POR FAVOR

From the R.M. Dolin novel, "Trophic Cascade"
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Chapter 2: Por Favor

Armando and the PhDs are huddled around the Al Azar’s poker table, which has been transformed into a makeshift command center, when Jake, Preston, and Marcos arrive. Dario, who gallantly remained at Jake’s hoping Miguel’s foolish enough to start something, is the only member of the Los Alamos chapter of the Americans for New America (ANA), absent. The poker table is arrayed with laptops and tablets as each ANA member busily performs their preassigned protocol four tasks.

Marcos casually fist-bumps Armando on his way to an open chair. “Eee cabron, we have to stop meeting like this.”

“I’m always down for eradicating riffraff,” Armando teases. “Order a yuppie water and I’ll throw your south-side metro ass the hell out of here.” They continue to banter in Spanish as Jake and Preston plug their electronics to the poker table’s data center using the soft light flooding from the Coors lamp above them to cast a glow of seriousness over everything about to be happen.

“Everyone knows not to use Google searches or Google Maps, right?” Preston lectures as he assumes his role as operations coordinator.

“Of course,” Dominic answer looking up from his laptop. “Who’d be stupid enough to do that?”

“Indeed,” Preston replies knowing full well Dominic has his answer.

Jake assumes his usual seat, but only after repositioning Jon’s laptop to another slot. “Where we at?” he asks in business-like efficiency.

“Protocol four security measures are in place,” Dominic reports.

“Gilbert and the Sandia crew are trying unsuccessfully to hack us,” Jon adds. “They’re also watching the Watchers to see if they pick up our traffic.”

“The official story,” Dominic continues, reading from his computer, “appears to be there was a party at the ranch that gets out of control. All the 911 caller says is that a woman’s been killed, their friend got stabbed, and they need an ambulance.”

Jake nods approvingly. “What say you, Dwayne?”

“Nothing to buy, no politicians pontificating.” As head of both the Procurement and Political Assessment Teams Dwayne’s responsible for anticipating procurement needs along with monitoring political messaging to gage reactions and learn whatever strategies may be at work.

“No one in Santa Fe or Washington gives a shit about Miguel,” Jon adds with a measured amount of condemnation. “At least not as long as their donors and puppet masters aren’t complaining.” Jon looks at the group for reaction before sliding into his status report. “The U.S. Attorney’s office hasn’t been notified. Means this isn’t federal, probably don’t want to be tied to trafficking. State Police are responding, along with the Santa Fe County Sheriff. They appear to be squabbling over jurisdiction and in my personal opinion, the Sheriff has bigger cajones so he’ll be in charge. Two ambulances have been dispatched, along with OMI.”

“OMI?” Marcos asks sitting down in Dario’s usual spot.

“Office of Medical Investigations,” Jon answers. “The coroner.”

“Duh,” Marcos teases with self-effacing humor.

“Why two ambulances?” Preston asks.

“From the chatter I’m picking up, the slain woman was attempting to flee and one of Miguel’s men tried to stop her, she cut him up pretty good.”

“We have a lead on Miguel’s boss,” Theo chimes in with this vital piece of new information. “Someone in Santa Fe just wired twenty-six grand to Mexico via Western Union. It’s the same location Miguel wires to, only Miguel’s bag man foolishly included the receiver’s name in the transfer, someone called Ramon Ramirez.”

“That poor dude’s in for a serious beat down,” Marcos comments. “He’s gotta be new to do something as stupid as include Ramon’s name. I’ll get my guys running down his bio.” Marcos eagerly works his laptop feeling more integrated into operations now that he has a task.

“Sheriff’s crew was first on scene,” Jon continues. He’s buried in his computer reading information while talking. “They believe one got out before the road was closed. They want to cut off access to the highway, but there’s some sort of pissing contest with the State Police. Apparently, the Troopers believe they own roadblocks, strange thing to argue over if you ask me.”

“We need to form a recon team.” Armando joins the group with a round of hot coffee as everyone looks at him in surprise. “Someone has to play brother Dario.”

“What can you possibly hope to accomplish?” Dwayne scoffs, clearing his throat to emphasis his opinion.

