The Dogs of Mexico Read online

  Helmut put the book down and stood up with his drink. “Agra Resources,” he said into the phone, pronouncing it with just a hint of a German inflection, Rezourzes, the z’s barely detectable. As a young man he had emigrated from a rural area near Eufurt in East Germany where few people spoke English. Consequently he occasionally suffered a prick of humiliation at an escaped z, or a v in place of a w, aware always of the covert smiles of others.

  “Flax,” said the voice on the other end.

  Helmut set his drink down. “Flax is big in Canada,” he replied, sobering over the code word. In his peripheral vision he saw Ana look up from her laptop at the dining table.

  “We secure?”

  “Yes.” Helmut frowned at Ana, touched a finger to his lips for silence. She folded her hands in her lap and sat back.

  “Been awhile,” Flax said.

  Helmut steadied himself. “Awhile, yes,” he agreed, trying to minimize his accent, trying to keep the boozy slur out of his voice.

  As if reading his mind, Flax said, “I hear you have a drinking problem.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t have to tell you, the Company isn’t big on juiceheads. Even for stringers.”

  Helmut struggled with the accusation, anger flaring. He spoke slowly, precisely. “What are you getting at?”

  “I’m saying I may have something for you. I’m saying this is important. I’m saying I don’t want any fuckups because you can’t stay sober.”

  Helmut remained silent, trying not to lose it.

  “Where’s your partner?”

  “Partner?”

  “The woman. Ana Farrington.”

  Ana sat at the table, looking on.

  “She is here,” Helmut said. “Why do you ask?”

  A small silence.

  “Don’t concern yourself,” Helmut said. “She is okay.”

  “Of course. Otherwise we wouldn’t be talking at all.”

  “So? Who’s talking? If you have something to say, I’m listening.”

  “Here’s the skinny. I’m sending a man to Acapulco by way of Mexico City. I’d like you to keep an eye on him.”

  “This is it? Keep an eye on him?”

  “He’s a small-timer, picking up intelligence in Acapulco.”

  “What are we looking for?”

  “The fellow he’s meeting has information relevant to our national security.”

  “Very well. I am still listening.”

  “This man, the one I’m sending, I don’t know whether we can trust him. He may be a bit unstable. I want you to keep an eye on him. Keep him honest. You handle that?”

  “How do you mean, ‘unstable’?”

  “I mean not entirely trustworthy. Unpredictable. In any case, I’ve planted a couple of GPS transmitters in his luggage. I’m sending you a tracking app to install on your laptop.”

  “And all you want me to do is report to you where he is? What he is doing?”

  “I’ll know where he is. But I’ll want to know what he’s doing. That’s your job. I’ll send you his MO and if he deviates one inch, you let me know immediately.”

  “That is simple enough.”

  “Make a business trip of it. You and your partner.”

  “I can do this alone.

  “Helmut, you’re a good man. But take the woman. She’s good cover. Listen, I know I can count on you, but this is big. I want to impress that on you.”

  “Very well. It is your show—as you Americans like to say.”

  “This shouldn’t take more than four or five days, tops. I’ll pay you five thousand dollars. Then, say it takes more than a week, I’ll compensate you further.”

  “That is satisfactory.”

  “Good. I’ll be in touch.”

  After Flax hung up, Helmut sat for a minute, thinking.

  Something wasn’t kosher here. First, Flax says the man is a small-timer, unstable. Then he says this is really big. If the pickup is all that important, why send a mental case? And—though Helmut is reluctant to admit it—why hire him when Flax practically accused him to his face of being unreliable, a drunk? Then telling him in the next breath he is a good man? Saying he knows he can count on him? Yes, this has the smell of illegitimacy. Something fishy in Denmark—as the Americans liked to say.

  “Well?” Ana said.

  “We may go to Acapulco.”

  “They want you to follow someone? Who?”

  “Some gringo. I do not yet know.”

  “Well,” Ana said, brightening, “this could be good. I’d like to check in with a family of silversmiths in Taxco.”

