"Our business," Monte said simply, "is the exportation of stolen automobiles, which we sell to the twenty percent of the population of El Salvador that can afford to buy them. We then use the proceeds to buy weapons and munitions to stockpile for the next revolution. This is the way it works—"
Using the various maps, Monte explained how subordinate members of Mara Salva were trained to steal medium-size sedans from shopping malls and theater parking lots all over southern California. Luxury automobiles were never taken, no Lincolns or Cadillacs, no fancy sports cars, just moderately valued midline Buicks, Oldsmobiles, Pontiacs, Chryslers, and other dependable makes. Four Mara Salva members would go out in two teams in separate cars. When a suitable vehicle was seen being parked, its make, model, and color would be noted by one of the teams, which would immediately leave and begin to search other lots for a similar make and model. When they found one, they would steal its license plates. Then they would search until they found a third similar car, steal its plates, and replace them with the first set of stolen plates.
"It is tedious, but very confusing to the police," Monte said. The first set of plates is reported stolen, but many times the owner of the second set of stolen plates does not even notice that he now has
different
plates on his car. So for a period of time, we have a safe set of plates for a matching stolen car— because by then the other team has stolen the original car that was decided on earlier. The theft of the car is easy: one member of the team follows the driver into the mall or wherever, with a cell phone with a line already open to his partner. The partner jacks open the car door, rams the ignition, starts the car, notifies his partner inside, and picks him up at a different entrance while the real owner of the car is still inside.
"And we have rules," Monte emphasized. "We take no cars from older people or women with children. Mostly we look for guys alone, or two younger women shopping together."
The safe plates were put on the stolen car, and it was immediately driven out of California into Mexico the same day.
"There are many places to cross," said Reynaldo. "Tijuana and Mexicali, of course, are the busiest ports of entry from California. Then there are Nogales and Agua Prieta in Arizona. But in addition to those main crossings, there are many smaller ones: little towns like San Luis Rio, Sonoyta, Escabe, Naco. And they all connect to Mexico Route 2, which connects to the Mexican national north-south toll road, Route 15."
"There is never a problem crossing the border," Armando took up the narrative. "U.S. Border patrol guards have no interest in what
leaves
the U.S., only what comes in. And Mexican border guards let all vehicles in without question."
"Less than two hundred miles south into Mexico," said Monte, "is the city of Hermosillo. It's a nice little city, surrounded by many cotton farms. In this city is a man who has mastered the art of producing counterfeit vehicle identification number plates that are fastened to the top of the dashboard to allow law enforcement officers to immediately identify the automobile's origin and registration. When our people steal the second set of license plates, they also write down the VIN from that car. In Hermosillo, we stop and get a VIN plate with a number that corresponds with the license plate. Then, a hundred and fifty miles farther south, in the town of Los Mochis, is a very talented printer who has duplicate blanks of California certificates of title identical to those issued by the department of motor vehicle. In less than an hour, the driver of our car has a certificate of ownership, with no lien, on a car that now has license plates that match the VIN number."
"In short," said Tony, "it is now a car that can be sold."
"Exactly," said Monte. "It is two thousand miles down the length of Mexico to Guatemala, and two hundred more across Guatemala to El Salvador. There we sell the car to a used car dealer. There is no problem finding a buyer; about eighty percent of the late-model cars being driven in El Salvador were stolen in the U.S."
"And the money from the sale?" asked Tony.
"A percentage is brought back here to run the organization. The rest is used to buy automatic weapons and munitions in Honduras, smuggle them back into El Salvador, and stockpile them in various places throughout the country."
Tony paced the length of the room, then turned to face the group. "Do you honestly think that by stealing cars and buying weapons that you can overthrow a
government?
That you can take over a
country?
"
They all exchanged looks and Monte shrugged. "Why not? It is a very small country: only one hundred sixty miles long and ninety miles wide. Right now the military has about twenty-three thousand soldiers. By the year 2000, there will be six
million
people in the country— and nearly
fi
ve
million of them will be living at the very edge of poverty." He smiled a cold smile. "If we can arm fifty thousand peasants,
senor
, believe me, we can take the country."
"But how will you reach that many people? You are so few."
"When Fidel Castro started, there were only three: himself, his brother Raul, and the woman, Celia Sanchez. We, like they, are only the nucleus, Antonio. Besides the people in this room, we have more than fifty other members in southern California. And we have members in all fourteen districts of El Salvador, and their number is increasing all the time. We know that the church will stand behind us, the students will join us, and the unions will support us once we are in power. This is not a daydream,
amigo
; this is an obtainable goal— and we are dedicating our lives to it." Monte walked over and stood before Tony. "Now that you know everything about us, I must ask you two questions. Can you help us? And
will
you help us?"
Tony's eyes swept the room. Everyone was looking at him, the six men, the two women: their collective gaze was fixed on him like an unseen laser, their presence as a group seeming to charge the little meeting room with energy and intensity. He looked at Tela, at her stark eyes, behind which he knew lay a fierceness and a strength unlike he had ever seen in a woman. If anyone in that room could kill him without a second thought, it was Tela. She who still did not trust him— no matter that she had surrendered her lissome body to him.
Tony knew that he had to speak, that he had to commit, or he would not leave the room alive.
"Yes," he said simply to Monte, to them all, "I can help you." His eyes shifted to Tela. "And I will."
