Egdar "Lefty" Mendieta investigates the death of a notorious stripper in this second sweltering "Narco-lit" noir from the Godfather of Mexican crime fiction An intelligent, atmospheric police procedural series for fans of John Le Carré and Mick Heron When the mutilated body of Mayra Cabral de Melo is found in a dusty field, Detective Edgar "Lefty" Mendieta has personal reasons for bringing the culprit to justice. Mayra, a well-known stripper, had no shortage of ardent, deluded and downright dangerous admirers, and Lefty himself is haunted by the night he spent in her company. As Mexico's drug war ramps up, Lefty's pursuit of a gallery of jealous and powerful suspects, all with a murderous glint in their eye, leads him to Samantha Valdés, the godfather's daughter, who is battling to retain her father's empire. And as the mystery deepens, the bodycount rises.
Release date:
December 1, 2016
Publisher:
MacLehose Press
Print pages:
284
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Omar Briseño, commander of the Sinaloa State Ministerial Police in Culiacán
The Camel, Homicide Department officer
Gorilla Hortigosa, known as Gori, specialist in extracting confessions
Edgar Mendieta, known as Lefty, Homicide Department detective
Dr Montaño, Homicide Department forensic doctor
Noriega, police detective in Mazatlán, friend of Lefty Mendieta
Guillermo Ortega, head of the crime lab
Moísés Pineda, head of the Anti-Narcotics Unit of the Federal Preventive Police
Robles, Headquarters duty officer
Sánchez, retired detective, former work partner of Lefty Mendieta
Terminator, Homicide Department officer
Zelda Toledo, Homicide Department detective, work partner of Lefty Mendieta
THE NARCOS
Richie Bernal, member of the Valdés family clan
Sergio Carrillo, also known as Muerto or Guasave, enforcer for Dioni de la Vega
Max Garcés, chief of security for the Valdés family
Grunt, gunslinger and bodyguard for Richie Bernal
Guacho, driver for Samantha Valdés
Eloy Quintana, drug lord from Sonora state, member of the Pacific Cartel
Rafa, gunslinger and bodyguard for Richie Bernal
Imelda Terán, also known as Vanessa, assistant to drug lord Dioni de la Vega
Devil Urquídez, former policeman, now a bodyguard and enforcer for the Valdés family, engaged to Shorty Abitia’s daughter Begoña
Marcelo Valdés, godfather of Culiacán, leader of the Pacific Cartel, father of Samantha
Minerva de Valdés, wife of Marcelo Valdés
Samantha Valdés, also known as La Jefa, daughter of the godfather of Culiacán
Dioni de la Vega, drug lord from Culiacán
CLUB ALEXA PERSONNEL
Bernardo Almada, part owner, lives in the United States
Mayra Cabral de Melo, also known as Roxana, Brazilian exotic dancer whom Lefty Mendieta met in Mazatlán at the end of Silver Bullets
Rodrigo Cabrera, part owner, former district attorney for the State of Sinaloa
Elisa Calderón, assistant manager
Alonso Carvajal, manager
José Escamilla, waiter
Yolanda Estrada, also known as Yhajaira, exotic dancer, Roxana’s housemate
Luis Ángel Meraz, part owner, former federal congressman, gubernatorial hopeful
Miroslava, exotic dancer
Camila Naranjo, exotic dancer
The Phantom (Óscar Olivas), bartender
Othoniel Ramírez, the club’s legal representative, who runs the business
José Rivera, also known as Bigboy, bouncer
THE AMERICANS
Mister B., father of the U.S. president
David Barrymore, assistant director in charge of the Los Angeles F.B.I. office
Adán Carrasco, former U.S. army sharpshooter, owner of El Continente hunting camp
Special Agent William Ellroy, second-in-command of Secret Service personnel guarding Mister B.
Win Harrison, also known as Jean Pynchon, F.B.I. special agent
Master Special Officer Mitchell, commander of Secret Service personnel guarding Mister B.
