The Return: A Novel (21 page)

“These are the ones with the big crucifixes and the rosary bracelets?”

“Yes. The fine distinctions among the Christian sects elude them. In any case, one has to ask, why the current violence in a dinky little tourist town like Playa Diamante?”

“A rhetorical question, I hope.”

Pepa sniffed and rolled her eyes. “About six months ago, the police killed Nazario Moreno, the
jefe
of La Familia, and there was a falling out among the subordinate leaders. Street signs went up all over the state, declaring that La Familia was no more and that the altruistic responsibilities of La Familia had been assumed by a group calling itself the Knights of the Temple—
Los Templos
—after the medieval order. Some of the plaza bosses went over to the new organization, and others stayed loyal to the original La Familia structure. Obviously, most of the action is up in Morelia and the north, but down here the big prize is the port at Cárdenas. That’s where they import the chemicals they use to make methamphetamine, along with other dope from South America. The
jefe
of Cárdenas, Melchor Cuello, stayed loyal to the remains of La Familia. The
jefe
of Playa Diamante went over to the Templos.”

“This is Servando Gomez?”

“Yeah. El Gordo, as he’s known to his many friends. The rivalry between Cuello and Gomez is the root of all the recent killings around here. Of the two, Cuello is the most violent. They call him El Jabalí, the Boar. His trademark is the dumped torso with the crimes of the victim scrawled on the back in green marker.”

“That’s useful to know,” said Marder. “What’s the trademark of El Gordo?”

“The Templos display the head among a geometric arrangement of severed limbs, the legs on either side and the arms in a cross in front of the head. The eyes in the head are always propped open with toothpicks, and they stick a scroll in the mouth with the reasons for the execution. Another example of our quaint Mexican folk art.”

“No torso?”

“In the sea, or so it is believed. In any case, all this theatrical posturing and violence is not the interesting part. The interesting part is the sociology and the economics. Sociology, because it is the ambition of every Mexican bandit to become respectable. This has always been the case. Every man in Mexico, in his secret heart, wishes to become a
chingón
and to render every other man the
chingada
. In order for this to become manifest to the whole world, however, he must have the young blond wife, the big house in Chapultepec, the yachts, the foreign vacations. But they cannot have these very easily or securely as long as they are
narcoviolentes
. So they must find a way to get out from under the burden of being gangsters, or at least to ensure that their sons do. These men are very indulgent of their sons. Having a son who is a handsome playboy is almost as good as having the blond wife.”

“Do Gomez and Cuello have playboy sons?”

“Gomez has two, who go to an expensive high school in San Diego, where they drive hundred-thousand-dollar sports cars and date cheerleaders. Cuello’s son, Gabriel, is right here. He has little interest in being a playboy. He likes being a gangster, and I’m sure it’s a grave disappointment to the old man. He’s known as El Cochinillo, the Piglet. But El Jabalí has several daughters being finished in Europe as we speak. He will have to be content with respectable grandchildren. Or perhaps not; perhaps he wants to make the transition in his present incarnation, like a bandito bodhisattva.”

Marder grinned and thought he saw a little softening in the woman’s severe expression. He wished to see her smile. “That’s very good. You should try journalism. How is he going about this transition?”

“He’s been investing. He’s become a so-called partner in a number of legitimate businesses. He has interests in hotels, in agriculture, in shipping, in transport. He owns the cab company here and a bunch of bars and restaurants. He contributes to political campaigns and uses his people to rough up or kill reporters who write against his interests. And still the dope money comes rolling in, because the demand for dope in
El Norte
is insatiable—the only thing greater being the hypocrisy of your government—and therefore the cash position of his organization is increasingly perilous. It is hard, even in Mexico, to spend ten, twenty million a month without a declared source of income. So they must find a laundry for this money, one that does not involve traceable bank records. And what is the best kind of laundry? Do you know that, Rick?”

“Well, with the American mob it was distilleries first and then casinos. Vegas and so on.”

“Casinos, exactly! Now, did you know that Playa Diamante was a marine turtle sanctuary?”

