Tiger Fight Mexico's Drug Lords and Old Gods

Tiger Fight

Chuck Williams

Mexico’s drug lords and old gods

Tiger Fight

Published by El Viejito Press

Copyright ©2010 by Chuck Williams

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a book review. Electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within

its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.

Cover art: Alex Williams

Cover and interior design: Amie McCracken

ISBN: 978-0-9906653-1-1

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Thanks to my friend, Joel, first for urging me to quit talking and start writing, and then, for his encouragement and help along the way.

Chapter 1 A Walk in the Park

It seemed the best years of his life were behind him, and he accepted that. You’ve got a stubborn streak, his wife had said. He had agreed, in a noncommittal way; as long as she loved him and stuck with him, it didn’t seem to matter. She said, Someday it will get you in trouble. That was five years ago, before she was diagnosed with cancer. The specialist said with a serious expression and her hands folded in her lap, I think we need to treat this aggressively from the beginning. The doctor didn’t say it in so many words, but in a younger woman like his wife, the outlook was grim. She had died within a year of diagnosis, in spite of Gabe’s stubborn determination it couldn’t be.

He thought of himself as basically an optimistic guy, but her death had been hard to handle. When his mind wandered to the woman who had been his wife’s doctor, he caught himself thinking of harming her. The doctor did her best, he knew that, but there it was, completely irrational, negative, and unbidden thoughts. Then he began to discover other negative thoughts that surprised him. Thoughts rose up like the gases bubbling in foul pond water. He took a bitter dislike to strangers on the street. Prejudices surfaced, stuck to his beliefs like grass burrs in a wild field. He feared he was sliding into a hell of bitterness where no cheer or joy could reach, and since nothing held him to the life he was living, he fled to Mexico to heal.

A tall man with grey hair, he looked at the stop light at the intersection just ahead of him. His skin was fairer and he was taller than most of the people around him. His greying head contrasted with crow wing black of those around him. The small group of pedestrians closest to the intersection hurried with watchful eyes across the street as the light turned green. Gabriel Kennedy picked up his pace, but half-heartedly, knowing he wouldn’t reach the corner before the light turned to red.

It turned red and he stood on the curb waiting for the next green. His left knee bothered him in recent years so there were no more dashes across the street to beat out a yellow light. Sometimes he wondered why just one knee had gone lame on him — he’d walked the same number of years, all the same places on them both.

The light turned green, and he walked across the street and into the park, following the stone path into the cool shadows of the trees, headed for the far side and his morning coffee. He told himself he was still fit at least, and could walk all day, maybe just a little ache in the evening.

Like most Mexican parks, this one was laid out formally in a European adaptation. Low fences of ornamental wrought iron outlined geometric beds of geraniums and tropical shrubs surrounding mature trees. According to tradition, the trunks were whitewashed to a height of about five feet. There was a dusty air of worn gentility about the park. The shadows on the ground, pierced by sunlight, made a pattern like tattered lace.

Benches along the paths were occupied by elderly men lounging in twos and threes and by young couples, arms and legs entwined, exchanging inaudible intimacies.

He smiled at the sight of a couple, and at unseen grackles, whose song reminded him of a rusty gate opening, but musical. It had been four years since retiring to Mexico. He felt at home with the atmosphere, physical and cultural. He appreciated the people’s fatalism. It didn’t make them depressed or cynical, but eager to seize the pleasures in life. ‘Life is Hard’ was the saying down here. So enjoy every small moment, like the present moment. The air was cool and fresh, and coffee and a friendly greeting awaited him on the other side of the park.

Gabe Kennedy saw ahead the divide in the path; where it forked off to the left marked about the halfway point to the cafe. He looked down the left branch where a couple were standing next to a bench. Although they were too far away to make out faces, he thought they were arguing. The man’s hands were at his side, but she seemed to be moving back from him. There were pairs of lovers on every park bench in Mexico. When he passed them he told himself a private little joke with an envious smile — ’you’d need a stick to pry them apart’.

Oh well, he thought. A lovers’ quarrel. None of my business. An oldie Mexican pop song by Juan Gabriel floated in his head, and his feet followed the lilting rhythm. He turned his head as he passed the juncture of the path to the left, curious about the couple. In astonishment he saw the woman fall to the ground, shoved violently by the man. The song, melody and lyrics, were erased in the blink of an eye. Suddenly his feet seemed caught in an invisible trap. He was unable to take another step forward.

Oh Jesus, he thought. Domestic violence. Extremely volatile and unpredictable. Get your coffee. Instead his footsteps reversed to the divide to the left. His feet moved, it felt, almost against his will. He told himself, This is none of your business. What do you think you’re doing? You’re crazy! Walk on by! Get your coffee! His feet ignored him and he was standing by the couple in a matter of seconds.

