wearing a snug
gold turtleneck and matching corduroy pants. The belt holster peeking out of her down vest was empty; U.S. agents were forbidden
to carry firearms on Mexican soil. But Méndez suspected thatshe was packing her second gun, a short-barreled automatic, in one of her knee-high suede boots or the bag over her shoulder.
As always, he found the greeting awkward. With his male counterparts from U.S. law enforcement, who like Puente were mostly
Latinos with cross-border liaison duties, Méndez generally exchanged the standard ritualistic
abrazo
complete with two-handed back slap. That didn’t seem appropriate with Puente. They shook hands over the desk. She leaned
forward for a hesitant peck on the cheek, her demure look softening her self-assuredness.
But she recovered quickly, pulling a book from her bag and brandishing it at him.
“Here,” she said. “This is for you. This is
about
you.”
The book was entitled
Manual of the Perfect Latin American Idiot.
“
Ay,
how thoughtful,” he laughed. “The bible of the neoliberal right, no? They decided the calamities of Latin America are the
fault of the left. What a surprise.”
“It’s a classic,” Puente said. Her accent in Spanish retained the sugar-mouthed and staccato rhythms of Cuban South Florida.
But she was agile enough to mimic the expressions and drawl of the border. “You’ve got an image problem with my bosses at
the task force. They think you’re a Communist anti-American. But an honest Communist anti-American, if there is such a thing.”
“Their worst nightmare, eh? What I want to know is, why do you hang out with me, then?”
Puente plopped into a chair. “Obviously, I must have a weakness for Marxist
mamones.”
“Obviously.”
“Leo,” Puente said, a boot heel starting a soft hammer on the floor. “Have you told your obnoxious leftist friends in the
Tijuana press about this incident with the Border Patrol agent yet?”
As sharp as she was, Méndez thought, her Cubanness and Americanness impeded her from absorbing the cultural lesson that it
was not polite form in Mexico to get right down to business. A few more ritualistic pleasantries were in order. One day he would explain gently that, around here, it was better
to circle in on your conversational target than to charge at it.
“Not yet, Isabel,” he said, making a defensive gesture. “I was waiting to talk to you.”
“Good. I hate to disappoint you, but it might work out better if we keep it quiet.”
“That goes against all my patriotic instincts. Who is this character?”
“We are pretty sure it was Agent Valentine Pescatore,” she said. “Ever hear anything about him? He’s on the fringe of Garrison’s
group.”
“I would remember a name like that. Another criminal?”
“I don’t know yet.” Isabel Puente gave an uncharacteristic sigh. “We did a preliminary interview today. He’s a street kid,
kind of wild, from what I can tell. But not necessarily a thug. I hope if we handle him right, it might be a real opportunity.
What did you get?”
Méndez picked up the phone. His secretary tracked down Athos, who had spent the afternoon canvassing the area in the Zona
Norte where the U.S. agent had crossed The Line. Athos was eating at Tacos El Gordo.
Méndez pulled his pistol from a drawer and stuck it in his belt. “Let’s go meet them. My treat, of course.”
Puente wrinkled her nose. She was squeamish about street food. “I’ll say this, Leo, you’ve got an honest operation here. No
fancy meals for the Diogenes Group.”
“In reality, I’m concerned how it would look to your government. The way things are in your country, inviting a lovely young
agent to a nice restaurant could get me accused of sexual harassment, no?”
She appeared to wince; he wondered if he had gone too far. But she grinned and responded: “Saying what you just said could
get you accused of sexual harassment.”
Tacos El Gordo was on
gold turtleneck and matching corduroy pants. The belt holster peeking out of her down vest was empty; U.S. agents were forbidden
to carry firearms on Mexican soil. But Méndez suspected thatshe was packing her second gun, a short-barreled automatic, in one of her knee-high suede boots or the bag over her shoulder.
As always, he found the greeting awkward. With his male counterparts from U.S. law enforcement, who like Puente were mostly
Latinos with cross-border liaison duties, Méndez generally exchanged the standard ritualistic
abrazo
complete with two-handed back slap. That didn’t seem appropriate with Puente. They shook hands over the desk. She leaned
forward for a hesitant peck on the cheek, her demure look softening her self-assuredness.
But she recovered quickly, pulling a book from her bag and brandishing it at him.
“Here,” she said. “This is for you. This is
about
you.”
The book was entitled
Manual of the Perfect Latin American Idiot.
“
Ay,
how thoughtful,” he laughed. “The bible of the neoliberal right, no? They decided the calamities of Latin America are the
fault of the left. What a surprise.”
“It’s a classic,” Puente said. Her accent in Spanish retained the sugar-mouthed and staccato rhythms of Cuban South Florida.
But she was agile enough to mimic the expressions and drawl of the border. “You’ve got an image problem with my bosses at
the task force. They think you’re a Communist anti-American. But an honest Communist anti-American, if there is such a thing.”
“Their worst nightmare, eh? What I want to know is, why do you hang out with me, then?”
Puente plopped into a chair. “Obviously, I must have a weakness for Marxist
mamones.”
“Obviously.”
“Leo,” Puente said, a boot heel starting a soft hammer on the floor. “Have you told your obnoxious leftist friends in the
Tijuana press about this incident with the Border Patrol agent yet?”
As sharp as she was, Méndez thought, her Cubanness and Americanness impeded her from absorbing the cultural lesson that it
was not polite form in Mexico to get right down to business. A few more ritualistic pleasantries were in order. One day he would explain gently that, around here, it was better
to circle in on your conversational target than to charge at it.
“Not yet, Isabel,” he said, making a defensive gesture. “I was waiting to talk to you.”
“Good. I hate to disappoint you, but it might work out better if we keep it quiet.”
“That goes against all my patriotic instincts. Who is this character?”
“We are pretty sure it was Agent Valentine Pescatore,” she said. “Ever hear anything about him? He’s on the fringe of Garrison’s
group.”
“I would remember a name like that. Another criminal?”
“I don’t know yet.” Isabel Puente gave an uncharacteristic sigh. “We did a preliminary interview today. He’s a street kid,
kind of wild, from what I can tell. But not necessarily a thug. I hope if we handle him right, it might be a real opportunity.
What did you get?”
Méndez picked up the phone. His secretary tracked down Athos, who had spent the afternoon canvassing the area in the Zona
Norte where the U.S. agent had crossed The Line. Athos was eating at Tacos El Gordo.
Méndez pulled his pistol from a drawer and stuck it in his belt. “Let’s go meet them. My treat, of course.”
Puente wrinkled her nose. She was squeamish about street food. “I’ll say this, Leo, you’ve got an honest operation here. No
fancy meals for the Diogenes Group.”
“In reality, I’m concerned how it would look to your government. The way things are in your country, inviting a lovely young
agent to a nice restaurant could get me accused of sexual harassment, no?”
She appeared to wince; he wondered if he had gone too far. But she grinned and responded: “Saying what you just said could
get you accused of sexual harassment.”
Tacos El Gordo was on
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