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“In all fairness, Elena, you gave it up,” Núñez says. “You wanted to retire.”
It was my uncle, M-1, who sent my brothers to take the Baja plaza from Güero Méndez and Rafael Caro, Elena thinks. That was in 1990, and Adán and Raúl did it. They seduced the rich Tijuana kids and turned them into a trafficking network that co-opted their parents’ power structure on our behalf. They recruited gangs from San Diego to be gunmen, and they beat Méndez, Caro and everyone else to seize that plaza and use it as a base to take the entire country.
We made your Sinaloa cartel what it is, she thinks, so if I want Baja back, you’re going to give it to me. I won’t leave my sons without a power base with which to defend themselves.
“Baja was given to Nacho Esparza,” Ricardo is saying. “And with his death, it passed to Iván.”
“Iván is a clown,” Elena says. They all are, she thinks, all the Hijos, including your son, Ricardo.
“With a legitimate claim and an army to back it up,” Núñez says.
“And you now have Adán’s army,” Elena says, allowing to go unspoken the obvious—if I back you up.
“Iván is already going to be very disappointed that he’s not getting the big chair,” Núñez says. “Elena, I have to leave him with something.”
“And Rudolfo—Adán’s nephew—gets nothing?” Elena asks. “The Esparza brothers have plenty—more money than they can waste in their collective lifetimes. I’m asking for one plaza. And you can keep your domestic sales there.”
Núñez looks surprised.
“Oh, please,” Elena says. “I know young Ric is dealing your drugs all over Baja Sur. It’s fine—I just want the north and the border.”
“Oh, that’s all.” Elena wants one of the most lucrative plazas in the narcotics trade. Baja has a growing narcomenudeo, domestic street sales, but that’s dwarfed by the trasiego, the products that run from Tijuana and Tecate into San Diego and Los Angeles. From there the drugs are distributed all over the United States.
“Is it so much?” Elena asks. “For Adán’s sister to put her blessings on her brother’s last wishes? You need that, Ricardo. Without it …”
“You’re asking me to give you something that’s not mine to give,” Núñez says. “Adán gave the plaza to Esparza. And with all respect, Elena—my domestic business in Cabo is none of yours.”
“Spoken like a lawyer,” Elena says. “Not a patrón. If you’re going to be El Patrón, be El Patrón. Make decisions, give orders. If you want my support, the price is Baja for my son.”
The king is dead, Elena thinks.
Long live the king.
Ric sits out by the pool next to Iván.
“This is better,” Ric says. “I couldn’t stand another fucking minute in there.”
“Where’s Karin?”
“On the phone with the nanny,” Ric says, “probably discussing the color of poop. It’ll be a while.”
“You think she’s figured out you and Belinda?” Iván asks.
“Who gives a fuck?”
“Uh-oh.”
“What?”
“Look,” Iván says.
Ric turns to see Tito Ascensión walking toward them. About as tall as a refrigerator but thicker.
The Mastiff.
“My father’s old attack dog,” Iván says.
“Show some respect,” Ric says. “He’s Rubén’s dad. Anyway, you know how many guys he’s killed?”
A lot, is the answer.
Triple digits, at least.
Tito Ascensión used to be the head of Nacho Esparza’s armed wing. He fought the Zetas, then the Tapias, then the Zetas again. Tito once killed thirty-eight Zetas in a single whack and hanged their bodies from a highway overpass. Turned out it was a whoops—they weren’t Zetas after all, just your average citizens. Tito donned a balaclava, held a press conference and apologized for the mistake, with the caveat that his group was still at war with the Zetas so it would be prudent not to be mistaken for one.
Anyway, Tito played a big role in winning the wars for Sinaloa, and as a reward Nacho let him start his own organization in Jalisco, independent but still a satellite of Sinaloa.
Tito loved Nacho, and when he heard the Zetas had killed him down in Guatemala he grabbed five of them, tortured them to death over the course of weeks, then cut off their dicks and stuffed them in their mouths.
No, you don’t disrespect El Mastín.
Now the man’s shadow literally falls over both of them.
“Iván,” Tito says, “may I have a word?”
“I’ll catch you later,” Ric says, trying not to laugh. All he can think of is Luca Brazi from the wedding scene in The Godfather, which he’s had to watch with Iván about fifty-seven thousand times. Iván is obsessed with the movie to only a slighter lesser degree than he is with Scarface.
“No, stay,” Iván says, and when Tito looks dubious, adds, “Ric is going to be my number two. Anything you can say to me, you can say in front of him.”
He talks a little slow, like Tito is stupid.
Tito says, “I want to move my organization into heroin.”
“Do you think that’s wise?” Iván asks.
“It’s profitable,” Tito says.
He’s got that right, Ric thinks. Sinaloa is making millions off smack while Jalisco is still slinging cocaine and meth.
