Pipeline (18 page)

"Is
there any record that Camarena was ever a member of the gang?"

"Not
unless it's sealed in some old juvie file buried in the bowels of the legal
system. But an educated guess would be that he was at some point."

"He
couldn't have been in much trouble, or he'd never have gotten a license to
practice law."

"If
we make a few, unsubstantiated assumptions, we can figure Felix has at least
some kind of family connection to the Conquistadors. He may have been a member
but more like a hanger-on actin' and lookin' tougher than he was. He made it
through law school, so we know he's not your typical gang moron. May have been
more of a planner than a participant."

"Theoretically,
this sounds good, but how can we link them together?"

"Personally,
I'd talk to Escobar."

I
couldn't help laughing out loud. "And you think he's going to give us
Camarena?"

"No,
but if I can shake his cage hard enough, he might say or do something stupid.
If you're game, I know where he probably is."

"Now?"

"Unless
you'd like to sit here thinkin' and waitin' for something more concrete to drop
in your lap," he said. "Give me a sec to change my clothes."

In
less than twenty minutes, we were careening through traffic, heading deep into
the underside of San Antonio. Pauli slowed down as we reached a business area
that could have been beamed up from Mexico City. None of the businesses had
signs in English, but I managed to figure out what a few of them were by
looking at their window displays. Pauli looked relaxed, and there was a grin on
his face.

"I
hope you know where the hell you're going."

"Old
stompin' grounds."

"I
thought you were in vice?"

"You
think Mexicans don't have vice? Just look around, for Christ's sake."

The
street offered a strange mixture of people. A Mexican grocery on one corner displayed
a variety of fruits and vegetables in bins in front of the store, while across
the street on the other corner, a group of four or five women displayed a
variety of enticements intended to satisfy your libido instead of your stomach.
Sedate looking family vehicles mingled with garish lowriders.

"Interesting
place," I said.

"How
about some food?" Pauli pulled to the curb in front of a restaurant with a
colorful, handpainted sign announcing we were at Consuela's. After looking
around, he pointed to a bright yellow lowrider in front of us and said,
"Looks like we're here right on time."

"For
what?"

"A
little lunch and a little conversation with Freddie Escobar."

The
interior of the restaurant appeared to be clean and was divided into two
sections —one for eating and one for drinking. From a quick glance around, it
appeared that the two functions mingled easily with one another. Two or three
couples sat with huge platters in front of them. Enchiladas, quesadillas, and
tamales were accompanied by generous helpings of refried beans and Spanish
rice. Pitchers of beers sat in the middle of each table. A well-preserved woman
who looked to be in her late sixties was talking to one of the couples. As I
watched the restaurant customers eat, I decided there was something about
Mexican food that invited huge bites, barely leaving room for the jaws to move
up and down. The food smelled inviting, but I knew Pauli had no intention of
dining.

The
second room contained a long, shiny bar, and a few of the drinkers also had
platters in front of them. Pauli moved toward the bar area and stopped in the
doorway; his huge frame made it impossible for anyone to get past him as he
scanned the room and spotted what he was looking for. Looking over his
shoulder, he motioned for me to follow him. A line of six red vinyl booths
lined the wall on the far side of the bar. As we approached, I saw two men
seated at one of the booths drinking beer. One of the men was young, in his
twenties. His black hair was slicked back, and he was wearing a suit that would
have made a pimp proud. He was laughing at something the other man had said.
The second man was older, probably in his late forties, and almost
distinguished-looking as a result of graying temples. He was wearing a simple
tan sport shirt over loose-fitting brown gabardine slacks. When he smiled, his
teeth were white and perfect beneath a full, trimmed mustache. He smiled at us,
but his eyes told me he wasn't happy.

"Pauli!
What a pleasant surprise," the older man said without genuine friendliness.

"Tell
the pimp here to take a hike, Freddie. We got business to discuss," Pauli
said without taking his eyes off Escobar.

The
younger man stood up quickly and opened his mouth to speak but was silenced by
a slight movement of Escobar's hand.

"We
will finish this later, Ernesto," Escobar said with a fatherly smile.

When
the younger man left, Pauli slid into the booth opposite Escobar. It was a
tight fit. Escobar's eyes drifted from Pauli to me.

"And
who is your friend?" Escobar asked.

"Just
a friend," Pauli answered.

Pauli
took up so much space in the booth that I decided to pull a chair over and sit
at the end, straddling the table's center leg.

"What
is this business we have to discuss, Pauli?"

"I'm
looking for some information."

"You
know me, Pauli, I will help you if I can."

"Yeah,
you've always been very cooperative with the police. Real solid citizen."

"You're
not the police anymore." Escobar smiled. "But ask anyway."

"Tell
me about Felix Camarena."

I
was surprised that Pauli had been so forthright in mentioning Camarena's name
but tried not to let it show on my face.

"You
have me at a loss. I don't know anyone named Felix Camarena."

"That's
bullshit, Freddie. I know he's your cousin."

"You
must have gotten some bad information from one of your junky snitches."

"I
think Consuela should know the names of her own nieces and nephews. I just
talked to her on the way in."

Escobar
took a long drink from his bottle. I knew he was debating whether to believe
Pauli or not.

"So
he's my cousin, what of it?" Escobar said, setting the bottle back on the
table and crossing his arms in front of him.

"You
seen him lately?"

"No,
but I can give you the address for his office if you like."

"Your
gang's still running things around here, I see," Pauli said as he shifted
in the booth.

