The Moonlight Runner

By J. J. Ballesteros

Simon Donovan tried to escape his troubled past by buying an old schooner and reinventing himself as a sailing charter skipper in a Mexican backwater. Fate, however had other plans. Both his and his ship’s past come back to haunt him in the form of a beautiful minister’s wife and a vindictive drug lord called “El Demonio”.

El Demonio resents losing the last drug war to the Norteño cartel’s Colonel Barca and his elite narco-paramilitaries, who are in a neighboring state fi ghting rival traffi ckers. He plans to lure the colonel’s rear guard led by the impetuous Cisco Cisneros and his unwashed army of thugs into a trap forcing the colonel into a rematch.

All El Demonio needs is to rally the Campeche Gangs, but to do that he needs guns … and Donovan’s ship to bring them in. To achieve his deadly plan, he kidnaps his new love and forces Donovan to make a moonlit run to the most treacherous part of the Texas coast.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532068737

J. J. Ballesteros

J. J. Ballesteros dedicated his twenty-nineyear career as a federal agent to combatting the international trafficking of firearms. A graduate of the University of Texas, he has lived and traveled extensively in the Americas.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The dockworkers, workboat crewmen, shrimpers, and fishermen who frequented the Tiburón seldom took notice of one another as they relaxed after a long day at work. Everyone knew everyone else. Officially, the port had set the building aside as a social center for the port workers to gather. However, it had morphed into a bar even though the port authority had banned alcohol anywhere on the grounds. The intimidating image of a great white shark painted over the entrance of the sea-blue clapboard building served as much as a warning as it did to advertise the name of the bar. Its gaping mouth sported a complete set of shark teeth and was big enough to easily accommodate a man’s head and shoulders. Outsiders dared not enter uninvited.

Captain Santos staggered out of the bar, tipping his crumpled captain’s hat at the two longshoremen standing by the rail on the porch, enjoying the balmy evening air.

Buena Suerte, Capitán, one of the longshoremen said to the popular Pemex crew boat captain, wishing him good luck.

Adios, Camacho, Santos said as he grasped the rail firmly to help himself walk down the short flight of stairs. He turned around to take a last look at the bar. I’m going to miss this place.

He meandered in and out of the light from the bar as he covered the short distance to the gate until two men emerged from the shadows and blocked his way. He instantly recognized them as El Demonio’s sicarios, Felipe and his long-haired associate, Beto.

Señor López wants a word with you, Felipe said to him.

I don’t have time to see him. Santos looked at his watch. The company plane is leaving for Mexico City in less than an hour. He belched quietly into his closed hand. Tell him goodbye for me.

The two sicarios grabbed Santos by his arms as a car door slammed nearby.

You can tell him yourself, Felipe said to him callously.

They dragged the inebriated Pemex crew boat captain to a black Ford Expedition, where a large man waited outside the vehicle, adjusting the lapels of his sport coat and pulling on each of his cuffs. The men released Santos, who lost his balance after Beto shoved him between the shoulders.

Buenos noches, jefe, Santos greeted. You look very sharp tonight.

Unlike most Mexican drug traffickers, Fausto López, alias El Demonio, dressed like a member of a country club rather than in country-and-western clothing.

What happened to my fifty kilos?

Didn’t you hear? Santos mimicked surprise. The pirates were caught stealing it.

I mean what happened to you? López retorted. You were supposed to get it off the island and bring it to the Seyba Reef. I had a man waiting for it.

I couldn’t. The Armada was watching me, Santos explained. Somebody must have told them about the rendezvous. I waited for a squall to come in so I could try losing them. But the gunboat stayed on me all the way back to the port.

Did you tell anybody about the cocaine on the island?

Nobody. Santos looked at Felipe and Beto. It had to be one of your people.

Impossible, Fausto insisted. You were seen talking to Donovan at the Tiburón that day. What did you talk about?

You asked me to recruit him and his ship. Remember? Santos stared at him defiantly. He came to tell me to leave him and his crew alone.

Indeed, El Demonio had been trying to get the somewhat famous Simon Donovan and his ship in his employ since discovering that the man from Panama had relocated to Campeche. Donovan had a reputation for getting questionable cargo delivered. He had a knack for striding that fine line between legality and illegality. Although what he did never crossed the line, many considered him a gifted smuggler.

Why are you going to Mexico City?

Thanks to the Armada, I’m being reassigned, Santos explained. They can be very persuasive even without evidence.