“Perhaps nothing,” Armando fires back. “Perhaps though, this is our opportunity to learn about Miguel’s layout, assess his security, maybe even find something useful for later on?” Armando smiles teasingly at Marcos, “Other than brother Marcos, no one knows what Miguel’s place even looks like.”

“Hey,” Marcos feigns insult. “Unlike you, I don’t have to pay girls to like me.”

“Well, you do drive a Vett,” Preston chides. “Gotta be compensating for something.”

“That’s cold, dude” Marcos answers, “especially from you.”

Dwayne clears his throat again to reemphasize his thoughts on the matter. He leans back in his chair, stroking his tie-dyed suspenders in a time-honored method of voting no.

“Mandy’s right,” Dominic chimes in. “We can send Dario; he understands how to assess security and vulnerabilities.”

“No!” Jake jumps in with absoluteness. “He’s busy.”

“While we’d normally send Dario,” Armando continues to make his case. “Since he’s not here, I’ll go. I’m pretty good at seeing what’s what, and more than a few of the folks we’ll encounter owe me favors.”

“What’s your cover story?” Preston asks with a tone suggesting he could be persuaded to be on board.

“It has to be good enough to get past the roadblocks,” Jon points out.

“Who’s manning the first one?” Armando asks.

“Some guy named Bruce,” Jon confirms while working fervently at his keyboard. “According to the Trooper database, the only one with that name is Bruce Montoya.”

“I know him,” Armando nonchalantly answers. “Got him a deal on a pig and some beer last summer when his niece got married.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Jake teases.

“Eee Cabron,” Armando teases, “Do not hold it against me that I care about my fellow man.”

“How about this,” Theo offers, “you’re worried your nephew may have been at the party and you want to quietly bring him home to avoid a family scandal.”

“They won’t let him in based on that,” Dwayne scoffs. As the only hold out, he’s not budging off his opinion. “Why would they care about that?”

“Exactly,” Marcos counters revealing a fundamental fact about New Mexico culture. “They won’t care, and because Bruce owes Armando, he’ll let him pass.” Marcos may be an Albuquerque native, but he understands the deeply ingrained Northern New Mexico gravitas or ‘por favor‘. The fact Armando has banked a sizable account with local law enforcement is absolutely more than useful.

“So, we’re agreed,” Jake summarizes. He looks a Dwayne, “with one obvious exception-,”

“That Yosemite tag along,” Jon teases.

“I asked you not to call me that,” Dwayne grouses.

“Dude, shave the handlebars and quit wearing tie-dye suspenders and we’ll talk.”

“I’ll work,” Marcos interjects before Dewayne can counter. “However, Armando’s gonna need a brother to make his cover stick, families never clean up messes alone. I’ll go, I can take video of Miguel’s layout and manage field Ops from my phone.”

“Are we agreed?” Jake asks the group.

Everyone nods but Dwayne, who throws his arms up in disapproving acquiescence.

#

It takes Armando and Marcos less than ten minutes to reach the State Police checkpoint tucked deceptively between the Pojoaque and Tesuque Pueblos on the Sangre side of the valley. It’s at that narrow spot in the arroyo where the highway makes a slight turn east before straightening on south into Santa Fe. The unmarked gravel road leads toward Truchas Peak in a way that’s undetectable to the mildly interested weekend tourist, self-indulgent Santa Fe trust-funder, or preoccupied Los Alamos intellectual. It is however, well known to valley residents who use it as an alternate high road to Taos when needing to discretely move about.

While both the Santa Fe sheriff and State Police know about the road, neither patrols it. Predominately because as the road winds its way toward Truchas, it sometimes crosses onto Pojoaque Pueblo land, then a bit later onto Tesuque Pueblo land. In between these two pseudo nations, nothing of value happens so there’s really no point patrolling. This is why wannabe valley bandits use this road to hide should the need, for whatever reason, arise.