“No, I didn’t. But I’m happy to hear it.”

“Yes, every year in the summer and early autumn, the olive ridley turtles come up on this beach to nest, and therefore the beach frontage is closed to development. Obviously, Mexican zoning officials are eminently bribable, but environmentalists are watchful, and there would be an international scandal should new development be permitted. There is one exception, however, a large tract that was grandfathered in as a developable area when the refuge was established. It was an offshore island, and for some reason the turtles don’t nest there.”

Now she gave him the smile, which Marder thought was a good one, a charming one, although she meant it as malicious.

“You mean here? Isla de los Pájaros?”

“Exactly. And when two heavily armed American strangers arrive and immediately defend it against both the Templos and Cuello’s people—”

“I didn’t defend it against Cuello’s people. I was protecting you. I had no idea that gangsters wanted to build a casino on my property.”

She seemed about to say something, caught herself, and said something else: “And now that you know?”

“Now that I know, I will finish getting drunk. Then I will be hungover. Then I will decide what to do.”

“What about me? How am I going to get back to my crew?”

“That’s for you to decide, Pepa. We have plenty of bedrooms here, and you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. Or you can go. This isn’t a prison. Say, Amparo!”

He held the pitcher up to hail the housekeeper, who came over and took it.

“Could you fill that up for me again, dear,” said Marder.

“Certainly, Señor,” she said, taking it from him.

“Where is my daughter, do you know?”

“She is out in the
colonia
with Señor Skelly,” she reminded him. “I think they are moving the well, as you ordered.” She paused, regarding Pepa Espinoza, and asked, “At what time would you like to have your supper, Señor? How many will there be, and what would you like to have?”

“Roasted pig,” said Marder. “And everybody will eat.”

“Everybody?”

“Yes. Invite everyone on the property. There are plenty of pigs. I can smell them from here. And take the truck into town and buy beer. And mescal. And make a pot of
mole verde
the size of one of those clay planters. In fact, you can use the planter if you haven’t got a big enough cauldron. Dig pits, gather mesquite wood, buy bags of cornmeal, give it out to anyone who can slap a tortilla. And let there be music!”

Marder didn’t know how much all this would cost, but he didn’t much care. The expression on Pepa Espinoza’s face was worth every peso.

*   *   *

Statch stood spellbound in front of the forge where the blacksmith, Bartolomeo Ortiz, was putting the finishing touches on a massive drill bit he had manufactured out of an old crankshaft and sections of automobile leaf springs. She was reflecting on something remarkable—that in one week’s time she had observed both the beginning and the end of the history of human beings making things out of metal. She gaped at the glowing steel on the anvil. As far as she could judge, it was a perfect artifact, a functional drill bit made entirely out of scrap and skill.

The drill itself was based on a motorcycle engine of some antiquity, dangerous as sin but perfectly suited to the task. Its cooling system was a kid with a water bucket and a ladle. Statch had appointed herself driller’s mate, had made some trivial improvements in the rig, and now, with the new bit in place, she threw her weight onto the A-frame to keep it from shifting as Arsenio, the driller, put the thing in gear. It roared, it threw mud and lubricant, it drilled. She was as happy as a pig in shit, and no cleaner. In twenty minutes water gushed: cheers, she hugged Arsenio, then she helped him cap the gusher with a spigot.

She walked down to the far end of the village, where Skelly was supervising a gang using the Komatsu to excavate what was going to be the drainage field for the septic system.

“We have water?”

“We do,” she said. “How’s this going?”

“Great. It’s amazing how some decent pay will turn these people into fucking Germans. No more
mañana
around here, no, sir! They’ll bring the piping in tomorrow, courtesy of your dad. And now could you tell me why he decided to start his own Peace Corps in … you know, I’m not even sure what they call this place.”

“Colonia Feliz, after the name of the house. I don’t know anything about what my father does. He’s always been a little secretive. Not as secretive as you—”

“I’m not secretive. Ask me anything. I’m an open book.”