In the most non-threatening voice he could muster he spoke, Pardon me, what’s the problem here? The man still stood over the woman. He looked like a bad-ass wannabe. Expensive cowboy boots, some heavy gold chains and medallions around his neck and his thick black hair swept back in a hundred dollar haircut. Maybe thirty-five years old, maybe forty. Passersby walked by the three of them. Some gave a curious look, others pretended to see nothing.

The guy with the gold chains spoke without turning to look at Gabe. There’s no fucking problem. Mind your own fucking business, he hissed.

Gabe suddenly felt strangely committed, and persisted, saying, Well it looks like a problem to me.

The Mexican man spun around and stared incredulously at him, wondering why he was still standing there, then stepped into Gabe’s space and said, I told you, you fucking gringo, there’s no problem. Mind your own fucking business. Incredible! The gringo understood Spanish. What was wrong with him?

Gabe knew the guy would win a fight, but he had three inches of height on him, and that made it hard for the guy to intimidate him. He stood toe-to-toe with the Mexican, who was almost vibrating with hostility. For Gabe, another thing about getting old, you didn’t have as much to lose. OK, I’m a fucking gringo, but I’d never treat a woman like that. He glanced away and saw that a few people had stopped to watch the action so he took another shot. Is that the way a Mexican treats a woman?

A woman’s voice entered the discussion from behind Mr. Macho, as Gabe had dubbed him, and said, Have you no shame? Over the Mexican’s shoulder Gabe saw a middle-aged woman wearing an apron and holding a bag of oranges. With her free hand she was shaking her finger at the man’s back.

Gabe and the Mexican redirected their attention to their surroundings. A small crowd of five or six people had stopped to watch the goings-on. Another woman was muttering her agreement loudly with the woman with the bag of oranges. Two men in the crowd edged closer.

Mr. Gold Chains narrowed his eyes as he looked past Gabe, this rash, interfering gringo interloper. Then he turned and strode off in the direction of the street, his boots sounding on the flagstones of the path.

When Gabe turned around he saw a city policemen coming down the path in his direction. As the policeman drew near, the two women bystanders confronted him. Listening patiently, he nodded in agreement with the women as they talked, but gave no sign he planned to bring the assailant to justice. Gabe looked back down the path, and saw that Mr.Gold Chains had stopped at the street entrance to the park, and had turned to watch the tableau of the women and the policeman.

He examined the man at a distance, estimating him to be five ten at most. Thin, not the build of someone who goes around picking fights. The distance kept him from really distinguishing facial features. But he remembered he shared about equally Indian and European features, so-called mestizo, a term some Mexicans find offensive. The combination made for strikingly handsome people, but how they got that way seemed to be an embarrassment. He had jet black hair and a hawkish look about his eyes. Eyes that veiled emotion. A blank look that put Gabe and, he supposed, most people on guard.

He turned his attention back to the woman. She was still on the ground, sitting with her one leg tucked under her, leaning sideways on one extended arm. With the back of her other hand she was wiping her eyes, and from the way her shoulders convulsed from time to time it was clear she was trying to get her crying under control.

Gabriel felt helpless and uncomfortable in the presence of tears, like most men. He didn’t know the right thing to say or do, or if there was a right thing. He knelt beside her. He wanted to brush her hair back but didn’t know if he should touch her in such a situation.

He decided it might be taken wrong, so instead he held out a bandana from his shirt pocket. He found they came in handy in the market for his hands, to protect the back of his neck when the sun was blazing, and to bundle small items he might come across in the course of his day.

He couldn’t remember ever offering it as a hanky to a crying woman. She didn’t notice it with her head down, so he made a sound and said quietly, Maybe you can use this. He waved it gingerly back and forth like a little flag. It’s clean. I just put it in my pocket this morning.

She took it without looking at him and buried her face in the bandana. An absurd image flashed through Gabe’s mind – they were playing peekaboo with the bandana. She breathed out a sigh and her shoulders relaxed and fell. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and finally looked up at her comforter.

He was taken aback by how beautiful she was, and tried not to register his surprise. Her eyes. The iris was a deep, rich, opaque brown that seemed to trap, like a dark star, all the light that fell on them. Thick dark lashes cast a shadow like awnings across the ivory whites of her eyes.

He’d had a problem adjusting when he first settled in Mexico; all the women seemed beautiful with their long dark hair and brown eyes. As it turned out, not all Mexican women were beautiful. Pretty eyes yes, but the rest of the features were a mix of the good, the bad, and the ugly, the same as anywhere. But the woman in front of him now was truly beautiful. She had the long aquiline nose and high cheekbones of indigenous blood, like a living portrait of Mexico’s ancient history. Her skin was clear and alive with a color that was impossible to describe, a mixture of cinnamon and milk and coffee, and something dark like ground cloves.