It’s precisely why Miguel chose this location to operate his ranch, it’s about four miles down this mostly forgotten road on the part that’s maintained well enough to not dissuade clientèle, yet rugged enough to throwback wanderers. For a New Mexico gravel road, it’s mostly smooth right now, but come Monsoon season, they’ll be some pretty sketchy stretches. If the tussle between state police and county deputies weren’t enough, tonight Pueblo police have decided to exert their sovereign nation exclusivity on the Pueblo parts of the road, which is always ironic since the state paid to construct the road, pays to maintain it, and pays a substantial annual tribute for the right of way. While no one from state law enforcement on down takes Pueblo police seriously, they do at times provide an amusing distraction.

As anticipated, Armando’s stopped at the first check point by State Police officer Montoya, who’s doing his best to look sternly professional on account of being scrutinized by representatives from the Sheriff’s office and both Pueblos. In addition, multiple Albuquerque media crews have arrived to assert their first amendment rights as justification for being let through. Officer Montoya knows Armando’s story about being worried his nephew might be at the party is a fabrication, but a favor is a favor. He also appreciates that if a man like Armando shows up at an incident scene like this, he’s probably here to quietly insure someone at the party gets through the investigation process without having their name officially appear on any police reports; something that can require calling in a lot of favors.

Outside of law enforcement and first responders, there hasn’t been many people looking to go up the road, but since setting up the roadblock, Officer Montoya has observed many cars discreetly leaving; most driven by men easily recognizable. His superiors wave them through without questions being asked. There was one departing car though, that caught his attention over all others, “wonder what the hell she’s doing up there?” he chuckles to his sheriff’s office counterpart as the tinted window limousine with state license plates gets waved through unchecked.

“Takes all kinds Cabron,” the deputy answers with a knowing grin. “Especially when it comes to politicians like her.” They both know her name will never appear in the Santa Fe New Mexican or the Albuquerque Journal, powerful people are insulated from scandal, and State Police officers who care about their careers know not to mess with this all-important accommodation.

“You think Pueblo police know about Miguel?” Marcos asks as they pensively pass two Tesuque Tribal cop cars parked along a winding section of the gravel road. Beyond the parked cars, two Pueblo Police officers pretend to pass judgment on each approaching car.

“They’re like local, state, and federal police,” Armando causally answers as he cranks down his window and stops beside one of the Pueblo police. “Cabron,” Armando warmly teases, “muy cold night, que no?”
“Hey Armando,” the policeman answers while shaking Armando’s hand. “What brings you out to this shit show?”

“My sister, Cabron,” Armando begins his story. “She’s crazy worried my nephew might have been at this party. You know how it is when these college kids come home.”

“He’s at State, right?” The policeman offers.

“Engineering Cabron!” Armando proudly boasts. “He’s the family hope, and it’s on me to insure he doesn’t stray.”

“Sssshit Cabron, if he doesn’t stray at a party school like State, I doubt he will up here.” The policeman puts both hands on the door and leans in. “No need for worries. Some crazy ass shit went down for sure, but it’s seems pretty contained.”

“So what happen?” Armando probes.

“Some Mexican got into it cause his girlfriend took up with a Texan. Can you imagine, a stinking Texan? In the scuffle she gets killed along with the Texan. They’re holding everyone at the scene, but I don’t think any locals are involved.” The policeman leans further through the window. “You know how these things go, Mexicans and tourists; never ends well when their paths cross.”

“This is why I keep tourist from finding my bar, Cabron. Can’t have both and Mexicans are muy better.”

“You going up to the house?” The policeman inquires.

“Just to see what’s what so I can tell my worried sister not to worry.”

“Vince is working security so you shouldn’t have any problems.”

“Vince?” Armando questions with surprise.

“He’s a deputy bro,” the policeman answers with equal astonishment. “On top of being a Bandito, so no one’s going be messing with him.”

“Good to know,” Armando shakes his friend’s hand while pulling away. “You and your crew stop by the Al Azar, where policemen never pay for a drink.”

“Vince owes me a favor.” Armando explains to Marcos as they make their way up the winding road. “Machinist, Bandito, and now a Deputy, he’s just full of surprises.” Armando rolls up the window of his partially restored 68 Chevy pickup. “As I was saying.” He slips back into their conversation as if the diversion never occurred. “Some chose not to know while others depend on Miguel’s discretion.

