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I SLEPT FITFULLY, MY DREAMS A PATCHWORK OF conversations, confrontations, and altercations. Some of the dreams featured a fat man with red hair, one whose shadowy, sinister face I could never quite discern. Others featured a redheaded woman, her features also veiled and vague.
I stayed in the shower a long time—hot water, then cold, then hot again—to clear the cobwebs from my brain. When I turned off the taps, I heard the warbling of my cell phone. Still dripping, I raced to answer. “Kathleen?”
“Uh, no. Sorry. Is this Dr. Brockton?”
I recognized the voice of the reference librarian. “Oh, sorry. Yes, this is Dr. Brockton.” I hesitated, feeling foolish, then plunged ahead. “Red, is that you?”
“Yes. Am I calling too early?”
“No, it’s fine. I was in the shower. Have you tracked down the Goose Man already?” I was speaking low and fast. “That was quick. What can you tell me about him?”
“Well, for one thing, I can tell you that there is no such guy as ‘the Goose Man.’”
“It’s a nickname,” I said. “Like ‘the Godfather’ or something.” I thought I heard a snort of laughter at the other end.
“Yeah, ‘Goose Man’—there’s a name calculated to strike fear into the hearts of global badasses,” she said, sounding far more amused than I thought she should. “I can hear it now: ‘Call off your goons, or the Goose Man is gonna come peck you to death.’” Now there was no question about it—she was definitely laughing.
“Hey.” I felt my cheeks flushing and my temper ratcheting up.
“Sorry, sorry,” she said, through the remnants of a laugh. “Couldn’t resist. But I swear, I’ve got the scoop. The guy’s not ‘the Goose Man’; the guy’s name is Guzmán. Spelled G-U-Z-M-A-with-an-accent-N. Pronounced ‘gooz-MAHN’—accent on the second syllable. Leastwise, that’s how they say it south of the border, down Mehico way.”
“He’s Mexican?”
“Sí, señor. Joaquin Guzmán Loera. Widely known as ‘Chapo,’ which translates as ‘Shorty’—a reference to his shape, which resembles a stout fireplug.”
“But who is he?”
“A badass. One of the very baddest badasses on the planet,” she said, sounding pleased with her discovery, or with the opportunity to apply the colorful label, or with both. “Also one of the very richest badasses on the planet.”
“Do tell.”
“Chapo runs the Sinaloa drug cartel, the biggest drug-smuggling operation in the world. Based in Mexico’s Sinaloa Province, a rural mountainous region that’s apparently perfect for growing marijuana. Also ideal for hiding big cocaine-processing labs. Giant meth labs, too.”
“Giant meth labs? I thought people cooked that stuff in, like, pressure cookers. In trailers in the backwoods of Tennessee.”
“They did,” she said. “Still do, I guess. But these guys—this cartel—is all about supply and demand. Any drug there’s big demand for, they supply. Marijuana, cocaine, heroin, meth: If rich gringos want it, these guys have got it. Take a guess at Shorty’s net worth.”
“I have no idea.” From the way she put the question, I could tell it must be a lot. “Fifty million bucks?”
“Chicken feed. You’re ice-cold.”
“A hundred million?”
“Still frosty.”
“Five hundred million?”
“A cool billion,” she said. “That’s b-b-b-billion. With a b.”
“Get outta here. A billion dollars? Says who?”
“Says Forbes magazine. He’s on their list of the world’s richest people. Has been for years.”
“But . . . how does he keep getting away with it?”
“Easy,” she said. “Mexico’s police and military are owned by guys like this. Bought and paid for. Case in point: Guzmán was arrested at one point, back in 1993—”
“Wait,” I interrupted. “You just said he owned the police force.”
“He did. Does. In Mexico. But he was arrested in Guatemala. Once he got caught, Mexico had to pretend to be glad. So they put him in prison. Maximum security, so-called. But guess what? He kept running his drug empire from inside the slammer; kept building it from inside the slammer; kept getting richer. Then, three years ago, in 2001? Uncle Sam started leaning on Mexico to extradite Shorty to the U.S. So what did Shorty do? He walked out of jail.”
“Just like that? Walked right out the front gate?”
“Actually, he rode out the gate,” she said.
“And he’s a billionaire?”
“According to Forbes. And they know a lot about rich people. Apparently he’s got a great business model. Plus his own fleet of boats. Planes, too: Learjets, DC-3s, even 747s. This guy’s even got underground railways—secret tunnels running under the border near Tijuana.”
