Scout’s Honor: Chapter 15

Zapatos

Though less than an hour’s drive from their hometown of Lemon Grove, Roy’s trip was longer than Eddie’s cross-country flight. His was to the nether world. It had begun in Rosarito the moment the policeman laughed at his fistful of hundreds, shaking his head, telling him to save it for La Penitenciaría de La Mesa. Upon arrival at the feared prison, a manacled, frightened Roy was met within the hour by the warden himself. Having been apprised by Griego of the boy’s value to the Trujillo family, Comandante García had his shackles removed and offered him a glass of water.

“I mean it, man, ah, Generalissimo. You name it, I’ll pay it. I just have to get the hell out of here. It was only one joint, dude. One cigarette, comprendo?” Roy spoke loudly, thinking it would ease understanding.

“This is not America. You cannot buy justice in Mexico, we are a country of laws,” the comandante said, amused with his own irony. He scratched the head of a large dog sleeping at his side. “You could be here seven years, even ten if the judge decides you are a traficante.”

“I had one joint. Take the money, feel it. I’ve got lots more. Here.” His voice cracking with fear, Roy dropped his hundreds on the scarred wooden table between them.

“Ramos, count his money,” the comandante said to his lieutenant. “You do not appreciate how happy you are, young man, that I meet you here in person on your arrival, that I will place you in a private cell. Otherwise, my lovely prisoners will take everything you have—not only this money, but your shirt, your cigarettes, even your zapatos. We give your money to the American Consulate. They are the bank for our American nuevos. Your money will help you here, but never to free you.” 

“A hundred bucks for one phone call, please, man, please.” 

“Perhaps tomorrow after we meet your visitor.”

Héctor Griego arrived at La Mesa the next day with a briefcase, a small shopping bag, and a salsa stain on his white shirt. Like a visiting dignitary, he was escorted with a measure of pomp into Comandante García’s inner office. The comandante smiled at his guest, flashing yellow teeth framed by gold caps, delighted to see Griego was even heavier than he. 

Griego set his two items on the comandante’s elaborate, hand-carved desk, next to pictures of a smiling wife, five smiling children and an amateurish portrait of a German shepherd, also smiling. He clicked open his briefcase, waited for his host to appraise its contents, and complimented the office and its ornate furniture. 

The comandante froze at the fortune before him, barely managing to stifle a gasp. Recovering, he said, “I am at your service, Don Héctor. How may I be of help to you?”

Griego had made a mistake. Between his great haste and need to handle all details himself, he had failed to inquire about the going rate for bribes, what bodyguards and carracas should cost. He’d overestimated both by a factor of ten, his mistake an unintended consequence of running a business that weighed rather than counted its cash. He had erred on the side of caution, knowing that if Juan Sierra received unexpected sympathy in Medellín and returned, Griego’s survival lay in preserving the boy. By happy coincidence, he also knew that little would enrage Medellín more than learning that Juan had arranged for Roy to be treated like royalty in La Mesa, given a fine carraca, round-the-clock bodyguards, and open visitation rights. 

“This güero is extremely important to us. We must know he will be protected—” 

“Yes, Don Héctor. All my guards will be informed of this duty, and we will select the prison’s most feared killer to be his personal bodyguard.”

“And he will be given the finest apartment in the prison?” 

“Yes, the very finest carraca. Two stories, two bedrooms, fully furnished, hot and cold running water, a real kitchen, a television—two if you like—a solid door, not plywood, with locks that work. He can have it tonight.” García laced his hands across his stomach, praying the fortune in the briefcase was for him. The moment he glimpsed the rows of stacked hundreds, he had reassigned Roy the best carraca, mentally issuing an immediate pardon for its owner.

 “You will take personal responsibility for his security? I cannot over-stress the importance of his continuing good health. It would offend us gravely if something happened to the boy.” Griego lifted a cardboard box from the shopping bag. “Two nights ago, a young man offended us. Open this.”

The comandante pulled back the lid, removed a jar and, holding it to his poor eyes, squinted at the object floating in water. “Madre dios.” The glass jar slipped from his soft fingers. Anticipating the reaction, Griego caught it. The comandante panted for air, the empty box fluttering in his hand. 

“This was your prisoner’s business partner. Mr. Cross must be reminded of how our family reacts when offended. Because you have no need of childish lessons, I will speak with him alone. Now.” He sat on a worn leather chair that smelled of dog and dropped his wallowing chin onto his chest. 