When Marcos and Armando arrive at Miguel’s ranch, they find a large gravel parking area dotted with police cars and two ambulances near the main house with their emergency lights flashing. There’s a mix of old beat-up and new high-end cars along the exterior of a large barn with light escaping the side windows to illuminate the surrounding forest. Vince is running perimeter security making sure no one enters or leaves the parking area without his approval. He smiles warmly while directing Armando to an out-of-the-way spot near the road next to the main house. He waits for Armando to park in no real hurry to determine why he’s here.

On first glance the property seems unimpressive. There’s a large hacienda style house at one end and a barn set back from the road across the parking lot at the other end. The adobe house, a shadow of its once grand stature, has a traditional portico porch running the entire length of the front wall. The tile porch floor is faded and many of the viga style support posts show signs of termite rot, which calls into question the casa’s entire structural integrity.

As far gone as the house appears, the barn a hundred yards to the west is even more dilapidated. It’s a standard rectangular structure having a pitched roof that’s covered with rolled shingles. Its stucco is old and cracked with a random pattern of patches each in varying shades of medium brown, suggesting the repairs were done over time without regard to color matching. The barn has small windows running down both sides and two large barn doors that swing open to face the house. A smaller entrance door has been built into the right barn door to allow people to enter or exit without having to open the full door. Tonight though, both barn doors are opened all the way and secured to the side-walls. Florescent lights run down the center of the barn, hung from open rafters. The concrete floor is covered with cheap laminate having a light oak finish. It appears that former stalls along each side wall have been sectioned into a series of private rooms that have solid door entrances.

Each door is numbered and has two clear plastic pocket holders attached. One pocket contains an index card colored red on one side and green on the other to indicate the status of the room. The other clear plastic pocket holds photographs of the room’s resident. In total, there are eight converted stalls on each side of the barn. Dotting the barn’s center aisle are couches and chairs where guests can relax either before or after visiting a converted stall. The first stall just inside the left front door has been retrofitted as a bar where drinks are purchased at significantly inflated prices.

A rather impressive stereo system is housed in an open rack beside the bar with speakers strategically placed throughout the barn in the open rafters. Most nights the music is strictly Northern New Mexican and played loud enough to mask what goes on in the stalls. The main house is where clients of more ample means congregate. Its more elaborate decor along with increased discretion caters particularly to Santa Fe trust funders, corrupt politicians, and wealthy tourist. As far as the ranch residents go, Miguel and Ruben stay in the main house. The men in Miguel’s inner circle stay in a small casa de invitados positioned behind the main house out of view from the road and parking lot. It houses ten but currently Miguel’s crew is six. New girls start in the main house, but after a couple of months, rotate to the barn where they’ll remain until their tour in New Mexico is exhausted.

Armando slowly rolls into his assigned spot observing how the police have everyone huddled inside the barn. Either intentionally or axiomatically the group self-organized into discrete sets. The better dressed men are bunched near the barn door entrance, probably to be processed first. Locals, along with tourists, are bunched in the middle of the barn’s main aisle. Meanwhile Mexicans are huddled at the back. Each group has a dynamic unto themselves with little to no cross pollination.

“No girls,” Armando whispers to Marcos.

“Miguel’s managed to stash them at his safe house,” Marcos concludes.

Had Armando or Marcos ever visited the ranch on a normal night they’d know about the photographs tucked into the clear plastic pouches on each converted stall door, they would have then noticed that tonight all the photographs have been yanked. Had it been possible to examine the private rooms in the barn they would have found all the furniture in each converted stall removed. Prior to escaping to his safe house, Miguel knew his invisibility rule had been breached, and had his crew remove everything from the converted stalls and stashed in a storage shed behind the barn. While this is the first murder at the ranch, it’s not the first-time things got so out of control police were called, so Miguel and his men are well versed in what needs to be done to sanitize the premises.

