Money, Guns, And Lawyers Chapter 1:
Mazatlán, Mexico 2007
“Uh-oh,” whispered Gloria, suddenly tense instead of excited.
“What’s wrong, amor?”
“I think that man is spying on us.”
“Which one?”
“The one over there,” said Gloria without pointing, nodding, or giving me any other clue. “He’s been following us.”
We were in the Mazatlán airport terminal, so that narrowed the choices down to a couple of hundred guys.
When I didn’t see anyone skulking in a trench coat and fedora, I asked, “Over where?”
“Don’t look.”
“Okay, jeez.” Rubbing my arm, I reminded her, “No need to pinch.”
“Have you seen him before?”
“How am I supposed to know?”
Gloria sighed as if I was making things difficult and dragged me behind a potted palm. Pointing through the fronds, she said, “That’s him there, the one with the guitar.”
“The guy with the dark glasses, cockatoo, and seeing-eye dog?” I gotta admit, I was a little skeptical.
“Si.”
“He’s been following us from in front?”
“He’s a tricky one, no?”
“Um. . .”
“I bet Felipe sent him.”
By Felipe, Gloria meant Felipe Culeron, the newly elected president of Mexico. Representing her family’s business interests—many of them illicit—my pro-active girlfriend had made it her job to get close to Felipe. Just as she had with the previous president.
When I complained, she said, “It’s nothing personal, amor.”
I disagreed. “It kinda is, at least to me.”
“Don’t be silly. I have no love for Felipe; it’s a matter of keeping enemies close.”
“You have to seduce every new Mexican president?”
Gloria shrugged. “Now that the PRI is out of power.”
I sighed.
“I don’t like it either, but business is business. If I want to run for office in the next election, I’ll need his support.”
“But. . .”
“You can’t expect my brothers to do it. After all, they’re in prison.”
I couldn’t argue with her logic, but I wasn’t excited about her running for office. I’d already lost one romance to politics; I wasn’t eager to lose another.
My partner Bighead (AKA: Big Ed Head—but only to his face) had said, “There’s an upside to Gloria dating Culeron.”
I’d been doubtful about that. “You think?”
“Yeah, man, we’ll get the inside dirt on his war against drugs. Some of which might protect our crops. Not to mention, save our lives.”
I had to admit, Bighead made a good point. President Culeron wasn’t kidding when he promised Bush he’d go to war on the cartels. The two of us weren’t exactly a cartel, but we did want to grow tons of marijuana. And that meant partnering with El Brujo, who was a cartel boss. Which put us right in Felipe’s sights. So, a dilemma.
Gloria had added a codicil to the upside—especially the part about saving my life. “I don’t see a problem, amor.”
“No?”
“As long as Felipe doesn’t find out about us. Because then, well. . .”
She let my imagination fill in the blanks. Bottom line, with Felipe a jealous man and us on an extended vacation romp through Mexico, Gloria was concerned with secrecy. Also, maybe a little paranoid. As for me, with a reputation as the infamous master criminal Señor Bueno, a person of interest in just about any major crime or natural disaster, so was I. I’d been at odds with the authorities since Nixon’s inauguration when he caught me smoking pot with his daughters in a White House bathroom. He retaliated with a War on Drugs. Talk about an over-reaction. Still, I wish I’d have thought that through.
I’d been trying to atone for decades. Also, growing as much pot as possible, hoping to raise world consciousness. Despite my efforts to make the world a happier place, the hypocritical George W. Bush, a regular party animal before he turned square, carried Nixon’s torch. As did my sister Director Bonnie, now head of the DEA. Then there was the CIA, the FBI, the NSA, Homeland Security, Customs, and, well, you get the idea. I had a lot of nemeses. I didn’t need Felipe mad at me too.
I took another look at the unlikely spy. Sporting dark glasses, a brilliant aloha shirt, and a cockatoo on his poop-stained shoulder, he played a lovely version of Guantanamera on an antique Martin guitar. A regular Jose Feliciano. The cockatoo, also wearing dark glasses, did the vocals. When I played Guantanamera on my Gibson it sounded much different. Going by snarky comments from unappreciative listeners, I suspected it wasn’t my guitar’s fault. At the guitarist’s feet sat a cup for spare change. At his side sat a German shepherd with a harmonica, matching dark glasses and aloha shirt, and his own cup. I noticed the dog had earned more money. To me, it seemed like they’d been there a while.
