Crooked River

28

Smithback sat in the driver’s seat of his Subaru, parked beneath a broken streetlight, half a block from the LeeTran bus stop. There was nobody on the street, and the kiosk was empty.

He glanced at his watch: quarter past ten. Christ, the guy was fifteen minutes late already. But it was the only lead he had, and he would sit here half the night if he had to. Faint sounds came to his ears: an argument in Spanish; boat traffic on the river; and a car horn braying “La cucaracha,” Doppler-shifting as it passed by.

He wondered, for the thousandth time, who it was that had called him. It was a gruff voice with a Spanish accent. Smithback had lived in south Florida long enough to know there were dozens of variations on a Spanish accent, but he’d never learned to tell them apart. The voice had said to meet at this bus stop at ten in the evening — in a southwestern neighborhood of Fort Myers not far from where he’d had the unpleasant encounter with the guys in the street. He wouldn’t say anything beyond that, except to tell Smithback he had information.

Information. That could mean anything. Smithback’s beat was Miami; his byline wouldn’t be known around here. And the call had come over his cell phone, which almost certainly meant it was from one of the cards he’d given out. But he hadn’t passed out more than a dozen; most people he’d encountered in the barrio had simply refused to take them.

Just then, he saw movement on the next block. Instinctively, he crouched in his seat, watching. The shadowy figure crossed the street, coming closer, and quite abruptly Smithback recognized him. It was that old landscaper, the one he’d seen mowing the lawn who had spoken no English. What the hell was going on? Was it coincidence?

As he watched, the lean man kept coming, walking intently, looking straight ahead, until he reached the kiosk. Then he stopped, glanced around once, and took a seat: arms folded, body rigid.

Rising from behind the steering wheel, Smithback regarded him carefully. Everything about the man’s body language told the reporter this wasn’t a person waiting for a bus. The old man, like just about everyone else he’d encountered in that neighborhood, had been unwilling to talk, at least in public. And he knew the reason: fear. In recent years, waves of gangs had swept over these streets like plagues, hollowing them out and transforming the neighborhood into a nightmarish shadow of what it had once been, with the drug dealing, shootings, abandoned buildings, and graffiti-covered walls.

The gardener unfolded his arms long enough to take a puff on his cheroot, and as he did so, Smithback saw his fingers tremble. He was afraid, all right. It was clear the man was taking a big chance to talk to him, and Smithback wasn’t going to expose him to further danger by delaying. He took another look around to make sure the street was still deserted, then started his engine and drove the half block, pulling up in front of the bus stop.

The man glanced up and their eyes met. For a moment, they just looked at each other. Then the man nodded faintly, dropped his cheroot on the pavement, rose, and got into Smithback’s car, crouching down much as the reporter had done minutes earlier. He did not offer either a greeting or a name. Immediately, Smithback pulled away from the curb and they drove into the night.

“¿Adónde?” Smithback asked.

The man waved a hand. “Drive. Circula. Around.”

So he did speak English — after a fashion, anyway. And Smithback recognized it as the voice he’d heard over the phone.

He’d conducted enough interviews like this to know brevity was important. “Why are you helping me?” he asked.

“¿Eres tonto? You crazy? You are the one looking for help. You are the one asking questions everywhere, asking for trouble for people — you and us. If they knew I was talking to you... ya valió madre.” The man shook his head.

“You say I’m making trouble for myself. Why?”

“Because you are like pollo scratching for corn in front of the fox’s den. What are you doing, all by yourself? You are reporter, sí? So I tell you story. Not all, but enough. Then you go — go write your story. Maybe it help, maybe not. But you don’t come back. Gira aquí. Turn here.”

Smithback turned onto a narrow street, crowded on both sides with beat-up trailers and cars in various stages of decrepitude. They passed by small, dimly lit houses. Every now and then Smithback saw the flag of some Central American country hanging from a window.

“When I move here, there were already gangs,” the man said. “Just like in El Salvador. They sell the drogas, handle the juegos de dinero — numbers, you know? — but they watch the barrio, too. Then the police, they come in, break up gangs, put the leaders in jail. Years pass. Then new gangs, they come in. But these pandillas much worse. Before, the gangs, they lie low, keep to themselves unless messed with. But now, these gangs like wasps, everywhere, sting everyone.” He interlaced his fingers for emphasis. “Organized, muy malas, muy sanguinarias. They care nothing for their own people, nothing for life. To join, you kill. Anybody.” He nodded out the window. “Before, people would sit out at night. There would be music, singing. Now we might as well be among the dead.”