Where are they reassigning you? Fausto asked. In case I need you.

I’m through working for you, Santos replied.

What about the pictures? Fausto asked menacingly. Maybe your wife would like to see them.

Like countless mariners, Santos had a woman in every port. El Demonio took advantage of his philandering ways by having Felipe set him up and secretly take pictures of him with a prostitute they often used to blackmail businessmen.

They won’t do you any good, Santos retorted mutinously. I told my wife everything. You’ve cost me my marriage and my ship. He scoffed. I’ll be lucky if they let me pilot a tug.

Santos stared bitterly at El Demonio, who appeared distracted as he looked past him at a crowd of rough-looking men emptying out of the Tiburón, some with large wrenches in their hands. They walked out the gate and surrounded El Demonio’s sports utility vehicle. Felipe and Beto looked anxiously at the men crowding around them.

Is everything okay, Capitán? Camacho, the longshoreman, asked.

My friends were just saying goodbye, Santos replied. He turned to El Demonio. No need for you to come to the airport to see me off.

My friends can stay with him so he doesn’t get lonely, Camacho said. Can I drive you to the airport?

Santos took his keys and handed them to Camacho. We can take my car.

CHAPTER 1

Mornings at the Paradise Lagoon usually began at the dive shop located at the base of the pier at the marina. The 150-year-old clapboard building with the weathered metal roof had started out as a boathouse before the engineers blasted out the harbor. Like the rest of the old port facility, it had fallen into disrepair, until Don Macario Barrera Moreno, the owner of the adjacent hotel Hacienda Paraiso, brought the multitalented Duncan Augustus Augie Fagan to the Paradise Lagoon to help him build the marina. Augie remodeled the old building, dividing it into a marina clubhouse complete with showers and his dive shop, where he lived and ran the marina.

Donovan walked into the dive shop wearing a khaki ball cap with the ship’s name etched neatly on the front of it with a permanent marker. His clothes looked like he had slept in them, and he needed a shave. He tucked his cotton shirt into his khaki poplin pants and went to sit at the counter to watch his partner fumble with an antique percolator.

Why don’t we get a new coffee maker? Donovan remarked.

Because we don’t need one, Augie replied.

The coffee maker and just about everything else in the dive shop looked like it could have come from an antique store. To stretch his meager bank account, Augie bought used diving equipment, making his dive shop look more like a museum. He insisted the equipment still worked, but realistically, only a daring man with a death wish would consider using it. For that reason, they relied on Donovan’s equipment to do any diving.

You were up late last night, Augie remarked.

Donovan hadn’t realized that anybody had seen him. He didn’t do it often, but at times, he had trouble falling asleep, especially on still nights and during full moons. That was when he remembered things he wished he could forget. Only rum seemed to calm the demons that haunted him, at least temporarily.

I couldn’t sleep, he said as he watched his partner put the percolator in the sink on the back counter to fill it with water.

Any rum left in the galley? You know that’s for medical emergencies.

I didn’t touch the galley rum. Donovan cupped his hand over his mouth to check his breath. How’d you know I was drinking rum last night?

I saw you brooding on the afterdeck before I turned in. You were staring at a picture.

Donovan subconsciously put his hand on the picture he had in his shirt pocket.

I think it was the one of that woman who looks like Poli’s mother, Augie added.

General Heriberto Jara International Airport

Las Bajadas, outside of Veracruz City

Three years ago

The people sitting outside the security checkpoint at that hour of the morning seemed more like patients sitting in a hospital waiting room than passengers waiting to board a flight. Xóchitl sat next to Donovan with her head buried in his shoulder. He held her close to his chest with his right arm. Her flight to Bogota departed Mexico City later that morning, requiring her to catch the predawn flight to the capital city.

Donovan looked down at his sleeping fiancée and brushed back the thick strand of black hair that habitually fell over her right eye. She looked like a sleeping almond-eyed angel. Her olive skin, smooth as velvet, and her hair, cut in a pageboy, glistened like a raven’s wing. He smiled to himself at the thought of how a woman as petite as she could bring a man his size to his knees.

He didn’t like the idea of not seeing her every day for the next two years. He liked the idea of her going to one of the most dangerous regions in Colombia with Doctors without Borders even less. He pulled her closer only to have her lift her head off his shoulder.

You’re cutting off my blood flow, she said.

He removed his arm from around her shoulders. I felt you slipping away, he said to her.

You’re being silly.

