The House of Wolfe (5 page)

The Chato one laughs. Jesus, man, you're a poet.

He and Chino confer in lowered voices.

The big man envisions one of them standing aside with a gun and ready to shoot anybody who might in desperate fear whirl and run, even blindfolded, preferring to be shot while trying to stay alive than just stand there and take it. He can picture the other one stepping up behind the first man in line and raising the muzzle to his head. He inhales deeply of the malodorous air, feeling his lungs swell wonderfully. His name is Salvador Martín Obrero and he now recalls a Sunday morning more than thirty years ago, his mother telling him as they leave for mass to comb his hair, for the love of God, it looks like a bird's nest.

He flinches at the blast of a gunshot and then come three more in quick succession . . .
bam
. . .
bam
. . .
bam
. . . approaching him and—

Chato and Chino watch the big man's body tumble down the slope to join the others in the fuming mound, vanishing into it in a geyser of scarlet sparks.

They return to the van and start back to the city.

4 — JESSIE

They no sooner head out for the Sosa estate than Aldo places a hand on Jessie's thigh.

“Stop,” she says, pushing his hand away.

“Ho, ho, ze Americain girl, she wanz to play, how you say, har to get, eh?” he says in the terrible French accent of the Pepé Le Pew impersonations he used to do in college. He walks his fingers slowly down his leg to his knee and then hops them over on hers and begins walking them backward up her thigh.

“I said
quit
!” she hisses, and jabs a thumbnail into the back of his hand.

He pulls his hand away and tries to examine it in the bad light. “I think you drew blood, you she-devil.” She sees his grin in the glow of a passing streetlamp.

“For Pete's sake, Aldo,” Susi says. “She doesn't want to be pawed, so just stop pawing her, why don't you?” Susi is seventeen years old and in her final year of high school. In the front seat, young José Belmonte snickers.

Switching to Spanish, Aldo says, You kids mind your own business. This is a matter between grown-ups.

The only grown-up in this car besides JJ is the driver, Susi says, raising another chuckle from José and even from the driver.

They follow the other Town Cars to the brightly lighted thoroughfare of Paseo de la Reforma and meld into the northbound traffic, the four cars holding close to each other to prevent other vehicles from getting between them. Now they turn off onto the Periférico, the city's outer beltway, and bear south. Having been to the Sosa residence, Jessie knows it's on the south side of the posh Pedregales area.

They've been on the beltway less than a minute when the driver's cell phone chirps. He puts it to his ear and says, “Sí?” He listens, then says, “Ah, pues . . . sí, claro . . . muy bien,” and puts the phone away. Staying behind the Town Car in front of them as it moves over to the exit lane, he says there's been an accident a few miles ahead on the beltway and traffic's been slowed almost to a standstill. We're getting off at the next ramp and taking side streets until we're past the point of the accident, the driver says. Then we'll get back on the belt. We're lucky we received word before we got stuck in that muddle.

Jessie inwardly groans at this additional irritation. The idea of extending the car ride with Aldo is irksome, never mind having to continue fending him off when they get to the Sosas'. She chides herself for not having faked an upset stomach or something at the reception and begged off from the after party.

The Town Cars exit onto an avenue of heavy traffic and stay on it for a few slow blocks before turning onto a less-congested street. Several blocks farther on, they turn into an industrial area of warehouses, most of them closed for the night. The fenced parking lots contain scatterings of semitrailers. Only one of the loading docks is lighted and at work and only one trailer is being loaded. Paper litter lines the bottoms of the fences.

The cars make another turn, and then another, and are now on a narrow lane, badly lighted and gouged with potholes, flanking a rail track that runs between rows of darkened warehouses with shuttered loading docks.

The driver says he's sorry for the rough ride end explains that the lead driver has chosen this detour because there aren't any stoplights on these backstreets and despite the inferior street surface they're faster than the main avenues. We'll be out of here soon and back on the beltway, he says.

