Desperado: A Mile High Noir

century.

PROLOGUE

The Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico City, a combination of tourist destination and sacred church, did not use metal detectors or other screening devices. Guards did not search any of the thousands of daily visitors, and the administrators of the place admitted they had no organized system to prevent an attack. A few soldiers paraded around the grounds with guns, but they primarily snapped pictures at the request of visitors, using the tourists’ cameras. The light security contradicted the importance of the basilica’s most valuable possession: the blessed tilma of San Juan Diego, the tattered maguey cloak with the Virgin’s image imprinted on it, miraculously preserved for more than 400 years, suspended behind an altar where it received believers’ prayers and adoration.

When the thieves came, some of them dressed as priests. Others looked like tourists or office workers on break. They smuggled weapons under their coats and jackets. At a pre-arranged signal from one of the leaders, the men opened fire, indiscriminately, trying to panic the visitors. Hundreds of people rushed to the exits. In the midst of the chaos, an explosion ripped through the building. The moving walkway screeched to a stop. A trio of gunmen jumped over the walkway and, using ropes and grappling hooks, secured the frame that held the tilma, bolted high on the wall. They wrenched the frame from its anchors. Pilgrims and worshippers screamed in agony, desperation and fear.

A priest rushed to stop the men. Several of the gang shot him repeatedly. He bled to death crawling toward the altar.

The tilma, frame and glass crashed to the floor, missing by inches the men who hauled it down. The man who had signaled for the raid to begin picked shards of glass from the icon. With automatic weapons exploding around him and men and women screaming and crying, he cut the cloth from the broken frame with a long-handled knife.

He stuffed the cloth into a thick leather case. The gang ran out of the church to a waiting helicopter that sat on the vast plaza surrounding the basilica. The man with the tilma leaped into the helicopter. The other men ran furiously to the fence that surrounded the compound. A few fell, shot by the soldiers or the police who had finally arrived on the scene. Those who made it through the fence jumped into waiting vans that sped off and raced through the streets of Mexico City, headed in different directions.

One of the escape vans collided with a Volkswagen taxi. All of the men in the van and the taxi driver were killed when a rain of bullets from the pursuing police ignited a gas tank and both the van and VW erupted in flames. Meanwhile, the helicopter rose and disappeared into the smoggy Mexico City sky.

A day later the Archbishop of Mexico City received a demand for one hundred million dollars, the release of twenty-five members of the Rojos held in various Mexican prisons and five more doing time in Texas jails. The neatly typed note warned that if the demands were not met, the cloak would be burned and the entire world could watch the venerated object go up in smoke, all played out on the Internet.

Summer in the city. For a few, living came easy. For others, living ended.

I moved to familiar rhythms embedded in memories of days that stretched forever and nights filled with promise. I executed rituals meant to define my existence. I hoped for one more grand time, one more forever. But the sun drove parasites and pests from the shadows and exposed the limits of my hope.

Dry winds rolled in from the mountains and whipped up dust devils on the horizon. Urban grasses and flowers yellowed in the heat. Aged elms and oaks bowed to thirst. When the dog days arrived, monsoon rains filled gutters and drains but failed to clean the city, or me. I struggled like a fish trapped in a net. I searched for a way out, an escape. . . .

1

He looked as cool as ever. Clothes, hair, attitude. Same old Artie Baca—the hippest guy in high school and now coming across like a GQ cover boy, Chicano style. Sharp-creased slacks, form-fitting silk shirt. Reminded me of that song about werewolves in London. His hair was perfect. He had it working that day.

We sat on opposite sides of a metal card table on uncomfortable wooden chairs painted a disturbing bright red. I hadn’t dug out the floor fans from the storage room, so the recent heat wave left Sylvia’s Superb Shoppe stuffy. Even Mr. Cool had a few drops of sweat on his upper lip. Mustiness surrounded us.

I transacted business at the table when the rare customer bought any of Sylvia’s second-hand junk, what she called antiques. I rang up sales on an ancient cash register, accepted cash or ran credit cards, handed out receipts and change, provided bags when necessary and updated the inventory on a laptop. Highly-skilled, no?

The store had large windows through which I watched the traffic on Thirty-Second Avenue. They also magnified the outside heat or cold and were always in need of a good cleaning, as Sylvia reminded me almost every week.

I need help, Gus. Artie’s voice wasn’t what I remembered, not as deep. I don’t know who else to ask. It’s not something I can talk about to just anyone.

A thin smile and a subtle wink. Yeah, except for the voice this was the Artie Baca I remembered from my less-than-memorable high school years. I hadn’t seen him all that much since we graduated—I never made it to the tenth-year reunion—but here he sat, asking for something in that way he had that came off as though he were doing me a favor just by asking. He did that all through North High and got away with it. Almost everyone liked him, some even loved him. I was more in-between ignore and hate. He was a pal, don’t get me wrong. At least, that was what I told anyone who asked.

