Hide and Snake Murder (15 page)

Coop said, “I'm going through too many packs of Juicy Fruit.”

“Good for you, kid.” Cigarettes used to be the common denominator between Coop and my father, but since Coop had been trying to quit, Dad, surprisingly, rallied behind him.

“And,” Dad turned and squinted at Agnes, “who's this?”

Eddy introduced them, and Dad, at his most chivalrous, offered the front seat to Agnes. When he wasn't ten sheets to the wind, he was a pretty decent guy.

Coop, Eddy, and I settled in the back, and Dad peered at me through the rear view mirror. “Where to?”

With no better idea, I said, “The Leprechaun, please.” If nothing else, it would be a place for us to regroup. With any luck, it would also keep us out of the reaches of Mr. Tormenta. I would have to be careful what I told my father, though, because if he had any idea people he loved were in trouble, he'd dive right into the fray with no second thought. I come by that trait honestly as well.

Eddy chatted with my dad, keeping things casual and upbeat as we travelled down Hennepin to Marshall. Northeast Minneapolis was gentrifying, bringing in trendy businesses that blended well alongside older establishments. The Leprechaun was one of those older establishments, and Dad had singlehandedly turned the place from a rundown dive to a profitable blue-collar haven.

Walking into the Leprechaun was like falling head first into the past. A haze of smoke and the smell of stale alcohol hit me with an almost physical force.

My father had spent many years working barges up and down the Mississippi, and the water was in his blood. The walls, lined with river-related memorabilia he'd collected throughout the years, included several pictures of his dad's logging days. An antique, polished-to-a-spit-shine oak bar took up one wall. Behind the bar, a large, mounted mirror with a gilded frame faced those who occupied the bar stools. The word
Leprechaun
was etched on the surface of the glass along with a picture of a leprechaun, hat in hand, frozen in the midst of a jig. Exposed beams darkened with age and smoke ran the length of the ceiling from front to back.

A few customers sat at the bar, and they looked over at our back-door entrance, checking out who was crashing their party. A bartender I wasn't familiar with was engaged in conversation with a patron who looked like he was leaning a little too far off his stool. I usually recognized someone, but that wasn't the case today.

Dad said, “Shay, why don't you get these folks settled at the corner table, and I'll be back in a minute.”

Agnes said, “This is a nice place your father has, Shay.”

“Yeah, it is. He's put in a lot of hard work in it.” Then it occurred to me maybe we should get ourselves on the same page as far as what we were going to tell the old man. “Hey, let's keep things easy and not worry my dad. He has a tendency to get worked up when he hears about, oh, problematic stuff.”

Everyone nodded in agreement. I knew Coop and Eddy understood what I was talking about, and although Agnes hadn't witnessed my father in one of his righteous tirades, she went along without question.

My dad appeared from the back room. “So, what can I offer you all?” He looked at me. “Shay, your usual?”

I wished I could have about five of my usuals, which was a big, bad Fuzzy Navel, but I didn't dare impair my faculties any further than they were. I was already a step behind from the lack of sleep. “No, thanks, Dad. Just a Coke.”

Dad nodded. “Cooper, a Bud?”

“I might be staying away from the smokes, but I'll take a Bud anytime. Thanks.”

Before my father had a chance to ask Agnes, Eddy said, “I'll have coffee, black, and so will Agnes.” Eddy cut her eyes at her. “Won't you, Aggie?”

Agnes glared at Eddy and it looked like she was about to let her have it. Instead, she said, “Coffee would be fine, Mr. O'Hanlon.”

My dad boomed a laugh. “Last time someone called me Mr. O'Hanlon, the cigarette police were writing me a citation for a bullshit smoking ban violation. Please, call me Pete.”

Obviously charmed, Agnes said, “Okay, Pete. Thank you, dear.”

Dad headed for the bar, and I slumped back in my chair. “We're without a car, mooching off Kate, and have a man with the last name of Tormenta dogging us. What next?”

Agnes, seated next to me, patted my shoulder. “It's okay, Shay. Things could definitely be worse. We could be an alligator delicacy right now.”

Good observation. That truth actually made me flinch.

My phone rang before I had another chance to wallow. The number was unfamiliar. I flipped it open. “Hello?”

“Hi,” a throaty voice said. “Is this Shay O'Hanlon? Luz Ortez here.”

“Yes, thanks for calling back! Can you hang on a second?” I excused myself and headed for the front door. I didn't want my dad to overhear anything and start asking questions. Once I was outside, I said, “I'm here. Had to get somewhere I could hear you.”

