Atoro—bull—is an official soldier in a cartel, but not one high enough that he’d attend a gathering like this. Patrick leads me through a turn so I can see the guy. He appears casual as he winds his way through the room, but it’s clear he’s on a mission to reach Enrique. From where Enrique’s standing with his oldestnephew, Pablo, both Patrick and I can read their lips. We waltz into a spot where two couples keep us from being obvious.
Since both Patrick and I speak Spanish, neither of us interprets. We read lips as though we’re listening to the voices.
“Jefe, Patrón, the ATF raided the brownstone in Park Slope.”
Patrónis one of several titles Pablo holds. He’s ajefein his own right since he runs NYC specifically. But with his uncle next to him, he receives the lower form of address.
“How much damage did they do just to find nothing?” Enrique’s expression is somewhere between annoyed and amused.
“Tore the place apart,jefe. Even put sledgehammers through the walls and tore up flooring.”
Pablo flashes a—from what I’ve heard—uncharacteristic grin before he responds. The man isdark. Like his soul left the building years ago.
“A day late, and a dollar short. How pissed were they?”
“Nowhere near as pissed as Louisa made it seem. The woman should win an Oscar. Every stereotype of a Latina’s temper—dios mío. She had theirhuevosin a vice. When she arrived at her supposed home being ransacked, she let loose Spanglish that would make you both blush.”
Huevos—such a better term than balls or nuts. They are fragile like eggs.
“She chase them out of there with herchancla?” When Enrique grins, panties drop.
Achanclais a sandal, but in this case, it’s a wooden-sole slipper Latinabuelas—grandmothers—wield to scare children into behaving. They’re deadly in the hands of an old woman. The threat is effective.
“No, but she did reach up to take her earrings out. A Mexican-American agent told them they needed to hurry and leave.”
All three men belly laugh, and it draws some looks. Colombian or Mexican—some stereotypes have their advantages. The men sober, and Pablo continues the conversation.
“They didn’t arrest her, did they? Threatening a federal agent and all.”
“Fuck no. They listened to that agent and tucked tail, then ran like little bitches. Jesus and I watched it all and couldn’t stop laughing in the van. Jesus started coughing he was laughing so hard. The feed in the basement showed them getting close to the stash, but they never found the mechanism on the baseboard to release the latch. You really can’t tell there are any seams in the concrete around the hatch. You did good work on that,jefe.”
There must be a hidey-hole in the foundation. There’s probably a sensor or button hidden behind a baseboard that, when pressed, releases the locking mechanism to the trapdoor. It’s probably a shoestring thin wire under the concrete. Thetoromakes it sound like Enrique laid the concrete and cut the hatch himself. He’s a true silver fox and jack of all trades. Unlike most, he’s a master of all.
Patrick presses me a little closer, so his lips are beside my ear. “Drugs, guns, or cash?”
“Any. All the above. I don’t know. It could be their granny’s jewels for all I know. I was unaware they used a townhome as their stash spot. Park Slope’s one of the best neighborhoods in Brooklyn.”
“Sounds like the woman was azorro.”
“Probably.”
A fox—a woman who spies for the cartel. Some even get embedded in rival ones and dowhateverthey have to blend in. I’m certain the Diaz Cartel has several on NYPD and as feds but expect none of the women to trade sex for info. All the syndicates have women who spy for them because women and children aresupposed to be untouchable. Of course, unless they’re like me and killers for hire. The unwritten law makes for the best cover, though, it’s gotten a bit flimsy in the last seven years. Not so much the children, but the women have been targets.
When the soldier leaves, Enrique and Pablo switch to a language neither Patrick nor I understand. It’s most likelyMacaguán, a Colombian indigenous language that’s practically extinct. A few hundred people speak it, and among those are the Diaz family. They may as well speak in code for all anyone else understands.
We watch Alejandro join them, which signalsTres J’sto join their uncle and cousins. I know we won’t get anything else out of the men tonight now that they aren’t speaking English or Spanish. I’m about to switch our attention to the Mancinellis again when Enrique separates from the men and reaches out his hand to his wife.
Fuck my life.
Fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck.
The couple heads to the dance floor. I can’t afford for Elodie to get too close. I don’t doubt she’d recognize me in a heartbeat. It’ll obliterate my cover if she does. The woman’ll have me dead before I can run.
“Patrick.”
“I know.”
He twirls me, and we slip between the two couples behind us. He maneuvers me through the steps until we can get my back tothe Cartel’sruling couple. There are plenty of Colombian, Mexican, Brazilian—fucking Latin America as a whole—cartels. But there is only one that warrants a capital C. Where sayingthe Cartelonly means one family.
