Don Winslow - The Power of the Dog

Deals for dope, for sex, for guns.

And that’s whatQuito ’s doing as he crouches by a hole cut in the fence.

“Gimme the gun.”

“Gimme the money.”

Quitocan see the Mac-10 glittering in the moonlight, so he’s pretty sure his old cuate Paco’s not going to rip him off. So he reaches through the hole to hand Paco the cash and Paco grabs – not the money, but his wrist.

And holds on.

Quitotries to pull back, but now there are three Yanquis grabbing him, and one of them says, “You’re under arrest for the murder of Ernie Hidalgo.”

AndQuito says, “You can’t arrest me, I’m inMexico.”

“No problem,” Art says.

Then starts to pull him into the United States, just starts yanking him through the hole in the fence, but one of the jagged pieces of the cut fence snags Quito’s pants. But Art keeps pulling, and the sharp wire piercesQuito ’s butt, then pokes out the other side.

So he’s lying there basically impaled through the left butt cheek, and he’s screaming, “I’m stuck! I’m stuck!”

Art doesn’t care-he braces his feet against the American side of the fence and just pulls. The wire rips through Quito’s butt, and now he’s really screaming because he’s hurt and bleeding and in America and the Yanquis are punching the shit out of him, and then they stick a rag in his mouth to shut him up, and handcuff him, and they’re carrying him toward a jeep, and Quito sees a Border Patrol agent and tries to scream for help, but the migra just turns his back like he don’t see nothing.

Quitotells all this to the judge, who looks solemnly down at Art and asks him where the arrest took place.

“The defendant was arrested in theUnited States, Your Honor,” Art says. “He was on American soil.”

“The defendant claims you pulled him through the fence.”

Then, asQuito ’s public defender literally hops up and down with indignation, Art answers, “There’s not a word of truth to that, Your Honor. Mr. Fuentes came into the country of his own volition, to purchase an illegal firearm. We can offer a witness.”

“Would that be Mr. Mendez?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Your Honor,” the PD says, “Mr. Mendez obviously has made a deal with-”

“There was no deal,” Art says. “My hand to God.”

Next.

The Doctor’s not going to be so easy.

Doctor Alvarez has a thriving gynecology practice inGuadalajara, and he isn’t leaving. There’s nothing on earth that’s going to lure him across or even near the border. He knows the DEA is aware of his role in theHidalgo murder, he knows how badly Keller wants him, so the good doctor is staying put inGuadalajara.

“Mexico City’s already screaming about Quito Fuentes,” Tim Taylor tells Art.

“Let them. “

“Easy for you to say.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“I’m telling you, Art,”Taylor says. “We can’t just go in and grab the Doctor, and the Mexicans aren’t going to do it. They’re not going to extradite him, either. This isn’tHonduras, this isn’tCoyoteCanyon . Case closed.”

Maybe for you, Art thinks.

Not for me.

It will never be over until every person involved in Ernie’s murder is dead or behind bars.

If we can’t do it, and the Mexican cops won’t do it, I just have to find someone who will.

Art goes toTijuana.

Where Antonio Ramos owns a little restaurant.

He finds the big ex-cop sitting outside with his feet up on a table, his cigar clenched in his mouth and a cold Tecate at the ready. He sees Art walk up and says, “If you’re on a search for the perfect chile verde, I can tell you this isn’t the place.”

“Not what I’m after,” Art says, sitting down. He orders a cerveza from the waitress who comes over like a shot.

“What, then?” Ramos asks.

“Not what-who,” Art says. “Doctor Humberto Alvarez.”

Ramos shakes his head. “I retired.”

“I remember.”

“Anyway, they broke up the DFS,” Ramos says. “I make one grand gesture in my life, and they render it inconsequential.”

“I still could use your help.”

Ramos swings his legs off the table and sits forward in his chair to bring his face closer to Art’s. “You had my help, remember? I gave you fucking Barrera, and you wouldn’t pull the trigger. You didn’t want revenge, you wanted justice. You got neither.”

“I haven’t quit.”

“You should,” Ramos says. “Because there is no justice, and you’re not serious about revenge. You’re not Mexican. There aren’t many things we take seriously, but vengeance is one of them.”

“I’m serious.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’m a-hundred-thousand-dollars serious,” Art says.

“You’re offering me a hundred thousand dollars to kill Alvarez.”

“Not kill him,” Art says. “Kidnap him. Bag him, put him on a plane to the States, where I can bring him to trial.”

“See, this is exactly what I mean,” says Ramos. “You’re soft. You want revenge, but you’re not man enough to just take it. You have to mask it with this 'fair trial’ mierda. It would be a lot easier just to shoot him.”

“I’m not interested in easy,” Art says. “I’m interested in hard, long suffering. I want to put him in some federal hellhole for the rest of his life and hope it’s a long one. You’re the one who’s soft, wanting to put him out of his misery.”

“I don’t know…”

“Soft and bored,” Art says. “Don’t tell me you’re not bored. Sitting here day after day, cranking out tamales for tourists. You’ve kept up with the news. You know I got Mette and Fuentes already. And next I’m going to get the Doctor, with or without you. And then I’m going to get Barrera. With or without you.”

“A hundred grand.”

“A hundred grand.”

“I’ll need a few men…”

“I have a hundred grand for the job,” Art says. “Split it any way you want.”

“Tough guy.”

“You better believe it.”

Ramos takes a long pull on his cigar, exhales in perfect smoke circles and watches them float into the air. Then says, “Shit, I’m not making any money here. Okay. Acuerdate.”

“I want him alive,” Art says. “You bring me a corpse, you can whistle for your money.”

“Si, si, si…”

Doctor Humberto Alvarez Machain finishes with his last patient, gallantly sees her out the door, says good night to his receptionist and steps back into his private office to gather up some papers before going home. He doesn’t hear the seven men come through the outer door. He doesn’t hear anything until Ramos steps into his office, points a stun gun at his ankle and shoots.

Alvarez falls to the floor and rolls in pain.

“You’ve seen your last funciete, Doctor,” Ramos says. “No chocho where you’re going.”

And shoots him again. Ramos says, “Hurts like a bastard, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Alvarez moans.

“If it were up to me I’d put a bullet in your head right now,” Ramos says. “Lucky for you, it isn’t up to me. Now, you’re going to do everything I say, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

They blindfold him, wrap telephone ties around his wrists and take him out the back door to a car waiting in the alley and shove him into the backseat, where they make him lie on the floor. Ramos gets in and sets his feet on Alvarez’s neck, and they drive to a safe house in the suburbs.

They bring him into the darkened living room and take off the blindfold.

Alvarez starts to cry when he sees the tall man stretched out in the chair in front of him.

“Do you know who I am?” Art asks. “Ernie Hidalgo was my close friend. Un hermano. Sangre de mi sangre.”

Alvarez is trembling uncontrollably now.