Crooked River(49)

“You say I’m making trouble for myself. Why?”

“Because you are like pollo scratching for corn in front of the fox’s den. What are you doing, all by yourself? You are reporter, sí? So I tell you story. Not all, but enough. Then you go—go write your story. Maybe it help, maybe not. But you don’t come back. Gira aquí. Turn here.”

Smithback turned onto a narrow street, crowded on both sides with beat-up trailers and cars in various stages of decrepitude. They passed by small, dimly lit houses. Every now and then Smithback saw the flag of some Central American country hanging from a window.

“When I move here, there were already gangs,” the man said. “Just like in El Salvador. They sell the drogas, handle the juegos de dinero—numbers, you know?—but they watch the barrio, too. Then the police, they come in, break up gangs, put the leaders in jail. Years pass. Then new gangs, they come in. But these pandillas much worse. Before, the gangs, they lie low, keep to themselves unless messed with. But now, these gangs like wasps, everywhere, sting everyone.” He interlaced his fingers for emphasis. “Organized, muy malas, muy sanguinarias. They care nothing for their own people, nothing for life. To join, you kill. Anybody.” He nodded out the window. “Before, people would sit out at night. There would be music, singing. Now we might as well be among the dead.”

Smithback had heard similar stories about Miami gangs. “And that tattoo? The one with the P and the N?”

Quickly, the man crossed himself, muttered something under his breath.

“Is that the gang you’re referring to? The gang that’s so influential? So bloodthirsty?”

The man nodded once, said something else under his breath.

“Excuse me?”

“Panteras de la noche,” the man said.

Panteras de la noche. Night panthers. This was it: the missing link, the answer to the riddle of the tattoo. Smithback tried to contain his excitement. “So: muy mala. But they still deal mostly in drugs, right?”

“Sí, sí. But before, they were—how you say it?—little fish. Now, one connected family, like I tell you. Big drugs now. The coca leaves, they grow in Colombia, Peru maybe. But the panteras are Guatemalan. They make everything…everything smooth.”

“Smooth?”

“Sí, smooth.”

Smithback thought a moment. “You mean, like middlemen?”

“?Sí, intermediarios!” The man gestured in frustration: one cupped hand arcing over the other. “Guatemala best for shipping. Drugs come by airplane, go by boat, caravana, whatever. Guatemala very poor. The panteras, they know the oficiales, the funcionarios. Reclutamiento very easy. Often they are familia.” He gave a harsh laugh.

The road ended in a T, and at a signal from his passenger Smithback turned right. This street was busier, a boulevard of sorts, with bodegas and small restaurants. For the first time in a while, Smithback saw something resembling a crowd.

This was gold. This was better than gold. Totally by accident, he’d stumbled upon a resident who was fed up with what had happened to his community—and had the stones to do something about it…even if that something was just talking to a reporter.

“This gang,” he said. “These panteras de la noche. Where can I find them?”

The man’s eyes went wide. “?Pinche estúpido! Have you not heard what I have told you? You can do nothing yourself. You write—write in your newspaper. Write about how the policía do nothing. But first, go home.”

“I need something more. A name, a place—something. Otherwise, it’s hearsay.”

The man would not calm down. “I tell you, no! No names!”

“Look, you need to understand. You’ve been talking to me off the record. We won’t print your name, even if I knew it. But we also can’t print speculation or rumor. I have to have something hard to go on.”

Despite his anxiety, the man barked a laugh. “Something hard? No names, but…” He thought a moment. “I will show you something. A place where they meet. I show you, then you go. You go. ?Entiende?”

“Sí.”

The man sighed. “Keep going. It is not far.”

They drove along the boulevard, passing more restaurants and knots of strolling people. The lights were brighter here, the atmosphere noticeably more relaxed. After about three blocks, Smithback felt the man grasp his forearm. “There, on the right. Past Pollo Fresco. You see?”

Smithback looked ahead. There, beyond a family market and a restaurant with a garish red-and-yellow sign, was a narrow street, a service road for the nearby businesses.

“Turn in there. Don’t stop. When we pass the entrance, I will tell you. But don’t stop. Drive slowly until we get to the next road, then vamos.”

Smithback turned in at the indicated spot. It was narrower than he expected, more an alley than a street, and darker. Ahead, he could see dented trash cans and, overhead, laundry drying on clotheslines that stretched from fa?ade to fa?ade. They passed one door, then another, dim gray outlines with no identifying names or numbers.

“Hey,” he said, “how are you going to be able—”

Suddenly, a pair of bright headlights swung into the alley ahead of him. Smithback squinted and looked away, blinded. As he did so, he saw another pair of headlights appear in his rearview mirror. A roar of powerful engines, and the twin sets of lights came closer until his Subaru was pinned. He looked over at the landscaper in mute appeal, uncertain what to do, but to his vast surprise the man had already stepped out of the passenger seat. He was standing and talking to a large, tattooed figure…probably the largest and most heavily muscled man Smithback had seen in his life. He watched in a confused daze. It seemed the big man was giving a roll of money to Smithback’s confidential source. The two shook hands or, more precisely, fingers. With a lurching feeling, Smithback realized he’d been set up. Then the landscaper was gone, walking off down the alley, and the huge man came strolling over and leaned in the passenger window, staring at Smithback. The reporter had just enough time to see one ham-sized hand ball into a fist before an impact like a steam piston knocked him back and into a place of unrelieved blackness.