“I could be wrong, but isn’t having eyesight a fundamental part of spying?”
Gloria shrugged. “I thought I saw him in Puerto Vallarta and Cabo, but perhaps I’m mistaken.” Brightening up, she said, “I can’t wait to see Dulce and Don Alberto again.”
Neither could I. Don Alberto was better known as El Brujo. Like a magician, he could snap his fingers and make people disappear—and yet, as long as you got along, El Brujo was terrific company. I could say the same about our mutual friend Bighead. Gloria and I had vacationed with Bighead, El Brujo, and their wives at Felony Flats, Bighead’s private resort community on the Sea of Cortez a few months earlier. While there, Don Alberto and Dulce had invited us to their beach estate in Mazatlán. With them as guides, we’d enjoy the best of Mazatlán—gorge on fresh seafood, go clubbing, hit the beaches, take a cruise on their yacht, the works. That would be the part Gloria loved. After a week of that, while the ladies stayed in Mazatlán, El Brujo and I would check out his fields of ripening marijuana. That’d be the part I loved.
El Brujo, like his cousin El Chapo, had enormous plantations in the mountains of Sinaloa. Also, one right outside his village. As I’d see, when El Brujo said it was his village, he really meant it.
__ __ __
I was eating shrimp ceviche at a beachside restaurant, working on my second margarita, when Gloria asked, “How long will you guys be gone?”
“Just a few days,” said El Brujo. “Will you ladies be able to stay out of trouble?”
The ladies passed a mischievous look. “I guess we’ll see,” teased a giggling Dulce.
After considering that, El Brujo said, “In that case, I’ll leave La Tortuga with you.” Only he wasn’t teasing.
La Tortuga, a massive man with the inability to smile (the knife wounds hadn’t healed well) and the complexion of a sponge, was what I’d call more intimidating than sexy.
Grinning over the top of his margarita, Don Alberto added, “You’ll feel safer that way.”
“No need, amor,” said Dulce.
“Señor Bueno and I will feel safer that way too.”
I had to agree. Without us there, two unattached ladies looking like Dulce and Gloria would attract swarms of men. In fact, they already did. Latin women, no matter what their shape, enjoyed flaunting what they had. And when you saw three-hundred-pound women in halter tops and about-to-burst stretch jeans, you’d wish they wouldn’t. Then again, when they looked like movie stars, it was hard to complain. And yet, I did. With slimy beach gigolos a dime a dozen in Mazatlán, our table was getting plenty of stares—each leer promising the ladies sleazy fun. Then there were disparaging looks at our bullfighter costumes.
Seeing El Brujo attired the previous summer in a toreador outfit, I’d become curious and asked if he had a grudge match with a bull. He’d explained that cartel leaders, like bullfighters, produce tremendous amounts of testosterone. Nodding towards his crotch, he said, “There are certain, how you say, unavoidable side effects.”
My friend Dee, visiting from Los Angeles, seemed intrigued. As if jealous, he asked, “You get really well-hung?”
“More like low-hung,” admitted El Brujo, not sounding thrilled about it. “Which is why I need a special pouch for my huevos.”
“No kidding?” said Dee.
Always a gentleman, Don Alberto offered, “Would you like to see?”
Sorry he’d asked and no longer jealous, Dee turned down the offer, saying he already had the saggy picture.
“The crazy stuff you do, Señor Bueno,” said El Brujo, “you must have the same problem.”
I didn’t, thank God, but to save face, I’d lied. “You bet. Where can I get some of those pants?”
Which is why, like El Brujo, I found myself eating ceviche dressed in a bullfighter’s outfit. Gloria’s idea, not mine. “Wear the bullfighter costume they gave you, amor.”
“No way.”
“You never wear it.”
“For good reason.”
“It was a Christmas present.”
