The Power Of The Dog by Don Winslow Read Free Book Online
Authors: Don Winslow
give Don Pedro the word: Invest in oil, Don Pedro. Sell off opium and put the money in oil. It’s going up soon. And the opium …
So I let the young fools buy into my poppy fields. Took their money and put it into the oil. And Cerro let the Yanquis burn the poppy fields. Doing work that the sun would do for them.
For that’s the great joke: Operation Condor timed to happen just before the drought years come. He has seen it in the sky the past two years. Seen it in the trees, the grass, the birds. The drought years are coming. Five years of bad crops before the rains come back.
“If the Yanquis did not burn the fields,” Don Pedro tells Güero, “I would have. Refresh the soil.”
So it is a farce, this Operation Condor; a play, a joke.
But still he has to get out of Sinaloa.
Áviles has not stayed alive for seventy-three years by being careless. So he has Güero driving and five of his most trusted sicarios—gunmen—in a car behind. Men whose families all live in Don Pedro’s compound in Culiacán, who would all be killed if anything should happen to Don Pedro.
And Güero—his apprentice, his assistant. An orphan whom he took off the streets of Culiacán as a manda to Santo Jesús Malverde, the patron saint of all Sinaloan gomeros. Güero, whom he raised in the business, to whom he taught everything. A young man now, his right-hand man, cat smart, who can do monumental figures in his head in a flash, who is nevertheless driving the Mercedes too fast on this rough road.
“Slow down,” Áviles orders.
Güero—“Blondie,” because of his light hair—chuckles. The old man has millions and millions, but he will cluck like an old hen over a repair bill. He could throw this Mercedes away and not miss it, but will complain about the few pesos it will cost to wash the dust off.
It doesn’t bother Güero; he’s used to it.
He slows down.
“We should make a manda to Malverde when we get to Culiacán,” Don Pedro says.
“We can’t stay in Culiacán, patrón,” Güero says. “The Americans will be there.”
“To hell with the Americans.”
“Barrera advised us to go to Guadalajara.”
“I don’t like Guadalajara,” Don Pedro says.
“It’s only for a little while.”
They come to a junction, and Güero starts to turn left.
“To the right,” Don Pedro says.
“To the left, patrón,” Güero says.
Don Pedro laughs. “I have been smuggling opium out of these hills since your father’s father was tugging at your grandmother’s pants. Turn right.”
Güero shrugs and turns right.
The road narrows and the dirt gets soft and deep.
“Keep going, slowly,” Don Pedro says. “Go slow but keep going.”
They come to a sharp right curve through thick brush and Güero takes his foot off the gas.
“¿Qué coño te pasa?” Don Pedro asks.
What the hell’s the matter with you?
Rifle barrels peak out from the brush.
Eight, nine, ten of them.
Ten more behind.
Then Don Pedro sees Barrera, in his black suit, and knows that everything is all right. The “arrest” will be a show for the Americans. If he goes to jail at all, he will be out in a day.
He slowly stands up and raises his arms.
Orders his men to do the same.
Güero Méndez slowly sinks to the floor of the car.
Art starts to get up.
He looks at Don Pedro, standing in his car with his hands in the air, quivering in the cold.
The old man looks so frail, Art thinks, like a strong wind could blow him over. White stubble on his unshaven face, his eyes sunken with obvious fatigue. Just a weak old man near the end of the road.
It seems almost cruel to arrest him, but …
Tío nods.
His men open fire.
The bullets shake Don Pedro like a thin tree.
“What are you doing?!” Art yells. “He’s trying to—”
His voice goes unheard under the roar of the
So I let the young fools buy into my poppy fields. Took their money and put it into the oil. And Cerro let the Yanquis burn the poppy fields. Doing work that the sun would do for them.
For that’s the great joke: Operation Condor timed to happen just before the drought years come. He has seen it in the sky the past two years. Seen it in the trees, the grass, the birds. The drought years are coming. Five years of bad crops before the rains come back.
“If the Yanquis did not burn the fields,” Don Pedro tells Güero, “I would have. Refresh the soil.”
So it is a farce, this Operation Condor; a play, a joke.
But still he has to get out of Sinaloa.
Áviles has not stayed alive for seventy-three years by being careless. So he has Güero driving and five of his most trusted sicarios—gunmen—in a car behind. Men whose families all live in Don Pedro’s compound in Culiacán, who would all be killed if anything should happen to Don Pedro.
And Güero—his apprentice, his assistant. An orphan whom he took off the streets of Culiacán as a manda to Santo Jesús Malverde, the patron saint of all Sinaloan gomeros. Güero, whom he raised in the business, to whom he taught everything. A young man now, his right-hand man, cat smart, who can do monumental figures in his head in a flash, who is nevertheless driving the Mercedes too fast on this rough road.
“Slow down,” Áviles orders.
Güero—“Blondie,” because of his light hair—chuckles. The old man has millions and millions, but he will cluck like an old hen over a repair bill. He could throw this Mercedes away and not miss it, but will complain about the few pesos it will cost to wash the dust off.
It doesn’t bother Güero; he’s used to it.
He slows down.
“We should make a manda to Malverde when we get to Culiacán,” Don Pedro says.
“We can’t stay in Culiacán, patrón,” Güero says. “The Americans will be there.”
“To hell with the Americans.”
“Barrera advised us to go to Guadalajara.”
“I don’t like Guadalajara,” Don Pedro says.
“It’s only for a little while.”
They come to a junction, and Güero starts to turn left.
“To the right,” Don Pedro says.
“To the left, patrón,” Güero says.
Don Pedro laughs. “I have been smuggling opium out of these hills since your father’s father was tugging at your grandmother’s pants. Turn right.”
Güero shrugs and turns right.
The road narrows and the dirt gets soft and deep.
“Keep going, slowly,” Don Pedro says. “Go slow but keep going.”
They come to a sharp right curve through thick brush and Güero takes his foot off the gas.
“¿Qué coño te pasa?” Don Pedro asks.
What the hell’s the matter with you?
Rifle barrels peak out from the brush.
Eight, nine, ten of them.
Ten more behind.
Then Don Pedro sees Barrera, in his black suit, and knows that everything is all right. The “arrest” will be a show for the Americans. If he goes to jail at all, he will be out in a day.
He slowly stands up and raises his arms.
Orders his men to do the same.
Güero Méndez slowly sinks to the floor of the car.
Art starts to get up.
He looks at Don Pedro, standing in his car with his hands in the air, quivering in the cold.
The old man looks so frail, Art thinks, like a strong wind could blow him over. White stubble on his unshaven face, his eyes sunken with obvious fatigue. Just a weak old man near the end of the road.
It seems almost cruel to arrest him, but …
Tío nods.
His men open fire.
The bullets shake Don Pedro like a thin tree.
“What are you doing?!” Art yells. “He’s trying to—”
His voice goes unheard under the roar of the
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