that bitch Elena did,” Iván said. “But your father repeated it. And you knew, Ric. You knew. You let me talk, go on and on about what I was going to do, and all the time, you knew.”
“Come on, Iván, I—”
“No, you’re the guy now, right?” Iván said. “Your father is the jefe, that makes you what, Mini-Ric, huh?”
“Still your friend.”
“No, you’re not,” Iván said. “We’re not friends. Not anymore.”
He walked away.
Ric called him, texted him, but got no answers. Nothing. Now Iván sits there staring at him like he hates him.
Which maybe he does, Ric thinks.
And maybe I can’t blame him.
After talking to Iván, his father had called Ric in.
Ric read the paper that his old man slid across the glass top. “Jesus Christ.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I was hoping for something more along the lines of ‘Let me know what I can do to help, Dad,’” Núñez said, “or ‘Whatever you need from me, I’m there.’ Or ‘Adán chose wisely, Dad, you’re the man for the job.’”
“All that goes without saying.”
“And yet I had to say it.” Núñez leaned back in his chair and put his fingertips together, a gesture Ric had hated since he was a child, as it always meant that a lecture was coming. “I need you to step up now, Ric. Take more of an active role, lend a hand.”
“Iván thought it was going to be him.” Every other word out of Iván’s mouth had been how things were going to be when he took over, and now here was Adán reaching out from the grave to snatch that from him.
“His happiness is not my concern,” Núñez said. “Or, for that matter, yours.”
“He’s my friend.”
“Then perhaps you can help persuade him to be reasonable,” Núñez said. “He’ll still run the Esparza wing of the organization.”
“I think he had something more in mind.”
“We all have to live with our disappointments,” Núñez said.
Ric had an idea he was talking about him.
“Iván will have to run the entire Esparza operation,” Núñez said. “He wouldn’t have time for Baja anyway.”
“He was going to give it to Oviedo.”
“The same Oviedo I saw on Facebook driving a motorcycle with his feet?” Núñez asked.
“I didn’t know you went on Facebook.”
“Aides keep me in touch,” Núñez said. “In any case, you have Elena’s permission to keep selling in Baja.”
“Elena’s or Rudolfo’s?”
“Are you being funny with me?”
“I had an arrangement,” Ric said. “With Iván.”
“Now you have it with Rudolfo,” Núñez said. “Show me some success on the narcomenudeo, I might give you the trasiego. From there, who knows?”
“Show you some success.”
“For God’s sake, Ric,” Núñez said, “show me something. You’re Adán Barrera’s godson. With that comes certain privileges, and with privilege comes responsibility. I have a responsibility to see that his wishes are carried out, and you share in that.”
“Okay.”
“Here’s something else you should think about,” Núñez said. “We’re holding this position for Adán’s sons to come of age, but that will be years from now. Suppose something happens to me in the interim? That leaves you.”
“I don’t want it,” Ric said.
There it was again—that trace of disappointment, even disgust, as his father asked, “Do you want to be ‘Mini-Ric’ your whole life?”
Ric was surprised by his father’s ability to hurt him. He thought he was over it by now, but he felt a stab in his heart.
He didn’t answer.
One of the things Ric is expected to show his father is a speech, a eulogy, at the funeral service.
To which Ric had objected. “Why me?”
“As the godson,” Ricardo said, “it’s expected.”
Well, if it’s expected, Ric thought. He had no idea what he was going to say.
Belinda offered some ideas. “‘My godfather, Adán, was a ruthless cocksucker who killed more men than ass cancer—”
“Nice.”
“—and married a hot chica less than half his age who we would all like to fuck, if we’re being honest with ourselves. What’s not to love about Adán Barrera, a man’s man, a narco’s narco, a godfather’s godfather. Peace. Out.’”
She hadn’t been much more help about his Iván problem.
“You know Iván,” she said. “He runs hot. He’ll get over it, you’ll be doing shots together tonight.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then so be it,” Belinda said. “You got to start looking at the facts. Fact: Barrera named your father the boss, not Iván. Fact: you’re the godson, not him. Maybe you should start acting like it.”
“You sound like my father.”
“He’s not always wrong.”
Now Ric really has to piss. The fucking priest finally gets offstage and then a singer comes on. One of Rudolfo’s older recording hacks who starts in with a corrido he wrote “especially for El Señor,” and it has more downer lyrics than an Adele tune.
After that, a poet comes up.
A poet.
What’s next, Ric thinks, puppets?
Actually, it’s him.
His father gives him what could be called a “significant” nod and Ric walks up to the altar. He’s not stupid—he knows it’s a moment, an announcement of sorts that he has leapfrogged Iván to the head of the line.
Ric leans into the microphone. “My godfather,
