Kiss the Detective

by Élmer Mendoza, Élmer Mendoza

Genres: Hard-Boiled; International Crime & Mystery; Police Procedurals

Synopsis

An intelligent, atmospheric police procedural series for fans of John Le Carré and Mick Heron "The most important thing that's happened in Mexican literature in the last thirty years" Gaby Wood, Sunday Telegraph. Detective Lefty Mendieta makes a deal with the devil in a gripping new novel from the Godfather of Narco Lit Short of leads on the execution-style murder of a fortune-teller, Detective Lefty Mendieta turns to his contacts in the drug underworld. They oblige, but there is a quid pro quo: Help Samantha Valdés, head of the Pacific Cartel, slip through the net of Mexican army and federal police encircling the hospital where she is recovering after an attempt on her life. Grudgingly he agrees, but then gets caught on camera during the escape and becomes headline news. Fired from the force and on the run from the Feds, Lefty again seeks Samantha's help when he learns that his son Jason has been kidnapped in Los Angeles. There, he must come to terms with the woman who broke his heart, while contending with a thicket of conspiracies, feints and double-crosses that further blur the distinction between crime and the law. Betrayal is certain. To save his son, who will Lefty sell out? Translated from the Spanish by Mark Fried

Release date: April 29, 2021

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 288

Sample

No-one suggested it. She simply decided Tijuana would be the place to meet and she asked Max Garcés to make the arrangements. Only the guys from the North, Max; a few spots need shoring up and Tijuana is always so nice to visit. Garcés thought it strange, but he telephoned around, thinking maybe what she wanted was to cross the border to see her son, who would turn eleven around that time, or maybe she wanted to go shopping at places she liked. Hyena Wong was opposed from the get-go. Max, Tijuana’s not to be trusted, it’s a fucking pressure cooker, Mexicali would be better, here we’ve got everything under control. I’ll tell her, but in the meantime get ready, you know what she’s like. In Tijuana, Frank Monge paused before responding. Are you sure? in my opinion the place for her is right where she is, in Culiacán; if you remember, her dad never went any further than Bachigualato. These are other times, Frank, no way around it, besides, it’s our territory, isn’t it? are we that bad off we can’t tie up the Boogeyman for a few hours while we have a quiet meeting? Yeah, but around here you never know, she should send people she trusts; as you like to say, bad times bring worse and better safe than sorry. The people in San Luis Río Colorado, Nogales, and Agua Prieta made no comment. Same story with the guys from San Francisco, Los Angeles, San Diego and Phoenix. The government’s war against drug trafficking had been over for more than a year and business was moving like a hot knife through butter, though the body-count was holding steady.

Devil Urquídez, now the father of a small child, and Chopper Tarriba, who was dating the latest Miss Sinaloa, rode with the boss, who was wearing a tight red dress and a black silk scarf. Lovely. If she was worried, it did not show. Middle of the afternoon. A small plane was waiting for them on a clandestine runway near El Salado, just outside Culiacán. The idea was to fly towards the Gulf of Santa Clara on the Sea of Cortés, land on the highway that crosses the Great Altar Desert, and from there continue by car to Rosarito, where the cartel kept a house that attracted no attention. Someone, however, had other plans.

At the southern edge of the city, when Samantha Valdés’s caravan reached the top of the bridge past Humaya Gardens Cemetery, where the Costerita Highway ends and you pick up the freeway to Mazatlán, a bazooka scored direct hit on the motor of the lead black Hummer, which was carrying the lady capo, stopping it cold. Flash fire. Squealing brakes. Can you see anything, Chopper? Devil at the wheel. Nothing, Devil my man, looks like somebody’s having a party and we’re invited. The front of the vehicle in flames. Gunfire on all sides. It’s an ambush, Samantha shouted from the back seat, adrenaline at the max. Give me an iron, boys. Chopper handed her an A.K. while lowering the armoured window, then fired his own; she did the same. Señora, wait, Devil suggested, we’d better get out before the flames reach us. From an S.U.V. beside them that was under fire, but not on fire, Max Garcés shot a bazooka and sent one of the many vehicles blocking their way flying. Rat-a-tat-tat. Blam blam. More shooting all around the flaming Hummer. Blam blam. Boom. Drivers who had nothing to do with it, that is the ones who couldn’t flee, got down on the floors of their cars, sweated and prayed. Chopper and Devil stepped onto the road without letting up their fire and took cover behind the armoured doors. The shooting accelerated to the point where the armour began to give way. Vamos, señora, Devil shouted as he opened the back door, we’ve got to make ourselves scarce. I’ll cover you, Devil, you take the señora; Chopper was enjoying himself, spraying the wide enemy camp with bullets. Devil looked inside and saw Samantha Valdés choking on her own blood. Oh, fuck. Pallid and trembling. The boss is hit, Chopper buddy. Gone limp, face drained but serene, almost saintly. I’m taking her out of here. Dress stained. Do it, these guys are real fuckers.