Donald Simak, also known as Peter Connolly, F.B.I. special agent
OTHERS
Begoña Abitia, daughter of Shorty Abitia, engaged to gunslinger Devil Urquídez
Shorty Abitia, childhood friend of Lefty Mendieta, father of Begoña
Esteban Aguirrebere, owner of San Esteban farms, Club Alexa customer
Andrade, arms dealer for the Mexican Armed Forces
The Apache, police informer, sells candy, gum and cigarettes outside Club Alexa
Dulce Arredondo, collaborator of smuggler Leo McGiver
Father Bardominos, priest who abused Lefty Mendieta when he was eight years old
Miguel Camacho, father of former boxer Kid Yoreme
Miguel Ángel Canela, businessman, Club Alexa customer
Foreman Castelo, childhood friend of Lefty Mendieta, owner of a killer-for-hire agency, who owes Lefty for getting him out of a jam
Miguel de Cervantes, Club Alexa customer from Spain
Curlygirl, waiter at El Quijote bar, friend of Lefty Mendieta
Marcelino Freire, Brazilian football player for Dorados of Sinaloa
Silvio García, legendary Culiacán boxing trainer
Rudy Jiménez, owner of Café El Miró, Lefty Mendieta’s favourite spot
Mariana Kelly, publicist, romantic partner of Samantha Valdés
José Antonio Lagarde, businessman and former husband of Anita Roy, father of Marcos
Marcos Lagarde, son of Anita Roy and José Antonio Lagarde, lives in Toronto, Canada, friend of Paty Olmedo
Lili Leyva, wife of Alexa manager Alonso Carvajal
L.H., retired master perfume maker in Tijuana, now consultant to police investigators in California and Mexico, friend of Lefty Mendieta
Fermín de Lima, wealthy businessman in Mazatlán
Joaquín Lizárraga, mayor of Mazatlán
Susana Luján, long-ago girlfriend of Lefty Mendieta, with whom he unknowingly fathered a child, lives in California
Leo McGiver, smuggler and gunrunner, also known as Steven Tyler, friend of Fabián Olmedo
Enrique Mendieta, brother of Lefty Mendieta, former guerrilla, lives in Oregon
Jason Mendieta, seventeen-year-old son of Lefty Mendieta and Susana Luján, lives in California
Felipe Montemayor, district attorney for the State of Sinaloa
Fabián Olmedo, known as Gandhi, owner of a luxury car dealership, friend of Leo McGiver, father of Paty
Patricia Olmedo, known as Paty, fashion designer, daughter of Fabián Olmedo
Dayana Ortiz, publicist and girlfriend of politician Luis Ángel Meraz
Juan Osuna Roth, owner of a Mazatlán modelling agency
Elena Palencia, mother of exotic dancer Mayra Cabral de Melo
Dr Parra, Lefty Mendieta’s psychiatrist
Daniel Quiroz, star crime reporter for “Eyes on the Night” radio programme
Rodo (Rodolfo Uzeta), boyfriend of police detective Zelda Toledo
Anita Roy, friend of Mayra Cabral de Melo, former wife of José Antonio Lagarde, mother of Marcos
Sarita, wife of crime lab technician Guillermo Ortega
Teo (Teófilo), trucker, former guerrilla, best friend of Lefty Mendieta’s brother Enrique
Trudis, woman who cooks and cleans for Lefty Mendieta and whose children were fathered by several Mexican musicians
Danilo Twain, arms smuggling partner of Leo McGiver
Vinicio de la Vega, federal congressman, brother of drug lord Dioni de la Vega
Kid Yoreme (José Ángel Camacho Arenas), former boxer, Club Alexa customer
MEXICAN DISHES AND DRINKS
Aguachile: fresh raw shrimp marinated in lime juice with cucumber, red onion, and crushed chillies in water
Barbacoa: cubed beef and beef marrow stewed in beer with potatoes, onions, tomatoes, olives, chillies, and spices
Campechana: seafood cocktail of oysters, baby octopus, mussels, shrimp, squid, and scallops
Carne asada: grilled roast beef
Ceviche: raw fish or shrimp marinated in lime juice with chillies and spices
Chorizo: sausage made from smoked, cured pork, guajillo and ancho chillies, and spices
Eggs montados: fried eggs on ham and tortillas
Filete culichi: fish baked with poblano chillies and cream
Guacamole: dip of avocados, lemon, onions, and jalapeño chillies
Levantamuertos (“raise the dead”): spicy seafood stew made with shrimp, octopus, fish, and manta ray
Machaca: marinated beef or pork rubbed with spices, pounded, shredded, and dried