A voice sounded in his ears and his reverie vanished like a shadow in a burst of sunlight. Thank you, she said, as she reached out the bandana to him. He felt foolish for having been looking at her so intently. More than that he realized staring wasn’t at all helpful in this situation. He reached out a hand and helped her to her feet, then turned her to the bench behind them.

The bench was one of those old cast iron ones, made of an openwork pattern of vines encircling a Mexican eagle medallion on the backrest. It was encrusted with so many coats of paint it looked like something organic. He sat her on the bench and carefully sat beside her. She was shivering in the warm weather, a flood of adrenaline coursing through her body; the only thing to do was to wait until it was used up.

Gabe turned toward her on the bench, not knowing what to say, but he blurted out, Look, I don’t know anything about you or that guy, but he had no right to hit you. That was disgraceful.

She raised her head to look at him. Thank you so much. I don’t think he really wanted to hurt me. But he scared me a lot. A faint smile passed over her lips.

Gabe asked, Do you know him? He wanted to continue the conversation, although he couldn’t admit to a reason for doing so.

No, She said, but someone in my village told my comadre that a man was looking for… my cousin. She paused as if recollecting her thoughts. I think it must be that man.

Gabe gave her a questioning look, and she said, I don’t know why he wanted to find my cousin. She hesitated and added, And I don’t know where he is, anyway. I’ve been worried about him and hoping to find him myself.

Her answer raised more questions for Gabe. He looked about and saw that the women and policemen were parting and the other onlookers were drifting away. At the park entrance her attacker was loitering by a magazine stand, looking their direction. He knew he could excuse himself and probably should, but instead he said, Look. I was on my way for a coffee and I don’t think you should be alone. Please come with me and have a coffee, and you can be safe until you feel better.

* * *

When they had turned to the bench the man with predator eyes and gold chains continued to watch them, There was no hurry, he told himself. He knew many ways to get what he wanted. And he knew when the opportunity came he’d get what he wanted. No one had ever resisted his persuasive powers. In time everyone cooperated and talked. The policeman was no problem. He could have whispered a name and the cop would have backed off with apologies. But there were too many people around. He took a comb from his pants pocket and ran it through his hair. Then he took out his cell phone and punched in a number. After a long wait he swore. Nobody was around to relieve him. He looked at his boots and then at the border of the park. There was a shoe shine stand just across the way from which he’d still have an angle on the couple. He walked over, keeping an eye on the two on the bench, and then climbed up into the chair of the shoe shine stand.

Its proprietor looked up at his customer and gave a professional smile. Those are beautiful boots you have, Señor, taking out his cans and cloths. The man rested a boot on the stand, and the shoe shine man set about his job. He had one of the more prosperous stands, finished in a black lacquer with an awning over the chair to shade the customer. He was forty-five years old, shining shoes here for twenty years, and had managed to make improvements over the years with his savings. His regular customers had heard all about his son who was attending the university.

His current customer looked again at the couple on the park bench, then picked up the daily newspaper and looked at the headlines while he waited for his boots to be finished. His biography was a different story. He had been born in the north border region, christened Arturo Gonzalez Velazquez. His father was in the drug trade. His part of the business was to see that the drugs that flowed up from the South — rivers of cocaine and methamphetamine from Colombia, marijuana from the interior of Mexico — made its way safely across the border to its eagerly waiting customers in the United States. With so much money involved, there was constant pushing and shoving for a bigger share of the business, and his father was murdered in the pushing and shoving when he was a teenager — age fourteen. He and his mother moved to Mexico City to a house his father owned, and on the streets there he began his education, continuing in his father’s footsteps. He was a natural and rose in the ranks until ten years ago as a reward he was given his own territory in this isolated province. He was responsible for the production and shipment of marijuana. The state was ideal — lonely isolated canyons in the sierras where hundreds of hectares of marijuana grew invisible to the world.

There was also a ready labor supply. Men on the edge of starvation on their rocky dry cornfields prayed for rain and when it didn’t come on time, some headed to El Norte, and some to Arturo’s marijuana plantations. In the lowland city from which he ran his operation — he didn’t have to actually attend to the growing — there was also a good supply of ‘no no’ youth, as they are called in Mexico. These are no education no job young men, who were more than ready to join Arturo’s forces. To be a soldier in the narcotics trafficking, armed and feared, brought a sense of respect and adventure, as well as an income unavailable elsewhere. Smuggling had a glamorous tradition in Mexico, bordering as it does the United States. Ballads romanticized the exploits of men on horseback outwitting the Yankees since before the twentieth century. Today it was SUV’s and the ante had been upped with automatic weapons. Now the killings were fearful in number and ferocity. Most of the deaths were between gangs for control of routes, territory and supply. But there was a constant supply of ‘no no’s’ youth, young enough to think they were invulnerable. Their bodies were sometimes found stacked in bunches of six or more.

