The Mexican Gambit

By Chuck Williams

Lead or silver; a bribe or a bullet. Those are the choices in a world of crime, drugs, politics, corrupt politicians, thwarted ambitions, rivalries and revenge. It’s no place for a cop who just wants to do his job and keep his hands clean.
His wry cynicism and idiosyncratic mindset help keep him sane, but when his boss hands him a murder case with a warning that it isn’t an ordinary murder, his life changes.
Now he’s in the middle of a deadly rivalry between heavyweight egos, one touched with greed and madness, the other obsessed with revenge.
His only way out is to take sides, and when he does he’s surprised to find allies where he least expected them.
In spite of putting his life and that of his family at risk, nothing seems to work until a violent resolution comes from a direction he least expected.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chuck Williams
• Release date: Dec 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9780990665335

Chuck Williams

Travel has always been important to me, for the adventure it unfolds, and because of my curiosity about other people and cultures. After college I joined the Peace Corps, and was assigned to Afghanistan, where I spent two years, first teaching English to middle school boys, and then for an English language newspaper, The Kabul Times, creating and placing advertising for the paper, part of the Afghan Ministry of Information. There I made a lifelong friend of my Afghan boss and his family. While in the Peace Corps I was able to travel to India, Thailand, and Cambodia, visiting Angkor Wat at a time when there were very few Western tourists in Cambodia. On my return to the United States, I discovered there was a country next door to Texas where I lived that was in many ways as poorly known and understood as any other place I had seen in the world: Mexico. I began visiting Mexico at a time when hitch hiking was safe, and traveled many times across the country from the Texas border to Guatemala, by hitch hiking, train, and bus. I found friendly, enthusiastic, welcoming people who spoke many languages in addition to Spanish. In spite of my limited Spanish I heard their many stories. They spoke of brutal oppression in the past, as well as their love of life and their country. They told of mysteries and hidden secrets in the mountains and jungles: yes, there were buried ruins out there; if I wanted to visit, it was possible. Later when I had a family of my own, I took my son and daughter to experience Mexico, and then when they no longer needed looking after, I continued to travel in Mexico. The colonial cities, the modern metropolis, the pre-Columbian pyramids and ruins, the beaches and jungle, the highland plateau of the Sierras, all continue to draw me to them, and finally to write about them.

Book preview

Introduction

My name is Baltasar. You’ll find how I got stuck with that name if you keep reading. As for other introductions, the problem is, where do I start? Should it be alphabetical or chronological, or by importance?

Importance is a minefield. For instance, there's Emilio, without whose big mouth nothing would have happened, but after that he's nothing.

In my own universe, Juanita is most important, right up there with my son. Next is Carlos, my commander. He's always thinking, one of the good guys.

The list of bad guys is longer. Starting at the bottom there's Calaca, or Bones you could call him. Then there's Chino, and El Mayo, and El Kong, and the Buzzard, and a couple more, like I said, there's more of them than the good guys. The Big Bad Guy, you'll know who he is first time he shows up.

There are some others that I really don't feel I can put in a box, good or bad. That includes Antonio XXX, the Secretary of Interior.

I think in the big picture Jose is a good guy, and without any reservations Chiquilin, my friend, is a good guy. So is Lola, my partner.

I'm leaving out quite a few names, and I hope nobody takes offense at that. Believe me, your moment of fame these days doesn't come in print. More likely it comes on a headstone.

And for those of you who are pissed because you think that's you in this story, may I remind you that this is a work of fiction, and all characters and events are fictitious.

Chapter 1 My Case

The man lay on his back, feet spread apart. About forty, forty-five, stocky, like he made his livelihood with his hands. You might think he was taking a nap, had sat on the edge of the bed, fallen back and fell asleep. Except the front of his white tee shirt was soaked in blood, which was now a congealed dark rusty brown color. It had pooled underneath him as well. The crime scene photo of the man revealed wounds, lacerations the coroner would more exactly describe them, on his right arm, torso, and neck. I tossed the photo on top of a stack of files on the left corner of my desk. They’d been there so long they needed dusting. Jesus Christ, I muttered in disgust, hasn’t anybody in this country heard of a gun? How about a nice clean hole in the chest, for a change? Pum, pum, you’re dead, no fuss. Okay, that’s two holes, but still no mess to speak of. I stared at the infuriating, depressing grey wall in front of me without seeing anything. The country had an agricultural past, and the machete was the main tool of every farm. Also for settling arguments. Nowadays the population had crowded into and around the cities, but they brought their machete with them. Nobody would think of setting up a household without one. You needed a broom, you needed a mop and a bucket, you needed a machete. I knew I was in a bad mood, and I knew the reason, but I wasn’t going to think about it right now. The little message light on my phone blinked like it had a bad case of OCD. I ignored it, but inanimate objects have a way of rankling you because there was no way to exact revenge on them. I sighed and tried to relax. Mexico frowned on gun possession, so it was almost impossible to get one legally for the ordinary citizen, to say nothing of expensive. Of course this isn’t an obstacle for the gangs and cartels who are armed to the teeth, but for your everyday citizen the machete will have to do.

