Chapter 9: 9: We Are Relatives, How Could I Possibly Trick You? (Leave Some Comments)
Victor pulled out a bottle of wine.
He also found two highball glasses from somewhere, took them to the bathroom to rinse, saying they'd been sitting for so long, they even had cobwebs.
He poured the wine and handed a glass to Casare, laughing with grand promises, "Rest assured, I have a firm grasp on this business. Wherever there's violence, there'll be customers. The Mexican drug traffickers can't possibly be fighting with sticks and stones, right?"
Having said that, he started laughing himself, "We either don't make money or we make a ton. When the time comes, we buy a mansion next to the president. Who'd dare look down on us then? Play less by the roadside stalls. Otherwise, all the money you earn will just go to treating AIDS."
As Victor spoke, he clinked glasses and downed his in one gulp.
The taste of cheap red wine...
AIDS had been discovered in 1981, and the Yanks always wanted to be at the forefront of everything, even f***ing around in such fancy ways.
Casare, not thick-skinned, flushed red at these words, sipped the red wine as if something occurred to him and asked, "I heard you offended a drug lord today. Could he retaliate against you?"
"Retaliate?"
Victor slumped into a chair, crossed his legs, took out a cigarette, smelled it under his nose, then tapped it a few times in his palm, "He's locked up in jail like a dead dog. I'm a cop, why should I be afraid of him? Even if they come at me with dirty tricks, and someone gives him face to kill me, do they have more firepower than me, the motherf***er?"
"I'll just mow them down with an AK47."
"Just the two of us... might be tough..."
"What's there to fear?" Victor said, holding his cigarette between his fingers, "What business doesn't run into trouble?"
"Drug lord?"
Victor spit, "We're cops. Isn't catching drug lords part of our job?"
Victor glanced at him, "These guys involved in grey-area dealings either end up rich beyond measure or rotting in prison. The same goes for us. Do you see any way out? Believe it or not, the moment you sell weapons with your cousin, every gang in Mexico City will know there's a fat man smuggling arms. Then... you'll be picked clean."
"Casare, my ambitions in life are low. I want to f*** women I've never f***ed before, I want people to stand up when they see me, and when I'm not happy, I want everyone to shut up.
I don't just want to find a woman, have a child, and toil my whole life only to live in poverty, then get a serious illness one day, and have my sons do hard labor, and my daughters prostitute themselves to pay for my medical bills —and then lying in a hospital bed, say 'to be ordinary is to be blessed.' F*** that, I'm going to get rich.
If Jesus gets in my way of making money, I'll f***ing move Good Friday to Friday!"
As he spoke, he poured himself more red wine, raised his glass in a toast, "If we're going to play, let's play big, right? Afraid of risks when making money? The greater the risk, the more money we make!"
Casare had been a cop for four or five years, receiving little money from drug traffickers on the side, and he was already tired of it. So poor that he could wash off the white dots on his underwear and use them as salt, looking into Victor's eyes, he gritted his teeth, snatched the red wine, with about a third remaining, and gulped it down.
"Victor, whatever you say, I'll follow."
Casare was sharp, "But we're cops, some things we can't do openly, we need to find someone to help."
Victor nodded, feeling that the other man made sense, then suddenly a name popped into his head, "Do you remember Nuriel Best?"
Casare was startled upon hearing the name, "Didn't a drug trafficker kill his whole family?"
"He's still alive, living in Chimalhuacán. I have his contact details."
The original owner of this body was an honest man with plenty of "friends," and Nuriel Best was one of them. He, like Casare, was a cop, and the three of them had even worked together before.
When Guzman was caught before the Millennium, do you know how he escaped?
He paid over two million US dollars to have a cleaner stuff him in a laundry cart and wheel him out.
Outside the prison gate, Casare saw groups of men on both sides of the entrance, staring at him menacingly and pointing fingers; some even held up pictures for comparison. Clearly, they were here for revenge.
Casare's eyelids were trembling.
These people might as well have "Drug Lord" written on their foreheads. If they started shooting, with the space around, there'd be nowhere to hide.
Casare took a deep breath and calmly walked past them. At the bus stop, he saw a bright red car waiting. He checked the license plate, then opened the rear door and got in.
Inside were already four people: a driver, and on the passenger side, a man with bushy hair and a scruffy beard; in the backseat, two burly men who looked tough to deal with.
"Casare, cousin, long time no see," said the man in the passenger seat as he took off his sunglasses and turned to greet him with a smile.
Casare, holding his backpack, said pointing at him, "Dragan, when did you get a gold tooth?" amidst the stench of men, a mixture of body odor and smelly feet.
"Good-looking, right? Cost me 3,000 Pesos," the other said with a hint of boastfulness.
Damn it!
That's so expensive, you could buy several lives in Mexico with that kind of money.
As Casare inwardly cursed the wastefulness, he still smiled and gave a thumbs-up complimenting his good taste. He knew his own cousin's character, didn't he?
He likes to show off. In the outside world, it comes down to two things: your wallet and your reputation. If you don't compliment him and say he's wasting money, cousins? Believe it or not, he'll do you in.
"You told me over the phone you got good stuff, what is it? I was about to take my boys to collect protection money, and I drove dozens of kilometers here. Don't tell me you just played me," Dragan said, slightly tilting his head.
Casare opened his backpack and took out the parts of the AK47, assembling it under the gaze of Dragan and the others—he had been taught by Victor the night before.
"This is the good stuff, right?" He patted the gun and handed it over with a smile.
"F***! AK47!"
With a classic expletive, Dragan took the rifle, working the bolt a few times, enjoying the crisp sound, "Where'd you get this?"
"We've got people in the Soviet Union; getting some weapons is easy. The minute I got my hands on something good, I thought of you. Do you want it?"
Dragan took another look up and down at Casare, "Seems like you've joined a promising organization."
"You want to join? The Mexican Government? The police force is recruiting," Casare said, "Is there a bigger organization than this one?"
Dragan was left speechless by this remark.
Forget being part of a gang—become a cop?
Has he lost his mind?
"I'll give you a good price for this gun, just cover the shipping and handling fees, and take care of my business in the future. How about 800 US dollars? We're cousins, I won't cheat you," Casare said.
...