Down Among the Dead Men

50

“ So, in other words,” Vargas said, “Rojas is a thug.”

Garcia signaled to the bartender for a refill. “A well-protected thug. But that protection is wearing thin and he’s worried. Which is why he ordered me to follow you.”

Vargas thought about this. If Rojas was directly connected to Mr. Blister and friends, this conversation wouldn’t be taking place and Vargas would likely be lying in his motel room just entering the early stages of rigor mortis.

But it didn’t hurt to ask.

“So tell me,” he said. “Have you ever seen him hanging around with a guy with a burnt face? Six-one, Hispanic, long black hair?”

Before answering, Garcia waited for the bartender to pour his refill, his gaze lingering unapologetically on her chest.

When she was gone again, he said, “Not that I remember. Is this someone I should know about?”

“A person of interest for the casa murders. If he didn’t do them himself, he’s definitely connected to the people who did.”

Vargas took a folded square of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to Garcia. He had written down the license plate number of Mr. Blister’s car.

Garcia unfolded and read it. “This is his?”

“A Lincoln Town Car. Probably stolen, but you never know.”

“Maybe you should be the one wearing the badge.”

“Just dumb luck, amigo. A matter of being in the wrong place at the right time.”

“We should all be so lucky,” Garcia said, then picked up his drink and drained it.

As he set the glass on the counter, a spotlight flashed onstage and Spanish rap music began to blast over the speakers. The curtain parted and a woman of about twenty stepped into the light wearing only flimsy lingerie-on a body that should have been declared illegal.

Turning, Garcia grinned. “Carmelita,” he said. “You see a creature like that and suddenly the world doesn’t seem so bad after all.”

Vargas said nothing. Just nodded as Garcia’s girlfriend launched into her act, a combination of dancing and acrobatics that put the ice cube girl to shame.

When Carmelita was done, Garcia whistled and clapped loudly, and she gave him an appreciative smile as she gathered up her discarded clothes and a mountain of hundred-peso notes and dollar bills, then disappeared behind the curtain.

“Let’s find a booth,” he said to Vargas. “I have something I want you to see.”

Sliding off his stool, he reached to the floor and picked up a cheap leather satchel. Nodding toward the far side of the room, he gestured for Vargas to follow, and they moved to a dark booth.

They slid in and Garcia placed the satchel on the table, then quickly unzipped it. He reached inside, pulled out a manila envelope, and handed it across to Vargas.

Vargas turned it in his hands, then unfastened the flap and opened the envelope, taking out its contents:

Three photographs.

There was a domed candle on the tabletop. Vargas slid it over close and studied them in the flickering light.

Crime scene photos. Shots of the Casa de la Muerte bedroom, overlooking the blood-soaked mattress where two bodies lay, one of them a woman in a USC sweatshirt.

Angie.

Vargas took out the pieces of the passport photo he’d retrieved from Rojas’s restaurant floor and laid them next to the crime scene photos.

Was it the same woman?

Hard to say. They looked similar, but the one in the crime scene photos was slightly older. Of course, the passport photo could be old, and two bullets in the chest had a way of aging you. Hell, a couple raps on the head had done a pretty good job on Vargas.

He looked up at Garcia. “Have you tried to identify her?”

Garcia shook his head. “Rojas doesn’t even know I have these. If I start digging, asking questions, he’s bound to find out, and I’d just as soon keep them to myself. My own form of protection, you might say.”

He gathered up the crime scene photos, returned them to the envelope, then zippered it inside the satchel and slid it across to Vargas. “My gift to you.”

“I assume you have copies?”

“Digitized and stored on three different thumb drives. Rojas is computer illiterate, so they’re safe.”

“I take it this case will stay cold forever.”

“Only as long as Rojas is running things. But nothing is forever. He may be worried about you, but it’s me and my thumb drives he should be watching for.”

Vargas nodded.

“Just one last question,” he said. “Something I overheard that I’ve been curious about ever since.”

“Okay.”

“Have you ever heard of someone called El Santo?”

Garcia looked at him blankly, but as the name sank in, his face began to drain of color. He said nothing for a long moment as another dancer took the stage and started stripping off her clothes to the cheers and applause of the regular patrons.

“Where did you hear this?” he asked.

“From the man with the burnt face. He said, ‘El Santo will bless him…He blesses us all.’ And then there’s this…” Vargas reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the rawhide string with the ring attached. “Ainsworth’s son told me that the American woman was wearing it when they found her. It’s only a cheap trinket, but it might have some significance.”

Garcia looked at it. His color didn’t return. “La Santisima. What the hell have you gotten yourself involved in?”

“I’m not sure. That’s why I’m asking.”

Garcia was quiet again. Then he said, “You probably already know this, but worship of La Santisima is pretty common down here.”

Vargas nodded. His own parents, who were both Catholic and emigrants from Nuevo Laredo, had spoken of her. Known by many different names- La Santisima, Santa Muerte, Dona Sabastiana — she was a grim reaper-like figure that many Latin Americans believed could perform miracles. All throughout Mexico you could find shrines to Saint Death, hooded statuettes surrounded by offerings of beads and flowers and bottles of tequila.

And while the Catholic Church frowned on such worship as counter to its beliefs, this didn’t stop many of its followers from praying to her.

As far as Vargas knew, there was nothing sinister in any of this, but the discovery of this ring, coupled with Mr. Blister’s mention of El Santo-or the Holy One-had raised a red flag.

It might be nothing. But then again, it might be everything.

“Most of the time, this stuff is harmless,” Garcia said. “Simple people praying for their health or their dying loved ones. But El Santo…that’s a different matter altogether.”

“So who is he? Some kind of pagan god?”

“We’re dealing in rumors again. Rumors that are far less reliable than the ones about Rojas. But it’s said that there is a cult of La Santisima’s followers, a cult that has distorted these simple beliefs and offers blood sacrifices in her honor. Led by someone known only as El Santo.”

“Blood sacrifices,” Vargas said. “These don’t sound like friendly people.”

“Just the opposite. El Santo is believed to be a messiah-the direct descendant of their God. And his followers will do anything he asks of them. Including kill.”

“Shades of Charlie Manson.”

“Some say they’ve been trafficking in drugs, but if that’s true, they’ve managed to avoid territorial disputes with the other cartels. Not an easy thing to do.”

“Does this cult have a name?”

“I’ve heard it called by many different names. But the one that seems to stick is La Santa Muerte.”

The Holy Dead.

Vargas felt his gut tighten. The words triggered a memory. Something Junior had said.

You’re a dead man.

You’re one of the dead men.

Vargas thought about this a moment, then looked at Garcia.

“Thanks for your hospitality,” he said, “but it’s time for me to go.”