The Watchman

Twelve

We bumped across a stretch of broken sidewalk and through an open chain-link gate into a large concrete yard covered in trash. The building in front of us looked like an old tyre wholesaler, with Goodyear and Dunlop nameplates rusting off the weathered fascia. Stacks of ancient, rotting pallets were piled haphazardly around the yard.

The driver steered down the side of the building towards more pallets, an ancient Portakabin with a busted-in door, and some old dumpsters piled with metal and rubber trash.

‘You mind if I have one of these?’ I asked, and showed Fish-eye a flattened coke can I’d picked up in my right hand.

He sniggered, showing me bad teeth, and conveyed my request to his fat friend, no doubt laughing about the crazy Americano wanting a last suck of an empty can.

What he didn’t see was that with my left hand I’d picked up the full one. It was warm and sticky and covered in hairs, and had probably been rolling around in here for days. I gave it a quick shake, then held it out in front of me so he could open it.

Surprised laughter this time, but he dropped the gun in his lap, took the can off me and ripped open the tab, the way you do.

The can exploded in his face, showering both men in warm, sticky foam and coating the roof and windows. It was enough. Bending the flattened can into a blade, I drove the sharp edge into Fish-eye’s face, ripping through his cheek and nose. He doubled over, screaming like a girl, his blood splashing across the car. The driver swore and stamped on the brakes, reaching for his holstered weapon.

Too late.

I snatched up Fish-eye’s gun and slammed it into the side of his head, then did the same to the driver. Twice. It was a heavy weapon and knocked both men out for the count.

Ten seconds later I was out of the car and dragging both cops into the Portakabin, where I handcuffed them together in a position only their wives would have recognized. Then I retrieved my phone and wallet.

I took a few moments debating what to do. I couldn’t be too far from the border, but getting a cab here would be next to impossible — even if I had a number to call. And right now I had to get out of Tijuana and back to the north as fast as I could.

I got in the car and started it up, trying to ignore every surface now covered in sticky coke. The engine sounded like shit and coughed smoke out the back, but if I could ignore the discomfort and the smell, it would do. I took the same way back out of there that we’d come, until I got back on to a main street and saw a sign for San Diego and a schematic of a border control booth.

One thing I hadn’t counted on was the volume of cars heading north. We stopped short by a good few hundred metres, at the back end of several lines going nowhere fast, some vehicles overheating. I guess if Parillas had been driving us back into the US, he’d have made a quick call and we’d have by-passed the lines. But I couldn’t do that without starting a riot.

Several drivers were out of their cars, lighting up smokes and taking a drink, chatting with their neighbours or making phone calls. Others had their hoods raised, trying to cool the radiators. If you could ignore the undercurrent of frustration and impatience, it was a regular party atmosphere.

I stuffed the cop’s gun under the seat, then got out of the car with the directory under my jacket and a coke can in my hand, and sauntered over to join a group of sleepy-eyed North American college kids. They looked as if they’d had a wild time last night and were regretting it. We exchanged nods and I continued on by, and walked right down the line until I saw a pedestrians-only sign.

Ten minutes later, I was in front of a border control agent and showing her my passport. She took one look at me, saw the coke stains on my clothes and my rumpled appearance, and came to the only possible conclusion.

‘Have fun in Mexico?’ she queried. Her hard face told me the question was rhetorical.

‘I got ripped off by a cab driver,’ I said, and threw her a sheepish grin.

She didn’t buy it, but gave me back my passport and nodded me through. She had seen plenty of men like me before, so another one heading back north with a sad tale to tell was nothing new.

I walked out the other side and instantly spotted Beckwith. He was standing alongside a black SUV with tinted windows, parked in an official bay. Another guy stood alongside him, scratching at one leg. He was a buttoned-up individual in a tan suit and woolly grey socks, and a recent case of sunburn.

I walked over to join them. Beckwith looked surprised and threw a glance behind me as if expecting somebody else.

‘What happened? We heard you got separated.’

Parillas, it turned out, was on his way, happily returning to the north by car. He had reported in and told them I was making my own way back as we’d agreed.

I handed Beckwith the phone directory from the hotel. He flicked through a couple of pages, and when he saw some pen marks against names and phone numbers, he knew instantly what it was.

The other man said nothing, but watched carefully.

‘His name’s Mr Black,’ said Beckwith casually, and walked me away a few paces. ‘He’s along as an observer.’

‘Mr Black.’ I gave him a look. ‘Really?’

‘It’s what it says in his passport.’

‘Is he as British as he looks?’

Beckwith didn’t say, but the slow blink of his eyes was answer enough.

I let it go and gave him a rapid de-brief. He wasn’t happy at what I told him; in fact he looked as if he wanted to take out a gun and shoot me on the spot.

‘What the fuck are you saying?’ he grated, trying not to let the Brit hear. ‘Parillas is with the Tijuanas? I don’t buy it. You must be mistaken.’

I didn’t bother fighting him on it; he was feeling bruised by the possibility that one of his men had gone bad. If true, it reflected on him as lead intelligence officer and the DEA as a whole. Having a foreign observer along to witness the fact wasn’t helping any.

‘You didn’t know he was born in Tijuana?’ I said.

He shook his head, but it was obvious by the set of his jaw that he’d already begun to put pieces together and was building a jigsaw. Either someone had made a huge error of judgement selecting Parillas for this job, or Parillas had developed a recent change of heart about his career choice. The final confirmation was when I took out my cell phone and handed it to him.

‘What’s this?’ he muttered.

I showed him. I’d filmed Parillas on the cell’s camera from the time he’d emerged from the cartel’s SUV to him dropping an arm around the lead gunman’s shoulders. That and the way they were grinning at each other was enough to confirm that he wasn’t being coerced in any way and knew the gunman a lot better than he should.

Beckwith climbed into the SUV to view the footage in private. I stayed on the outside with Mr Black, who nodded but said nothing. Beckwith didn’t need us seeing his embarrassment. He must have checked it three times, the expression on his face going darker with each showing. Then he made a call and two minutes later, a couple of armed border agents appeared and hovered nearby.

It must have been tough, finding out who had been feeding the Tijuanas with inside information. But he wasn’t going to try covering it up.

We waited in silence until a familiar white Land Cruiser nosed out from the border crossing and slid into a bay further along. We watched as Parillas climbed out and sauntered across, playing Mr Cool.

When he saw the two border agents walking towards him, he didn’t seem concerned. Then he saw me behind the car and stopped dead, his mouth hanging open.

When the two agents cuffed and searched him, he simply looked sick and made no effort to protest. For him the deception was over.