What kind of help, Artie?

This stays between us. The clipped words rushed from his mouth. You can’t tell anyone, not Sylvia, no one. Okay?

Why would I tell my ex anything? But I let it slide. He had my attention, for sure.

Whatever, dude. Unless you’ve killed someone and you want me to get rid of the body, I won’t talk to anyone about what you say. No need to.

The skin around his eyes twitched when I said killed someone and the healthy tanned hue of his face faded a bit.

No. Nothing like that. It’s about a woman.

That didn’t surprise me. Artie copped more tail in high school than the entire football team put together. Girls acted like robots around him. He’d say Good morning and they’d drop their panties and bend over. Really, it was almost that bad. Of course, that meant he often hid from one girlfriend while he fooled around with another. Plus, he had more than his fair share of run-ins with angry fathers, brothers and cousins. I said almost everyone liked him. He took the hassles in stride—called it poon tax. I got punched out by Gloria’s brother—paid the poon tax, he’d say, and then try to laugh. It never sounded like a laugh to me, more like a half-assed giggle through clenched teeth. He could be coarse like that, but we were high school kids.

Aren’t you a little old for women problems, Artie? I thought you were married? What happened to that?

No, no. I’m married. Linda’s a wonderful woman. I got a couple of kids almost in high school. I . . . His voice trailed off. I filled in the blank spots.

But one night, probably in a bar, you forgot all about your happy marriage and your kids almost in high school because the young woman flirting with you had beautiful eyes and a pair of chi chi’s like . . .

Okay, okay, he said. I screwed up. Bad. I admit it. You don’t know how sorry I am that I let it get out of hand. But this was the only time I did anything like that since I got married. I love Linda. I wouldn’t hurt her. I just screwed up. One time, and now it’s like I’m in hell. This girl is crazy.

You get her pregnant?

Not that, thank God. She wants money, but not for a kid. She’s trying to get what she can out of me. It’s classic. She said that for ten thousand I can have peace of mind for the piece of ass. That’s the way she put it. She’ll go to Linda if I don’t pay. She set me up. We were both kind of drunk, at least I was, and I let her, uh . . . He couldn’t finish. He pulled out a pocket comb and ran it through his hair. A quiver of nostalgic regret ran through me. I could’ve been standing in the high school hallway next to my locker, waiting for Artie to set the agenda for the day.

What happened?

I didn’t know what I was doing. We was just partyin’. I didn’t think . . .

He caught his breath and turned away when I tried to look him in the eyes. He opened his expensive phone and tapped a few icons. He showed me the video. They were naked on a rumpled bed. A hardcore sex scene that I didn’t want to see played out before me. I said, A sex tape? Really?

This could end my marriage, he said, the words dull and flat. I have no choice. I’ll pay her the money.

I almost laughed out loud. The coolest guy in the world became the victim of the oldest con in the book. I stifled my laugh, sat up and tried to sound sincere.

Wow, Artie. That’s crazy. You hear about this kind of stuff, but you never expect that it’ll happen to someone you know. A scam out of something like a detective movie, blackmail, who knows what else. What you gonna do?

That’s why I’m talking to you.

I thought about all the options that he could be referencing. I started to feel uncomfortable with where the conversation with my old high school buddy was headed.

You want me to lend you money? I calculated that this was the least disagreeable of the ideas he might have floating around in his head.

He gave me one of those as if looks and I felt insulted.

No, no. I got the money, he said.

At this point I started to re-think my relationship with Artie Baca. I sat upright and leaned forward. We did stupid things in high school and for a year or so after. Typical teenage antisocial behavior and other messes not so typical. The kinds of things that might make him think I’d be up for taking care of a blackmailer. But that wasn’t me, never had been. I couldn’t be the muscle on a job if my life depended on it.

I should have had a better understanding of Artie, but I relied too much on memories and the secrets we shared, and, well, things went the way they went, all crazy and weird. After it played out, when the dust settled, as they say, I finally realized that I never caught on to his trip, and that turned out to be a big mistake for me, for Artie, for everyone involved.

I want you to give the money to her, he said. I eased back against the inflexible chair.

Uh, you should take care of that yourself. Why get someone else involved? Already I know more than you want me to know. Why’d you come to me anyway?

Artie Baca’s lazy eyes finally looked back at me. The girls called them bedroom eyes, but for me they came off as droopy. More sluggish than sexy.