Menudo: tripe and hominy stew
Michelada: beer, lime juice, and assorted spices served in a chilled, salt-rimmed glass
Pan de pulque: sweet bread made with fermented cactus water
Pozole: pork and hominy stew
Quesadillas: deep-fried corn dumplings with cheese or other fillings
Red snapper chicharrones: deep-fried chunks of fish
Red snapper zarandeado: grilled fish marinated in chillies, garlic, and spices
Salsa mexicana: condiment of chopped tomatoes, onions, jalapeño chillies, cilantro, and salt
Salsa ranchera: very spicy sauce made with onions, garlic, tomatoes, and serrano chillies
Salsa roja: spicy sauce made with onions, tomatoes, cilantro and assorted chillies
Faced with a dark night that was growing darker, Mayra Cabral de Melo gave in. She realised that the man who was opening the car door and hauling her out would be the last man in her life, that Almighty God would not alter her fate, and that she had been wrong about something, maybe about everything. She stumbled. What good is a man? Behind her the city formed an icy painted backdrop. Good for everything and nothing. The man, a lover for the past two months, though lately she had been avoiding him, steered her by the waist with the roughness of a soldier. Oh God, after so many extraordinary times. She remembered her dreams when she was small: to be a firefighter, police officer, nurse, doctor, football player, actress, singer, dancer. The best in the neighbourhood and the best in the country. The queen. Right. But she set fire to her youth as if it were a snake-infested boat: night after night, when flames burn deepest and cause the most damage. When you answer to any name. Now nothing made sense, not here, far from the domain of her dreams, behind some big warehouse, walking through stubby plants that did not hurt though she was wearing a short skirt and strapless blouse, marched by that tall man with whom she had had fun and entertained guests, and with whom she had slept so often, but not, despite his insistence, in the past week.
Minutes earlier, however, after he had lured her with the offer of an exorbitant amount, she had agreed and tried to caress him. He brushed her off with sarcasm: I never do it with dead girls. My love, relax, do you want me to do it the way you really like? Get it, I’m serious. What are you talking about? what do you mean you’re serious? No answer. Did I do something wrong, my love, my teddy bear? if I did, won’t you forgive me? He did not turn to look at her.
She had not finished the letter to her mother or sent her the money. She did manage to pay the electricity, the water, and the telephone. She had gone to the supermarket, booked appointments with the gynaecologist for Saturday and with the pedicurist for Monday, and what about the people from Mazatlán? She had forgotten her housemate Yhajaira’s birthday, first time that ever happened. No-one makes a fool of me, especially a stupid whore. Several times she had thought about buying pepper spray, but what for? It was not such a dangerous city and, anyway, right then she did not have her handbag with her. Inside it were the eighteen thousand dollars her pimp had given her so she would not have to work as of Friday, the unfinished letter, her relaxing cream, her sleeping pills, and a lot more. It will all end up with this swine, who may have introduced her to important people, but so what? Why didn’t I leave the money at home? because I was in a hurry. I didn’t mean to offend you. Shut up! you’re a millionaire thanks to me, what more did you want? The plants brushed against her legs, but she no longer felt them. I wanted you to stop threatening me, my king, to stop scaring me with that temper of yours. If only she had got around to speaking with. She heard the shot and that was it: the night suddenly got darker. She landed with her face to the sky, tilted towards the whitish moon. The murderer, tall, somewhat heavyset, short hair, took his time, not to close her eyes, but to pull down her blouse and cut off one dark nipple.
On the highway close by drove oblivion.