Smithback had heard similar stories about Miami gangs. “And that tattoo? The one with the P and the N?”

Quickly, the man crossed himself, muttered something under his breath.

“Is that the gang you’re referring to? The gang that’s so influential? So bloodthirsty?”

The man nodded once, said something else under his breath.

“Excuse me?”

“Panteras de la noche,” the man said.

Panteras de la noche. Night panthers. This was it: the missing link, the answer to the riddle of the tattoo. Smithback tried to contain his excitement. “So: muy mala. But they still deal mostly in drugs, right?”

“Sí, sí. But before, they were — how you say it? — little fish. Now, one connected family, like I tell you. Big drugs now. The coca leaves, they grow in Colombia, Peru maybe. But the panteras are Guatemalan. They make everything... everything smooth.”

“Smooth?”

“Sí, smooth.”

Smithback thought a moment. “You mean, like middlemen?”

“¡Sí, intermediarios!” The man gestured in frustration: one cupped hand arcing over the other. “Guatemala best for shipping. Drugs come by airplane, go by boat, caravana, whatever. Guatemala very poor. The panteras, they know the oficiales, the funcionarios. Reclutamiento very easy. Often they are familia.” He gave a harsh laugh.

The road ended in a T, and at a signal from his passenger Smithback turned right. This street was busier, a boulevard of sorts, with bodegas and small restaurants. For the first time in a while, Smithback saw something resembling a crowd.

This was gold. This was better than gold. Totally by accident, he’d stumbled upon a resident who was fed up with what had happened to his community — and had the stones to do something about it... even if that something was just talking to a reporter.

“This gang,” he said. “These panteras de la noche. Where can I find them?”

The man’s eyes went wide. “¡Pinche estúpido! Have you not heard what I have told you? You can do nothing yourself. You write — write in your newspaper. Write about how the policía do nothing. But first, go home.”

“I need something more. A name, a place — something. Otherwise, it’s hearsay.”

The man would not calm down. “I tell you, no! No names!”

“Look, you need to understand. You’ve been talking to me off the record. We won’t print your name, even if I knew it. But we also can’t print speculation or rumor. I have to have something hard to go on.”

Despite his anxiety, the man barked a laugh. “Something hard? No names, but...” He thought a moment. “I will show you something. A place where they meet. I show you, then you go. You go. ¿Entiende?”

“Sí.”

The man sighed. “Keep going. It is not far.”

They drove along the boulevard, passing more restaurants and knots of strolling people. The lights were brighter here, the atmosphere noticeably more relaxed. After about three blocks, Smithback felt the man grasp his forearm. “There, on the right. Past Pollo Fresco. You see?”

Smithback looked ahead. There, beyond a family market and a restaurant with a garish red-and-yellow sign, was a narrow street, a service road for the nearby businesses.

“Turn in there. Don’t stop. When we pass the entrance, I will tell you. But don’t stop. Drive slowly until we get to the next road, then vamos.”

Smithback turned in at the indicated spot. It was narrower than he expected, more an alley than a street, and darker. Ahead, he could see dented trash cans and, overhead, laundry drying on clotheslines that stretched from façade to façade. They passed one door, then another, dim gray outlines with no identifying names or numbers.

“Hey,” he said, “how are you going to be able—”

Suddenly, a pair of bright headlights swung into the alley ahead of him. Smithback squinted and looked away, blinded. As he did so, he saw another pair of headlights appear in his rearview mirror. A roar of powerful engines, and the twin sets of lights came closer until his Subaru was pinned. He looked over at the landscaper in mute appeal, uncertain what to do, but to his vast surprise the man had already stepped out of the passenger seat. He was standing and talking to a large, tattooed figure... probably the largest and most heavily muscled man Smithback had seen in his life. He watched in a confused daze. It seemed the big man was giving a roll of money to Smithback’s confidential source. The two shook hands or, more precisely, fingers. With a lurching feeling, Smithback realized he’d been set up. Then the landscaper was gone, walking off down the alley, and the huge man came strolling over and leaned in the passenger window, staring at Smithback. The reporter had just enough time to see one ham-sized hand ball into a fist before an impact like a steam piston knocked him back and into a place of unrelieved blackness.