“So?”
“So, you don’t want to appear ungrateful.”
Insulting El Brujo was not a smart move, which is why I sat there in my outlandish costume. Not that I felt like a total geek or anything. Don Alberto, on the other hand, a handsome man with the self-confidence of an emperor, seemed entirely at ease.
I pointed at the sleazy gigolos. “You ladies don’t get tired of all that gawking?”
“Never,” said Dulce with a playful laugh.
“That’s the price you two must pay for having such gorgeous girlfriends,” joked Gloria.
“They’re probably turned on by your humility,” I said. Then, “Ow.”
“How about you, Mikey?” teased Dulce. “Getting tired of it?”
“Yes, I am. Those pinches hurt.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh. You mean my fan club?”
Her laugh said yes. I wasn’t a glamorous hottie, but I was getting plenty of looks myself. All of them amused. Then there were the snarky comments. . . I wanted to disappear.
A few minutes later, while mariachis played Cielito Lindo for the table next to us, Gloria whispered in my ear, “There he is again.”
“Who?”
“The spy from the airport.”
All Mr. Discreet, I looked around for the blind musician with the dog and the cockatoo, but couldn’t spot him. “Where is he?”
Another whisper. “The guitar player.”
The guitar player had traded the cockatoo, the dog, the aloha shirt, and the dark glasses for a mariachi band. Like his nine bandmates, he wore a fancy mariachi outfit, with all kinds of embroidery and silver medallions, a puffy white shirt, and a ridiculous-looking black hat with those little dingleberry deals hanging from the brim. Pretty much the same stuff El Brujo and I wore.
“He’s been staring at me,” said Gloria.
“Every guy stares at you.”
They couldn’t help it. It was as natural as breathing.
El Brujo asked, “What’s up?”
“Gloria thinks she recognizes the guitar player.”
He looked over. “Oh? From where?”
“Mikey thinks I’m silly,” said Gloria, “but I think Felipe is having me followed.”
“A la verga,” said El Brujo. “We can’t be having that, not on your vacation.”
“We’re not really sure,” I said.
“No? Why not?”
“Well, the last time Gloria saw the spy he was a blind guy with a cockatoo and a dog. Ouch.” Rubbing my shin, I added, “Then again, both guys have an antique Martin guitar.”
Gloria’s subtle smile acknowledged she’d made her point. I just wished she hadn’t used her shoe to make it.
El Brujo said, “Hmm. . .that is suspicious,” then whispered something into La Tortuga’s ear. What with the missing tongue—he’d bitten it off rather than rat on El Brujo—La Tortuga couldn’t speak. On the other hand, his hearing was superb. After a nod, he lumbered off.
A few minutes later, while I started on my grilled ahi, I noticed La Tortuga escorting the guitar player down the beach. And by escorting, I mean carrying the guy over his shoulder.
El Brujo shrugged. “Better safe than sorry, no?”
“Um. . .”
La Tortuga returned ten minutes later, minus one mariachi but with a Martin guitar and a cell phone in his giant hands.
“Now we can relax and enjoy ourselves,” said El Brujo. Picking up the pitcher, he asked, “Who wants another margarita?”
After an exhausting night of clubbing, we crashed at El Brujo’s beach pad, breaking waves and too much tequila putting us to sleep.
__ __ __
El Brujo remembered the mariachi’s cell phone at breakfast. “Let’s see what’s on here.”
After a bit of scrolling, he handed the phone to Gloria. “I guess you were right.”
I watched as Gloria scrolled through several screens—shots of Gloria and me at the Mazatlán airport, getting into El Brujo’s Range Rover, having drinks. . .
“This can’t be good,” I said.
“I guess I wasn’t silly, after all,” said Gloria. “I knew Felipe was acting suspiciously.”
“I guess that worked both ways.”
Gloria sighed. “Apparently. Let’s see if he’s already sent these.”
As it turned out, he had. Also, an unfinished text saying, “Uh oh, I think they’re on to. . .”
I pictured a jealous Felipe using a Ricky Ricardo voice. “Gloria, you’ve got some ‘splaining to do.”