I stood up and looked over the top of the cubicle wall. The office was very modern, yes indeed. We even had cubicles. They threw out the desks and put in cubicles with tall walls. Everybody who watches television, the telenovelas, knows that low walls are in fashion now. The better to ogle those luscious women with their two timing-lovers. I don’t know who watches that crap. Yes I do. Everybody. You go over to a friend’s house and they say ‘sit down. Lolita’s Life will be over in ten minutes.’ I’d bet a week’s pay some procurer in the Interior ministry made a deal to show an outdated high price on the outdated high walls and pocket a nice payoff from the vendor. Why else would anyone buy them? But I’m not going to let inanimate objects upset me, god damn it.

Only the commander doesn’t have walls. Neither tall nor small. His space is arranged in a corner that has a tall window facing the municipal square. He has a real wooden desk, huge and polished so much it hurts to look right at it. Seated behind his desk he can look down the aisle made by the row of cubicles on either side, where the peons do their work, eat their lunch, and occasionally fornicate behind the tall walls when it’s slow during the night shift. I like Carlos, the commander. He’s asked me to use his Christian name. At first I was leery about calling him Carlos, but now it feels natural. He has a college education and enjoys being a good administrator, getting things done and crimes solved. I have the definite impression, and I’m pretty good at reading people, that he isn’t particularly motivated by money, which I admire. But of course he’s on the take in his position. In his position, certain people want influence, and you can’t really say ‘no.’ His lifestyle is pretty ordinary, so I’d guess maybe there are payments for him on a condo on the beach, or into a college fund for his kids.

He wasn’t at his desk so I sunk back down into my cube. I’m on the take, too. Well, more or less. I’d agreed to look the other way, not to lean on certain activities, but I don’t get paid. I told them I didn’t want money, I’d just do it gratis. At first they were wary and didn’t trust me, but I kept my end of the deal, and now we had a good relationship. Pretty funny, every time I think about it. What else can you do but laugh. Anyway, I’m not that important so they don’t spend much time worrying about me. I’m a captain, which is pretty small-time to them.

The message light on the phone continued its blinking like some sick water torture, so I shifted my gaze to the home page on my CRT monitor, which took up half the space on my desk. Sometimes when I’m in a perverse mood like now I refuse to call it a work surface. I’m all for change and progress, but when they invent new words so you won’t notice you’re being herded into a pen, well, I have to go along with it, but I’m not conned by it. Here we are, hooked up to the Internet, high speed no less, but the systems are primitive and the databases are weak kneed, wobbly wonders, but at least we have walls around us. I mean, you can’t look up some guy’s priors on YouTube, you know? So what good’s the high speed Internet? Well, there’s Facebook, though. I’ve tracked down a few idiots on it.

I couldn’t hold out any longer, and leaned towards the phone and picked up the receiver. I could rant and rave and try to distract myself, but the goddamn thing would never give up. I held the headphone to my ear, a couple of inches away, just to be safe until I knew who it was, and pushed play on the message function. When I heard Juanita’s voice, I sighed and brought the earpiece right up to my ear. She sounded warm and intimate and reminded me Riki had a football game Saturday at one. Riki is my eleven-year-old son. I sighed and replaced the receiver. How did she manage to make it sound like we were still married, so sweet and everything? Why didn’t she hate me or at least resent me? I could spend the rest of the day thinking about the past, why this and why that. Instead I stood up and looked over the wall. The commander was at his desk, at last, making me really pleased he was there and to know there were other things I could think about. I straightened myself up, tucking in my shirt a little better before heading to his desk.

