Ballistic (38 page)

Pfleger shook his head. “That's all you got? Nothing else to put me at ease here? C'mon, pal.”

“Look, Jerry. I know the guy who called you to set this up. I know the family who wants papers. I'm just the monkey in the middle here. Don't stress. If you can produce what we need quickly, this will be your easiest transaction ever.”

Pfleger nodded slowly, then again more quickly. Court saw evidence of some sort of mood-altering substance in the jerky mannerisms of the young man.

No doubt, Jerry was on something.

Court groaned inwardly.
Perfect. This asshole has been snorting coke.

Pfleger continued, his mouth moving fast with the gesticulations of his hands. “I mean, normally, I just work directly with the Mexicans who want to immigrate.” Jerry shrugged. “I'm usually not doing it under the eyes of a fellow American.” He put his fingers in the air in a double V salute, affected a lousy and paraphrased impersonation of Richard Nixon. “ ‘My fellow American.' Ha-ha, Tricky Dick? Right?”

“Right . . .”
Fuck.
“So . . . with the papers you will provide, they can just walk right through at the border crossing.”

He nodded. “Everything they need to get across in Tijuana or Mexicali and avoid the poor-man's routes.”

“What are the poor-man's routes?”

With a jolting wave of his arm he said, “You know, the desert, the Rio Grande, pole-vaulting the fence or doing the tunnel-rat thing in the sewer. I have colleagues up in Juarez and TJ and Matamoros who do what I do, get the hard-working citizenry of Méjico over the border to fuel the American economy, but only I can arrange for you to walk through with your head held high. I even throw in worker's visas and green cards. It all looks totally legit because it
is
legit.”

“How much?”

“For the whole enchilada?” Jerry smiled. “Today I'm running a special. Everything for the low, low price of only fifteen grand a beaner.”

Court's eyes rose at the price
and
the slur. “There are four in the family.”

“Sixty g's, then.”

“How 'bout a volume discount?”

Jerry laughed, clapped once. Then he cocked his head. After a few seconds he nodded thoughtfully. Court had given him a threatening stare; Court had no idea if it would have any value.

“What the hell? Fifty k.”

Ten grand worth of stare. Not bad. Court wondered if brandishing his pistol would have shaved off another five large. “We can come up with that. How does this work?”

“I need everybody's photo IDs. I'll take that info and generate everything you need.”

Court reached into the backpack and retrieved the stack of identity cards for the Gamboa family. Court remembered Ernesto's driver's license was still in there. He fished around and pulled it out, stuck it in his pocket with a slight grimace.

He handed the cards to Pfleger. “How long?”

Pfleger looked them over, and Court watched him carefully. He knew it was likely the American would realize he was dealing with members of one of the families targeted at the rally in Puerto Vallarta. But if he did recognize the Gamboa surname, he showed no evidence of it. “Overnight. I can have these to you at lunch tomorrow. Mexican lunch, that is. Two p.m. Same time, same place.”

“That'll work.”

“You got a phone? I may need to call you for more info.”

Gentry was reluctant. “What info?”

“Dude, trust me, there is always something missing on IDs that I don't want to just fudge. These people will be stuck with these identities in the States. They have to have all the t's crossed and the i's dotted.”

Court pulled out his new mobile. Read the number out to Jerry Pfleger.

“Okay,” Jerry said. “I need a down payment. Fifty percent.”

Court pulled the bag of money from his backpack and pulled out twenty-five thousand dollars. Handed it over to the young American, who counted it out himself. He jammed it into his pocket.

Two boys came into the bathroom, walked immediately up to the urinals without regarding the two Americans.

The men separated with a nod. Court left first, and Jerry went back to the mirror to work on his blackhead.

Court almost panicked when Laura was not in the food court upon his return. His head moved on a swivel, and he scanned the lunchtime crowd and began pushing his way back to the escalator.

He grabbed his phone and began to call her, but he saw a tiny girl with a short bob of black hair in line at the cash register of a men's store. She waved to him and smiled a little. When she came out, she said, “I got us both some new clothes. I hope you like them.”

He wanted to chastise her, but he realized instantly that she had used her time wisely. They would need new clothes. Little Laura had done well, and he told her so.

She smiled at him, and then together they walked sleepily towards the exit of the mall.

The hotel Gentry picked out was on Donceles Street, just a block north of the National Cathedral in el Centro Histórico, the historic city-center neighborhood. The building was small and recessed from the main street by a guarded gate; there was a tiny hidden parking lot for his stolen motorcycle. The desk clerk took cash and gave them keys to a room on the third floor with two twin beds; Court had asked for a view of the street and was satisfied with his sight line out the window.

As exhausted as she was, Laura was thrilled by the location of the hotel, as it stood directly across the street from la Iglesia de Nuestra Señora del Pilar, a narrow but ornate 250-year-old baroque church and former girls' school. As soon as they were in their room, she told Court she wanted to go across the street and pray. He rolled his eyes and started to follow her, but she suggested he stay in the room and rest. He grabbed the pistol he'd just pulled from his pants, stuck it right back into his waistband, covered it with his shirt, and followed her out the door.

