Don winslow Don winslow - The Border

Keller feels guilty that he’s lost touch.

Feels guilty about a lot of things involving Ernie Hidalgo. It was his fault that Ernie got killed when Hugo was just a little boy. Keller had spent his entire career trying to make it right—had tracked down everyone involved and put them behind bars.

Devoted his life to taking down Adán Barrera.

And finally did.

“How about you?” Keller asks. “Married? Kids?”

“Neither,” Hugo says. “Yet. Look, sir, I know you’re very busy, I appreciate you taking the time—”

“Of course.”

“You once told me if there was anything you could ever do, not to hesitate.”

“I meant it.”

“Thank you,” Hugo says. “I haven’t wanted to take advantage of that, of our relationship, it’s not that I think I’m owed anything …”

Keller has followed Hugo’s career from afar.

The kid has done it the right way.

Military. Good service with the US Marines in Iraq.

Then he went back and finished college, degree in criminal justice from UT, and then caught on with Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office. Put up a good record there and kept applying to DEA until he was finally hired.

He could have done it differently, Keller knows. Could simply have walked in and said he was the son of a fallen DEA hero, and they would have given him a job right away.

But he didn’t do that.

He earned it, and Keller respects that.

His father would have, too.

“What can I do for you, Hugo?”

“I’ve been on the job for three years now,” Hugo says, “and I’m still investigating marijuana buys in suburban Seattle.”

“You don’t like Seattle?”

“It’s about as far as you can get from Mexico,” Hugo says. “But maybe that’s the idea.”

“What do you mean?”

Hugo looks uncomfortable, but then sets his jaw and looks straight at Keller.

Just like Ernie would have done, Keller thinks.

“Are you keeping me out of danger, sir?” Hugo asks. “If you are—”

“I’m not.”

“Well, someone is,” Hugo says. “I’ve put in for FAST assignments five times and haven’t gotten one of them. It doesn’t make any sense. I speak fluent Spanish, I look Mexican, I have all the weapons qualifications.”

“Why do you want FAST?”

FAST is an acronym for Foreign-Deployed Advisory and Support Team, but Keller knows they do a lot more than advise and support. They’re basically the DEA’s special forces.

“Because that’s where it’s happening,” Hugo says. “I see kids dying of overdoses. I want in on that fight. On the front lines.”

“Is that the only reason?” Keller asks.

“Isn’t it enough?”

“Can I be honest with you, Hugo?”

“I wish someone would,” Hugo says.

“You can’t spend your life getting revenge for your father,” Keller says.

“With all respect, sir,” Hugo says. “ You did.”

“Which is how I know.” Keller leans forward in his chair. “The men who killed your father are all dead. Two died in prison, one was killed in a gunfight on a bridge in San Diego. I was there. The last one … they’re about to hold his wake. The job is finished, son. You don’t have to take it up.”

“I want my father to have been proud of me,” Hugo says.

“I’m sure he is.”

“I don’t want to be advanced because of who my father was,” Hugo says, “but I don’t want to be held back, either.”

“That’s fair,” Keller says. “I tell you what, if someone is blocking your transfer to FAST, I’ll unblock it. You pass the test, you get through training—only half do—I’ll oil the wheels for assignment to Afghanistan. Front lines.”

“I speak Spanish, not Urdu.”

“Be realistic, Hugo,” Keller says. “There’s no way in hell we’re going to let you go into Mexico. Or Guatemala, or El Salvador, or Costa Rica or Colombia. DEA is simply not going to risk those headlines, if something happened to you. And something would—you’d be a marked man.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“I won’t.” I had to tell Teresa Hidalgo her husband was dead, Keller thinks. I’m not going to tell her that her son has been killed. He makes a mental note to find out who has been keeping Hugo out of harm’s way and thank him. It was solid thinking. “You don’t want Kabul, name me something you would want. Europe—Spain, France, Italy?”

“Don’t dangle shiny objects in front of me, sir,” Hugo says. “Either I get moved to the front lines or I leave DEA. And you know I’ll catch on with a border-state police force and you also know they’ll put me UC. I’ll be making drug buys from Sinaloa before you take my name off the Christmas card list.”

You are your father’s son, Keller thinks. You’ll do exactly what you said, and you’ll get yourself killed, and I owe your dad more than that.

“You want to take down the cartel?” Keller asks.

“Yes, sir.”

“I might have a job for you right here,” Keller says. “As my aide.”

“Pushing paper,” Hugo says.

“You think you’re going to take down the cartel by buying a few keys of coke in El Paso or gunning down a few sicarios in El Salvador, you might be too stupid to work here,” Keller says. “But if you want to be in the real war, fly back to Seattle, pack your things, and be here ready to work first thing Monday morning. It’s the best offer you’re going to get, son. I’d take it if I were you.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Good. See you Monday.”

He walks Hugo to the door and thinks, Shit, I just got stood down by Ernie Hidalgo’s kid .

He goes back to the television.

They’ve brought Adán’s body back to Culiacán.

If Ric has to sit there five more minutes, he will blow his brains out.

For sure, this time.

Death would be preferable to sitting on this wooden folding chair staring at a closed coffin full of Adán Barrera’s bones, pretending to be grieving, pretending to be contemplating fond memories of his godfather that he really didn’t have.

The whole thing is gross.

But kind of funny, in a Guillermo del Toro kind of way. The whole concept of a velorio is so people can view the body, but there is no body, not really; they just tossed the skeleton into a coffin that probably cost more than most people’s houses, so it’s kind of like going to a movie where there’s no picture, only sound.

Then there was the whole discussion of what to do with the suit, because you’re supposed to dress the deceased in his best suit so he’s not walking around in the next life looking shabby, but that clearly wasn’t going to work, so what they did was they folded up an Armani they found in one of Adán’s closets and laid it in the coffin.

Even funnier, though, was the dilemma about what else to throw in, because the tradition is you put in stuff that the dead guy liked to do in life, but no one could think of anything that Adán did for fun, anything that he actually liked.

“We could put money in there,” Iván muttered to Ric as they stood on the edge of this conversation. “He sure as shit liked money.”

“Or pussy,” Ric answered.

The word was that his godfather was a major player.

“Yeah, I don’t think they’re going to let you kill some hot bitch and lay her in there with him,” Iván said.

“I dunno,” Ric said. “There’s plenty of room.”

“I’ll give you a thousand bucks to suggest it,” Iván said.

“Not worth it,” Ric said, watching his father and Elena Sánchez in earnest discussion on the topic. No, his dad would not be amused and Elena already didn’t like him. And, anyway, he wouldn’t say anything like that in front of Eva—speaking of hot bitches—who looked … well, hot … in her black dress.