Tela's eyes told him that his words only strengthened her distrust.
Immediately following the group meeting, Monte and Tony had a private conversation in a small office Monte had in the rear of the big room, an office that until recently had belonged to Frank Barillas. The new leader of Mara Salva and its newest member talked for nearly an hour, and then Tony came out and asked Tela to come with him back to her apartment so that he could pick up his suitcase.
In the car, Tela asked, "You are leaving?"
"Yes."
"Where are you going?"
"Monte will tell you," Tony said. "He is meeting with all of you this afternoon and then he and I will be leaving together tonight. We will be gone for about two weeks."
"And you won't tell me where?"
He shook his head. "It is up to Monte to tell you and the others what he wants you to know."
In the passenger seat. Tela stared straight ahead, wary and suspicious. "I don't like this."
"There don't appear to be too many things that you
do
like," Tony replied quietly, without malice.
"Just what does that mean?" she demanded.
"It means that you seem to be mistrustful and skeptical of everything most of the time. You never seem to be happy."
"You say that to me after last night? And this morning?"
"That was not happiness, Tela. That was passion. Even after this morning, you voted against me. And you have been unhappy all day."
"I am the way I am," she declared doggedly.
They said nothing more to each other for the rest of the drive.
At her apartment, Tela watched silently as Tony gathered his previous day's clothes and put things back in his shave kit. He opened his suitcase on the bed in her tiny bedroom. For the first time, he noticed a small, framed photograph of a girl about twelve, with a slight, pleasant smile.
"You were a pretty child," he said. "Not so unhappy then, I guess."
"That is not me," she told him. "That was my little sister, Felia."
Tony felt a tightening in his stomach. He stopped packing. "Was?"
Tela looked away. "She is dead. At least, I assume as much. One night the
Sombra Negra
came to our home looking for my father. He was up in the mountains with the Farabundo guerillas. So one of them said take his wife instead, and tell him he can come claim her at our headquarters. But another one said no, take one of the daughters, it will make him surrender faster. Then the leader said— I remember his words exactly— 'Take the younger one. That will make him respond very quickly, because he knows how much we like these very young ones'. So they took her."
Tela's eyes had moistened and a single tear streaked her cheek and spread out over the pockmark. Tony put an arm around her and sat with her on the bed as she finished her story.
"My mother and I went at once to the guerilla contact in our village to get word to my father. Two days later, he came down and surrendered. My mother left me with a neighbor and went to the headquarters to see him. The
Sombra
accused my mother of trying to smuggle a gun in to him. They shot them both."
"And your sister?"
"She was never seen or heard from again. The
Sombra
were notorious for taking very young girls. Some of the stories that came out later about what they did to them were— were—
Tela broke into sobs and Tony held her tightly with both arms as her thin body wracked and shuddered against him for long minutes until she had cried as much grief and anguish out of herself as she could at that moment. Then she slowly came out of the convulsion, catching her breath, swallowing hard, and mopping her eyes with Kleenex. Pulling slightly away from him, she said, "I'm sorry. I got your shirt all wrinkled."
"It's nothing." He pushed her hair back off her forehead, and touched her cheeks and patted her arms. "How did you get out of Salvador?"
"The neighbors took me to the guerillas and they took me across the Guatemala border to a refugee camp. Some nuns that had been working there were going back to the states. They took me with them. Immigration held me in Los Angeles for a few days while the church applied for me to be given asylum. Then the church sent me to live with a Salvadoran couple who took in refugee children. Francisco lived next door. After school, I would go to the mailbox for him. I stayed there until I was old enough to work. I was a counter girl at Taco Bell for a while, then Francisco recruited me for Mara Salva."
Tony gave her a final hug and rose. "I understand now why you aren't more trusting. I'm sorry for what I said earlier." He finished packing his suitcase and closed it. She followed him as he walked to the living room door with it.
"Tony, please, I want you to tell me where you are taking Monte."
"I am taking him on a business trip. It has to do with improving the efficiency and profitability of the Mara Salva operation. There is nothing for you to worry about."
"I can't
help
worrying," she asserted. "With Francisco dead, Monte is the only one qualified to lead Mara Salva. If you are an agent and—"
"Please, Tela, don't start with that again," he said impatiently.
"But you
could
be an agent," she said, wringing her hands, "and if Monte never came back, it would ruin us—"
Tony kissed her lightly on the lips. "Don't worry about Monte; he'll be all right. I promise you. I have to go now. I'll see you soon."
It was only after Tony was gone that Tela realized that the only assurance he had given her was that Monte would be all right. He had not once said that he wasn't an agent. As a matter of fact, it suddenly dawned on her, he had
never
said he wasn't an agent.
* * *
Tony stayed gone for ten days. Then one morning just after three o'clock he showed up back at Tela's apartment, suitcase in hand, clothes wrinkled, needing a shave, looking very, very tired.
"Where is Monte?" Tela demanded first thing as she let him in.
"I missed you too, Tela
mia
," he said wryly.
"Tony, where
is
he? Tell me!"
"Lower your voice. He's in San Salvador."
Tela turned as pale as a Latina can turn. San Salvador was the capital of El Salvador, stronghold of the wealthy landowners, the military, and the
presidente
.
"Why?" she asked urgently. "Why is he there?"
"Because that is where he is needed most at the moment."