“No problem. What can I do for you?” Her voice was friendly and her tone sounded curious.

I sucked in a breath. “I was wondering if I might meet with you today to talk about Mexican cartels. I was referred to you by Dirty Harry.”

Paper rustled in the background. Then Luz said, “Dirty Harry. Nice man. Okay, have a meeting at two, but I should be free by two forty-five.”

Excellent. “That would be great, Ms. Ortez.”

A melodic chuckle came across the line. “You're not a student. Call me Luz. Do you know where Coffman Union is?”

“Yes.”

“There's a Starbucks on the ground floor. Does that work?”

“You bet. I really appreciate you taking the time to see me.”

“It's no problem. After my meeting, I'll need a break.”

Too bad we weren't closer to the Rabbit Hole. I could've caffeinated her and gained a new customer in the deal. Once you had Hole coffee, you never went back to the old grind.

I thanked her again, and we disconnected. The sun-bleached brick wall was warm against my back. I closed my eyes. The past few days had been nuts. I needed someone to tell me things were going to stop spinning like a top, so I flipped the phone open again and dialed JT. I knew she wouldn't be able to answer, but hearing her voice when voicemail kicked in was like an invisible hug that wrapped me tight.

Seventeen

At two-fifteen, Coop and
I were on the road, headed for the East Bank of the University of Minnesota. I had called Kate and asked her to check in on Rocky and Baz. All was well for the moment.

My dad had invited Eddy and Agnes to join in on his semi-weekly afternoon poker game in the back room of the bar. They agreed, and Agnes showed far more enthusiasm than I expected. Maybe they were tired of running around. It was a relief they were somewhere safe.

We were in my father's more well-used vehicle, a midnight blue '03 Grand Cherokee. One thing about my father: he didn't cut any corners in his vehicles. The Jeep was loaded.

As I followed Washington toward the East Bank, Coop stuffed yet another piece of gum in his mouth. “Man, I hope this chick is going to be able to help us. This avoid-them-or-die crap is for the birds.”

I checked the rear view mirror for suspicious cars. Either there weren't any or I was a really bad judge of dodgeable vehicles. “No kidding. You know, you've really come a long way.”

“A long way for what? Not smoking?”

“That, and how you're handling what's going on. Typically you'd be freaking bananas in a situation like this.”

Coop slowed his frantic chewing. “Huh. You're right. Maybe laying off the smokes helps. And playing broomball with you and Kate this winter. I learned to whack that ball into submission.”

I laughed. “You were our secret weapon with that slap shot we never even knew was in you. Thanks.”

He gave me a perturbed look. “You think I'd duck and run?”

“No, that's not—”

“Gotcha.” One side of his mouth curled up.

“Smart ass.”

“Takes one to know one.”

It felt good to banter like we normally did. Like things weren't one big crazy fucked-up mess.

I pulled into a parking ramp and we found our way to Coffman Union and the Starbucks within.

We walked into the café, surveyed the space. Most of the tables were occupied with kids in their late teens, and probably a good number of twenty-somethings, grouped in twos and threes, some sipping their drinks of choice while a few ate and others dozed. A line of patrons waited patiently to order, and another group stood by at the pick-up window. This place was hopping.

Coop said, “Come on.” He dragged me through the crowd to one of the few available tables. “You hold our spot. I'll do battle. Coffee?”

“You read my mind. A double shot of espresso, please. I need a kick.” I knew espresso didn't contain the amount of caffeine everyone thought it did, but there was something about downing the thick, syrupy stuff that perked me up.

With a nod, Coop was off.

I looked at the tables farther back for a lone woman. No dice.

With a deep breath, I crossed my arms, fingers tapping against my bicep. I was happy not to have to run the rat race of classes and readings and tests anymore. But that was sure a simpler time, when life was divided between partying and whatever classes you weren't too hung over to attend.

Before I dwelled too long on the challenges of higher education, a woman in her late thirties or early forties hurried into the café. She practically skidded to a stop as she searched the crowd. She looked classy and elegant, dressed in a black suit jacket over an ivory shell, paired with black, billowy slacks. They reminded me of 1980s parachute pants. A black leather messenger bag hung over one shoulder. Glossy black boots with narrow heels completed her ensemble.

I stood and waved, hoping this was Luz Ortez.

She saw me, waved back, and threaded her way toward me. She arrived at the table slightly out of breath. “Shay O'Hanlon?”