  Helmut watched as she got up and took her cup to the sink. At thirty-eight she looked closer to twenty-eight. Trim. Energetic. Bambi-like in spite of a barely discernible limp—a faint shifting of her hips that he used to find sexy when they were still intimate. Her hair, the color of terracotta, usually gathered on top or caught up behind with a silver clip, complemented her olive complexion and jade-green eyes. More than once he had tried giving up the booze in hopes of winning her affections again.

  “I do not know whether I have time for a side trip,” he said. “We have to see.”

  Normally he contracted with fruit and vegetable growers in the US for migrant workers out of Mexico and Central America, but the entire business had become all but impossible with the Patriot Act and Homeland Security. It was a schizophrenic situation at best: We want your cheap labor, but we do not want you in our country. While he kept an eye on the political climate in these regions for Flax and a few others by extension, he had never been asked to tail anyone.

  He looked at his watch. Nine thirty-five. He topped off his vodka and picked up the Big Book again, aware of Ana’s big green eyes. Tigerlike. Silently accusing.

  It occurred to him that Flax had insisted she tag along in the expectation that she would keep him sober.

  If I ever meet that arrogant bastard, I am going to punch his lights out. He settled a little with the vodka. I will make a call or two of my own. See what is afoot—as the Americans like to say.

  6

  Downsize

  ROBERT TOOK THE Trish photo out of its frame. Carefully, he scissored a rectangle around Nick and removed his likeness from between Tricia and himself. He inserted the clipped image into one of the plastic windows in his wallet. One last time he looked at what was left of the photo—a remnant of Trish and himself, separated by Nick’s absence as they had been separated by it in life. He dropped the butchered remains in a bag of trash.

  He would give the frame to Carmella the cook.

  In the meantime he had bought two expandable carry-ons—one maroon, one black. The black was neatly packed with newly purchased clothing: one pair of wrinkle-free khakis, two pairs of jeans, four wrinkle-free Hawaiian shirts, T-shirts, shorts, socks and one wash-and-wear seersucker jacket. Seersucker got a bad rap in some circles, but you couldn’t beat it for rough travel.

  He placed the maroon bag on the bed. This second bag would of necessity have to be checked with the airline, for it contained, in addition to the camcorder, a Swiss army knife, shaving kit, mini first-aid kit, duct tape, a bar of Ivory, Ziplocs, a box of ten thirty-gallon garbage bags, face towel and a roll of toilet paper—niceties which he knew from experience often came in handy when traveling in developing countries—except, of course, for those who, like Tricia, spent their days by the pool at the Ritz Carlton and then went home claiming to have visited a foreign country. He added four cardboard shirt stiffeners in the carry-on for use later.

  He fit the gutted projector into a military haversack of army-tan canvas ducking he had picked up at an army surplus.

  He took a final look around the empty room. Unexpectedly he relived for a moment the airless sensation from three years earlier when he entered Nick’s room and found it empty, he himself trapped in the hermetically sealed space—no entry, no exit. He suffered a moment of lost equilibrium, unsure whether he was experiencing a moment from the past, or something darkly u
npleasant portending the future.

  He shook off the feeling and picked up the room phone.

  Jill answered. “H’lo?”

  “It’s me. I’m coming over.”

  Silence. Then, in a small, defensive voice: “Just like that, huh?”

  “I need to see you. Just for a minute or two.”

  “Well, I don’t need to see you.”

  “Yes you do,” he said and hung up.

  Twenty minutes later he drove his pickup into her trailer park. At the entrance a time-faded billboard depicting a radiantly smiling family read: SUNRISE MOBILE HOMES – FLORIDA LIVING AT ITS BEST!

  He parked behind Jill’s Ford Escort, its body rusting off the frame. He spotted her behind the screen door to her old Airstream, watching as he drove up. A trim brunet in worn jeans and a T-shirt, Jill was beginning to show her age. Not so long ago she had been a flight attendant with American Airlines, but then she was caught using. He had stayed with her through that one, but when a few months later she had again tested positive for drugs and was fired from her waitressing job at the International House of Pancakes, he had walked. She hadn’t forgiven him.

