"They all are. One of our guys got sold out here and tortured to death," Minos said. "This guy's fairly harmless."
"Great character reference," Helen said.
We drove out of the city and through the small village of Zapopan. In the center of the village square was a gazebo, surrounded by rain trees, where a band was playing and children were firing out of milk bottles rockets that popped high in the sky. On one side of the square was a grayish pink eighteenth-century cathedral whose stone steps had been worn smooth and cupped down the center by the knees of thousands of penitents who worked themselves painfully up the steps on their birthdays, simultaneously saying a rosary.
"That's a famous church. The statue of the Virgin of Zapopan's in there. There been a lot of miracles here, man," Heriberto said.
"This is the place," I said to Helen.
"What place?" she said.
"Mingo Bloomberg told me the guy named Arana was from a village in Jalisco that had a famous religious statue in it," I said.
Heriberto steered around a parked bus, on top of which sat two soldiers in camouflage fatigues and steel pots. A third soldier was urinating in the street. The street sign on the corner said emiliano zapata.
"The guy the rurales shot by the mines? Yeah, he should have gone to church a lot more. But was Indio, you know. One day they're in church, the next day they're drunk, chasing puta, causing a lot of shit with
the government. See, man, their real problem is they ain't big on work," he said.
Helen leaned forward from the seat behind us. "How about shutting the fuck up?" she said.
"Gringita, I ain't got nothing against these people. But in the south they been killing our soldiers. You want to see what happens?" Heriberto said, lifting a shoe box of photographs from under the seat.
The photos were black and white, creased and hand-soiled around the edges, as though they had been passed around for viewing many times. In one photo three dead rebels lay by the side of a road, their bandannas still tied over the lower half of their faces. They had on U.S. Army web gear and bandoliers and looked like they had been killed while running. Several other photos showed another scene from different angles; a half dozen male corpses had been strung up by their feet from an adobe colonnade, their fingers inches above the dirt, their faces featureless with dried blood.
"The old guy we gonna see this afternoon? He encourages these guys, gives them money for guns, gets them killed. The guy comes from your country, Gringita," Heriberto said.
"If I were you, I wouldn't say any more," I said.
He opened his fingers in the air, as though he were releasing an invisible bird from them, and drove out of the village toward the mountains and a place that could have been sawed out of the revolutionary year of 1910.
We drove on a high switchback rock road through dead trees and a boulder-strewn landscape and rain that covered the windows like running plastic, then crested a ridge that was blackened by a forest fire, dancing with lightning, and dropped down out of the storm into sunlight again and a long cultivated valley with green hills in the distance and a volcano that was beveled across the top as though it had been sheared by tin snips. The road followed a river with wide, red clay alluvial banks that were scissored with the tracks of livestock, then we were inside another village, this one with cobblestone streets, buff-colored colonnades, a stone watering trough in front of the cervecerÃa, a. tiny open-air market where bees combs and uncured meat were sold off wood carts that were boxed with screens to keep out the blowflies.
The streets and walkways under the colonnades were filled with soldiers. They were all young and carried World War II M-l rifles and M-16's. Some of the M-16's had a knob welded onto the bolt, which meant they were early Vietnam-era issue, notorious among grunts for the bolt that often jammed and had to be driven into the chamber with the heel of the hand.
We stood in the street while Minos talked with a collection of Mexican drug agents gathered around the tailgate of an army six-by. The air was shining and cool after the rain, and you could see for miles. Heriberto stared off in the distance at a rambling white ranch house with a blue tile roof on the slope of a hill. His legs were spread slightly, his expression contemplative.
"Big day for the Tejano. We gonna fuck him up good, man," he said.
"That's where he lives? You think maybe he's seen us coming?" I asked.
"We cut his phone. He ain't going nowhere."
I took Minos aside.
"What are they expecting to find up there, the Russian Army?" I said.
"A lot of these guys speak English, Dave."
"They've blown the operation."
"Not in their mind. This is how they say 'get out of town' to people they normally can't touch. Mason should be flattered."
"You don't like him?"
"My sister was a flowerchild back in the sixties. She thought this guy was a great man. She got loaded on hash and acid and floated out on the sunset from a ten-story window."
We followed a caravan of six army trucks down a winding dirt road to the walled compound that surrounded Clay Mason's ranch. The walls were topped with broken glass and spirals of razor wire, and the wood gates at the entrance were chain-locked and barred with a crossbeam inside. The lead truck, which was fronted with a plow-shaped dozer blade, gained speed, roaring across the potholes, the soldiers in back rocking back and forth, then crashed through the gates and blew them off their hinges.