He lifted her into his arms and ran back towards the cemetery, using the S.U.V. as a shield. Max, who saw the movement, ordered sustained fire and then with his A.K. vomiting bullets set off after the young gunslinger. The cars they passed looked empty and some of them really were. Not until they came down off the bridge did they find one that could exit the jam. They pulled out the terrified driver and sped off. The gunfire continued apace. The boss, bleeding from the nose and mouth, started cursing; there was no time to lose. Max got hold of the number of Virgen Purísima Hospital and that’s where they headed.

Two pickups pulled out of the cemetery and took off after them. By some good fortune the car they had commandeered was new and soon outdistanced their pursuers. They flew by two patrol cars from the Narcotics Division travelling full-tilt towards the battle scene, their occupants no doubt aware any gunfight this big was their baby.

A tall red-headed doctor was waiting at the entrance; he wheeled the wounded woman directly into the operating room. What do you make of it, doctor? Devil stared at him intently. Very serious, I can’t guarantee she’ll make it. Samantha had lost a lot of blood and had fainted, her dress was a mess, the scarf was gone. Devil felt like threatening him, but the doctor moved so quickly he did not have a chance. A nurse treated Max for a small shoulder wound. What’s the redhead’s name? Dr Jiménez, she said, he’s the best. Max was worried for his men, and he clung to the hope they had escaped without serious losses. When he left only two had been killed. Of course three questions would not stop pestering him: Why hadn’t he sent an advance party? Why hadn’t he put his S.U.V. in front of the señora’s? and Who was behind this? Samantha Valdés had better come out in one piece, her son was way too young to take over the business. Someone had sent them a warning that was going to be difficult to ignore.

In a little while he sent word to the whole cartel that La Jefa had a slight wound and was receiving medical attention, she was chatting calmly with her mother and the doctor. A nice story, but Max Garcés knew he had made a serious mistake and that the unknown enemy on the horizon, given what he attempted to pull off, was no small beer.

Leaning against an ambulance in the street, he brooded about it. Across from him a patrol car from the Ministerial Police rolled slowly by, its lights flashing but the siren off. He caressed his pistol and they drove on as if nothing were out of the ordinary. They’re smart to get lost, since we still have no agreement with the new authorities, and that complicates things. Who could have dreamed up this mother? What a bastard, I’m going to hang him by the balls. Who could field enough people to block that bridge? Not many. Meanwhile, in the operating room Jiménez knew he had only one chance.

In Mexico City, in a well-appointed office overlooking a garden lit by the late April sunset, a cellphone and a landline rang at the same time. A hand with three fingers chose one.