She laughed. “Yeah, right. As far as this place goes, I’m calling it midlife crisis, a bit late, but there it is. He hasn’t been exactly stable since Mom died. You talk to him and he’s somewhere else. But it’s her hometown. Maybe he wanted to recapture the golden years or whatever.”

“I get that,” said Skelly, “but why this house in particular? On this site.”

“What do you mean?”

“Check it out. It’s a fortress. One causeway, the house commands all the eastern approaches; the beach side is overwatched by cliffs. We have our own water and a diesel. With enough food, and if we train up the guys we have on hand, we could hold off a small army. That can’t be an accident.”

“Is that why you brought your cannon? You were expecting a little war?”

Skelly became interested in the operation of the bulldozer and shouted some advice to its driver. “Mere coincidence,” he said blandly, and she laughed again.

Now they became aware of heightened action in the
colonia
: kids running around, a man driving a small herd of pigs out of their pen, a pair of women carrying a large iron cauldron toward the big house.

Statch called out, “Yo, Ariel, what’s going on?”

The boy stopped in mid-run. “The
patrón
is having a fiesta. I’m the messenger. We’re going to kill pigs!” He ran off.

“Well, a fiesta,” said Skelly. “A good way to start a war. Your father is a classy guy, when he lets himself be.”

He walked over to the bulldozer and climbed up onto its seat.

“What are you doing now?” she asked.

“I’m going to go down to the causeway and push those wrecked cars off it.”

“I’ll come with you.” She was filthy and tired but she didn’t want this thing to end yet, this satisfying thing that she hadn’t realized she desired, so different from the satisfactions of MIT and her life in Cambridge.

“There’s only one seat,” he said.

“I’ll sit on your lap.”

He grinned at her and made a welcoming gesture.

When she settled down and he shoved the joystick forward, he said, “A patriotic wet dream this is, a vibrating Statue of Liberty on my groin.”

“Shut up, Skelly,” she said without heat, and studied his motions as he guided the machine through the
colonia
, across the broad graveled drive, and down the causeway.

“This is like when you taught me to drive a stick. What was I, eight?”

“Yeah, your mother threw a pot at my head when we got back.”

“Yes, and Peter was so jealous he didn’t talk to me for a week. But she really liked you. I mean my mom.”

“In a way,” he said after a considering pause. “She liked me the way you like the pet that someone you love brings into the marriage. Basically, they were kind of wrapped up in each other.”

“I guess,” Statch said, a little surprised that Skelly had picked this up. He came on like the essence of brute insensitivity, but he didn’t miss much. And what he’d said about her parents was a truth written into her life. They
had
been wrapped up in each other, and their children, although surrounded by love and every good thing, had understood from an early age that they were understudies in the Great Romance. Which was fine, really. They had developed early a kind of wild independence of spirit and had looked outside the family for the special flavors of love that their parents husbanded for each other: for example, the kind of gentle flirting that a father does with a daughter throughout girlhood so she knows she’s attractive, potent, desired; all the small comments, the fond looks that become the foundation of a woman’s deep confidence. Marder had tried, she understood that, but he didn’t have the energy: Chole was a full-time job for him. So Statch had got most of that over the years from the man she was sitting on right now.

“Hop off now, kid,” he said, bringing the Komatsu to a stop in front of the first of the wrecks. She did so and watched as he efficiently shoved the SUVs off the causeway and into the sea. It was no surprise that he could operate a bulldozer. Skelly could do a very large number of practical things, many of which (besides driving a stick shift) he had taught her over the years: how to be silent in the woods; how to hide; how to shoot, skin, and butcher a deer; how to clean a fish, a rabbit; how to ride a motorcycle; how to jump out of an airplane; and what guys, at least guys like him, looked for in a woman. It was probably no accident that the men she favored were more Skelly than Marder. Marder had taught her how to sail a small boat and how to shoot a pistol and about the uses of imagination. He was the one who told her stories. Skelly didn’t tell stories. She had asked, many times, but she still had not heard his version of what he and her father had experienced in Vietnam. After the cars were gone, she made him let her drive the bulldozer back up the hill.