Insurance. I’m thinking that when this chick sees that someone else knows about her blackmailing, that will be the end of it. You’re like a witness. If I’m not afraid to tell you, then she’ll understand that the ten grand is all she’s getting out of me. One payment and only one or I go to the cops with you as back up. I’ll explain it to her so she gets it. But I want you to deliver the same message, along with the money. You don’t have to get physical. I’m not asking that.

You want to put me out there, as your insurance? You ever think she might resent my butting into her action? What if she’s not alone, which she probably is not by the way, and her partner decides that there’s one too many witnesses and figures he’ll eliminate the risk? What if he wants to cancel your so-called insurance?

He shook his head. Nothing like that will happen. She’s after quick money. Thinks I’m an easy mark. She was stuttering and nervous when she talked to me on the phone. There’s no weight behind her. No one else involved. She had a good time with me, then a day or two later it probably sunk in that the rent was due, or that she wanted to enroll in hairdresser college after all. So she started thinking about how easy it would be to make a little something off me. She called me at my office and gave me her pitch. I couldn’t believe it. I tore into her, chewed her ass out. She ended up crying and I thought that was the end of it, that I had scared her off. But then she sent me the video and I knew this was serious. He sounded pathetic, looked worse. I gotta pay her and get this done.

Years of resentment steamed up my throat. Why in the good goddamn would I help you?

He tightened his lips into a thin line. His Adam’s apple moved up and down. His expensive shirt had a stain near the collar. The Artie I once knew never paraded in public with less than an immaculate presentation.

He reached into the back pocket of his pants and I stiffened. Had I come on too strong? Artie had a violent streak. I’d seen him explode more than once when someone pushed him. He showed me a soft-looking tan leather wallet. An embossed letter B stood out on the cowhide. He unfolded a check, and laid it on the table so that I could read it. Pay to the order of Gus Corral the sum of one thousand dollars and no cents. No sense. That’s me. I should have ripped up the check, told Artie I’d see him around, maybe at the twentieth-year reunion.

Don’t take this the wrong way, I said, almost pleasantly. I could use the money. But I need to ask again. Why me? It’s not like we’re BFFs or whatever they call friends these days. I haven’t seen you since . . . uh, well, for years. Why me?

Artie stood up, his six-foot frame still thin and wiry. He paced around Sylvia’s dusty shop. He blew his nose into a monogrammed handkerchief.

Honestly? I think you’re the kind of person I need for something like this. I shook my head. He held up his hand, signaling me to calm down. Don’t jump to conclusions, he said. Nothing negative, Gus. Not like the old days. I considered the cops, but that would mean public exposure. It would make the papers and the TV news. My business would take a hit. I figured ten thousand wouldn’t break me plus I could save my marriage and my business. But I needed a guarantee that the woman wouldn’t bother me again. I thought about a private investigator, maybe an ex-cop. I wasn’t sure there were any of those guys around yet, but I found a few. They’re mostly process servers or skip tracers, not really investigators, not someone I’d trust with the money and the secret. A couple were nothing but fat slobs without an ounce of intelligence. Or con men pitching their own grifts. I thought over the people I knew, someone who could be useful in this kind of thing. I remembered what we did in high school, and after. Maybe you didn’t know it, but I always thought I could count on you. I could rely on you to do what you said you were gonna do. All the guys thought of you that way. I don’t know anyone else, to be frank. I can’t go to my lawyer or my business partners. No one.

He stopped talking. When I didn’t say anything he must have concluded that he hadn’t convinced me yet.

And, yeah, I figured you could use the money. I heard about you and Sylvia, losing your job, working and living here, all of it. I kept coming back to you. That’s why I’m here.

The BS was thick. I knew better than to believe Artie’s rap. But I was sure that his check was good. The guy had money. I didn’t.

You have to help me, Gus, he said. I can’t do this by myself.

Those two short sentences carried more impact than his story about his one-night fling, the blackmailing, even that he was willing to pay off the chippie. Artie Baca, begging for my help. I should have felt good about that, I should have stood up and crowed like a rooster at dawn, but all I felt was sadness for something that slipped away from both of us that warm afternoon.

2

Artie’s post-high school life could be summarized as a quick evolution from conscienceless Romeo to real estate magnate, with very few stops in-between. When we quit carousing together—a very physical arrest and a month in City Jail will do that for some people—he worked for old man Abel Sánchez back when Sanchez was one of the few Latino realtors in the city. Artie turned a small real estate office into a major enterprise. When Sánchez retired, Baca took over the business and continued to build it with his charm and force of personality. Those were the days when real estate was still a good bargain on the North Side, when old houses could be picked up for a song and then sold to future-thinking developers who saw more happening, eventually, on the North Side than any of us long-time residents could imagine. When the neighborhood started to gentrify, Artie was the man of the hour. By the time the North Side had morphed into Highlands he’d sold off several properties at double and triple what he’d paid