“Yup, that's me. Have a seat.” I stuck my hand out and she grasped it in greeting.

“Luz.” She pulled a chair out and sat with a deep huff.

“Thanks for taking the time to meet with us.”

“No problem.” She tugged the strap for the messenger bag over her head and set the bag on the floor next to her with a half-groan, half-sigh. “That gets a bit heavy after a while.” Her hands smoothed her shoulder-length, jet-black hair. It was even darker than mine, but she had more gray strands peeking through. The smell of jasmine wafted delicately off her, tickling my senses.

Coop returned to the table bearing three paper cups. “Good timing,” he said as he handed them around. “You must be Ms. Ortez.” He smiled at our visitor. “I took a gamble and picked you up some coffee.”

Luz met Coop's gaze evenly and took the cup he offered. “Thanks, but please, call me Luz. And who are you, you kind soul?” Luz's slight accent only emphasized her exotic beauty.

“Nick Cooper.” He thrust his hand out.

She shook it and held his hand a fraction of a second longer than necessary. “Nick, it's nice to meet you.”

I waited for his inevitable correction. No one called Coop Nick.

Coop settled himself at the table without a word, but with a perplexed look on his face.

Luz crossed her legs. “So. How exactly can I help you?”

We should have thought about how to explain things without sounding crazy or guilty. I decided to roll with it. “Coo—ah—Nick and I are grad students.”

Coop nodded, but kept his mouth shut.

“We're doing a project on Mexican cartels, specifically in the Juárez area.” Liar liar pants on fire.

Luz's face tightened for a fraction of a second. Then she nodded attentively and took a sip of her coffee.

I sucked in some air, hoping it would spark my brain cells into more creative thinking. “The project is what-if scenario.” That sounded good. “So we did some research on the internet and found a lot of cartel information is framed in generalities.” I paused and swallowed the last of my espresso. “So, let's say there are a couple of factories down south, maybe across the border. They find some way to ship drugs or weapons into the US. The contraband makes it all the way up here to the Cities. Somehow the goods are converted to cash.” Not bad. With this imagination of mine, I should take up writing. “The question is, how does it all work?”

Luz stifled a yawn as she considered my words. “It's been a long day.” She folded her hands together, elbows on the table. “I think it would be best to start at the beginning. Drug cartels in Mexico did not exist until the late 1980s. A corrupt cop named Félix Gallardo decided to break up the drug trade he ran and divide Mexico into regions. He assigned territories to allow the business to keep running whether or not one arm was metaphorically cut off by the authorities.” Luz's words were softly spoken, her voice falling into the lilting musical tones I'd heard on the phone. Her outward focus faded as she warmed to her subject.

I peeked at Coop. His eyeballs followed every move Luz made. Then it dawned on me. He was interested, and not in what she was saying. Freaking peachy. All I needed now was for him to fall into a pseudo-infatuation with our informant, who was some years older than he was.

Luz continued, “These newly formed cartels took over day-to-day operations. They struggled—and continue to struggle—for control and dominance. Alliances were forged, turf wars fought. Right now there are two main factions, two umbrellas, under which the cartels operate. But, accords often change and cartels are known to cannibalize themselves.” She looked from me to Coop. “Have I lost you yet?”

Coop shook his head, obviously fixated. “No. Not at all.”

“I'm with you, too.” I briefly cut my gaze to Coop and gave him a nearly imperceptible shake of my head.

Luz took a sip of her coffee and gently set the cup down on the tabletop. “You asked about the city of Juárez. Right now the Reynosa Cartel controls the area the city is a part of. In the last ten years, there have been a number of changes and adjustments to what used to be the Juárez Cartel.”

I asked, “How do you bring a cartel down?” Figured we might as well get to the crux of the issue.

Luz leveled her gaze on me, one eyebrow lifted slightly. It felt like her dark eyes burned into my soul. “Hmm. Good question. Whoever is the head of the cartel is the key. The head of the snake. Do you know what I'm saying?”

Coop said, “You bet,” without taking his eyes off the woman. Could he be any more blatant? I resisted the urge to kick him in the shin.

I said, “It seems like the cartels manage to get a hold of a lot of law enforcement personnel and turn them so they're working for the cartel instead of staying on the right side of the law.” My mind drifted back to the cop in New Orleans.

“Yes, the cartels can be very … persuasive.”

“This Reynosa Cartel,” I asked, “do you have any idea who it's run by?”

