can.”
“No, I can’t,” O’Brien says. “He’s a Tea Party favorite and I’m facing a revolt from the right in the next election. I can’t win the general if I lose in the primary. You’re stuck with him.”
“He’s stabbing me in the back.”
“No shit,” O’Brien says. “That’s what we do in this town. The best way for you to deal with it is to get results.”
The man is right, Keller thinks.
He goes back to the office and calls Hidalgo in.
“How are we doing with Claiborne?”
“He’s given us shit,” Hidalgo says. “‘This broker does coke, this hedge fund manager is heavy into tree …’”
“Not good enough,” Keller says. “Lean on him.”
“Will do.”
The “bottom-up” half of Agitator is going well—Cirello is climbing the ladder. But the “top-down” half is stalled—this cute piece of shit Claiborne thinks he can play them by giving them bits and pieces.
They need to bring him up short, make him produce.
No more free ride.
He pays the fare or he’s off the bus.
They meet on the Acela.
“What do you think we are, Chandler, assholes?” Hidalgo asks. “You think you can just blow us off and go on with your life?”
“I’m trying.”
“Not hard enough.”
“What do you want me to do?” Chandler asks.
“Bring us something we can use,” Hidalgo says. “New York’s fed up with your act. They’re going to prosecute.”
“They can’t do that,” Claiborne says. “We have a deal.”
“Which you haven’t lived up to.”
“I’ve been doing my best.”
“Bullshit, you have,” Hidalgo says. “You’ve been playing us. You think you’re so much smarter than a bunch of dumb cops who buy their suits off the rack, and you probably are. You’re so smart you’re going to smart your way right into a cell. You’re going to love the room service in Attica, motherfucker.”
“No, give me a chance.”
“You had your chance. We’re done.”
“Please.”
Hidalgo pretends to think about it. Then he says, “All right, let me get on the phone, see what I can do. But no promises.”
He gets up, walks out of the car and stands in the next one for a couple of minutes. Then he walks back in and says, “I bought you a little more time. But not, like, infinity. You give us something we can use, or I let New York hump you.”
Keller takes a call from Admiral Orduña.
“That kid you’re looking for,” Orduña says, “we might have a sighting.”
“Where?”
“Guerrero,” Orduña says. “Does that make any sense?”
“No,” Keller says. But when has anything to do with Chuy Barajos made any sense?
They’re not sure it’s him, Orduña says, but one of his people in Guerrero was surveilling a group of student radicals at a local college and spotted a young man hanging around the fringes who meets the description, and he heard one of the students call him Jesús.
Could be anybody, Keller thinks. “What college?”
Chuy never finished high school.
“Hold on,” Orduña says, checking his notes. “Ayotzinapa Rural Teachers’ College.”
“Never heard of it.”
“That makes two of us.”
“I don’t suppose your guy—”
“It’s on its way, cuate.”
Keller stares at his computer screen.
Christ, the odds are …
The photo comes across.
Keller sees a short, scrawny kid in torn jeans, sneakers and a black ball cap. His hair is long and unkempt.
The photo is a little blurry, but there’s no question.
It’s Chuy.
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