Being a cop in Mexico’s not so easy, and probably not the best choice of career paths. A traffic cop, that’s one thing, a steady job, with security, and the chance to supplement your income when certain opportunities present themselves in the course of your duties. Honest blue collar work. And it’s not as if the public is clamoring for its officers to write more tickets. Just the opposite. But as you move up to real crime citizens rightly would like to see the perps caught. Unfortunately that’s not so easy in Mexico. The rate of crimes solved is so embarrassing I don’t want to mention a number. Which leads most citizens to say, ‘Why bother to report it?’ They’re not going to get their television or car back anyway. The more serious stuff—kidnapping, extortion, the cops may just make it worse. So here I am, armed with an engineering degree, looking for murderers. Does that make sense? Probably not the best career path, but there’s a ready explanation. When I left University with a degree in my hand there weren’t any engineering jobs. That’s just the way things were in Mexico at that time, but I don’t want to go into all of that. With a degree I got into the cops half way up the ladder, and the truth is I like it. I like solving the unknown. Not like an engineer, building a bridge, a formula, look it up in a table. No, with a bloody crime there’s no formula. Because people aren’t all the same. Sometimes it’s revenge, sometimes greed, sometimes there’s no understanding it. It’s just senseless. The human race is fascinating. The good and the bad. Or maybe I’m just making excuses. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but by the time I’d been at it a couple of years a bailout to engineering seemed a far away, small target. Even though the hours are crap, the situations are depressing, and coming home at two in the morning probably had something to do with my ex’s moving out. I can’t say I blame her. So here I am.

The commander looked up as I approached his desk. You left a message for me? I said. He waved me into the chair facing his desk. Yes, thanks for coming by, he replied. He was like that. I don’t know if he was a natural, or had been to a seminar or something. He was so adept at human relations. Here he was thanking me, as if I’d done him a favor by stopping by his desk. But he was sincere, genuinely likable. Maybe that was why I was still here, at least in part. Most of the bosses I’d had managed by yelling, and Carlos was a refreshing change.

He slid a folder across his desk to me. I picked it up, opened it, and found myself scrutinizing another crime scene: a man lying on his back on what looked like a dirt track, with two single, neat holes in his chest, just to the left of his breastbone. There was a little staining where a small amount of blood had seeped out. His open eyes didn’t make him look alive at all. Here was just what I’d been asking for, a victim, not all bloody, and now that it was in front of me, if it didn’t scare the hell out of me, it sure as hell worried me.

I looked up from the dead man and found the commander’s eyes on me, one eyebrow slightly cocked up, with a questioning expression that said ‘you don’t know what I’m thinking, do you?’ He had me there; I had a couple of wild guesses that I kept to myself. He pressed his lips together while he formed his thoughts, and when he finally spoke it was with a slight smile. Just because I can’t see through those damn walls, did you think I couldn’t hear? Okay, that threw me, left me confused and off balance. I opened my mouth to speak, and when nothing came out transitioned to a neutral smile, and waited. I hear you grumbling it seems like once a week about your corpses bathed in gore. He stretched across the expanse of his gleaming desk and tapped the photo with his index finger. Well, here you are. Nice and clean. What do you make of it? Then he straightened, returning to sit with his back against his chair, his elbows on the edge of his desk and his hands together, his fingers forming a little pyramid that he held just touching his chin. I’m sure you know the saying, ‘Be careful what you wish for.’ That’s especially true in this situation. He paused to let that sink in for a moment before continuing. But for now, to get started, tell me what you think, what do you make of that unfortunate man?

Two things had come to mind at first glance at the photo, so I replied without hesitating. Well, number one, from his surroundings it’s safe to assume this took place in the country, not the city. That’s an unpaved dirt path, red earth that’s common in hillsides and mountains. Number two, as you pointed out, that wound indicates most likely he died of a gunshot. I suppose the assassin could have used a bow and arrow, and removed the arrow afterwards, but not as likely. A quick glance at the commander’s impatient expression told me this wasn’t the time for my comedy act. Knowing that all along, I couldn’t believe it had popped out of my mouth. What the hell was wrong with me? Nerves. But why? Some instinct, some feeling, and it wasn’t just me. When I looked at the boss, I had known him long enough to see a subtle tension. Both of us have seen plenty of dead bodies, so that wasn’t it. It was this scenario, which was unexplainably sinister, and gave off an unpleasant scent of danger. I said, Well, okay. Rural murders usually entail a machete, so this is different. And the location of the bullet wounds, exactly placed to find the heart, suggests this was a professional killing, also unlikely in the countryside. I waited to see if the commander was going to add anything, and as he remained silent, I concluded clumsily, As to motive and suspects… My voice trailed off, and the boss thankfully began to speak.