García swiftly returned with his prisoner and sidled out backwards, pulling the ancient shepherd along, his eyes fixed on Griego. 

“Who’re you?” asked Roy. He had spent the night awake in an empty cell, and appeared worn, hunted. The taunts he’d heard half the night from the adjoining cells had not taxed his rudimentary Spanish. 

“Ramirez works for me,’ said Griego, shifting his mass in a vain search for comfort. “You worked for me.” 

 “OK if I smoke?” 

“Where is our shipment?” Griego asked, neither expecting nor desiring the truth. He shook his fleshy head, not understanding why, when the world was awash with pretty girls, maricóns fell for beardless boys.

 Roy blew out a match, pushing himself to adopt an attitude. “If Ramirez works for you, how did I meet him?”

“Through my unfortunate friend, Juan Sierra, pendejo. I will ask the questions. Where is—”

“You know Juan? Far out. Then get me out of here because we have business to do, you owe me for the fifty keys. I have to pay Wad.”

“Your friend is missing, probably dead. The cocaine is also missing, and you know where it is.”

“No way, man,” Roy cried. “Wad dead? I don’t fucking believe it. Fuck no. C’mon—”

“Silence. You stole our cocaine. Save your story for, for…” Griego paused and then smiled, his hooded eyes without emotion. 

“I didn’t steal anything. Hello? I’m in jail, they frisked me. No drugs.”

“Read.” Griego handed him a copy of that day’s San Diego Evening Tribune. The story about crooked police murdered in a drug deal dominated the front page. Roy read with effort, one word at a time. He blanched. Schmidt was dead? His partner killed by unknown drug dealers in a shootout? And the police were looking for a person of interest, one Edward Kawadsky, perhaps the victim of foul play. 

“Now. The names and addresses of your partners, the men who killed the police, and where we may find them.” Griego kept his voice soft, even mild; he had to report an inconclusive interrogation to Medellín. He would remind his superiors of Juan’s legendary capacity for violence and how reckless ignoring his instructions for the handling of his young lover would have been. 

“What partners? I don’t have any partners.” Roy dropped onto a chair, sniffling, wiping tears from his cheeks. “Juan?”

“Juan Sierra is on his way to Colombia. Better to ask me about your friend Mahoney. He is not gone. He is right here.” He removed the Mason jar from its box. “Perhaps you have inspected this closely before?” Roy stared uncomprehending at the ragged-cut object with its floating jellyfish-like tendrils and hairs, until Griego turned the penis toward him. 

Roy’s screams carried far beyond the comandante’s office wing. 

His rape within the hour after Griego’s departure and the near instant execution of not only his three rapists but his negligent bodyguard all but confirmed the rumors flying around the gossipy prison: The güero, the blonde, was a Trujillo, the bastard offspring of a Hollywood star and the great drug lord himself, and he had purchased the most magnificent carraca with cash he carried in a golden briefcase. Even the nuevos gloated over how he had demanded an audience with the comandante, how every guard was at his disposal, how he would escape by helicopter the next week. Outrage over his rape was universal. Old hands dismissed the rapists’ fate, instead dwelling on the bodyguard, whether he had deserved the death penalty for mere negligence. They all knew the facts. While awaiting the prince in the administration building, the bodyguard had stepped outside to stretch his legs. Panicked for reasons unknown, the prince had raced out into the main yard where the prisoners smoked, walked, and played basketball, getting no more than forty paces before the foul dogs seized him by knifepoint, bending him over the laundry sinks. 

Comandante García was terrified, knowing he too would be preserved in formaldehyde if news of the boy’s dishonor reached Griego. With no Colombians among his inmates, there was a slim chance it wouldn’t. God willing. But his petty traficantes? One of them must have some connection to the family. Someone would talk. García shrank in his office—petting his cranky dog—drowning the floating scrotum nightmare with whiskey. Before him lay his hurried notes, his outline for his last will and testament, and a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam. He had scrawled his defense on a separate sheet of paper, how he had responded to the heinous crime, how his personal physician had tended the boy and assured him of his full recovery, ideas for favors and gifts he might lavish on the güero for his silence, where he might flee, who might look after his wife and aged mother. On into the long night the comandante drank, his fears growing larger, his thoughts smaller.

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