A large vehicle with a red-and-blue flashing light behind its windshield appears from around a corner up ahead, its headlights dazzling. It stops at an angle across the lane, blocking the Town Cars' passage.

The cars halt.

Police, José says. What's going on?

Been a lot of warehouse break-ins lately, the driver says. Lots of thefts. They're probably checking anybody who comes along here at this hour.

The cars in front of them hinder Jessie's view. All she can see of the obstructing vehicle is the reflected radiance of its headlights on the warehouse walls, the rhythmic red-blue sweeps of its light.

Now their car is flooded with bright light from the rear and she squints out the back window at a similar vehicle with a flashing police light on the dashboard.

It stops a few feet behind them and its front doors open and two men come out, both wearing dark Windbreakers. They approach on either side of the Town Car. The one on the driver's side passes on by, but the one on the right stops at José's window and raps it with a knuckle, then holds up an open wallet to display a badge of some sort. His hair is bound in a ponytail that ends below his nape. The other man has gone around to the passenger window of the car ahead and is also displaying an open wallet.

The driver presses a switch to lower the right-side window a little and says, “A su servicio, oficial. Que pasa?”

“Policía,” the ponytail man says, and puts the wallet back into his coat. “Abre las ventanas y las puertas, y corta los faroles y el motor.”

The driver does as ordered, touching toggles to unlock the doors and lower all four windows into their door slots. He turns off the engine and the headlights. The two cars directly ahead of theirs also turn off all their lights, and the only illumination remaining is from the front Town Car and the two large vehicles, which Jessie now identifies as Suburbans.

The driver reaches under the seat, then opens his door and gets out with something in his hand. Jessie can't see what it is, but she notes that the interior light didn't come on when the door opened. The night chill floods the car.

Hey, man, Aldo says to the driver. What are you—

The driver raises the object in his hand and the sudden glare of a large flashlight forces them to turn their faces away, Aldo saying, What the hell!

You're under arrest, the ponytail man says. All of you! Hands on your head! Everybody! Keep them on your head or I'll shoot you.

Jessie recognizes the pistol in his hand as a compact Glock fitted with a suppressor, and while it's perfectly plausible that Mexico City cops would be working in plain clothes and unmarked cars, she wonders what need a cop would have of a silencer. No one in the car has ever faced a loaded gun before or been threatened with being shot, and all of them, even Jessie, for all her familiarity with firearms, are seized by a kind of fear entirely novel to them.

The ponytail man yanks open the door and tells José to get out and empty all his pockets, of pants and coat both, put everything on the driver's seat. Your watch, too, necklace, rings,
everything
, the man says. I'm searching you afterward, you little prick, and if I find anything on you, you're fucked. When your pockets are empty, take off your coat and put it on the seat too.

José complies as fast as he can, his motions jerky with fright.

Now the driver also brandishes a Glock with a silencer, and commands everyone in the backseat—each in turn and starting with Jessie, the nearest one to him—to do the same. Phones, wallets, jewelry, purses, on the driver's seat. Shawls and coats on the passenger side.

Jesus Christ, man, Aldo says to the driver. What are you—

“Cállate el hocico!” the blond man orders, and Aldo shuts up.

Robbers, Jessie thinks. They're just robbers.

She takes her phone from her purse and deposits both over the front seat, then her watch and shawl, then sits back. The necklace too, the blond says. She hadn't thought she'd get away with it but had to try. She takes off the fine gold necklace with the ivory brooch given to her by her great-great-grandaunt Catalina and drops it over the seat and sits back again with her hands on her head. She tells herself to stay calm, it's only a robbery, nobody's going to get hurt. Could be they're crooked cops, a common reality everywhere in the country, though no more so than robbers who pretend to be cops. Which she figures is what's going on here. They even got the drivers in on it. That, or somehow took the cars from them and put their own men in them. Whatever the deal, she thinks, they've hit a jackpot with this bunch of purses and wallets full of cash and credit cards. And the Town Cars. They'll take them too, she's sure of it. Bring a nice price on the black market. Her job as a crime reporter in Brownsville has taught her much about how these things work, and she's learned a few things from the experts in her own family. In a minute these guys will have everything and be gone, nobody hurt, only lighter of pocket and a little shaken, and everybody with a tale to tell. Much of her fear is giving way to a wary excitement. She's already thinking of the piece she'll write for her newspaper. Maybe a syndicated op-ed piece. Timely stuff, this. But damn it, she hates to lose that brooch.