I thought you were going to slide to the floor.

Liar, she teased as she slapped him on the arm. You already miss me.

Two years is a long time.

I’ll be back to see you.

He put his arm around Xóchitl as she put her head back on his shoulder.

When? he asked.

In a year—for two weeks.

A whole year?

Now you know how I felt every time you went back to Panama.

I never left you for a whole year.

It seemed like it … to me, she said.

Donovan stared at the wall clock as he stroked her hair. What am I going to do for the next two years without you?

It’ll give you time to change your mind.

I won’t change my mind.

Then it’ll give you a whole two years to do the things you like to do.

Loving you is all I want to do, he said as he brushed her hair back over her ear.

After we’re married, you’re going to be too busy doing honey-dos to do anything else.

He kissed the top of her head. I can hardly wait.

Doctor Aguirre says it’ll go fast, she said softly.

He frowned. "I forgot about … him."

He looked at her when she raised her head suddenly.

I told you, you have nothing to worry about. We’re colleagues. Nothing more.

Why doesn’t that make me feel any better?

The passengers across from where Donovan and Xóchitl sat all stood, some collecting their carry-on bags. Donovan turned to look at the doors to the security point, where a woman in a blazer was unlocking the door.

They’re getting ready to board the flight, he said.

Donovan stood and picked up Xóchitl’s carry-on bag as she sat up to look in her purse. He watched the strand of hair falling over her right eye as she searched for something.

I’ve got your boarding pass, he reminded her.

I know, she said as she handed him a picture of her in a lab coat. Doctor Aguirre took it yesterday on our last day of work.

Donovan looked at the picture and then at her.

I told you, she said. You have nothing to worry about.

It puzzled Donovan how Augie knew about the picture. Then he remembered that day when he inadvertently dropped it on the floor of his cabin while looking for the ship’s papers to show him. Augie mentioned that he thought the woman in the picture looked like Poli’s mother, Itzél. He watched Augie spoon several helpings of coffee into the percolator’s basin, close the lid, and plug it in to the receptacle.

You ever gonna tell me who the girl in the picture is? he asked Donovan.

Donovan ignored the question and stared out the window at the boats moored in the marina. He looked at the hulls of the sloops and cabin cruisers bobbing gently in their slips and the forest of aluminum, fiberglass, and teak masts jutting skyward. He looked beyond the boat slips at his ship, the Siete Mares, moored along the dock at the end of the pier. Her white hull outshone the others, her brass and steel fittings shimmering in the sun like the highly polished horns of a marching band. The stained wood on her cabin top, deck, masts, and bowsprit gleamed like the body of a Stradivarius, her guide wires and Jacob’s ladders pulling on her fore and main masts like the strings of that priceless violin.

I’m sorry about how things worked out with Itzél, Augie commented. Sometimes things work out for the best—I mean, Poli being one of the crew and all.

You’re right, Donovan said somberly. I made a mistake.

I mean, what were you thinking? Augie remarked. Running off with a minister’s wife like some kind of Lothario.

Donovan just looked at him. He knew Augie made good sense. He hadn’t given any thought to how Poli might react to his taking his mother from Benício, the man who had raised him. He also hadn’t considered the scandal it would cause. The town would look at Itzél with scorn, and their romance would be made the subject of gossip and innuendo.

How long before the coffee’s ready? Donovan asked, changing the subject.

Donovan turned to look at the entrance when he heard the screen door slam. Augie’s nephew, Sandy, and Professor Ventura walked into the dive shop.

Good morning, everyone, the professor greeted them.

The renowned Doctor Conrado Aurelio Ventura, professor emeritus at the National Institute of Anthropology and History, dressed like a photographer on safari, unlike his academic brethren, who tended to wear twill coats, no matter the weather. He had a full head of dark hair, the sides of which had grayed gracefully. In his hand, he had a large manila envelope.

What are you doing here on a Saturday? Donovan asked the Seven Seas Adventure Cruises’ best client as he sat on the stool next to him.

I came to see about another charter, he replied. He unwrapped the binding on the manila envelope. Are you ready to go back to the Sabancuy Channel?

Did we miss something in the site survey? Donovan asked.

As a matter of fact … the professor started.

Donovan watched him take several photographs out of the envelope.

We couldn’t have done a more complete job, he said as he sorted through the photos. After analyzing the data we collected—matching the stills Augie took with the diagram I made, my colleagues believe that the wreck might date to the colonial era.