  “What do you want?” Her eyes were shiny-bright. He wasn’t sure whether it was dope or emotion.

  “I’m leaving town. Just stopped in to say good-bye.”

  She paused. Big amber eyes shifting, unsure.

  He studied her through the screen. “You still using?”

  Those same amber eyes shimmered and teared up. “Fuck you, Charlie.”

  “You going to invite me in?”

  “What for? What do you want?”

  “I want to see inside your house.”

  “You what? See inside…?”

  He pulled the screen door open and pushed past her.

  “Hey! Who the hell do you think you are!”

  The TV and the sound system were still in place. She hadn’t hocked anything that he could see. There were no tracks on her arms, and though she was gaunt, her eyes looked alert enough.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’m giving you that pickup out there. If you want it.”

  She slanted a look at him, the little crow’s feet around her eyes deepening. She glanced through the screen at the pickup, then back. “Excuse me?”

  “You don’t want it, you can sell it. Keep the money.”

  Her eyes shifted with uncertainty. “You’re going back to Texas…back to her, aren’t you.”

  “I’ll get my luggage out, then it’s all yours.”

  She hesitated. “You’re serious?”

  “That pickup, it’s old but it’s in good shape.” He didn’t tell her that three years ago he not only had a new driver’s license and social security card made up in Miami’s Little Havana, but also a matching title and registration for the Toyota, all under the name Charles Edwin Lockerman. His small circle of acquaintances in Miami, including Jill, knew him by that name. He had been getting registrations, inspections and liability insurance without a hitch every year since. Those Cuban boys were good. Jill wouldn’t have any trouble.

  She frowned. “Why’re you doing this? You don’t even like me.”

  “Yes I do. Come on now. I have to get out of here.”

  She opened the screen door, tentative, then followed him out to the pickup. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “You know you won’t get much if you sell it.”

  “Sell it hell. That old Junker of mine’s on its last leg.”

  He grinned. “Good. You’re sounding like your old self again.”

  She glanced inside the cab, brightening. He had had it detailed. It looked good. The pickup’s bed was packed with his belongings—TV, kitchen utensils, sound system—covered with bedding and lashed down with bungee cords.

  He took his two bags out. “Sell whatever you want, but no drugs. Okay?”

  “I’m sorry if I was rude,” she said, staring at the stuff in the pickup’s bed. “I quit smoking a week now and I’m climbing the walls.”

  “Smoking? You mean cigarettes?”

  “Yeah. Nicotine. Fuckin stuff. I figured if I was going to give up dope, I might as well give it all up.”

  He felt a rush of affection for her. For the good times they had shared. He cared for her, but in his heart-of-hearts he had failed to substitute her for Tricia. Nevertheless, you couldn’t sleep with a woman you cared about for that long and then just walk off without a lot of frayed tendrils in your wake.

  “I got a job at the Iron Grill Steakhouse,” she said, following him back to her trailer. “I start Monday. A hostess. I get to dress up.” She opened the door for him and stood back.

  “Good,” he said, stepping inside. “I’m proud of you. Really.”

  She looked at him. Her chin quivered.

  He knew he could have her. Stir up all the old passions. Reconnect. Good times again. It was tempting. But that would be misleading and could only end badly. Love was sometimes easier with a stranger than someone you had a history with.

  Instead, he placed the title and a bill of sale on the dinette. “I already signed it and had a friend witness and notarize it.”

  Her eyes searched his—an uncomfortable moment.

  “All you have to do is fill in your name,” he said, avoiding her gaze.

  She sighed. “Finally decided to let it go, huh?”

  He started to ask what she was talking about, but he didn’t want to know, didn’t want to get into one of those talk-about-it things women seemed to thrive on.

  “Jill, you take care now.” Not trusting himself to say more, he took up his bags and walked out.

  “Wait.” She hurried after him. “I’ll give you a lift to…where? Where can I take you?”

