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, Adán Barrera, was a great man.”
A general murmur of agreement and the audience waits for him to go on.
“He loved me like a son,” Ric says, “and I loved him like a second father. He was a father to us all, wasn’t he? He—”
Ric blinks when he sees a clown—a full-fledged payaso with white makeup, a red curly wig, a rubber nose, baggy pants and floppy shoes come prancing down the center aisle blowing on a kazoo and carrying a bunch of white balloons in one hand.
Who ordered this up? Ric wonders, thinking he’s seeing things.
It couldn’t have been laugh-a-minute Elena or his old man, neither of whom is exactly known for whimsy. Ric glances over at both of them and neither is laughing.
Elena, in fact, looks pissed.
But, then again, she always does.
Ric tries to pick up his speech. “He gave money to the poor and built …”
But no one is listening as the clown makes his way to the altar, tossing paper flowers and little papel picado animals to the astonished onlookers. Then he turns, reaches inside his patched madras jacket, and pulls out a 9 mm Glock.
I’m going to get killed by a fucking clown, Ric thinks in disbelief. It’s not fair, it’s not right.
But the payaso turns and shoots Rudolfo square in the forehead.
Blood flecks Elena’s face.
Her son falls into her lap and she sits holding him, her face twisted in agony as she screams and screams.
The killer runs back up the aisle—but how fast can a clown run in floppy shoes—and Belinda pulls a MAC-10 from her jacket and melts him.
Balloons rise into the air.
Adán Barrera’s Pax Sinaloa ended before he was even lowered into the ground, Keller thinks, watching the news on Univision.
Reporters outside the walls of the cemetery described a “scene of chaos” as panicked mourners fled, others pulled out a “proliferation” of weapons, and ambulances raced toward the scene. And with that touch of surrealism that so often seems to pervade the Mexican narco world, early reports indicate that Rudolfo Sánchez’s killer was dressed as a clown.
“A clown,” Keller says to Blair.
Blair shrugs.
“Do they have an ID on the shooter?” Keller asks, unwilling to say clown.
“SEIDO thinks it’s this guy,” Blair says, throwing a file up on the computer screen. “Jorge Galina Aguirre—‘El Caballo’—a player in the Tijuana cartel way back in the nineties when Adán and Raúl were first taking over. A midlevel marijuana trafficker with no known enemies, and no known grudges against the Barreras.”
“Apparently he had a grudge against Rudolfo.”
“There’s some shit running around that Rudolfo nailed Galina’s daughter, or maybe his wife,” Blair says.
“Rudolfo was a player.”
“The wages of sin,” Blair says.
Yeah, but Keller doubts it.
The old “honor killing” ethos is rapidly fading into the past, and the insult—the almost unbelievably offensive act of murdering one of Barrera’s nephews in front of his family at his funeral—argues that this is something more.
It’s a declaration.
But