The Lord of Opium(7)

“How about El Tigre Oscuro, the Hidden Tiger? Or El Vengador, the Avenger?”

“I don’t want a new name,” said Matt.

“You’re going to have enough trouble controlling El Patrón’s empire,” the man explained. “You need a title that inspires fear, and you need to back it up with random acts of violence. I can help you there.”

“Who are you?” Matt asked, instinctively on his guard.

“Oh! I forgot you’d never met,” Celia apologized. “This is Cienfuegos, the jefe of the Farm Patrol. He’s responsible for law and order. You haven’t seen him before because he spends most of his time in the fields or at the other house.”

“Other house?” said Matt. The Farm Patrol was responsible for trapping Illegals so they could be turned into eejits. They were vicious and dangerous, and Matt wondered why Celia, who had every reason to hate them, tolerated this one.

“The hacienda in the Chiricahua Mountains,” said Cienfuegos. “It’s where El Patrón went on vacation. It’s a very fine place. I’m surprised you never went there.”

“Until recently my job was to wait around until he needed a heart,” Matt said coldly. “Heart donors don’t get vacations.”

Celia caught her breath, but Cienfuegos smiled. It made him look even more like a hungry coyote. “Muy bravo, chico. I hope you have what it takes to step into El Patrón’s shoes.”

Matt remembered one of El Patrón’s most important rules: Always establish your authority before anyone has a chance to question it. “No one is better qualified to run Opium than I,” he told the jefe. “I kept my eyes and ears open when El Patrón discussed the business with his heirs. I know the trade routes, the distribution points, who to bribe, and who to threaten. El Patrón himself taught me how to intimidate enemies and how to recruit bodyguards from distant countries because they wouldn’t be as likely to betray you.”

“¡Hijole! You looked just like the old vampire when you said that,” exclaimed Cienfuegos. “Maybe we aren’t screwed after all. Celia, get us some pulque. We need to drink to the new ruler of Opium.”

“Matt doesn’t drink alcohol,” Celia said.

“But I do,” said Cienfuegos. He leaned back in his chair and put his boots up on the kitchen table. Matt was shocked. If anyone else had tried that, Celia would have thrown him out the door. But Cienfuegos looked perfectly comfortable, as if he’d been doing it all his life.

Presently, Celia returned with orange juice for herself and Matt, and a bottle of pulque for the head of the Farm Patrol. Cienfuegos took a long drink, and the acrid smell of fermented cactus juice wafted across the table. “Now, I don’t want to be disrespectful, young master,” he said, “but I’m certain El Patrón didn’t tell you everything about the trade. He had more secrets than a coyote has fleas. Tell me what you want to do with this country you’ve inherited.”

Matt hesitated. One of the first things he wanted to do was disband the Farm Patrol. He couldn’t reveal that. In fact, he didn’t want to reveal anything to someone he’d just met and didn’t trust. He wanted to uproot the opium—or most of it, anyway. That would automatically throw Cienfuegos out of work. With Esperanza Mendoza’s help, Matt hoped to shut down the drug distribution network. He remembered the thousands of dealers who depended on it for their livelihood. They wouldn’t like their jobs taken away one bit.

The boy felt overwhelmed by the size of the problem he’d inherited. El Patrón’s empire was made up of many interlocking parts, and if he removed one piece, the rest might collapse into chaos. He badly needed advice, and he couldn’t get it from Celia. She was wise and trustworthy, but she wasn’t an expert in this area.

One thing stood out in Matt’s mind as most important. “The implants have to be taken out of the eejits’ brains,” he said.

“That’s impossible,” Cienfuegos instantly responded.

“You don’t know that for sure. If I can cure the eejits, they could be asked to stay on as paid workers.”

The jefe laughed. “Have you seen what they do, mi patrón? No one could stand that job without an implant.”

“People have farmed for thousands of years,” argued Matt. “They weren’t zombies. I’d like to see other crops planted—corn, wheat, tomatoes. I’d like cattle as well.” He thought for a moment, carefully gauging the effect of his next suggestion. “I want to end the lockdown. Esperanza Mendoza, the UN representative, wants to negotiate opening the border.”