Chapter Two
The Hugh Hefner of Mexico City
There was no secret about where Lorenzo lived. He owned an estate in the suburbs of Mexico City, where he spent his days by the pool surrounded by bikini-clad women.
El Mariachi scouted the place, unimpressed. Lorenzo had known not to rely on the city police for security, but the guards he employed were sleepy. Cameras peered around from the top of the wall, but El knew they were not the models that are used where a guard watches many monitors and can respond immediately to an intrusion. Instead, these cameras recorded what they saw on tape, as if Lorenzo believed the tape might be useful in a courtroom as evidence against a thief. El snorted. Burglary was not the threat his friend should be fearing, and evidence in court might be useful on American TV, but in Mexico it was only useful to the rich.
Of course, Lorenzo was rich, now, he reminded himself. Perhaps he could buy justice, but he could not buy back his life after a cartel had taken it. This high-profile playboy lifestyle of Lorenzo's was foolish, and El decided to show that to him.
After carefully noting the locations of all the inattentive guards, he circled the estate again, keeping to what shadows he could find in the bright daylight. He marked a helpful tree, growing from within the estate and slopping its bushy boughs over the top of the wall.
The alley on the side of the estate where the tree grew was almost as busy as a street, and El Mariachi had to wait for the children on bicycles and mothers with strollers to clear momentarily. Then he slapped Velcro straps over the chains on his trousers, and removed the jingly spurs from the backs of his boots. These he twisted, turning them into climbing spikes, and attached them to the toes of his boots. The silver piping on his jacket yielded to his yank, and he snapped the metal into the form of a small grappling hook. Black nylon cord came from behind his belt and attached to the hook.
In seconds he had crossed to the wall, flung the hook over it where the tree grew, and scaled the crumbling stucco to lie flat on top, ignoring the whirring camera, and shielded from view by the tree. The boughs were a problem, for, lying flat on the wall as they did, his arrival shook them and the motion was transferred to the slender trunk of the tree. A very shivery tree. He lay still, despite the sound of laughter coming down the alley.
The teenaged girls passed without seeing him, and no one seemed to have thought the tree's behaviour worth note.
Carefully, he slid over the wall, touching the boughs and the rest of the tree as little as possible. Crouched in the foliage, he restored his tools to their usual places, though he kept the spurs and chains muffled.
Tension filled him, now that he was inside. There might be guards he couldn't spot from the outside. It would be a sad death to be shot by his friend's security as he made his point. He checked his guns and tried to keep the adrenaline rush under control.
He peered through the shrubbery, and smiled. The tree grew at the side of the house. The pool area, from which direction came laughing voices and the sound of splashes, was to his left. Cameras whirred ineffectually from the roof, and a guard sat in a folding chair at the corner of the house, peering around the corner to see the laughing girls.
The guard continued to peek at the poolside show as El Mariachi's silent footfalls approached. El stopped directly before where the guard should have been looking and allowed his shadow to fall across the man.
"Eh?" was all the man had time for before El clubbed him with a pistol butt. He would have toppled off the chair, making further noise, but El caught him by the front of his shirt and placed him firmly on his seat, leaning against the wall.
"Sanchez?" called Lorenzo. To Lorenzo's credit, he had noticed the slight sound from the corner of the building. "Keep your eyes where they belong."
El Mariachi stepped around the side of the building. "Bang, you're dead," he said, no weapons in his hands, but glancing all around the grounds, senses on high alert.
Lorenzo dived off his lounge chair, throwing aside the girl who had been sitting on his lap. He rolled toward the house, toppling aluminum chairs and small tables. As he drew breath to summon the guards, he met El Mariachi's gaze.
Smiling, El showed him open hands, palms up.
Lorenzo froze, his hand inches from a wooden crate against the building. Then he exploded to his feet, crying El's real name. Crying in anger, for he had been made to look very foolish. His fury might have been more intimidating had he not been wearing red swimming trunks, and nothing else.
"What the fuck are you doing here?!"
"Visiting an old friend."
Later, Lorenzo regained his humor, even appearing to listen patiently while El enumerated the dangers of his living arrangements. He insisted on showing El what he called his hacienda, and then the two of them took shelter from the noon heat in the tile and marble lined dining hall. A long, elegant Spanish table with high-backed wooden chairs suitable for a banquet served instead two gunfighting mariachis and a lot of beer bottles. Also a number of beautiful and buxom young women who draped themselves over Lorenzo's shoulders and laid their heads on his lap.
El found the expanse of bare and inviting female flesh disturbingly distracting. It had been long enough since he'd held a woman that he could not keep his head clear while light fingers played with his hair. He had to dismiss the girl with his darkest glare.
Lorenzo laughed and asked all the girls to go, his brown eyes twinkling merrily at El.
"You are not the life of the party, my friend," Lorenzo said.
"I'm not interested in your party. I need information. The Delgado cartel isn't so thin anymore. They've destroyed or absorbed six or seven other cartels since the Day of the Dead, including the remains of the Barillos. They have almost a monopoly on the South."
Lorenzo nodded. "I know. Everyone knows that."
This startled El Mariachi. He didn't think anyone in his village knew of it. He sighed and swallowed his pride. "What else does everyone know?"
Lorenzo shrugged. "They have been swift and aggressive. Three cartels even banded together to oppose them in Villahermosa, but they have some great new muscle."
"The Colombians?"
Lorenzo shook his head. "That's what's mysterious. No. They say Delgado thinks he can cut the Colombians out entirely."
El frowned. "Cut them out of the cocaine trade? They're the suppliers."
"I don't know. But eventually it will come to war. A hell of a war."
"And many, many people will be hurt." El regarded his beer bottle.
Again Lorenzo shrugged. "People in the south." Then he had the grace to look sheepish. "I like it here," he said.
El understood. Peace was something he had only had snatches of, all his life, and it was to be treasured. But he understood better now why El Presidente needed the Delgados destroyed or at least destabilized. It was one thing to strive for a monopoly on the drug trade in Mexico, but if you defied Colombia in any real way, the resulting conflagration would attract the attention of the greatest threat, Mexico's drug-consuming neighbor to the north. He sighed.
"Lorenzo, I'm looking for a man, a CIA agent named Sands. Have you heard of him?"
"CIA? Fuck, no. What do you want with the CIA?"
"He was in Culiacan on the Day of the Dead. He was behind the attempted coup." El swallowed the last of the bottle of beer. "Not the coup, actually, but the assassination of Marquez."
He watched as the implications sank in. Lorenzo slammed down a bottle. "We were working for the CIA?" He spat.
"You were paid well. What do you have to complain about? And I got my revenge."
Lorenzo scowled, but said nothing.
"The Yanquis won't want this either. This Sands could help. But I need to think of a way to find him. Or to have him find me."
While El was thinking, in the middle of the day, in not quite the middle of Mexico City, the Delgado cartel attacked Lorenzo's hacienda.
A/N: I imagine most readers are wanting to see the beautiful but psychotic Agent Sands, soon. Patience, please. I will get there.
Following the lead of my hero, Miss Becky, I have not given El a name, since the movies never give it to us. Apparently "Manito" is not a real name? Anyway, he has a name, obviously, and there are people who know it, but you and I are not to be among them.
Thanks, you reviewers! I really appreciate the encouragement.