“The two don’t always go together,” Iván says, trying to sound like his father. “For one thing, it would put you into competition with us.”
“The market’s big enough for both of us,” Tito says.
Iván frowns. “Tito. Why fix what isn’t broken? Jalisco makes plenty of money on meth, doesn’t it? And we don’t even charge you a piso to use our plazas.”
“That was the arrangement I had with your father,” Tito says.
“You paid your dues,” Iván says, “no question. You’ve been a good soldier, and you got your own organization as a reward for that. But I think it’s better to just leave things as they are, don’t you?”
Christ, Ric thinks, it’s almost as if he’s patting the man’s head.
Good dog, good dog.
Sit.
Stay.
But Tito says, “If that’s what you think is best.”
“It is,” Iván says.
Tito nods to Ric and walks away.
“Rubén got his brains from his mother,” Iván says. “His looks, too, thank God.”
“Rubén’s a good guy.”
“He’s a great guy,” Iván says.
Doesn’t Ric know it. Rubén is Tito’s solid number two, runs his security force in Jalisco and is heavily involved in the transport of their product. How many times has Ric heard his own father say, If only you were more like Rubén Ascensión. Serious. Mature.
He’s made it pretty clear, Ric thinks. Given a choice, he’d rather have Rubén for his son than me.
Tough luck for both of us, I guess.
“What?” Iván asks.
“What what?”
“You got a look on your face like someone just ass-fucked your puppy.”
“I don’t have a puppy,” Ric says.
“Maybe that’s it,” Iván says. “You want me to get you one? What kind of dog do you want, Ric? I’ll send someone out right now to get it for you. I want you to be happy, ’mano.”
That’s Iván, Ric thinks.
Ever since they were kids. You told him you were hungry, he went out and got food. Your bike got stolen, a new one appeared. You said you were horny, a girl showed up at the door.
“Love you, man.”
“Love you, too,” Iván says. Then he adds, “It’s our turn now, ’mano. Our time. You’ll see—it’s going to be good.”
“Yeah.”
Ric sees his father approaching.
But it’s not Ric he wants to see.
Núñez says, “Iván, we should talk.”
“We should,” Iván says.
Ric sees the look on his face, the smile, knows that this is the moment he’s been waiting for.
His coronation.
Núñez glances down at his son and says, “In private.”
“Sure.” Iván winks at Ric. “I’ll be back, bro.”
Ric nods.
Leans back in the chair and watches his best friend and his father walk away from him.
Then he does have a memory of Adán.
Standing on the side of a dirt road in rural Durango.
“Look around you,” Adán said. “What do you see?”
“Fields,” Ric said.
“Empty fields,” Adán said.
Ric couldn’t argue with that. On both sides of the road, as far as he could see, marijuana fields lay fallow.
“The US has, de facto, legalized marijuana,” Adán said. “If my American sources are right, two or more states will soon make it official. We simply can’t compete with the local American quality and transportation costs. Last year we were getting a hundred dollars for a kilo of marijuana. Now it’s twenty-five. It’s hardly worth our growing the stuff anymore. We’re losing tens of millions of dollars a year, and if California, for instance, legalizes, the loss will be in the hundreds of millions. But it’s hot out here. Let’s go get a beer.”
They drove another ten miles to a little town.
A lead car went in first, made sure it was all clear, and then went into a tavern and emptied it out. The nervous owner and a girl who looked to be his daughter brought in a pitcher of cold beer and glasses.
Adán said, “Our marijuana market, once a major profit center, is collapsing; meth sales are falling; cocaine sales have flattened. For the first time in over a decade, we’re looking at a fiscal year of negative growth.”
It’s not like they were losing money, Ric thought. Everyone there was making millions. But they made less millions than they had the year before, and it was human nature that, even if you’re rich, being less rich feels like being poor.
“The present situation is unsustainable,” Adán said. “The last time this occurred we were saved by the innovation of crystal meth. It became, and remains, a major profit center, but there is small potential for growth that would compensate for our marijuana losses. Similarly, the cocaine market seems to have reached its saturation point.”
“What we need,” Ric’s father said, “is a new product.”
“No,” Adán said. “What we need is an old product.”
Adán paused for dramatic effect and then said, “Heroin.”
Ric was shocked. Sure, they still sold heroin, but it was a side product compared to weed, meth and coke. All their business had started with heroin, with opium, back in the days of the old gomeros who grew the poppy and made their fortunes selling it to the Americans to make the morphine they needed during World War II. After the war, it was the American Mafia that provided the market and bought up as much opium as they could grow for heroin.
But in the 1970s, the American DEA joined forces with the Mexican military to burn and poison the poppy fields in Sinaloa and Durango. They sprayed pesticides from airplanes, burned villages, forced the campesinos from their homes and scattered the gomeros to the winds.