“We stick together, Laura.”

“Good. Will you pray with me?”

Gentry shrugged as they reached the staircase. “You pray for us both. I'll stand watch.”

They crossed the busy road and entered the church; Court sat in a pew while Laura knelt next to him and bowed her head. Court kept his tired eyes open and darting in all directions, though there were only a few other people in the sanctuary and they were clearly more interested in their salvation than deleting Court or the girl with him.

The altar was high and gilded; the walls on either side of the sanctuary were similarly gilded and adorned by statues. Soft music played through speakers, and the cool air was dim, illuminated by natural light coming through the stained glass and reflecting off the golden walls and ornamentation.

Court began drifting off to sleep. Only when Laura climbed back up to the pew next to him did his eyes relight.

She sat with her hands folded in her lap, her eyes on the crucifix on the altar. She spoke softly. “You are not a believer, are you?”

“I . . . I wasn't raised in the Church. I don't know how it all works.”

She looked up at him and smiled; they sat with their shoulders touching. “Let me show you.”

“Thanks, but not today. I am really tired.”

“Faith will give you the energy you need.”

“Sleep will give me the energy I need.”

She seemed disappointed. “Some other time, maybe?”

“Sure.”

Laura then walked forward to an iron stand of votive candles and placed money in the offering box. She began lighting candles, one by one, saying a prayer for each. After the third Court realized they were for the dead of her family.

He stood with her, his back to the wall, watching the front door and the choir loft and the other worshippers. She had a lot of candles to light.

On the way back to the hotel Laura noticed a small bodega, and she and Court agreed they should get some provisions so that they would not have to risk going back out again before the meeting the next day. They bought bread and juice and water and
tortas
, and they made it back to the room just before five.

Laura immediately lay facedown on one of the twin beds and closed her eyes.

Court grabbed the bag of clothes from the men's store and stepped into the bathroom. A long shower washed off days of sweat and grime. Bloodred swirls in the bottom of the bathtub gave him pause: he wondered just which of his many victims' splatter had made it to his skin and just how long the blood had been on him. He shampooed his long hair and more blood ran from it, along with bits of grass and pebbles and broken glass and gunpowder residue. The debris collected in the water around his feet. He watched it swirl or settle, depending on what it was.

To him it was a reminder, a journal of the past few days. The rally in Puerto Vallarta. The hacienda. The armored car. The ride on the motorcycle.

Looking at it all just made him more exhausted than ever.

He turned off the water, stepped out of the shower, toweled off, and looked into the bag.

Pressed brown khakis, a cream-colored linen shirt, a black belt with a square silver buckle, black socks and black tennis shoes, one half size too large, but close enough. He dressed quickly, the fresh clothes felt amazing on his clean body. Though he knew he could sleep for a day, he still felt like a new man.

He stepped back into the bedroom, lay down on his bed, placed the Beretta on his chest, and looked across at Laura. She had rolled over on her back; her eyes were closed, her hands rested on her stomach, and her small breasts rose and fell with her breath.

She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life.

He forced himself to turn his head, to look away from her. He rolled onto his side, and in minutes he fell asleep.

Two white Yukon XL Denalis pulled up in front of the exclusive restaurant in the Zapopan district of Guadalajara just before eight p.m. The drivers remained behind the wheels of the armored vehicles while four men stepped into the road, began looking over the cars on the street, the people passing by. The men wore black Italian-cut business suits, their hands were empty, they were quick and efficient with their movements, but they were not impolite as they moved through the foot traffic to the front door of the restaurant. There they stood, back to the wall, and they all unbuttoned their coats. Their eyes scanned the street in all directions.

Three Guadalajara police squad cars double-parked on the street. Their flashing lights reflected off the glass for a block in each direction. A pair of patrolmen stepped out of each vehicle and began directing traffic to continue on up the street. No one would be allowed to park anywhere near the front of the restaurant.

Four more men climbed out of the gleaming white SUVs and moved directly through the bronze double doors of the restaurant. These men wore black suits as well, carried handheld radios and empty black nylon bags. The manager and the maître d' met the men in the lobby in front of the bar, they spoke a moment, and then the six men broke into two teams.

The maître d' and two Black Suits approached each candlelit table and spoke softly to the diners. Cell phones were confiscated; the men were asked to stand and open their coats, and they were frisked as politely as the brusque act can possibly be accomplished. Some of the customers understood what was going on—most did not. Soon all the phones of all the patrons were in the black nylon bags. An announcement was made to the dining room by the maître d': eat, drink, enjoy yourself, and your meals will all be taken care of by a customer who will be entering shortly. There were gasps, a few claps, a few more stolen glances at wristwatches.

It would be a long night.