A large yellow sign on the wall of a bodega caught his eye. It looked like the other advertisements around, for a school or car insurance or a soft drink.
But it wasn’t.
It was very different.
“Join the ranks of the Cowboys of the Madrigal Cartel,” it said. “We offer benefits, life insurance, a house for your family and children. Stop living in the slums and riding the bus. A new car or truck, your choice. Members of the police, the army, or the marines will receive a special bonus for joining us.”
A phone number was written below next to photos of a smiling, happy family.
Court stopped in his tracks. Read it again, checked his comprehension. Yes, he’d understood it perfectly.
What the hell? The drug cartel is openly hiring?
This place is fucking insane.
“Narcobanderas, they are called. Help-wanted advertisements for the cartels. ¿Increíble, no?” An old man sitting on a bench in front of the convenience store had noticed Court reading the ad. Presumably, he noticed Court’s jaw hanging open; otherwise, he might have assumed the bearded man was interested in a job for himself.
Court looked at the man. “Madrigal can post these ads, and the police don’t take them down?”
The elderly man shrugged. “Sometimes they do.”
Thank God. Not everyone was corrupt. “That’s good to know.”
“Sí, the police who support DLR sometimes take down the Madrigal ads. Or else they will write on them, put a note at the bottom to say the Black Suits offer a better life insurance plan than the Cowboys.”
Court shook his head in disbelief.
The narcos were everywhere, even here. Like a malignant cancer, the cartels’ insidious reach had taken hold in all aspects of life on Mexico’s Pacific coast.
He could not kid himself. Laura and Elena and the rest did not stand a chance.
But just what could he do about it?
Court looked up the street towards the bus station, took a couple of steps in that direction, and stopped again.
Indecision. Complete and utter indecision.
Dammit, Gentry.
After a protracted family argument right there in the living room, Laura Gamboa Corrales took temporary control of the surviving members of her family, plus Elena Gamboa Gonzalez, her late brother’s wife. Laura had announced her decision that they should leave San Blas that afternoon, that they should go to a family friend an hour or so inland in Tepic. This man was a prominent attorney, and he would help them, she was certain.
Elena had tired of arguing, had acquiesced to her sister-in-law’s wishes, and then had lain down on the sofa to rest her tired back and her swollen feet. At first Ernesto and Luz fought the decision to run; San Blas was their home, after all, but when Laura promised them that if they did not go, she would not go, they reluctantly agreed.
Diego had lost his parents today. He was nominally in the custody of Ernesto and Luz, but he was mature enough to make his own decisions. He could have walked out the back door and jumped on a bicycle and pedaled away if he so desired. But he stayed with the family.
He knew that his abuelo Ernesto was old, and he knew that his tío Ignacio was a worthless bum.
Diego knew that he would have to be the man. It was not an easy decision for him to make. He himself had peddled Sinaloan pot to American surfers and backpackers in PV and Sayulita, so he was actually a member of the Madrigal organization, although at the absolute bottom rung of the ladder. But that was behind him now. This wasn’t about money or right and wrong; this was about family, about survival. He would do whatever it took to make his family safe.
Ignacio had gotten half drunk on beer and tequila in the past hour. He agreed to go with the family to Tepic without argument. He had no family of his own, and he had nowhere to go but back to his house, just up the coast from Puerto Vallarta.
Even with four shots of reposado tequila and a couple of beers in his system, he wasn’t too drunk to realize that that was no option at all after today’s events.
Laura was satisfied that they now had a plan, but she still would have felt a lot better if Joe had stayed to help. She was disappointed in the American stranger for leaving them. He had saved all of their lives; she had not seen what he’d done in the Parque Hidalgo, but according to the news reports, someone had killed a half dozen of the sicarios shooting in the crowd. Laura had only shot one, so she reasoned this mysterious American must have taken out the rest.
There was an attraction there, as well, but she quelled it now that he was gone. She had not so much looked at a man in years, not since her husband had been tortured to death by the narcos up north. But she had looked at Joe. She could not say why. She wondered if it was just that he had known Eduardo in those years when her only relationship with him had been occasional phone calls and colorful postcards of faraway cities. This made her feel close to the American, almost like they were friends from the past.