A man with a large hooked nose has come from the forward cars with a plastic grocery bag and into it puts all their possessions from the front seat, then scoops up the shawls and coats and goes away with it all.

Yep, Jessie thinks. Robbery. Taking the coats and shawls in case there's anything of value pinned in them.

The front Town Car starts to move, easing its way past the Suburban ahead, then goes out of view around the corner, and Jessie congratulates herself for being right about the cars, too. The phrase “making out like bandits” comes to mind and she suppresses an inexplicable urge to laugh.

The ponytail man finishes frisking José then produces a small instrument shaped like a pack of cigarettes and only a little larger, and runs it over him, front and back, head to foot. A sweeper—Jessie knows one when she sees it. It can detect a GPS device too small to find in a pat down, one small enough to be hidden in a belt, a shoe. She's acquainted with various models of both devices—her family deals in them, legitimately and otherwise, among other electronic commodities. Pretty thorough, these boys, she thinks. Best to know if anybody in the party is showing up on a screen somewhere. Some richies carry a tracker on them every time they leave the house. Some have them implanted under the skin. She hopes nobody here has an implant. These guys seem the sort who will excise it on the spot.

The ponytail orders José to put his hands behind him, binds them with plastic flex-cuffs, and tells him to sit on the ground. José squats and then falls over trying to sit, and the man laughs and pulls him up and José sits with his legs crossed. The ponytail tells Susi to get out, and first cuffs and then searches her. She whimpers as his hands fondle her breasts and bottom, his fingers press between her legs. After sweeping and cuffing her, he helps her to sit down beside José, a tricky maneuver in the sheath dress, but she does it. Aldo is next to be cuffed and searched and made to sit on the ground, and then it's Jessie's turn. The ponytail subjects her to the same groping search he gave Susi and concludes it with a kiss to her nape that makes her cringe. He sniggers. She remembers Rayo kneeing the drunk dickhead in New Orleans, but she can't do that in this dress. Besides, the guy in New Orleans didn't have a gun. As she's helped to sit down she almost loses a high-heeled shoe but manages to keep it on.

It's dark on this side of the Lincolns except for a portion of headlight glow from the vehicle behind their car. Jessie can vaguely discern that the other members of the party are also being bound and searched and made to sit in a bunch on this side of the cars. She's thinking that without a phone left among them they'll have to hoof it out to some busy street to find help. Some sight they're going to present—a bridal party on foot and with their hands bound behind them. Be great if somebody takes a picture of them before the cuffs come off. She can use it in her piece. She's fairly sure that if she kicks off her shoes she can make it to her feet even with her hands behind her and even though this dress will make a contest of it, but she's not so sure she could be of help to those who won't be able to get up, like the parents.

The process has been swift and without a word other than the robbers' orders. She hears low voices but can't make out what they're saying, and then the sounds of car doors closing. The cars start up and their lights come on. Like the first car, they carefully make their way around the large Suburban forward of them and their taillights disappear, one set after another.

She wonders where the hell the real cops are, the warehouse guards,
somebody
. How can these pricks be taking their own sweet time like this? Then thinks, Jesus, girl, what a dummy. There
aren't
any police or security patrols. Not here. Not tonight. These boys have taken care of that. Maybe even have some regular deal worked out for this area.

Everybody up, the blond man says.

She and Susi have to be helped. At least the bastards have put them all on their feet before leaving. The blond man moves and speaks with an easy confidence and it's Jessie's guess he's not a co-opted driver but one of the bandits, maybe even their chief.