Inside the yellow-taped perimeter, Lefty Mendieta and Zelda Toledo briefly examined the crumpled body of a young man. He had received a coup de grâce, his chest was filled with bullet-holes. Awful grimace. He must have gone down dancing like a fucking puppet, the detective reflected. Freshly shaved, wearing royal-blue designer clothes, shirt all bloody. The technicians were working the grass by a few young trees in the bit of Ecological Park next to the Sinaloa Science Centre. They were near a winding path popular with runners. It was 7.34 in the evening and at that time of year still fairly light. People of all ages were out walking or running, every one of them giving the police as wide a berth as possible. Why would a guy like him get killed? What mistake did he make? Who would have done him in? The murderer had made no effort to hide his crime, and when does that happen? Journalists took pictures, noted down the facts, and left to write their stories. All except for Daniel Quiroz, who enjoyed needling Lefty. Do you think this means the city is condemned to suffer violence in the years to come? Why don’t you ask my balls? they’re made of crystal and they’ve got all your answers, Papa. O.K., give me your theory. Ink-shitter, I’m a badge, not a fortune-teller and I’m sure no politician. Zelda scrutinised the scene with her usual care, ruminating, taking pictures with her cellphone, and dictating into it: Thursday, April 28, small plants trampled, maybe he fought back or maybe just the murderer’s footsteps. I’m sure you have some idea. That I do: given the style, so many bullets and all, I’m debating between Al Capone and Pablo Escobar. Fucking Lefty, if you weren’t my buddy I’d tear you apart. And I’d toss you in the slammer, charge you with rape, and hand you over to the horniest cons we’ve got. The press would have a field day. And if you liked it, I’d set you up in a special cell so you could keep doing your nasty shit. They’d be all over you, you know how crazy we get when we pile onto a public servant. Ortega interrupted, exhaustion written all over his face: Lefty, we found a voter I.D. in his wallet, his name was Leopoldo Gámez, 36 years old, 1800 pesos in 200-peso bills, a lucky dollar, a credit card, a bank card, and a lottery stub; we found eight shells, they might be from a Sig Sauer 9mm. Are you sure? As sure as I am that our commander is the world’s top cop. They smiled. Let me write down his address. The detective pulled out a small blue notebook. Those bros walking over there, could they have seen something? Hmm, I don’t think so, and anyone who did for sure won’t say a thing, people don’t want trouble. He also wrote: no telephone. He’s been dead two to three hours, said Montaño the forensic doctor as he walked over, the body’s still pliable; one bullet went through his head and fourteen made a mess of his thorax. In other words the dude was lucky. He didn’t suffer. You said you found eight shells? They might have put seven in him somewhere else and the rest here. I didn’t know you knew how to count. And now dear friends, I’ve got to go, there’s a little blossom waiting for me; as far as this one is concerned I told the boys to take him to the Unit, they’ll do the autopsy, and if you have no objection and the family turns up, we’ll give them the body in the morning. You’re going to die on top of a woman, fucking Montaño. Until that day I plan to enjoy myself to the max, I’ve got about thirty-nine years of crazy pleasure left, after which I’ll have to ration myself; Agent Toledo, as always it has been a pleasure seeing you. Same here, doctor. I admire the perfection of your body, your lovely hair. Cut the bullshit, and since you’re finished, you can get lost. The forensic doctor went off smiling, thinking: You are going to fall, little dove, you’ll see, and you’ll like it so much you’ll be sorry for all the time lost. Ortega gave final instructions to his team and departed, saying he needed a hug from his wife. Quiroz took several pictures and said goodbye; if he got hold of Pineda from Narcotics, who he had been chasing for three hours, ever since the gunfight at Humaya Gardens, he might get a headline. Listen, Lefty, do you know anything about a shoot-out on the bridge where the Costerita Highway ends? Nope. The body was carted off and three minutes later all that was left, besides Lefty and Zelda, was the yellow tape, a policeman to make sure no-one crossed it, and the officers Terminator and Camel, who stood and stared, clueless as to what they were supposed to do.

Zelda, here’s the address, send Termi and Camel to notify the family, they can go to Forensic Services now to identify him, but they can’t have the body until tomorrow. You really think we should send those two? To wake the bastards up; do you know why I prefer them to the others? Tell me. Because they’re honest. That’s true: people who think they’re stupid just don’t know them. Although, like people say, it’s hard to know who’s more dangerous: an honest man or a corrupt one. No doubt about assholes, though, right? Seems not.

Close by, the Science Centre was all lit up; in the other direction the Botanical Garden stretched out like a dark stain. Zelda gave the agents their orders, then took a taxi to the Forum, she wanted to buy a gift for Mother’s Day and underwear for herself. Lefty got into his Jetta, turned on the stereo: “Have You Ever Seen the Rain?” Rod Stewart’s version. He lowered the volume, looked over his notes, dialled Commander Briseño, who did not answer, and jacked the volume up again.

Twenty minutes later he was home. He sat in the car and eyed the gate to his driveway, listening to “Something Stupid” by Nicole Kidman and Robbie Williams, and thinking about getting an automatic gate-opener, and that a coat of paint would not hurt, but these were thoughts he had every night he did not feel like getting out to open the gate. Why would they kill a man so apparently upright as Leopoldo Gámez? To teach somebody a lesson, or to remind them of something? People do use bodies to send messages; we also have people who kill just to kill, but in such a grisly way? Murder is a statement, no doubt, but who would go that far? There must be some idiotic scheme behind it. He realised someone was approaching from his left, so he pulled the Walther P99 from the glove compartment and put it between his legs. His brother crossed his mind, the afternoon long ago when Enrique came into his room; Enrique was a teenager and he was a boy. What are you up to, kid? Nothing, listening to the Beatles. He had missed getting caught with the Playboy by a hair.