Miguel, along with five associates, scurried the girls to his safe house along a wilderness trail about a mile from the ranch if you use the road to get there. It is, however, only a half a mile on foot along a game trail across the road from the ranch that’s mostly hidden by scrub oak and juniper. He left Ruben at the ranch along with another associate who’s new to the crew. Their perfectly contrived cover story is that the new guy, hired to make much needed on-site renovations, used the opportunity of Miguel being away to throw a party. As word quickly spread, the party ballooned out of control and at some point, no one really knows for sure when or how, there was an argument between a Texas tourist and a Mexican regarding the Mexican’s girlfriend who was flirting with the Texan. Long story short, Miguel’s new associate takes the fall for whatever happens as it was his illicit party that led to the incident now under investigation. Ruben is there to ensure the police understand Miguel has been away for two days and is not expected back any time soon.

“Hey Vince,” Armando says hopping out of his truck to make sure he says hello first as a sign of respect.

“Armando,” Vince responds with a bravado devoid of emotion. “You’re the last pendejo I’d expect to see on a night like this.”

“Could say the same for you Cabron,” Armando says after their ritualistically convoluted handshake ceremony ends with a fist bump. “They told me down the road you’re running things.”

“Hardly, I’m just a glorified valet; volunteers don’t get to do much. So, what brings you to casa Miguel?”

“This is my friend Marcos,” Armando says dodging Vince’s direct question.

“Hey,” Vince offers shaking Marcos’ hands normally.

“Is it true you’re a Bandito?” Marcos asks. “I mean, how the hell does a Bandito double down as a deputy sheriff? Seems, I don’t know, like a conflict of interest.” To a casual observer it might seem that Marco’s question, while completely appropriate in terms of available data, is completely out of line with respect to what normal people would say, especially to a Bandito, the roughest hardcore motorcycle gang in New Mexico. However, Marcos is on to the deflection game Armando’s playing and deliberately diverts their conversation.

“Geez dude!” Armando sternly scowls knowing full well what Marcos is doing. “You don’t say that to someone, who cares if he’s a Bandito, they’re part of the community too.” Armando looks apologetically at Vince, “You have to forgive my cousin, Cabron, he’s from Albuquerque and you know how those metro marauders are, no sense of manners.”

“Why you here?” Vince growls. He doesn’t like being questioned about his affiliations and is annoyed Armando told Marcos.

“Did you hear Jake hired a Harley guy?” Armando offers as further distraction. “He’s not a bro, so, I guess he can’t be a Bandito.”

“I already pity the poor bastard.” Vince scowls. “What the hell does Jake need with someone?”

“Who knows, Cabron, maybe things aren’t working out with Dario? Word is,” Armando says leaning in and lowering his voice, “Dario’s a bit of a slacker.”

Vince growls while staring hard at Marcos still processing what to think of him. Slowly, his growl grows into a grin as he decides to put past transgressions behind him. “You’re such a bullshitter.”

“Sadly true, Cabron,” Armando answers with remorse. “Dario’s been slacking for some time now, and the biker dude stuff is all for real.”

“That old guy never runs out of being interesting, does he?”

“By the way, Jake says you did a great job on his pump part.”

“You tell that crusty old fart that-,” Vince pauses to consider his true feelings, “that I said thanks.” He looks at Marcos, “You know Jake?”

“We worked together back in the day.”

“And yet you survived,” Vince counters with a grin. “Some days after dealing with him I’m not sure I will.” He pauses. “But he always brings a damn fine breakfast burrito.” Vince looks around to see where his colleagues are before lowering his voice. “So, why you really here?”

“My sister, Cabron, she called all spun up.” Armando’s repeated his fabricated story so many times it now flows with convincing truth. “She’s worried her niño might be here. You know women, always assuming the worst.”

“This your sister Linda?” Vince asks with sudden interest.

“Si Cabron, and you know what a drama queen she can be.”

“Is she still married to that looser Toby?”

“What’s wrong with Toby?”

“He rides a Honda for Christ’s sakes, what kind of man does that?”

“We can’t all ride Harley’s, Cabron. Unlike you, he has two kids to put through college, and one in high school who looks college bound. I’m sure the Honda’s a comprise.”

“I suppose,” Vince concludes. “You tell Linda I said Hey. She’s still the prettiest girl from high school. I really don’t know how the hell she can be related to you.”

“Cabron,” Armando grins. “Move on, high school was a lifetime ago.” He looks around the parking lot. “Have you seen her niño?”