  He had intended to call a taxi to take him to the airport, but in the interim had decided against waiting in the charged intimacy of the trailer alone with her. But in the pickup, outside, in the safety of open spaces…

  He put on his best, most cheerful noncommittal face. “Want to try out your new wheels? Sure. Works for me. Thanks.”

  7

  Jail

  ANA FARRINGTON SAT stiffly in one of the folding metal chairs in the police station’s anteroom in a northern precinct of Mexico City. A darkened mirror on the opposite wall suggested she was being watched from the other side.

  The door opened and a policeman appeared. When he saw her he squared his shoulders and sucked in his stomach, a response of surprise. Perhaps he hadn’t been watching after all.

  “Señorita. I am Lieutenant Garza,” he said in English. “How may I be of service?”

  Ana stood. She had dressed in baggy, unkempt overalls, shirt buttoned at the collar. But the lieutenant’s gaze hardly left her body. She sighed inwardly; it was always this way with certain men.

  “Lieutenant,” she replied, “I wish to speak to you about one of your prisoners, Helmut Heinrich.”

  The lieutenant’s smile shaded unpleasantly. “Ah. Yes. The German. What do you wish of me?”

  “How much is his fine?”

  “You are thinking of a financial arrangement,” the lieutenant said without enthusiasm. “Please. Come in.” He turned with a sweep of his hand, but stood his ground in the doorway, forcing her to pass in close proximity—a strong whiff of rose-scented cologne. She felt his eyes on her, on her limp—greatly exaggerated at the moment—until she stood before his desk. He gestured magnanimously at the chair.

  She seated herself. Lieutenant Garza went behind the desk and sprawled in an old-fashioned swivel chair. The room was plain. Plaster walls painted the same two shades of tan as the anteroom. File cabinets in one corner. Flyspecked photos of Enrique Peña Nieto, Felipe Calderón, Vicente Fox, and other dignitaries decorated the walls. A strutty photo of the lieutenant himself. The usual crucifix, and a florid print of the Virgin of Guadalupe.

  “You are crippled,” the lieutenant said in a tone that suggested he was personally affronted.

  Yes, you wouldn’t want me. Instead, she said, “
How much to obtain his release?”

  The lieutenant leaned forward on his elbows. “His offense is a very grave matter. This drunken German. Wrecking cars. His abusive mouth. Very serious.”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Perhaps we can work something out.” The smile again.

  “I have very little money, but I can give you fifty dollars.”

  Lieutenant Garza laughed and leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. “This Heinrich, he is a drunk. He has wreck two cars in three weeks. He is a danger to the peoples of México. And you want I should free him? For fifty dollars? Perhaps five hundred. This seems reasonable. Eh?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t have anywhere near that much.”

  The lieutenant looked her over again, one eyebrow raised in suggestive appreciation. “Or, as I say, perhaps we work something out. You and me.”

  “A hundred. That’s all I have.”

  “Why do you care for this man? This drunken pig?”

  Ana got to her feet. “You’re right. I don’t care if he stays here forever. I’m through. I can do no more.” She started for the door, surprised to realize that she meant it.

  “Señorita. Wait.” Lieutenant Garza pushed up from his chair. “This is only a misunderstanding. Do you have the hundred dollars with you?”

  She stopped, touched the small leather purse on the strap around her neck.

  “I will accept the money,” said the lieutenant with a sigh. “But this drunken German, he is no man. Consider this, and my sincere hope for your future pleasure.”

  Ana felt her eyes welling up, hot with humiliation and anger. She unzipped the purse and prayed silently that she had a hundred dollars. If not, she would leave him. It would serve him right.

  HELMUT HEINRICH REGAINED consciousness in slow, erratic increments—a dull drubbing that increased in intensity with each heartbeat until he feared the swollen mass pulsing inside his skull would blow his eyeballs out of their sockets. His ears rang. His vision was distorted through glimmers of wet light. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He could not swallow, and when he was able to free his tongue he still could not swallow. Water. He needed water.