Ballistic(91)

She laughed a little without really smiling.

The U.S. Embassy was just a five-minute walk up the street on Paseo de la Reforma. In front, huge wrought-iron fencing and cement barriers had been erected in the promenade that ran up the street. All around signs that read “No Photography” in English and Spanish had been pinned to the fencing. Distrito cops sat in their cruisers or walked up and down the sidewalk; old but hearty Uzi 9 mm submachine guns with folded stocks hung from leather straps on their shoulders.

It didn’t seem like the Nation of Mexico gave much of a welcome to the U.S. Embassy, nor did it seem like a terribly inviting building for a Mexican to visit.

But this was the way of the world.

Court and Laura bought two new mobile phones and had lunch in a dark restaurant before their meeting; they sat in the back of the little dining room with their backs to the wall. They were both too tired to talk very much; they drank coffee with lots of sugar and picked at roast pork and rice and beans, waiting for two p.m.





THIRTY-FOUR



The meet was in a mall just a few minutes’ stroll up the paseo from the embassy. Court left Laura at the second-floor food court and then went downstairs to the bathroom next to the Starbucks. He knew the route; he’d reconned here just two hours earlier.

Court entered the bathroom five minutes late. His contact was there; Ramses had told him the man’s name was Jerry Pfleger. Pfleger was leaning over the sink and looking into the mirror. Gentry got the impression the man had just been squeezing a blackhead on his nose.

He was young, very early thirties, tallish and thin, with short curly light brown hair and a narrow face that looked like it rarely saw natural sunlight. He wore black sans-a-belt slacks and a white shortsleeve button-down shirt. A thin tie that appeared more polyester than cotton.

“Romeo?” asked the young man.

“Juliet,” sighed Gentry in response.

The code had been Pfleger’s idea. Court thought it was idiotic.

The embassy man jutted out a hand, and Court shook it. It felt to Gentry as if he were waving a raw fish filet in the air in front of him.

“Okay.” The young American’s eyes protruded. “Okay, first things first. I gotta tell you, this is weird.”

“What’s weird?”

“I mean, I do this shit all the time, arrange papers for those who don’t want to wait in line. No biggie. But the hombre who called me said I’d be meeting a gringo . . . that’s what’s weird.”

“I need papers for a family that needs to get to the States immediately.”

“How do I know this isn’t some sort of a sting or whatever?”

“Do I look like I work for the embassy?” Court’s long hair was dirty and matted, his beard five months old.

Pfleger shook his head. “That’s all you got? Nothing else to put me at ease here? C’mon, pal.”

“Look, Jerry. I know the guy who called you to set this up. I know the family who wants papers. I’m just the monkey in the middle here. Don’t stress. If you can produce what we need quickly, this will be your easiest transaction ever.”

Pfleger nodded slowly, then again more quickly. Court saw evidence of some sort of mood-altering substance in the jerky mannerisms of the young man.

No doubt, Jerry was on something.

Court groaned inwardly. Perfect. This asshole has been snorting coke.

Pfleger continued, his mouth moving fast with the gesticulations of his hands. “I mean, normally, I just work directly with the Mexicans who want to immigrate.” Jerry shrugged. “I’m usually not doing it under the eyes of a fellow American.” He put his fingers in the air in a double V salute, affected a lousy and paraphrased impersonation of Richard Nixon. “ ‘My fellow American.’ Ha-ha, Tricky Dick? Right?”

“Right . . .” Fuck. “So . . . with the papers you will provide, they can just walk right through at the border crossing.”

He nodded. “Everything they need to get across in Tijuana or Mexicali and avoid the poor-man’s routes.”

“What are the poor-man’s routes?”

With a jolting wave of his arm he said, “You know, the desert, the Rio Grande, pole-vaulting the fence or doing the tunnel-rat thing in the sewer. I have colleagues up in Juarez and TJ and Matamoros who do what I do, get the hard-working citizenry of Méjico over the border to fuel the American economy, but only I can arrange for you to walk through with your head held high. I even throw in worker’s visas and green cards. It all looks totally legit because it is legit.”

“How much?”

“For the whole enchilada?” Jerry smiled. “Today I’m running a special. Everything for the low, low price of only fifteen grand a beaner.”