you think that’s wise?” Iván asks.
“It’s profitable,” Tito says.
He’s got that right, Ric thinks. Sinaloa is making millions off smack while Jalisco is still slinging cocaine and meth.
“The two don’t always go together,” Iván says, trying to sound like his father. “For one thing, it would put you into competition with us.”
“The market’s big enough for both of us,” Tito says.
Iván frowns. “Tito. Why fix what isn’t broken? Jalisco makes plenty of money on meth, doesn’t it? And we don’t even charge you a piso to use our plazas.”
“That was the arrangement I had with your father,” Tito says.
“You paid your dues,” Iván says, “no question. You’ve been a good soldier, and you got your own organization as a reward for that. But I think it’s better to just leave things as they are, don’t you?”
Christ, Ric thinks, it’s almost as if he’s patting the man’s head.
Good dog, good dog.
Sit.
Stay.
But Tito says, “If that’s what you think is best.”
“It is,” Iván says.
Tito nods to Ric and walks away.
“Rubén got his brains from his mother,” Iván says. “His looks, too, thank God.”
“Rubén’s a good guy.”
“He’s a great guy,” Iván says.
Doesn’t Ric know it. Rubén is Tito’s solid number two, runs his security force in Jalisco and is heavily involved in the transport of their product. How many times has Ric heard his own father say, If only you were more like Rubén Ascensión. Serious. Mature.
He’s made it pretty clear, Ric thinks. Given a choice, he’d rather have Rubén for his son than me.
Tough luck for both of us, I guess.
“What?” Iván asks.
“What what?”
“You got a look on your face like someone just ass-fucked your puppy.”
“I don’t have a puppy,” Ric says.
“Maybe that’s it,” Iván says. “You want me to get you one? What kind of dog do you want, Ric? I’ll send someone out right now to get it for you. I want you to be happy, ’mano.”
That’s Iván, Ric thinks.
Ever since they were kids. You told him you were hungry, he went out and got food. Your bike got stolen, a new one appeared. You said you were horny, a girl showed up at the door.
“Love you, man.”
“Love you, too,” Iván says. Then he adds, “It’s our turn now, ’mano. Our time. You’ll see—it’s going to be good.”
“Yeah.”
Ric sees his father approaching.
But it’s not Ric he wants to see.
Núñez says, “Iván, we should talk.”
“We should,” Iván says.
Ric sees the look on his face, the smile, knows that this is the moment he’s been waiting for.
His coronation.
Núñez glances down at his son and says, “In private.”
“Sure.” Iván winks at Ric. “I’ll be back, bro.”
Ric nods.
Leans back in the chair and watches his best friend and his father walk away from him.
Then he does have a memory of Adán.
Standing on the side of a dirt road in rural Durango.
“Look around you,” Adán said. “What do you see?”
“Fields,” Ric said.
“Empty fields,” Adán said.
Ric couldn’t argue with that. On both sides of the road, as far as he could see, marijuana fields lay fallow.
“The US has, de facto, legalized marijuana,” Adán said. “If my American sources are right, two or more states will soon make it official. We simply can’t compete with the local American quality and transportation costs. Last year we were getting a hundred dollars for a kilo of marijuana. Now it’s twenty-five. It’s hardly worth our growing the stuff anymore. We’re losing tens of millions of dollars a year, and if California, for instance, legalizes, the loss will be in the hundreds of millions. But it’s hot out here. Let’s go get a beer.”
They drove another ten miles to a little town.
A lead car went in first, made sure it was all clear, and then went into a tavern and emptied it out. The nervous owner and a girl who looked to be his daughter brought in a pitcher of cold beer and glasses.
Adán said, “Our marijuana market, once a major profit center, is collapsing; meth sales are falling; cocaine sales have flattened. For the first time in over a decade, we’re looking at a fiscal year of negative growth.”
It’s not like they were losing money, Ric thought. Everyone there was making millions. But they made less millions than they had the year before, and it was human nature that, even if you’re rich, being less rich feels like being poor.
“The present situation is unsustainable,” Adán said. “The last time this occurred we were saved by the innovation of crystal meth. It became, and remains, a major profit center, but there is small potential for growth that would compensate for our marijuana losses. Similarly, the cocaine market seems to have reached its saturation point.”
“What we need,” Ric’s father said, “is a new product.”
“No,” Adán said. “What we need is an old product.”
Adán paused for dramatic effect and then said, “Heroin.”
Ric was shocked. Sure, they still sold heroin, but it was a side product compared to weed, meth and coke. All their business had started with heroin, with opium, back in the days of the old gomeros who grew the poppy and made their fortunes selling it to the Americans to make the morphine they needed during World War II. After the war, it was the American Mafia that provided the market and bought up as much opium as they could grow for heroin.
But in the 1970s, the American DEA joined forces with