Arturo glanced up from the newspaper headlines towards the park bench. It was empty. Shit! How could that happen ? He jumped out of the chair, The shoe shine man, stunned with surprise and fear, sat frozen with his polishing cloth in his hand. His customer walked with quick steps to the path that led to the bench. At the bench the path divided into three that headed off in different directions through the park. He walked to the bench and looked up all three paths, seeing no one.

He swore again and took out his cell phone and pushed redial. When there was an answer he hissed, Where the hell have you been? What do I pay you for? He barely listened to the reply. Get down to the north side of the zocalo right now. He listened a moment How will you find me? Look! It’s not that hard. I’ll be having a shoeshine. He closed the phone and returned to the stand. The shoe shine man had picked up the paper he had thrown down, but he didn’t offer it to his scowling customer. Arturo looked at him and made his features relax. Sorry — I had to make an important phone call. and climbed back up into the chair. I understand completely, said the shoe shine man, picking up his cloth without looking up as he began to finish his work.

Arturo had brought two henchmen with him from his lowland headquarters. One, Valentin, was a cop. Nemsio, the other, was a thug temperamentally suited for the dirty work. Both had been with Arturo for years. Both could be trusted and didn’t ask questions. That was important because his business here was personal. It was something he didn’t want to explain to his bosses. He had everything under control. The next crop was about ready for harvest, so he’d have to be back at his lowland headquarters soon, he knew that. He also knew that, for his bosses, anything but their business was suspect. There was no room for personal business in a paranoid atmosphere where competition for dominance was accomplished by treachery and assassinations. He knew all that, but his business was worth the risk. It could change his life. And that damned Indian who had run away. Arturo just couldn’t imagine he’d have the balls to defy him, especially an Indian, sneaking off. Nobody quit Arturo without his permission. Now this interfering, busy-body Gringo. He would deal with them, and soon. This town wasn’t big enough to hide in. Valentin will have friends with the local police, and there can’t be that many Gringos living here.

* * *

The woman with the dark eyes looked back and studied the man with gold chains at the edge of the park. He was casually examining a newspaper at a shoe shine stand, and she said, My name is Maria. Yes, coffee sounds good.

Gabriel stood and offered her his hand, saying, I usually go to Los Arcos, but if you have a favorite place I’m ready to try something new.

She accepted his hand to stand. No, Los Arcos is fine. It’s said they have the best pastries on the square.

Do you go there yourself? Gabe asked. She looked away with a slight smile. Not really. Not very often.

He took in Maria’s dress with a glance he hoped wasn’t obvious. He suspected that Maria was more likely to be serving than seated at a table as a customer. He tried to estimate her age without much success. She wasn’t really young, and she wasn’t old, but where in between he couldn’t guess. Her striking features left him helpless to guess.

My name’s Gabriel Kennedy, he said. I’m from the North as I’m sure you can tell. But I’ve been here for over four years now, and I really like it much better here than up there. They walked slowly through alternately shady and sunny paths, passing a balloon peddler whose bouquet of cheerfully colored balloons waved in the light air, wanting to escape.

He asked, What village are you from? I haven’t really travelled much outside the city, but some of what I’ve seen is quite beautiful.

This animated her, bringing out a smile, and she said, I come from a village called San Jose de Acatlan in the sierra to the south, between here and the ocean. It’s very small. Just for the famers who have their fields nearby. Almost nobody comes there. Gabe frowned, trying to imagine this graceful woman growing up isolated with only cornfields for company.

Well, she said, Pilgrims come in the springtime to ask favors of our saint. Our little saint is supposed to restore the fortunes of those who’ve lost them. The corners of her mouth turned up in a sly smile. I love our little saint and I’m glad we have him, but I’m not really sure I believe in him.

Gabe asked, surprised, Really? Why not? He personally wasn’t a believer, though he was tolerant of other’s faith, that is, as long as that faith was also tolerant.

She said, The people of our village pray to him, but everybody’s still poor. The farmers are lucky to feed their families and have a little corn left to sell. Some years they only have enough to eat. She sighed and said, "Many leave their fields to work in the lowlands until the next planting time. And some go to the North to work, and some have relatives in the North who can send them money until they can harvest their corn. ‘Life is