Two in the morning. Edgar “Lefty” Mendieta reared up in bed gasping loudly. He felt he was in the dark cave of his stomach, searching, and he kept bumping into a diminished, frightened version of himself, devoid of past or future. That is what he felt. He thought: I’ll die before Mick Jagger. On the television they were selling exercise machines. That bastard Jagger turned vegetarian and now he stuffs his face with omega six and fortified calcium. He got up and switched it off. Who am I? who says I’m doing what I should? that I’m worth anything? at what point in my life did I mess up? is living worth the effort? What a numbskull I am, a loveless idiot, pursuing a profession that earns nothing but scorn. A 43-year-old jerk living alone in his brother’s house, no father and what’s worse no mother. A scumbag who never even got fucking divorced because I never got married, and no godfather from baptism or first communion. A hack fated to die before that skunk Jagger who’s now a Sir and won’t leave Keith Richards in peace. Wearing the white T-shirt and boxer shorts he slept in, he sat back down on the bed and turned on the light. The air conditioner was quiet. On the dresser, The House of the Fortunate Buddhas by João Ubaldo Ribeiro with a bookmark in the middle. Outside, barking. I’m a failure, he went on, a loser whose only future is to be a worthless nobody, because to be a Mister Nobody would be beyond me. He thought of the pistol in the car, and he stood and left the bedroom. There are things that cannot be fixed. He went through the door to the garage, opened the Jetta, and took the Beretta out of the glove compartment. I don’t understand how I’ve lived this long; does it really make sense for somebody like me to live longer than he should? whatever that is. This is what it is: years and years go by and everything you do is wrong; you turn eighteen and you don’t have a clue why you were born, what you should do, and you spend your life spinning your wheels. Somebody like that does not deserve to live, a person like that has no right to consume oxygen. He looked and the bullet was chambered. From inside the car he took a cigarette and lit up. That was when the barking registered. Fucking louse, for sure he’s chasing his tail. He went to the gate, then into the street. The moon was large and reddish and the dog was barking away at it. You’re fucked, you stupid beast. He addressed him in a low voice. What are you doing barking at the moon? You’re just like me, you’re in another world; just like me, everything you do is ridiculous. There’s no way out, little dog, are you going to kill yourself or am I going to kill myself? because frankly isn’t that what I’ve been doing my whole life? yapping at the moon? with the damn Bible on the brain? Don’t tell me barking at the moon is poetic, poetic’s my balls and nobody barks at them. The dog in the little front garden across the street knew Lefty, he came to the fence wagging his tail. So, you want to go first? You sure turned out to be one tough fucking pooch. He saw his shadow and the shadow of the 92FS in his hand. Eyeing him, the dog growled. What kind of support is that, you fucking pest? ah, you don’t want me muscling in on the first shot? His own shadow again caught his attention and he studied it, raised the gun, and watched his shadow follow suit; he aimed the weapon at his temple and held it there as he walked back into the garage. Seconds later, he emerged without the pistol and holding a fresh cigarette. Let’s see, tough guy, you who knows everything and whatever you don’t know you make up: why have I been thinking what I’ve been thinking? what piece of me came apart inside? what fucking amino acid, amphetamine, or brain cell got all riled up and made me delirious? He crossed the street, went up to the dog, and patted his head. What provokes a man who is not suicidal to think that ending it all would not be such a dreadful thing? The dog wagged his tail. He smiled. Alright, you animal, tomorrow I’ll go see Dr Parra. I’ll get an appointment for you too, but you have to promise me something: don’t pay any attention to what he says; if you like barking at the moon, just do it, after all, what can you lose? He took a drag, the dog watched. You want a cigarette? you’ve gone too far, you fucking beast, you’re a bagful of vices. He crushed the butt on the pavement. O.K., try to get some rest, tomorrow is another day, and he went back into his house without a glance at the moon, which had turned whitish.
No-one knew who McGiver really was. Some said he was English, others thought he was German. No-one ever said he was Iranian or Argentinian. He was born in Culiacán in Colonia Popular, a neighbourhood known as the Col Pop, fifty-six years ago and he worked in contraband. Happen to need a shipment of A.K.-47s or Barrett 50s? How about a fleet of helicopters? Happen to crave a Dom Perignon ’54, a confession penned by Nicole Kidman, or one of Elizabeth Taylor’s diamonds? Leo McGiver was your man; he took orders from the good, the bad, and the worse, and he was not hard to find in Mexico City. He liked high-class bars, half-light, and a smiling, wordless woman. Bars today are designed for smiling, drinking, and performing the eternal gestures of wooing, not for conversation. If any girl tried to offer an opinion he would shut her right up. Smile, my lady, that’s the only thing I ask of you. Sexually replete, he was enjoying himself at the Jazz bar in the Hotel San Luis in Culiacán; he was in the city, among other reasons, to win the backing of a gang of drug traffickers and to close an unusual deal after days of concentrated effort, something he took on because it was for an old acquaintance, perhaps the only hometown boy with whom he remained on friendly terms, and the only one who knew his history. The least he could do was fulfil his end of the bargain. I like my friend, he’s the nut who invented the printing press with moveable type. The brown-skinned girl with green contacts kept smiling and occasionally sipped a White Russian. Do you know what a printing press with moveable type is? She shook her head. Well, he invented it; quite the guy, though he happens to be nuts. The girl nodded without making a sound; if there was one thing she had learned in her brief training it was that the client is boss, and if this idiot wanted her silent she would find another occasion to speak.
