The Jaguar

9

Hood sat in his expedition in the parking lot of the Jai Alai palace in Tijuana. The air was hot and smoggy and smelled of exhaust and burning trash. In the asphalt divots stood rainwater from the summer storm.

He looked out at the stately old neoclassical building and remembered coming here with his family for the jai alai games, which his mother in particular had enjoyed. They had made modest bets and cheered loudly and Hood still remembered the resounding smack of the hard, heavy ball rocketing off the walls of the court.

Now the games were gone and the palace was used for concerts and shows. A sign announced the upcoming events: Lila Downs, a farmer’s market, the Exxxpo Erotica.

The prepaid phone rang at three o’clock. Hood flipped it open and said nothing.

“Drive toward Revolucion. Park far in the lot where there are no cars. Stay in your vehicle with your hands on the steering wheel. The hands must be on it.”

Hood drove far into the mostly empty parking lot and took a parking place in the open. A moment later two Tijuana police cars swung in from opposite directions and stopped on either side of him. No sirens, no lights. Hood kept his hands on the wheel. Two more prowl cars came in and blocked him front and back. One uniformed officer got out of the passenger seat of each car but the drivers stayed.

Through his side window Hood watched a stocky man approach and wave him from the car. The officer’s hand rested on the grip of his sidearm, a large revolver. He wore sunglasses and his forehead was beaded with sweat. His nameplate said “Sgt. I. Rescendez” and his badge and uniform looked authentic.

Hood nodded and opened the door and got out. Rescendez pointed him toward his own vehicle, then reached over and hit the unlock bar of Hood’s Expedition. Hood heard the liftgate pop open, then the faint pneumatic hiss of the door risers and the sound of the suitcase bumping on the rear floor. The zipper whined three times. The back seats blocked most of his view but over the headrests Hood saw three men looking down into the rolling case. Two wore the peaked hats of municipal officers and Hood thought that if they were impersonating cops they’d done a good enough job of it. The alternative was even worse.

One of the men said something and the other two laughed. Hood could hear them rummaging through the bundles for dye packs and transmitters. A mumbled comment, and a moment later the zipper sounded three more times and the liftgate thumped down. The men returned to their cars.

“Give me the phone,” said Rescendez.

Hood pulled the phone from his pocket and surrendered it. The cop handed him another one, a different make and model, a car charger wrapped tightly around it.

“You are loitering in a public place,” Rescendez. “This is a fine of two hundred dollars. You can pay now or appear in court.”

“At least I know you’re real TJ cops,” said Hood.

The man laughed quietly, then pulled a satellite phone off his duty belt. He powered it up and dialed and handed it to Hood. Hood stepped away from Rescendez, listening to the ring.

A man answered and Hood identified himself as Charlie Bravo.

Erin’s voice was clear and fearful. “Bradley?”

“Erin, it’s me.”

“Oh, God, it’s so good to hear your voice.”

“Are you all right?”

“They haven’t hurt me.”

“You’re going to be okay. I’m bringing the money.”

“Please do it soon.”

“I’ll be there, Erin.”

“Soon, please soon. I’m being strong but-”

The phone went silent. Hood tossed it back to Rescendez, who caught it in one hand like a first baseman.

“You are familiar to me, Mr. Bravo.”

“I have a common face.”

“But where have I seen you?”

“I’ve never seen you.”

“Were you in Mulege?”

“Never.”

Rescendez laughed heartily and slapped Hood on the shoulder with a heavy hand. “Maybe your face is very, very common. As you say. Now, please, the two hundred dollars fine is due to be paid.”

Hood fixed him with a calm and durable look. “You’ve fucked with me enough, senor.”

“Si. Es verdad. Now you will take the money to Ciudad Juarez.”

A city steeped in blood, thought Hood.

“It is thirteen hours with no flat tires,” said Rescendez. “That is driving on the U.S. side, of course. You have two days to make the drive. You will stay at the Lucerna. And you will be guarding Benjamin’s money very well.”

“I understand,” said Hood. “Now, you wait here, please.” Hood climbed into his vehicle and fetched one of the small Mike Finnegan photo albums from the console. The empty booklet had been complimentary and the cover image was a festive holiday ribbon now out of season. But each page was made of slotted clear plastic and each photograph was well displayed and protected. He brought it to the cop and opened the cover and handed it to him. The plastic pages caught the sunlight and Hood watched I. Rescendez flip through the six photographs, then shrug and hand it back.

“No,” he said. “I don’t know this man. Who is he and what has he done?”

“He’s a bad man.”

“The world has many.”

“Keep the book. Show the pictures to the men you work with. Your neighbors and friends. Call me if anyone knows of him or sees him. A thousand dollars for any good lead. My numbers are on the back.”

“I still think I’ve seen you before, Mr. Bravo.”

Rescendez lifted his cell phone and snapped a picture of Hood.