Chapter 11
Juan Carlos Reynoso sat at a poker
table in a dusty back room of the Chico Rico Grill in northern Tijuana and
stared at the pair of threes as if they might somehow become Aces if he stared
long enough. The rest of his poker
playing opponents were becoming impatient, but were too afraid to rush the
mafia mogul. The room was musty and subbed as a storeroom for the
supplies, with cases of beer and boxes of taco shells piled in the corner. Reynoso’s two large bodyguards were playing
their own private game of gin on top of one of the stacked cases, never out of
reach of their shotguns.
“Jefe,” one of the players said,
pointing at the cards in his hand. “Por
favor.”
Reynoso looked at the large pot and
grunted while slapping his cards face down and shoving then under the pile of
chips in the center of the table.
The door opened and Reynoso’s cousin
stuck his head in. “Jefe,” he said
looking at Reynoso. “That kid. The one with the briefcase.”
“Yeah?”
Reynoso’s cousin glanced around to
be certain he didn’t say any more than he needed. “He is here.”
Reynoso squinted. “What?”
Reynoso’s cousin just nodded.
“He can’t be,” Reynoso’s voice
elevated. “Our contact never received
the package.”
“Maybe he is here to return
it?” his cousin suggested.
Reynoso slid his chair back and
gestured to his two bodyguards. That’s
all it took. They were already at the
door, one of them holding it open, both of them with their shotguns. They strode down the short corridor to the
bar where the kid sat on a barstool sipping a glass of beer, his eyes darting
everywhere. The Chico Rico Grill was
packed and the Mariachi band playing up against the wall in the back had five
couples dancing in front of them. The
rest of the bar was filled with partiers around wooden tables with small unlit
candles in the middle of them.
As if the regulars knew to stay
away, the kid was alone at the bar, five empty stools around him. As soon as Reynoso showed up with the two
shotgun-wielding bodyguards, a hush came over the crowd, while the band played
on eerily.
Reynoso dropped into the stool next
to the kid and rested his arm on the bar.
“You came here to bring me back my briefcase, yes?”
Reynoso was close enough to see the
kid’s lips trembling. He was clutching
the glass of beer as if it might escape.
“I uh . . . not really,” the kid
said, shooting glances at the dirty mirror behind the bar.
Reynoso examined the mirror and
found the reflection of two Americans staring directly at him. Two men dressed in collared shirts hanging
over their pressed blue jeans. These
were not usual customers. Reynoso turned
to face the table where they sat.
“Quien es los gringos?” Reynoso
asked the bartender.
The old man behind the bar could
sense the gravity of the question and didn’t want to have the wrong
answer. He simply said, “No se, Jefe.”
Every Mexican in the city knew to
obey Reynoso’s orders, so he never had to ask twice for anything. On occasion, however, an unwitting American
would cause him a temporary moment of disrespect. Now one of the Americans leaned back in his
chair and placed his feet on the table, as if in complete disregard for
Reynoso’s authority.
Reynoso simply flicked an index
finger toward the men and his body guards began to move toward the table. The second man at the table stood up. He was tall and lean and was favoring his
left leg, as if he was suffering from an ankle sprain.
The bodyguards stopped, one on each
side of Reynoso taking a protective stance with their shotguns aimed at the
tall American. The band immediately
stopped playing and in the silence there was shuffling of feet moving away from
the confrontation, creating a open pathway between the two combatants.
“Who are you?” Reynoso asked
indignantly.
Surprisingly, the guy sitting with
his feet up spoke. “I’m Nick Bracco,
this here is my partner Matt McColm.”
The kid’s words came out scratchy
and insecure. “I didn’t want to come,
Jefe, but they forced me.”
Reynoso looked at the kid, then the
two men. “Is that true?”
“Yup.”
Reynoso didn’t like the tone of the
man’s voice. There was a certain
attitude that came with it. As if he
wasn’t sitting in the middle of Reynoso’s home bar and staring down the barrel
of two shotguns.
Reynoso got to his feet. More shuffling. More whispers. “If you want to live another thirty seconds I
suggest you take your feet off that table.”
The man calling himself Nick slowly
removed his feet from the table top and remained seated. “Your problem,” he said, “is that you rely
too much on fear and intimidation.
That’s what causes you to travel with such a small crew. Two gunmen.
That’s not enough.”
Reynoso shook his head in pity. “You do not think I have men protecting this
place?”
The tall American frowned and said,
“Not anymore.”
Reynoso was intrigued by this brash
invasion. He wanted to know more about
these men. He asked the obvious, “You
have other men outside?”
Nick shook his head. “Nope.
Just us.”
There was no conceivable reason why
such an admission would be made. Even if
they were alone it made no sense to admit this.
Reynoso pointed to Nick. “Keep your hands on the table where I can see
them.”
Nick leaned forward and placed his
hands palm down on the table.
“Good,” Reynoso said. “Now why don’t you tell me why you are here.”
“We’re with the FBI,” Nick
said. “We came to ask about the package
you sent with Dane.”
Reynoso almost laughed. “You want to know about its contents?”
Nick nodded.
“And why would I tell you this?”
“Well, full disclosure, we already
know it came from a Russian courier. One
of your men already admitted this to us outside.”
Reynoso cursed under his breath,
knowing it must’ve been his nephew Pedro.
The kid was always a weak link.
That was the danger in running a family business, you were always
dealing with weak links that you couldn’t kill.
“Is he alive?” Reynoso asked only
mildly interested.
“Yes,” Nick said. “All three of them are alive. Just tied up and gagged.”
Reynoso kicked at the floor. Dust particles drifted up and dissipated
under the slow moving ceiling fans. “That is enough insults.” He lifted his hand and the two bodyguards
brought their shotguns up and aimed them at the two men.
Nick held up a hand. “Before you shoot us. We’re curious about the briefcase you gave
the kid. This Russian. Was that a onetime thing, or was it part of a
series of deliveries?”
Reynoso tapped one of his bodyguards
on the arm to get him to stand down.
“You are quite inquisitive about this package. I will tell you before we kill you. The Russian who gave us the package is now
dead himself. He did not tell us all the
details about the package until the delivery was already moving. He will not be
using our services, or anyone’s services any longer.”
Nick rose to his feet. “Good,” he said. “That’s really all we came for.”
Reynoso placed his hand on his
chest. “Do you think you have
jurisdiction in my country?”
Nick slowly shook his head. “No.
We’re here on our own. Just a
couple of American citizens having a beer.”
“And do you think you can just leave
now?”
“I know we can.”
Reynoso like the man’s bravado,
going down with dignity. He searched the
crowd and saw no one who could cause him trouble. He owned the police department so a killing
inside the Chico Rico Grill would never even raise a solitary question.
Reynoso turned toward the kid at the
bar, who was shaking like a wet dog.
“You think you will survive this too?”
The kid’s eyes widened.
READ THE STORY FROM THE BEGINNING:
No comments:
Post a Comment