They had been together for all of two hours and McGiver had had one too many. Why do people drink vodka as if it were water? He’s invented other gadgets, the fountain pen, for instance, have you ever written with a fountain pen? She shook her head again. He invented it one night when he had nothing else to do, just like that, without any preconceived notion, and he lives here in this city where everything is always changing. He was the kind who liked to look you in the eye when he talked, the girl had that figured out after three minutes in his company. To the health of my friend and his inventions. McGiver drained his glass, the young woman took a sip from hers and filled his. This time, however, he’s gone too far, not some new invention, I have no idea what he’s cooking up these days, I’m talking about the piece he asked me for, which I managed to get hold of thanks to my contacts in Europe, but what an unbelievable headache, the search took twists and turns that were utterly surreal. He drank his vodka. If I tell you he’s nuts it’s because he is. But not straitjacket insanity, no way, his craziness drives him to ask for nutty and absurd things, understand? The girl nodded. A man can’t possibly want such ridiculous things, do you have any idea where humanity will end up with people like him? She shook her head. In the most implausible chaos, global pandemonium, something I don’t ever want to see; his desires are simply inconceivable, if I were to tell you what he sent me to find, you’d be amazed, you wouldn’t think it was worth anything, but he didn’t care how much I spent, do you know who Jeff Beck is? The girl again shook her head. I figured, have you seen the movie Blow-Up? Another headshake. He gestured that he understood and bent to his drink. Too bad you can’t smoke in here, I feel like a cigarette, it’s the alcohol, oh, and as I was telling you, you need to be crazier than a goat to invest in things like that; tomorrow I’ll deliver his precious treasure which I searched for like an idiot all over Brussels and Turin and finally I found it in Lisbon, on the second floor of a house in the neighbourhood of Santa Catarina, do you know where Lisbon is? She rolled her eyes.
Sir, I need to talk to you about something. Hey hey hey, none of that, we’re doing fine, don’t break the spell, that’s all I ask. I’ll be brief. No, no, no, your health. She was annoyed and bored. A few minutes later the smuggler asked for his waiter. The girl waved a young man over. The bill. They were the last customers and he had it ready. I don’t usually carry cash, could you add in the girl’s fee and give it to her? Three thousand, she said, and now she smiled again. Make it four thousand, you really are an enchanting companion, what’s your name? She mouthed it without a sound. With two s’s? She nodded. They smiled. McGiver signed the voucher with a flourish and stood up. Get me a taxi. There are taxis at the door, sir. Could I possibly put in words how much I enjoyed this evening? The smuggler wagged his finger and as he walked away his body drooped. The girl eyed him with a scowl. Out of a corner of the room came Muerto, a watchful young man who sat down beside her, in McGiver’s chair to be precise. They exchanged gestures: she of disappointment, he of love. They stood and left.
Mendieta was reading the newspaper at his desk. Zelda Toledo was filing her nails. They were sipping their drinks, she Diet Coke, he coffee. Officers disappeared down the hallways after receiving their orders. Lefty’s cell phone rang out its familiar Seventh Cavalry song, which so inspires fans at horse-racing tracks around the world. Mendieta here. Why are you talking like that? Like what? Strange, as if you’d swallowed a syllable. I told you so much screwing was going to affect you, asshole, you’re going deaf. Don’t make up stories, Lefty, you really do sound different, besides, I’m the doctor. What’s up? Nothing, just I’m going to be out of circulation for a little while. You don’t say. When I’m free I’ll give you a call. What are her eyes like? Big and shining, the prettiest I’ve ever seen in my miserable life. Don’t end up deaf, eh? Deaf are moles and. Lefty hung up. It was Montaño, right? muttered Zelda. On his morning errand. What an appalling excuse for a man. Agent Toledo, since you are flour from another sack, it shou. . .
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