“So the Gulf cartel or Los Zetas wants its own supply,” Peralta said. “Did Vega come out of the Mexican army?”
Antonio shook his head. “Nobody knows where he came from. But he’s been connected to at least thirty hits on high-value members of rival cartels. And always, the snake’s head is left imprinted on the victim’s forehead. Hell of a calling card.”
Bill said, “Alla entre blancos.” Let the white men settle it.
“No,” Antonio said. “This is destroying my country. It’s destroying your city.”
Robin said, “I can’t believe any of this.”
I spoke up. “So why are they letting us live?”
Bill looked at me and then at Peralta. He set his meaty hands flat on the desk blotter and shrugged.
After a silence, Antonio coughed. “Good question.”
Peralta said, “Give me a minute with these guys.”
We left, me reluctantly. Out in the shop, Robin browsed and settled on a thick, tall blue candle that promised “Peace and Protection.” She wanted a tarot reading but Peralta appeared and said there wasn’t time.
As we pulled away into the street, I wanted to know everything. But also I knew from experience that Peralta wouldn’t be pushed. He sat like a pickup-truck Buddha, saying nothing. I settled for a first question, asking about Antonio.
“He’s with the Mexican Ministerial Federal Police,” Peralta said. “That’s the elite national agency. If there’s an honest cop in Mexico, he’s it.”
***
We drove back to Peralta’s office in silence. The Maryvale ranch houses sat behind low walls and spiked fences that had been added by the new occupants. Bars, usually painted white, covered the windows. The elaborateness of the enclosures seemed an indicator of relative prosperity. This was one of the most dangerous parts of the city, but not because of most people who lived here. They worked hard and played by the rules, as the saying went. Except that they were mostly cut off from the economic and social mainstream, especially now. Who knew where it would end.
But like south Phoenix and the growing footprint of poor, ethnic neighborhoods, Maryvale was a hotspot of gang violence. I knew the basics: at least 35,000 gang members in the metropolitan area, almost all Hispanic and black. Thirty percent of the state’s inmates belonged to a street or prison gang. In many cases, the gang involvement went back two generations or more, and the generational nature of the problem was getting worse. My professorial brain wanted to linger on the many social, economic, and political reasons why. Maybe when all this was over, I’d apply for a grant to write about that. But the gun pressing against the small of my back reminded me that this daydream was a luxury I didn’t have. The gangs dealt in drugs, weapons, and human cargo. They stole identities and carried out armed robberies. And they fought each other. If a middle-class Anglo civilian like Robin was on their list…