What do you think she is, Professor? Sandy asked.

Given her size … the professor began as he continued to sort through the pictures. My colleagues at the institute agree with me that it’s most likely a caravel.

What’s a caravel? Sandy asked.

Caravels were small, fast ships commonly used to transport cargo, he explained as he laid a picture on the counter. Some were armed with small cannons and used to patrol the coast. Pirates also used them to attack larger ships because they were fast, highly maneuverable, and could duck into the shallows to get away from larger ships pursuing them.

What do you think she is? Donovan asked.

Considering where the wreck was found, how she’s resting on the bottom, and the debris pattern we plotted, the institute believes the caravel might have been sunk trying to escape into the Sabancuy Estuary.

You mean channel, Augie said.

"No. Estuary, the professor insisted. The channel wasn’t dredged until the twentieth century."

So, it could be a pirate ship, Sandy said enthusiastically.

That or an armed cargo ship. The only way to know is to identify the wreck, the professor added as he slapped a picture on the counter. This is what we’re going back for.

Donovan looked at the picture of a large rock sitting on the bottom at one end of the ship’s remains. He showed it to Augie.

I remember taking this, he said. I thought it was just a chunk of coral.

What do you think it is, professor? Donovan asked as he handed the picture to Sandy.

My colleagues believe the coral may contain the ship’s bell.

I can see the outline, Sandy said as he showed the professor with his finger.

Good eye, Sandy, the professor said as he took the picture back. Bells routinely had the name of the ship on them.

So, we get the bell, knock off the coral, and the mystery is solved, Donovan concluded.

I’m afraid it’s not that simple, the professor responded. Identifying shipwrecks involves a great deal of detective work. The bell is a good start. It’ll tell us her name but not necessarily who she was.

I’m not following, Augie commented.

Certain names were popular and commonly used, especially on smaller ships like this one.

"Like Minnow, Sea Sprite, and Tiki, Donovan suggested. I don’t know how many times I’ve seen those names on buckets all along the Gulf Coast."

Precisely, the professor agreed. Even if the bell tells us who she was, it won’t tell us how she got there. To get that, we’ll have to go to the archives in the country of her origin. She might’ve been French, Dutch, English, or Spanish. She could have changed hands several times through trade or capture. He sighed. It might take some time to narrow it down.

So, all we have to do is chip the coral away until we free the bell? Augie asked as he picked up the picture.

Oh, no, the professor replied. We’ll have to take it back to the institute to let the experts excavate it under controlled conditions. It’s been underwater for a very long time. Exposing it to the air could damage if not destroy it.

How do we keep that from happening? Sandy asked.

By using a stabilization tank filled with a mixture of salt water and other chemicals to stabilize it. That’s why I came by today. Tomorrow being Easter … He turned to Donovan. You weren’t planning on running off anywhere?

Interesting choice of words, Augie muttered under his breath.

Donovan glanced scornfully at his partner and then turned to the professor. I’ll be here.

I’d like to bring the tank first thing on Monday, if that’s okay.

Sure—how big is the tank? Donovan asked. Will it fit through the forward hatch?

It should.

Donovan turned to look at the entrance when he heard the screeching of the screen door. Don Macario removed his Panama hat from his head as he stepped through the door holding a newspaper in his hand. He looked like a movie star from the Golden Age of Mexican cinema. For a man of his years, he carried himself well. He was tall, slender of build, and as strong as a man half his age.

Don Macario had lived a full life. He had never acted in a movie but had discovered many a movie star and launched the careers of some of the most beautiful and talented songbirds across the Americas. The old gentleman lived a life of action, his adventures and daring exploits the stuff of legend. The internationally renowned Macario Barrera, known universally in his day as the idol maker, disappeared mysteriously from the public eye in a self-imposed exile. Many believed he had died. Others believed that he gave up the material life to live as a monk in the Himalayas. He might not have made history, but he earned at least a footnote. Few knew that the idol maker had reemerged from the mostly forgotten pages of yesteryear as the hand that rebuilt the Hacienda Paraiso, or Paradise Inn as it was commonly known.

Buenos días, caballeros, the old gentleman greeted them.

Donovan cleared a space on the counter for Don Macario to lay his hat and newspaper as he sat between Sandy and the professor.

How are things at the institute, Conrado? Don Macario asked the professor.

Hmm, the professor grunted. I’m afraid the director’s insisting that I deliver a series of lectures at the Autonomous University in Mexico City.