Freddie
Escobar smiled. "We got no gangs here. Just concerned citizens looking out
for one another."

Pauli
smiled back at him. "I have to admit, Freddie, you're looking pretty
upstanding these days, not like ten or so years ago."

"Everyone
grows up."

"I
hear you've found a nice little side business for yourself. Still bringing
produce up from the Valley?"

"Uh-huh."

"Bet
there's plenty of wet lettuce in those trucks, too."

"Wet
lettuce would go bad before it reached San Antonio. Nothin' wet gets in my
trucks."

"How
far north do you carry produce, Freddie?"

"However
far it needs to go. Why?"

"Just
wonderin'," Pauli answered as he began sliding out of the booth. "You
want me to send Ernesto back in on my way out?"

Escobar
shrugged and tilted his bottle toward his mouth. Pauli hoisted himself up, and
we started toward the door.

"Hey,
Pauli!" Escobar called out when we were halfway across the room.

Pauli
turned around and waited.

"I
coulda had you and your friend killed like that," he said, snapping his
fingers.

Pauli
smiled and pulled a hand out of his jacket pocket, holding out a snub-nose .38
for Escobar to see. "And I coulda killed you by sneezin'."

Pauli
dropped the gun back into his pocket, and we left the restaurant. He checked
the rearview mirror several times until we reached a better part of San
Antonio.

"Well,
you got an answer about how Camarena and Escobar are tied together.
Family."

"What
did you have planned if he hadn't fallen for that bit about his mother?"

"Didn't
have another plan. He's probably chewin' out the old lady right now and feelin'
like a dope. He looks good and talks a good game, but he's basically a muscle
man. Whoever's behind this illegal thing, you can bet your ass it ain't Freddie
Escobar."

That
night we compiled what we had, and there still wasn't anything that would
directly connect Camarena to anything illegal. I gave the pictures I had taken
at Mountain View to Pauli and asked him to run the plates on the two vehicles
through DMV, although I was fairly certain that at least one of them belonged
to Felix Camarena.

I
decided to leave the next morning and drive to Austin. There might be someone
at the law school who would remember Camarena, although I didn't have a clue
what I was looking for. I wanted to see Cate again, and Camarena was going to
be my excuse for seeing her. I thought about calling Sarita but decided against
it. Kyle would probably be at home, and I didn't want to cause any problems
between them. Pauli planned to keep an eye on the Produce Terminal Market to
see if anything interesting got off the trucks besides cantaloupes and lettuce.

Chapter
Nineteen

I
LEFT EARLY the next morning in an attempt to avoid the traffic but was only
successful until I reached Austin. Traffic periodically came to a complete stop
on Interstate 35, with cars lined up on every on- and off-ramp. As I inhaled
early-morning exhaust fumes, I wondered if there was ever a time when Austin
traffic could be avoided. As I crossed the bridge at Town Lake, I could see the
Capitol Building and knew I would be exiting the highway soon. I reminded
myself that patience is a virtue even when all you can see in the rearview
mirror is the grill of the tractor-trailer kissing your bumper.

Driving
conditions improved only slightly after I left the interstate and made my way
toward the University of Texas campus. I stopped several people to ask
directions to the law school, but apparently orienteering wasn't part of the
university curriculum. Most of them knew UT had a law school even if they didn't
know where it was. I finally flagged down a campus cop who offered to lead me
to the correct building.

The
law school is located in Townes Hall, a multiple-story building located on the
far side of the campus, at Twenty-Sixth and East Campus Drive. UT is built
smack in the middle of the city, and apparently no one thought Austin would
grow to its current size. As a result, the university didn't have the physical
space to grow out. Instead it grew up. Virtually every building has multiple
stories that have to accommodate the more than fifty thousand students who cram
themselves into the classrooms on a daily basis. Out of necessity more than
anything else, most students had abandoned any hope of driving to classes, and
there were thousands of bicycles and mopeds on the campus.

I
felt out of place among the students and tried for a professorial look as I
entered the main doors of the law school. I looked around but didn't see a
receptionist. Instead, a large sign hanging in the main hallway contained a
listing of offices, and I decided that Admissions would be as good a place to
start as any. Admissions was on the first floor, and after wandering through a
number of corridors, I located the office. A young man behind a desk looked up
when I entered.

"Excuse
me," I said. "But I'm looking for some information about a graduate
of the law school."

"Try
Records," he said. "Second Floor on your left."

There
was a staircase nearby, and I opted to take the stairs instead of the elevator.
This time I found the office I was looking for immediately and felt I was
making progress. I explained to a young woman what I was looking for and she
frowned.

"When
did you say the person graduated?"

"Nineteen
eighty-one."

"You
might want to try the Law School Alumni Association," she said.

Beginning
to feel like a rat in a maze, I asked, "Why don't you give them a call and
ask them if that's where I need to be?"

She
picked up the phone and spoke to someone for a minute before hanging up. She
looked at me and smiled. "That's where you need to go. The Alumni
Association, but it's not in this building."

"Do
you have a map?"

She
dug through a couple of desk drawers. Finally, she dragged out a college
catalog. Opening it to the front page, she ripped out a page containing a small
map. I followed her finger as it moved across the map.

The
offices of the Alumni Association were in a small single-story building a few
blocks from the law school. There was a homey look about the place, and for the
first time that day, I didn't feel intimidated about entering a building. An
older woman was typing on a computer keyboard when I entered and explained,
again, what I was looking for.