His voice was calm. I think you’re right in the majority of your observations. He paused and allowed himself a small, tolerant smile. I think we can safely rule out the bow and arrow theory, but I agree this appears to be a professional hit. As to the setting, I am aware of background information that is in play here, concerning which I’ll fill you in. I emphasize that it’s just information, not answers. You’ll have to do your own thinking to tie it all together. I don’t want you working alone on this. Choose your own partner, but keep in mind as you choose, this may be more dangerous than most cases. There may be elements that don’t want all the circumstances brought out into the light. In his usual manner of concluding he straightened up and placed his hands folded together on his desk. His serious expression melted into relaxation, and he said, Are you free at two? We can go to the plaza for coffee and talk some more. I nodded and agreed that two was fine with me, sliding into a compartment of my mind the fact that this was something not to be overheard in the office. There were serious actors involved who best remain anonymous. From my first glance at that eight by ten shot with the man splayed on the red, rust stained earth, I knew it was a hex spelling trouble.

I walked back to my cube thinking about a partner. The number one consideration was someone who could keep his mouth shut. That meant someone who wasn’t on the take, or only mildly so. That is, someone who wasn’t being pumped for important high level stuff. I surprised myself when the name of Dolores popped into my head. That’s right—a woman, the fairer sex that talks all the time, that can’t resist sharing the gossip, or so the stereotype goes. That’s bunk. I’ve worked around plenty of men who can’t wait until a supposed friend steps out of the room to spread a little back-stabbing dirt. I’ve never been privy to a female cabal, but it can’t be any worse than that. The boss mentioned dangerous, and I take that seriously, and I especially wouldn’t want to be responsible for a woman getting hurt. But I’m going to take every step to stay in one piece myself, so any partner should be protected by my halo.

The pros for Dolores are number one, she’s a smart, no bullshit lady that I just instinctively trust. Number two, she just came in off a beat on the street for her first assignment in civvies, so that means I’m not alone in thinking she’s okay. You don’t leave a soft spot in uniform for investigations unless the work seriously appeals to you. Plus, because she’s new, nobody’s had a chance to wave money at her, or pressure her.

My big objection to her is that Juanita, my ex, might take it wrong. I know we’re not together, but even so, she’s the jealous type. One of our wedding vows, really hers, was that she’d cut off my business if I ever fooled around. I never even wanted to, and that’s the truth. We aren’t actually divorced, just separated, but I try to think of her as my ex, so that it isn’t an open wound that you hope will heal. It’s all over, left a little scar, but I’m over it, I can tell myself.

Chapter 2 Genealogy

My own father, who was a working class tradesman, gave me my christened name, Baltasar. Although my father had only gone to primary school, or maybe because of it, he liked to read, especially Spanish history. Spain comes into it because his father, my grandfather, fled to Mexico and married a dark skinned Mexican when Franco’s fascists took over Spain. I never knew my grandfather, because the bastard deserted my grandmother and went back to Spain when it was safe for him. His fair skin was the only thing that trickled down the gene pool to me. Otherwise I’m all Mexican with black hair and dark eyes like my grandmother, whose dark eyes even in old photos seem to suck all the light out of the universe.

Baltasar was a Spanish monk, a famous religious scholar, who became a bishop in the middle ages. Because he was a bishop my mother, a devout Catholic and one of those old ladies who felt like she needed to go to confession if she missed a day of mass, went along with the name. She must have driven the priests nuts, I thought. I was an altar boy to please her until I confessed that it just wasn’t my calling. I worried how she’d take the news, but she took it like a true Christian, without a word, leaving me to stew in my own guilt. I took a lot of teasing in primary school because of my name. The kids amputated it and used the last syllables, which evolved into Tzar. When I reached secondary school, I knew it was time to find a name I could live with. The Tzar was fine for a wrestler, or a narco boss, or the king of Russia, but it wasn’t for me.

