“A better translation would be money or bullets. The narco will give you one or the other, take your pick.”
Court nodded then pointed to the police standing around the back garden. “These cops here. The guys and girls with the batons. They seem like they think Eddie was a good guy.”
Cullen waved a hand through the air, rendering them irrelevant to the conversation. “Municipales. San Blas cops. Yeah, they like the family. Ernesto, Eddie’s dad, has lived here forever. But the cops down in Puerto Vallarta? Rotten to the core. The state police? Can’t trust them. Ditto large swaths of the federales. Even the army stationed around these parts is crooked. I don’t even know what to think of Eddie’s own unit, the special operations group. It seems a bit fishy that all of de la Rocha’s regional competition has been wiped out in the last few months, with one exception.”
“Who’s the exception?”
“Fellow up north in the Sierra Madres named Constantino Madrigal Bustamante. They call him el Vaquero, ‘the Cowboy.’ He’s an even bigger son of a bitch than de la Rocha. Some people are saying Eddie’s police commando unit was secretly working for the Madrigal Cartel. Taking out all the competition.”
Court’s eyebrows furrowed. “If there was a list of shitheads to go kill, how do we know Madrigal wasn’t just the last guy on the list?”
Cullen smiled ruefully. “Mexicans don’t think that way. There is a lot of conspiracy theory in play down here.”
Court had heard this before. He was no stranger to Latin American culture.
“So, Captain, who are the good guys?”
Cullen considered the question for a long moment, like it was an impenetrable mathematical puzzle. “I know Eddie was a good guy. I don’t believe the Madrigal conspiracy for one second. Some of the other federales are good, no question.”
“How do I know a federale when I see one?”
“You can tell them apart from the local cop; they wear black uniforms, body armor, and ski masks. Their cars and motorcycles and helicopters and armored cars say PF, Policía Federal.”
This was the type of intel that Gentry had picked up in the thirty or so other areas of operation in which he’d worked or traveled in his career, both as an asset of the CIA and as a private hit man. “So . . . the good guys wear the masks around here. I’ll have to get my head around that.”
“Yes, but so do a lot of the bad guys.”
“Perfect.”
Court looked at four local cops hanging out on the patio, leaning against their beat-up mountain bikes. Laura was standing among them, refilling their plastic cups with milky horchata poured from a plastic pitcher. “How come the cops on our side are the ones with the sticks and the bicycles, and the cops on the other side have the guns and the helicopters?”
“Maybe we picked the wrong team.”
Court drank his tequila down. “I’m beginning to think maybe Eddie did.”
Cullen looked at him thoughtfully. “I wish I knew who you were, Joe.” The old man even said the phony name in a way that demonstrated that he knew it was bullshit.
Court changed the subject again. “Why did Eddie come back home? Did you ever talk to him about that?”
Cullen waved a hand. “To save his country. To fight the narcoterroristas . To bring his skills from the USA down here where they could do the most good.”
“But?”
“But that’s not why he came back.” Cullen turned back to the driveway, pointed at Eddie’s little sister, Laura Gamboa. “That’s why he came back. For her. One hundred percent. Laura’s husband was killed five years ago up north. He was a lieutenant in the army. His truck was ambushed by matamilitares, special bands of sicarios who kill military men. He was beaten, his eyes were gouged out while he was still alive, and he was shot like a dog. His body was burned in a fifty-five gallon drum, and his head was stuck on a fence post within sight of the Arizona border. Laura was a mess afterwards.
“She has two other brothers, but they are both worthless losers. Drunks. One is an out-of-work auto mechanic and the other is an out-of-work appliance salesman.” Cullen pointed to the two fat men standing by the door to the kitchen, smoking and drinking. Rodrigo and Ignacio. They both looked shitfaced. Court had read their body language during dinner; he could tell neither man wanted to be here. “When Laura’s husband died, Eddie left the DEA, moved down here to San Blas, started working with the Feds.” Cullen took a long breath. “I’ve got to assume little Laura blames herself for Eddie’s death now. She’s taken it even harder than Elena or his parents.”