I was stunned by the scope of Guzmán’s operation. “But I thought we were winning the war on drugs.”
“Define ‘winning,’” she said drily.
“How is it,” I asked, “that America—the richest, mightiest nation on earth—can’t shut down this one guy?”
“Because we love this guy.”
“Love him? He’s the scum of the earth,” I squawked.
“Oh, I agree,” she said. “But Americans—lots of Americans—can’t get enough of the stuff this guy’s selling. ‘The insatiable American nose,’ one Mexican journalist calls it. Even our commander in chief seems to’ve had a taste for cocaine when he was young.”
“George Bush? The president? I don’t believe it.”
“Unconfirmed fire,” she conceded, “but persistent smoke. The point is, Shorty’s a businessman, pure and simple. Well, not so simple, and not pure at all. There’s blood on every line of coke snorted by every snotty, spoiled rich kid in America. But in the end, all Shorty cares about is the bottom line. He only supplies what we demand.”
I wished I could find some fatal flaw in that piece of logic, but I couldn’t. It was clear, compelling, and deeply discouraging. Suddenly the implications of her research hit me like a punch in the gut. “Well, damn,” I said.
“What?”
“I just connected the dots, and I hate the picture.” I sighed. “I should’ve figured this out the minute I heard those guys talking. But my brain’s running in slo-mo; jet-lagged, I reckon, or maybe cooked by the sun.” I hesitated, unsure how much I should reveal. “This stuff’s connected to . . . a case I’m working.”
“The Richard Janus crash.” She didn’t put it as a question.
“How the hell did you know that?”
“Well, for one thing, you’re all over the local news. The News-Sentinel; Channel Ten. But I figured it out last night. When you said you were in San Diego.”
I wasn’t happy to hear this, but I was impressed. “How?”
“Easy-peasy. The crash was big news—national news—yesterday morning. Sensational story; celebrity pilot; everybody tight-lipped about whether the body’s been I.D.’d. Then one of the world’s experts on identifying skeletal remains turns up in San Diego. Coincidence? I don’t think so.”
“I like the way your mind works, Red. Ever think about getting out of the library?”
“Huh?” She sounded . . . what? confused? taken aback? No: She sounded defensive, maybe even scared. Why? Parsing what I’d said to her, I realized, Hell, Bill, you dumb-ass. This woman’s been stalked, and suddenly you sound like maybe you’re hitting on he
r. Angling for a date. “What I mean is,” I hurried to clarify, “ever think about changing fields? From library science to . . . oh, for instance, forensic anthropology? We can always use smart people.”
I heard a brief snort—was it laughter, or scorn? “Hey, thanks,” she said. “I’ll add that to my list of brilliant career moves: years of school, mountains of debt, and a one-in-a-million shot at some dead-end teaching job in Fargo—where the odds of getting tenure would be about as low as the average winter temperature.”
“So you like the idea,” I said. “Great. I’ll be watching for your application.” Using my shoulder to hold the phone against my ear, I began wriggling into my clothes.
“You do that. Meanwhile, I’ll be watching for my Mac-Arthur Genius Grant.” She paused, then her tone got serious again. “Speaking of which: Your guy Janus—he was a Mac-Arthur Fellow, wasn’t he? Didn’t he get a genius grant for creating that charity?”
“Yeah,” I said, saddened anew by the shame and the waste of Janus’s death, or his fall, or whatever it was. “A quick-response relief force, helping people hang on till the governments and the Red Cross can get there? It was a brilliant idea.”
“Important work,” she agreed. “Bound to be frustrating, though—so much need, so little funding.” She fell silent a moment. “So put yourself in his shoes. What would you say—what could you say—if somebody offered you a way to raise more money and help more people? A way to hire more staff, buy more planes? What if all it took to make it happen was to take a little something back with you, back across the border, on your way home?”
“Smuggling drugs? You’re saying Richard Janus made a deal with the devil?”
“Not saying; just wondering,” she replied. “Just thinking out loud. Playing what-if. Deadhead miles are a waste of time and fuel, right? Ask any long-haul delivery guy. Wheels or wings, same diff. Besides, somebody’s gonna haul it; somebody’s gonna get rich. Why not one of the good guys?”
“Because then you stop being one of the good ones,” I pointed out. “Because running drugs makes you one of the bad guys.”
