CHAPTER THREE (11)

“Corporate is too worried about expanding – they don’t have to know where.”

            “And border patrol?”

            “Leave that to me.”

            “Right. And do you have people lined up en México who will do the driving?”

            “Yeah. Two guys. Family members of the guy who does the salads five times a week at the restaurant. I offered them a social security number and a job, as well as one of my trailers – 5C. You know, the one right down the next row.”

            “Did they take it?”

            “They took the offer. Who could refuse a relatively safe trip to the states?”

            “Does 5C have air conditioning?” Gato wiped his brow and drifted his eyes to the air conditioning unit located in one of the two windows in the trailer on its southern side. He’d ended up buying it himself.

            “I’ll see to it.”

            “Any English?”

            “Enough.”

            “More than me?”

            “No.”

            “See to that, too.”

            “And where are you gonna hold up all the marijuana? Just leave it in the truck?”

            “Well I was thinking that we could put most of it in my vacant trailers, and get the rest of it off into the streets the day it arrives. What do you think?”

            “Damnit Carlos! Do you see this place?” Gato violently brushed his hands toward the coveted trees that took up most of the space of the triple-wide, “We can’t keep stocking up here. The police are becoming weary.”

            He went to the fridge and whipped out another Tecate. Droplets of sweat that had subtly formed on his head felt icy as he stuck the top half of his body in. Nothing but Tecate. Some limes in the corner. Tequila might be better right now, Gato thought to himself, and refrained from grabbing another can. Instead he slammed the fridge shut, but not too forcefully – things could go awry in minute with this man, Carlos – and popped his eyes to the top of the machine. A bottle of Patron silver in a solid, clear, glass bottle shown like heaven as it perched. He took it down and produced two tumblers and two pieces of ice.

            It was smooth as the liquid went down, even though it burned Carlos’ stomach. He only slightly winced. He pulled his slender lips, European lips, back against his teeth and smirked. The alcohol put him somewhat at ease, but the tension was still obvious. Both of them took out mini black cigars and lit them.

            “Police? They can be bought.”

            “Not anymore, Carlos. They are getting smart.”

            “Fine. But this could be the last time. When will your corporate logos be done so we can end this dry spell?”

            “Next week, this time.”

            “And your drivers.”

            “The same.”

            “So you can have the city sopping wet with green blood by next Thursday?”

            “That is the plan.”

            Gato poured another four ounces into each of the tumblers. They both streamed the fire down their gullets. This time, nobody winced.

            “One thing,” resumed Carlos. His Spanish was slurring slightly because of the liquor. “I need IDs before any of this can begin.”

            “For who? The two men?”

            “Yeah.”

            “You got pictures for me, my friend?”

            Carlos handed over two pictures, photographs that had been photo-shopped to look like they’d come directly from the printer of a corner drug-store.

            “These official quality?”

            “Yeah,” Carlos replied, “I got them re-done at a Wal-Greens. Like always.”