cowboy he is. His blond hair-hence the nickname Guero, “Blondie”-hangs long under his white cowboy hat. He wears a black silk shirt, open to the waist, black silk pants and black cowboy boots with pointed toes capped with silver. Chalino Guzman looks more like the peasant he is in an ill-fitting old suit jacket, mismatched pants and green boots.

Jesus, Art thinks, it’s a fucking Apalachin meeting, except these guys don’t look too worried about police interference. It would be like the godfathers of the Cimino, Genovese and Colombo families getting together for a sit-down guarded by the FBI. Except if this was the Sicilian Mafia, I’d never get this close. But these guys are complacent. They think they’re safe.

And they’re probably not wrong.

What’s curious, though, Art wonders, is, Why this restaurant? Tio owns half a dozen places in Guadalajara, but Talavera’s isn’t one of them. Why wouldn’t he hold this summit meeting in one of his own joints?

But I guess this dispels any doubt about Tio being M-1.

The traffic stops out front and Art settles in for the long wait. There is no such thing as a quick Mexican dinner, and these boys probably have an agenda. Jesus, what I wouldn’t give to have a microphone in there.

He pulls a Kit Kat bar out of his pants pocket, unwraps it, breaks off two sections and puts the rest back, not knowing when he’ll get a chance to grab more food. Then he rolls onto his back, crosses his arms over his chest for warmth and takes a nap, bagging a couple of hours of uneasy sleep before car doors and voices wake him up.

Showtime.

He rolls back over and sees them all coming out on the sidewalk. If there’s no such thing as a Federacion, he thinks, they’re doing a damn good imitation of one. They’re absolutely brazen, all standing out on the sidewalk, laughing, shaking hands and lighting each other’s Cuban cigars as they wait for the federale valets to bring their cars around.

Shit, Art thinks, you can practically smell the smoke and the testosterone overload.

The atmosphere changes suddenly when the girl comes out.

She’s stunning, Art thinks. A young Liz Taylor, but with olive skin and black eyes. And long lashes, which she’s batting at all the men while an older man who has to be her father stands in the doorway, smiling nervously and waving adios to the gomeros.

But they’re not leaving.

Guero Mendez is all over the girl. He even takes off his cowboy hat, Art notices. Maybe not your best move, Guero, at least until you wash your hair. But Guero bows-actually bows-sweeps his hat along the sidewalk and smiles up at the girl.

His silver teeth flash in the streetlights.

Yeah, Guero, that’ll get her, Art thinks.

Tio rescues the girl. Comes over, puts an almost paternal arm around Guero’s shoulders and smoothly walks him back toward his car, which has just pulled up. They hug and do their good-bye thing, and Guero looks over Tio’s shoulder at the girl before he gets into his car.

Must be true love, Art thinks. Or at least true lust.

Then Abrego leaves, with a dignified handshake instead of an embrace, and Art watches as Tio walks back to the girl, bends over, and kisses her hand.

Latin chivalry? Art wonders.