Aren’t you retired? Don Macario asked. I thought you had certain privileges at the institute as a professor emeritus?

I am, and I do have privileges, he replied warily. However, in exchange for certain expenses I incur—

Like the charter to the Sabancuy Channel, Donovan interjected.

Exactly, the professor concurred. I have to do a favor for her every now and then. That’s another reason why I came on a Saturday. I want to see this project through before I go to Mexico City.

The unpleasant aftereffects of the rum hung over Donovan. He rubbed his temples with his thumb and middle finger.

Is that coffee ready yet? he asked Augie.

Just about.

As Augie went to get the coffee cups out of the cabinet, Donovan angled his head to look at the full-page ad in the newspaper under Don Macario’s Panama hat.

What have you got there? he asked him.

I thought you might be interested in this.

Donovan took the newspaper from Don Macario after he set his straw hat to the side.

There’s going to be a yacht race, he told Donovan.

They’re bringing back the old Corpus Christi to Tampico yacht race, Donovan said after reading the heading.

The Tampico and Corpus Christi Chambers of Commerce are sponsoring the race, hoping to promote tourism, Don Macario added.

Aren’t they concerned about the drug war? Sandy asked.

I don’t think it’s as bad as most people believe, Augie said as he set the coffee cups on the counter.

Augie’s right, Don Macario concurred. Outside of what’s going on along the border, the traffickers generally keep their business between themselves.

It says here the last race was held over thirty years ago, Donovan commented. It must have been quite an event.

It was, Don Macario agreed.

You say that like you were there, Donovan remarked flippantly.

Are you kidding? Augie said as he poured coffee into the cups. He probably competed.

Donovan chuckled and turned to Don Macario. Well?

Well, what?

Did you compete in the last yacht race?

The question seemed to embarrass the old gentleman.

I won the event, he responded modestly.

Donovan took another look at the ad. It says that the Tampico, Corpus Christi, and Galveston Yacht Clubs will be participating in the inaugural event.

I’ll bet the Port Isabel Yacht Club will be out in force to cheer them on, Augie commented. When I lived in South Padre, we used to go out to cheer on the Galveston to Veracruz yacht race.

It’d be good if we could make the run to Tampico, Donovan commented. It’ll be a good opportunity to do some networking.

What are we gonna use for money? Augie asked wryly.

What about the money we get from the professor’s charter? Sandy suggested.

That money is already spent, Augie retorted. We have bills to pay.

I’m afraid Augie’s right, Donovan said as he tried returning the ad to Don Macario.

Why don’t you keep it, the old gentleman said. In case you change your mind.

The warehouses at the Port of Seyba Playa all sat on the north side of the long dock across from the boat slips where the local fishermen moored their fishing boats and shrimpers. They all looked pretty much alike. They all had steel beams supporting their sheet metal facades. Only one looked different. It sat in the center of the dock at the widest point. Unlike the others, it had a white facade made of cinderblock with a high, flat roof. Also, unlike the others, the back of the building extended over the water with a small loading dock behind it.

The building originally housed the port authority until they moved to a larger facility built next to the port. Don Rodrigo, a ranking member of the drug trafficking association known as Los Campechanos, bought the building to handle its maritime operation. The Campechanos eventually moved their container business to the larger warehouses in Champotón and Ciudad del Carmen to accommodate expansion. Although the association no longer used the warehouse, their logo still adorned the outer walls of the building.

The office occupied the southwest corner of the structure. It had a door at the front that opened to the dock and a plateglass window looking out to the boat slips on the other side. Another door on the left side of the room led into the rest of the warehouse.

Fausto López, alias El Demonio, sat behind the old oak desk at the back of the office talking to his cousin and principal lieutenant, Dario Robles. The former narco-paramilitary stared angrily at his cousin, who stood by the plateglass window, looking through the blinds.

What are you looking at? Fausto asked Dario.

At the boats, Dario replied. It amazes me how they go out in the ocean in those things.

Fausto scoffed as he shook his head slowly. Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve been saying?

Yes, primo, he replied. You need guns to close the deal with the gangs.

Fausto swiveled his chair to the side. If José Luis can’t get me another load of cocaine, I don’t know how I’m going to pay for them.

Have you thought about going to the comandantes for the money? Dario suggested.

I can’t do that, Fausto replied. Not after what happened at Punta Morro.

If only the mules hadn’t tried to run the checkpoint, they might have made it through with the guns, Dario commented.