Luz sat for a few moments considering her answer. “The struggle for power between the Reynosa and Juárez Cartels has been deadly, with numerous losses on both sides. The most recent drug lord is the first woman to hold such a position. She's deadly, strikes like a rattlesnake when angered, or metes out a slower though no less painful punishment if she feels someone deserves it.”

From the tone of Luz's voice, this new drug lord was a fascinating subject. “Her name is Miguela Carillo-Sanchez, better known simply as Zorra.” She caught the widening of my eyes. “Yes, her name is a take off your American Zorro, and like him, she too has worked to use her ill-gotten funds to help the poor people of her region. She even wears a mask and a cape, along with the gaucho hat when she's in public. She's highly regarded in her own organization and treated with grudging respect throughout the loose coalition of Mexican drug organizations. She's mysterious, very rarely seen. But extremely powerful.”

Holy crapola. Zorra was the head of the snake. The same woman Hunk, Tommy, and the mystery man had been talking about. The leader of one of the most notorious drug cartels in North America was after us. Double crapola.

I took a couple of steadying breaths. I sat back in my chair, feeling faint, my heart tap dancing in my chest. We were in seriously dangerous territory, sinking into raging quicksand. Coop met my eyes, and then we both turned our sights on Luz.

“So, you wanted to know how cartels work.” Shadows filled in the hollows of Luz's cheekbones, and I distractedly noticed it gave her a patrician profile.

“Yeah,” I was barely able to get the word out. I'd better find my backbone, fast.

She said, “The cartels underwrite small-time farmers' operations and various labs and processing centers in Mexico. Then the drugs are delivered many places. A huge amount of the stuff goes into the United States. The cartel coordinates the Mexican end, while a contact linked to the cartel is on the receiving end. Generally mules smuggle a great deal of drugs into the country.”

Luz caught the confusion on my face. “Mules are people, not the four-legged hairy beasts you're thinking.” She half-grinned, and then her face turned serious once more. “They owe the cartel or are desperate for money and will dare to risk everything, including their lives, to transport the drugs to their final destinations.”

Coop's attention was riveted on Luz. In fact, he was so focused I was willing to bet if I waved my hand in front of his face, he wouldn't even blink. I wondered if he was actually hearing what she was saying or if his brain was stuck in Luz-centric loop.

“Then the drugs are supplied by the contact to their own set of distributors.” A peculiar look of distaste or disdain twisted Luz's features. “Many times children, kids under eighteen, are used to disperse the end product. These couriers give most of the money they take in back to the contact, who takes a portion and returns most of the cash to Mexico, and the cycle begins again.” Luz ended her explanation and sipped from her cup. She set it down and surveyed us with one eyebrow raised.

“This Zorra,” Coop began.

Luz nodded.

“Exactly how deadly is she?”

“She's a master manipulator and knows how to work people, to bend wills. Once she has her sights on either somebody she wants to join her organization or someone she wants to be rid of, they're as good as involved or as good as dead.”

That was so not what I wanted to hear.

Coop and I thanked Luz for her time. He tried for her phone number, but she politely sidestepped the request. We walked back to the car in near silence, both of us trying to absorb what Luz had said. Coop jammed two sticks of gum in his mouth and worked them hard.

It freaked me out that not only was Zorra a notorious drug lord, but she'd issued a cartel-style warrant for our deaths with a deadline.

Once we climbed into the car and locked the doors, I looked over at Coop. His skin was pale, his cheeks flushed pink. “I think we need help, Coop.”

Chomp chomp. “I'm thinking you're right on.” He looked out the window, his eyes flicking frenetically from one thing to another. “I feel like they're everywhere, Shay.”

“Me, too. But you know what? They're not. We're fine. They don't know this vehicle. We're okay, Coop.”

“Maybe.” He sniffed and held his forehead with his hand, rubbed his temples with his thumb and index finger. “Who we gonna call?”

“Ghostbusters are going to be of no help.” I allowed a fleeting smile. “Let's see what JT says. Maybe she'll have another moment of serendipitous insight.”

“I think you're losing it, O'Hanlon.”

I pulled out my cell. “I think you might be right,
Nick.
What the hell was that all about?”

Coop's ears began to glow. “We had a connection.”

“I think it takes two for a connection, and she didn't look like she was feeling it, Mister Slick.”

“Just call already.”

I keyed in the contact number JT had given me and caught the time at the top of the screen. It would be about six out there, and she should theoretically be finished for the day. But then, cop types loved their nighttime deploys and practice maneuvers.