Hey, Lefty, remember me? Short, thin, baseball cap with the logo of the Culiacán Tomateros, dark T-shirt, baggy jeans, sneakers. Lefty looked him over in the weak light from the garage filtering through the bars of the gate. To tell the truth, no. I’m Ignacio Daut. Lefty examined him again tip to toe and nothing connected. Well, I still can’t place you, what’s up? You bastard, I’m the Flea, Doña Pina’s son, from Seventh, the fucking street that isn’t even called that anymore. Mendieta looked a third time and it all clicked. Fucking Flea, you look awful, how was I supposed to recognise you? you’re disguised as somebody respectable. He switched off the ignition and got out. That’s what I am now, my man Lefty, I pay my taxes, I go to Mass on Sunday, and I celebrate Independence Day as a double-header: Fourth of July for where I live and Sixteenth of September for dear beloved Mexico. They hugged each other. That means miracles do happen. They do, my man Lefty, for sure. So? Foreman Castelo told me where to find you. That faggot? it’s been more than a year since I last laid eyes on him. He’s fine, he’s respectable too, he says hello. Great. You lived around here when you were a kid, didn’t you? Indeedy, I did, Flea buddy, it’s been my neighbourhood all my life. Are you getting home from work? If you can call it that. Foreman told me you were a badge, but I already knew that, about four years ago I ran into your bro in Oakland and he told me. Enrique is a fucking gossip, so what’s up with you? Anxiety was getting the better of Mendieta; the last time he had seen the Flea, the man was wearing ostrich-leather boots and a silk shirt. Lefty, can we have a little chat? As long as you aren’t too hard on me. Of course not, want to talk here or could I buy you something at Meño’s? That taco stand doesn’t exist anymore, Flea. Too bad, the dog tacos were unbeatable, is there someplace else? Not like that one.

They drove to Tacos Sonora. Lefty ordered three with roast beef, Daut ordered four of the same, plus two vampire tacos and a quesadilla, plus a pitcher of agua de cebada for the two of them.

On the way over he let on that he had been in Culiacán for three days, that he had been living in Los Angeles for seventeen years and his family was there: wife and two children, a boy and a girl. The gringo lifestyle, my man Lefty. He asked if Lefty knew why he had disappeared from the neighbourhood. Mendieta did know, but he shook his head. He asked if Lefty remembered Pockmark Long. Lefty knew the man was dead, but claimed ignorance. What kind of badge are you, fucking Lefty? A really tough one with a lousy memory. Mendieta also knew that Daut had killed Pockmark after the guy raped his fourteen-year-old sister, and that was why he had made himself scarce. For the rest of the drive the Flea moved on to small talk.

I’m doing well over there, Lefty, we’ve got a tortilla factory, my children are grown, they didn’t want to go to college so they came into the business. Lefty thought of his son Jason, it had been a week since they last talked. Mendieta knew the Flea had sought him out for some reason and he was tired of waiting. Are you on vacation? No, I’m back for good, and on my own; the family’s staying in Los Angeles. I don’t get it, if you’re so happy over there, asshole, what are you doing here? your fling with Pamela Anderson didn’t work out? Daut smiled, he finished chewing. I’m going to die soon, Lefty. That’s news, thought the detective. He waited a moment, then asked, What have you got? Nothing, I’m healthy as could be. So? Somebody’s going to whack me and I’d rather it happen here, where I belong. Ah, that’s a bitch, and could I ask who? One of Pockmark’s kids, they’ve grown up and I’ve got it from a reliable source that since last year they’ve been going around settling accounts; you might have heard I brought the dude down before I took off for the other side. A minute went by. I don’t understand why I should know about what’s going to happen to you. Well, I’ve always liked you and I want you to know. Who’s going to do it? Maybe his son, he’s nineteen now and he looks as Chinese as his fucking father. Does he live here? No, but he’ll come looking for me. Aren’t you something, baring your breast. No, I just want him to know I’m not afraid and that it’s a man he’s going to kill. Well, good for you. Lefty thought he might mention it to Pineda, the head of Narcotics, although he was sure it would do no good. Defend yourself, if you can. My man Lefty, thank you for the permission, I expected no less of you. They smiled. Did Pockmark have several sons? Just the one, the others are chicks and until they get married they won’t get involved, can you eat another two? No, I’m full, thanks. Daut paid, then asked Lefty to let him off at Santa Cruz Church, he wanted to take a stroll; they agreed to meet up another day. Mendieta still did not understand why he had confided in him about that Chinese guy Long, who was unscrupulous and cruel, or about the threat from his son. Seventeen years since they last saw each other and all he wanted was to chat, could that be it? He changed the C.D.: “Brown-Eyed Girl” by Van Morrison. Maybe, sometimes you need to hang out your dirty laundry to keep from going crazy.

At home he opened the gate without delay; one supper was enough. He dialled Jason, who answered sleepily. It’s Edgar, how are you? Papa, hello, I’m fine, I was writing a paper all afternoon and I fell asleep. Angels have to sleep too, eh? A trip to Culiacán is what I need, to recharge my batteries. You can come for summer vacation, I want to see you; did you fix things with that teacher who was bothering you? Mister Salinger? he resigned and moved to Boston. Don’t let him affect you and don’t leave any loose threads hanging; if you’re going to be a badge you need to learn that right away. I’m training to run the mile again, there’s a police academies’ meet in two months. Poor bastards, they’re going to eat your dust for sure. I’m also listening to your music, it’s not bad. Good taste makes for a good life, my son. Some aren’t so cool, but they’re still nice to listen to. The years may go by, but they still stand up to a. . .