Alejandro walked into his office tiredly, tossing his briefcase onto the sofa.
He had been feeling mentally exhausted recently, because ever since that incident, his wife and daughter had been suffering from nightmares frequently, and he loathed that Sergeant named Victor Carlos Vieri!
He had thought about finding someone to help, but who did he know that was tough enough for that?
In Mexico, being a policeman is the lowest of the low. Drug traffickers might deign to give you a little spending money every month, but if they don't give you face, and you can't tell who's really in charge, you might not see the sun rise tomorrow.
In just 1987 alone, Mexico lost over 700 police officers, and about 17 police stations were overtly attacked by drug traffickers.
In peaceful areas, in countries where government institutions have a strong deterrent effect, drug traffickers are like rats when they see a cat.
In Mexico...
Police are even worse than a dog kept by a drug trafficker.
Most importantly, after the Camarena case in 1985, the upper echelons of the police force were almost entirely netted in one sweep.
The United States was scared half to death. "Brother, you're trafficking drugs within the government itself."
This further tarnished the image of the Mexican police.
Walking down the street without getting a rock thrown at you was already considered not bad.
Alejandro shook his head, put some black tea into his cup, and was about to get up to pour some water when he heard a knock at the door. He looked up to see two unfamiliar men standing at the entrance.
"Who are you looking for?"
"We're looking for you." The leading man took off his gloves and extended his hand, "Good morning, Director Alejandro, my name is Victor Carlos Vieri."
Clang.
Alejandro's teacup fell to the ground, shattering glass everywhere and water rolling to his feet, scalding him so he jumped. He grabbed a broom nearby to sweep up the glass shards.
His hand was held down by someone, and a large face leaned over, smiling, "Leave this to me."
"Leave it to Casare, Director. Aren't you going to invite me to sit down?"
Alejandro looked at him, the corner of his eye twitching slightly. How could he forget that name? What did he want coming here?
He lifted his chin slightly, "Please, take a seat."
Alejandro pulled out a paper from the desk to press against the burn on his hand, "That matter was not my doing."
"I know. It's all a misunderstanding. I also owe you an apology. As soon as I got suspended, I vented a little to some friends. They're good people and wanted to defend me. I hope your wife and daughter weren't too frightened?"
Friends?
"Pleasure doing business!"
With a snap of his fingers, Victor handed over a gift box with Casare's help, "This is a small gift for our first meeting."
Alejandro opened the gift box to find a handgun, about 5 centimeters long, made of amber, and his eyes were immediately drawn to it.
Mexicans have a strong passion for jade.
"This is too valuable."
"Our friendship is more valuable than anything else, Alejandro."
Giving gifts always works, no matter the country.
The Director, having received the gift, even invited them to stay for lunch—in the canteen, of course—but he brought out his prized red wine.
When they left the Prison Administration Bureau, Victor was flushed, supported by Casare.
A few hundred meters out, Victor looked back and let go of Casare's hand, pulling out a cigarette and putting it in his mouth.
"You're not drunk!"
"At the dinner table, you've got to act. How else can you get the boss drunk first?" Victor patted the dazed Casare on the shoulder and smiled.
The young cop suddenly felt he wasn't savvy enough. Was this another aspect to human relations?
Getting into the car, Victor exhaled a ring of smoke, "Is everything arranged?"
"I've got six from the emergency squad, all close to me. With Samboerne in the hospital, I also had someone deliver an anonymous letter of accusation. Tomorrow at eight, I've arranged to meet Dragan at the market outside the prison, told him to bring the weapons for a free maintenance."
"What about the reporter?"
"That's arranged too. I got a tabloid journalist; I told him to sit in the market from 7 in the morning until noon. I'll give him 200 pesos; he agreed."
"Should we get Best to find some gang members to come by?" Casare suddenly asked.
Victor's eyelid twitched, "Why would the police involve gangs in their business?" Glancing at Casare, who was driving, he continued,
Those people aren't fit for the public eye.
What future can a cop have if they're always dealing with gangs?
Might as well resign.
Only very low-level officers fraternize with gangs.
...