I’m not so sure.

What makes you say that? Dario asked. Don’t tell me you’re starting to believe José Luis.

He makes a good point. Fausto put his elbows on his desk. You don’t think it’s strange that the marines set up a roadblock at Punta Morro at the very moment our truck was coming through?

You heard what El Perro said, Dario responded. It was just bad luck. If there was anything more to it, he would have got it out of that marine before he … Dario hesitated. Killed him.

I don’t know, Fausto said pensively. José Luis seems to think otherwise.

José Luis is paranoid. He blames me for what happened at Punta Morro, Dario commented bitterly. I’m getting a little tired of the way he looks at me every time Punta Morro comes up.

Don’t let it bother you, cousin. I know you had nothing to do with it. That’s all that matters.

It bothers me, Dario said firmly as he looked at the fishing boats through the blinds. You know that Comandante Sánchez’s been trying to renew the arrangement with the Comisión. He’s been telling the comandantes he can get guns from them in exchange for drugs.

They’ll never agree to that. Fausto scoffed softly. Sánchez burned them the last time they did business with the Commission. They won’t give him a chance to burn them again.

Fausto looked at the door after a sudden knock interrupted their conversation. José Luis came into the room and went directly to Fausto’s desk without noticing Dario standing by the plateglass window.

It’s like I thought, he said to Fausto. The Armada misled the reporters. The pirates didn’t stumble on our cocaine like they said. It was planted on them.

The chair squeaked harshly as Fausto leaned forward. Santos?

They don’t think so, José Luis replied. He never even tried to go to the island. He had plenty of opportunity, but he stayed at the platform as if he was waiting for the storm before he went back to Seyba Playa.

¡Pinche buey! Fausto said through his teeth. I’m going to have to settle with him later. He looked at him. Do they have any idea who might have done it?

They’re not sure, he replied.

Fausto watched José Luis take off his mauve-colored linen jacket, fold it neatly, and lay it across his lap as he sat in one of the chairs across from his desk.

Is that all you could get from the secretary?

Her name is Mindi, José Luis said as he laid his jacket on the other chair. She told me a surveillance camera on the platform caught a large sailboat leaving the island just before dawn. They think it might have something to do with it.

Donovan? Fausto asked.

Mindi heard his name mentioned as a possible suspect, he replied. But they don’t know for sure.

It could just be a coincidence, Dario commented. There are a lot of sailboats that sail past the Arcas all the time either going to or coming from Cozumel or Holbox Island.

Fausto found the bitterness that existed between José Luis and his cousin amusing. He grinned as he watched José Luis and Dario stare each other down. He relied on José Luis’s contacts and expertise to raise money to fund his plan to seize control of the Campeche gangs as much as he did on Dario, who had always backed his play.

What else did your girlfriend say? Fausto asked José Luis to interrupt the staring contest.

I told you, José Luis said as he turned to Fausto. She’s not my girlfriend.

I thought you said she was hot for you? Fausto remarked.

She’s absolutely on fire for me.

Are you doing her?

José Luis scoffed as he chuckled. She’s a little fat for my taste.

What’s the matter? Dario asked sarcastically. Afraid your hose isn’t long enough to put her fire out?

What have you been doing all day? Fausto asked José Luis. You’ve been gone for hours.

I’ve been making calls, he replied. Trying to make a buy.

And?

Nobody will sell to me anymore, José Luis said somberly.

Why not?

I don’t know. It’s like I’ve been blackballed. He sighed. If that’s true, I’m out of business.

Fausto shook his head subtly at Dario, who glowed with satisfaction at José Luis’s dismay. He cocked his head toward the door, signaling him to leave. Dario nodded softly and then opened the door.

Maybe you can find work as a used-car salesman, Dario said to José Luis. You already dress like one.

Fausto grinned at José Luis, who ignored the comment as Dario winked at his cousin and then closed the door behind him.

Don’t be so thin-skinned, Fausto said to José Luis. You’ve said much worse about him.

I don’t trust him, José Luis remarked.

You’ve made that very clear. Fausto looked at him sternly. But I do. Implicitly.

You’re the jefe, he replied.

Good thing you remember that, Fausto said. He leaned toward him. How are we going to pay for my guns if you can’t get me any more cocaine?

I have an idea, José Luis said cautiously. You may not like it.

Let’s hear it.

What about the money Billy Chávez is holding for you in Houston? You should have more than enough to buy another load.

"I have plans for