I decided on Ivan, because Russian names were popular in Cuba, and Cuba was admired by many Mexicans because of Che, as well as for Cuba’s habit of occasionally poking a finger in the eye of the US, the eight hundred pound gorilla on the northern border. You can call me Ivan, I’d said, but I’ll also answer to Baltasar without taking offense. New and casual acquaintances know me as Ivan, but strangely enough, old friends and intimates continue to call me Baltasar, odd though the name might be. Or maybe I’m missing something. Maybe I am odd. Some have hinted as much. Just in a good way, I hope.

Chapter 3 Background

The midday sun beat down on us as we walked across the cobblestones of the plaza. There was no talk of business as we walked. I asked after the commander’s family and the commander asked about my son, Riki, and Juanita. He put it in such a natural way. Most people put the question as if they were waiting to hear more bad news, in a way that made my stomach rise up. It was two o’clock when we sat down in a cafe on the shady side of the plaza. Rather than wait to be summoned, something I had a lifetime aversion to, I had approached the commander’s desk a little before two. To be honest, though, I wouldn’t mind a summons from the commander. I liked the man and respected him, and in fact I had been invited like a colleague.

Since it was hot, and there were only a couple of hours of the workday left, we ordered beers instead of coffee. The commander sipped through the foam to get at the beer below and said, To tell you the truth I wish you’d go out there and arrest the first goddamn man who looks like he deserves it and get the hell back here to your job. He tried to lick the foam off his upper lip and failing that, dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. Of course I know you wouldn’t do that, even if I asked you seriously, which I’m not. Please understand that. I don’t want to give you crazy ideas and an excuse to act on them.

I said I would never, with all sincerity, do that. Both of us silently reflected for a quick moment on the times in the past when I had done exactly that. But I had never done it in a way that would have put egg on the commander’s face, and after it was all over, mission accomplished, everybody had to agree with the results.

This situation is different, the commander began. The murder is the least of our worries. There’s somebody in the governor’s office involved. We both knew that the state government was a law unto itself, with its own enforcement officers in uniform, and when needed tight lipped men in civvies who could act unofficially and beyond the reach of law. Ballot boxes floating in the river, for example, with drowned labor activists, reporters, and students floating with them. I’m quite sure there are narco traffickers involved, as well as an unknown politician, whose name I couldn’t tell you, you understand, even if I knew it.

Is there any good news? I asked. Not really, the commander replied, but there is more. The commander spoke to me with a furrow dividing his brow, the bunched muscles pulling his eyebrows together. You know about the feud between our governor and the Secretary of Interior? I knew some scuttlebutt, but no specifics, and I wish I wasn’t like this, but when I’m ignorant on a subject, you can read it like it’s written on my forehead. I make a lousy poker player. Maybe I waggled my head, although I wasn’t aware of it, and Carlos, my commander, said, I didn’t think so, without waiting for me to answer. I really appreciated being on a first name basis with him, and didn’t mind if my ignorance showed. Ignorance is missing some information. Stupidity is not knowing what to do with the information.

The commander went on, This feud has a long history, going back at least ten years. It has its roots in the governor’s excesses. Odiseo Robles was first elected governor as a member of the PRI party. That was about ten years ago. At that time the PRI still controlled politics in the country. Nobody got nominated or elected without the PRI’s blessing, and the people who were nominated did the party’s dirty work without hesitation. You had to be willing to ignore the rules, trample on the law, on people, knowing the party would protect you and reward you richly.

I didn’t say anything because, so far, what Carlos was telling me was common knowledge. Then he took a breath and went on. The problem with Odiseo Robles is that he acts like he is from another planet. Maybe he grew up in Mexico, but the cultural norms don’t seem to have stuck to him. Or maybe he doesn’t care, and flaunts them. At any rate, we Mexicans don’t expect much from our politicians. We know they shade from corrupt to criminal, and get rich from it. But in Mexico, if you’re rich, or even just well off, you build a high wall around your splendid house so that the poor don’t have to look at it. It’s a small measure of decency, but one Odiseo always ignored. He’s been blatant in his villainy, obvious in his aggrandizement, drunk in public, and careless in his disdain for everyone he considers beneath him, which is most everyone.

The commander’s intensity as he spoke surprised me, as he usually appeared to be unruffled by politics or the sordid world of crime we dealt with everyday. It made me wonder if there was something personal behind it, but, of course, I didn’t ask. It was really hard to say. The guy breathed out sincerity, you couldn’t help but