“If he’s here, he hasn’t left, at least not since I started. Ask Jimmy Valdez, he’s working interviews down at the barn.”

Armando looks toward the barn grinning. “Me and Jimmy had a pretty wild weekend in Juarez back in the day.” He turns to Marcos. “He hit a long shot at Santa Fe Downs and decided to spend it all in one wild extravaganza; oou eee, that was something.”

“It’s all he ever talks about,” Vince concurs. “Amazing how far a couple grand goes in Juarez. Say hey for me when you see him.”

Armando nods but is not yet done. “So, what the hell happened here?”

“Well from what I’ve learned,” Vince begins, his tone making it clear he’s providing insider information he probably shouldn’t and definitely wouldn’t to anyone other than Armando because he owes Armando a favor. “The story they’re going with is that some new guy had a party here while Miguel was away. I can tell you though, Miguel was at Saints & Sinners this afternoon so that’s bullshit. They claim a Mexican got pissed when his girlfriend started chatting-up some rich-ass Texan, and the two dudes threw down. The Mexican was getting the better of the Texan when his girlfriend got in the middle, and that got her stabbed, by accident of course. Then the Mexican, out of mournful rage, viscously slices the Texan open like a sack of flour, and then miraculously vanishes.”

“What really happened,” Armando asks knowing any information provided is in absolute confidence and that he’ll owe Vince a favor.

“We both know, Cabron. The only reason we even found out is because the Texan had buddies enjoying the Ranches many ‘pleasures,’ and called for an ambulance.”

“You think the Texan killed her?”

“Hell yeah! But there’s no way we get to that. First there’ll be no eyewitnesses. Second, they’ll never find the missing Mexican since he doesn’t really exist. Third, the bruises and cigarette burns no doubt dotting her body will be overlook in the autopsy.”

“She at least deserves justice,” Armando says with sadness.

“Justice,” Vince scoffs, “that died for her long before she got to New Mexico.”

Armando shakes hands with Vince smiling at his friend in a way they both understand makes clear he owes Vince a favor somewhere down the road. Vince shakes hands with Marcos already forgetting that just moments ago he was pissed at him for bringing up his ties to the Banditos. On their way to the barn Armando and Marcos pass two unattended ambulances, each with their rear doors open. In the first ambulance they see a gurney with a partially open body bag on top. Armando pauses. “She shouldn’t be alone.” He stares at the gurney in solemn solace. “Had things gone differently on Cinco de Mayo, Cabron, this would have been the same sad end to Sympatico’s story.” Armando continues his vigil for a respectful moment before continuing toward the barn. As he walks past the second ambulance, he sees a tall lanky Texan with blood-soaked bandages on his arms and around his chest. He’s in a body bag, but for some reason, the bag has not yet been sealed. “He was in the bar this afternoon,” Armando whispers to Marcos.
“I’ll get Gilbert going on who he is.” Marcos snaps a picture using his phone with no regard for discretion. With so many crime scene investigators from so many agencies taking pictures of everything, no one’s paying attention to him.

“We’ll give the sheriff’s office a chance to make things right,” Armando says looking back at the girl’s body bag in the abandoned ambulance, “then we’ll make things right.”

Marcos better understands now the deep sense of responsibility Armando and the rest of the Los Alamos ANA feel for their new mission. He too is committed to freeing the girls and shutting down Miguel’s operation. Being here makes it real. Seeing the aftermath of what went down, what goes down nightly, is all the motivation he needs to throw in fully with his Northern ANA brothers.

Prior to tonight, ANA activities were mostly intellectual fun and games for Marcos; a sort of cat and mouse retirement diversion he plays with NSA and the US Attorney’s office using Apps and hacks his crew develops to amuse themselves. Now things are real and not as fun, and he understands more intimately why Jake and his crew postponed Phase one pre-launch. Why they feel so determined to bring Miguel down and eradicate places like this. Marcos looks at his longtime friend seeing a new seriousness. In so many ways that seem so out of character, he feels a commitment to something even more profound than protecting the nation. It doubles down the dangerousness of the journey they’ve collectively undertaken. A sympotico that bonds them in ways that defy definition.