Don Winslow - The Power of the Dog

“Why aren’t you coming, Daddy?” she asks.

“I have some work I have to do,” Art says. “I’ll be along in just a little bit.”

“But I want you to come with us!”

“You’ll have so much fun with Grandpa and Grandma,” he says.

A horn beeps and he carries their bags outside.

The street is crowded with a posada, the local kids dressed as Joseph and Mary and kings and shepherds. The latter bang their staffs, decked out with ribbons and flowers, in time with the music of a little band that follows the procession down the street. Art has to hand the bags over the children to the cab driver.

“Aeropuerto,” Art says.

“Yo se,” the cabbie says.

As the driver puts the luggage in the trunk, Art gets the kids into the backseat. He hugs and kisses them again and keeps a smile on his face as he says good-bye. Althea is standing awkwardly by the front passenger door. Art hugs her and goes to kiss her but she turns to take it on her cheek.

“I love you,” he says.

“Take care of yourself, Art.”

She gets in. Art watches until the cab’s red taillights disappear in the night. Then he turns and makes his way through the posada, hears the singing in the background “Come in, you holy pilgrims Into this humble house It is a poor lodging But it is a gift from the heart-“

He sees the white Bronco still parked down the street and heads for it, bumping into a little boy who asks the ritual question: “A place to stay tonight, Senor? Do you have a room for us?”

“What?”

“A place to stay-”

“No, not tonight.”

He makes it over to the Bronco and knocks on the window. When it slides down, he grabs the cop, pulls him out of the window and hits him with three straight, hard rights before slamming him onto the street. Holding him by the shirtfront, he hits him over and over again, yelling, “I told you not to fuck with my family! I told you not to fuck with my family!”

Two of the local parents pull him off.

He shucks himself out of their grip and starts to walk back to his house. As he does, he sees the cop, still lying on the ground, reach around and pull the pistol from his hip holster.

“Do it,” Art says. “Do it, motherfucker.”

The cop lowers his gun.

Art makes his way through the shocked crowd and goes into his house. He kills two strong scotches, then goes to bed.

Art spends Christmas Day with Ernie and Teresa Hidalgo, at their insistence and over his objections. He gets there late, not wanting to watch Ernesto Jr. and Hugo open their presents, but he arrives with toys in his hands and the boys, already crazed with overstimulation, jump around, screaming, “Tio Arturo! Tio Arturo!”

He feigns an appetite. Teresa has gone to great trouble to make a traditional turkey dinner (traditional for him, not for a Hispanic household), so he forces himself to down a great quantity of turkey and mashed potatoes, which he really doesn’t want. He insists on clearing the table, and it’s in the kitchen that Ernie says to him, “Boss, I’ve been offered a transfer to El Paso.”

“Oh?”

“I’m going to take it.”

“Okay.”

Ernie has tears in his eyes. “It’s Teresa. She’s scared here. For me, for the boys.”

“You don’t owe me any explanations.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Look, I don’t blame you.”

Tio has unleashed his federale dogs to harass the DEA agents in Guadalajara. The federales have come to the office, searching for guns, illegal wiretapping equipment, even drugs. They’ve stopped the agents in their cars two or three times a day on the flimsiest of pretexts. And Tio’s sicarios drive past their houses at night, or park across the street, wave to them in the morning when they come out to get their newspapers.

So Art doesn’t blame Ernie for bugging out. Just because I’ve lost my family, he thinks, doesn’t mean he should lose his. He says, “I think you’re doing the right thing, Ernie.”

“Sorry, boss.”

“Don’t be.”

They share an awkward hug.

When it breaks up, Ernie says, “It’ll be a month or so before the new job opens up, so…”

“Sure. We’ll do some damage before you go.”

Art excuses himself shortly after dessert. He can’t stand the thought of going back to his empty house, so he drives around until he finds an open bar. Sits on a stool and has two drinks that don’t numb him enough to face going home, so instead he drives to the airport.

Sits in his car on the ridge over the airfield and watches the SETCO flight come in. “On Dancer, on Prancer,” he says to himself. “On Donner, on Blitzen.” Santa’s sleigh coming in with goodies for all the good children.

We could seize enough snow to cover a Minnesota winter, he thinks, and the snow would just keep coming. We could seize enough cash to pay off the national debt, and the cash would just keep rolling in. As long as the Mexican Trampoline is still in operation it doesn’t matter. The coke just bounces from Colombia to Honduras to Mexico and then into the States. Gets turned into crack and bounces merrily onto the street.

The white DC-4 sits on the runway.

This coke isn’t meant to be snorted by stockbrokers or starlets. This coke is going to be smoked as crack-sold at ten bucks a rock to the poor, mostly black and Hispanic. This coke ain’t going to Wall Street or Hollywood; it’s going to Harlem and Watts, to South Chicago and East L.A., to Roxbury and Barrio Logan.

Art sits up on the ridge and watches the federales finish loading the coke into trucks. The usual SETCO drill, he thinks, smooth and intocable, and he’s about to go home when something new happens.

The federales start loading something on to the plane. Art watches as they lift crate after crate into the DC-4’s cargo hold.

What the hell? he thinks.

He swings his binocs around and sees Tio supervising the load-in.

What the hell? What could they be loading on to the plane?

He considers it on the drive home.

Okay, he thinks, you have airplanes flying coke out of Colombia. The planes aren’t guided by any radio signals, and they fly under the radar. They stop and refuel in Honduras under the protection of Ramon Mette, whose partner is an old Operation 40 Cuban ex-pat.

The planes then fly to Guadalajara, where they’re off-loaded under Tio’s protection and distributed to one of the three cartels-Gulf, Sonora or Baja. The cartels take the coke across the border to safe houses, then deliver it back to the Colombians at $1,000 a kilo. Then the Mexican cartels pay Tio a percentage of that fee.

It’s the Mexican Trampoline, Art thinks, cocaine bouncing from Medellin to Honduras to Mexico to the States. And the Honduran DEA office is closed, Mexico doesn’t want to do anything about it, and the DEA, the Justice Department and the State Department don’t want to know. See no evil, hear no evil, and for God’s sake speak no evil.

Okay, that’s old news.

What’s different?

What’s different is two-way traffic. Now you have something going back the other way.

But what?

He’s thinking about this as he unlocks the door and goes into his empty house and feels a gun barrel shoved into the back of his head.

“Don’t turn around.”

“I won’t.” Fuckin’ A, I won’t. I’m scared enough just feeling the gun. I don’t need to see it.

“See how fucking easy it is, Art?” the man says. “To get to you?”

It’s an American voice, Art thinks. East Coast. New York. He risks a look down, but all he can see are the tips of the man’s shoes.

Black, shined to a mirror-like gloss.

“I get that, Sal,” Art says.

The subsequent moment of silence tell him he’s right.

“That was really fucking stupid, Art,” Sal says.