The Starving Port (4)
“Mexico is a beautiful country, Presidente. But it can never be a good one.”
The mustached man with the protruding belly wiped his dry face and sighed gloomily, shedding the forced cheer he'd been wearing. “The land is blessed by God, but the people living on it have been corrupt for a long time. Presidents who curse the shit-stains while being shit-stains themselves, governments that value pride over whether the people starve or not, cartels that defile this blessed land with blood and drugs, an incompetent army that can't handle even one cartel, bastards without fathers overflowing everywhere...”
His talk of government pride was surely aimed at the Sinaloa cartel's poverty relief efforts. When Mexico's strongest cartel rolled out aid in their northwest stronghold and key battlegrounds, President Obrador, his pride wounded, had sourly told them to “knock it off.”
'Honestly, I get it. They kill more with drugs and bullets than they save.'
The president's demand meant stopping the cartel wars and other crimes would help more people than their hypocritical charity, but to the poor receiving aid, it sounded like “don't help the poor.” The potbellied man was voicing their anger now.
The top cartel was always the role model for the rest. Seeing Sinaloa build a solid kingdom in the northwest, rivals started similar operations, big or small, in their own territories. In every village they aided, the federal government's prestige plummeted. The cartels doing relief work never failed to emphasize they were filling the government's role.
“Look what happened to Guadalajara. Mexico is a land of sinners with no hope. In this Sodom and Gomorrah, Maria can't dream of anything. If she doesn't become a trashy single mom, that's lucky. If she doesn't become a drug addict, that's lucky again. If she lives out her natural life and dies, that's a third stroke of luck. Presidente, I just want to give my daughter a better future.”
It was sincere fatherly affection, in his way. But it had nothing to do with me. And it was laughable seeing him rage against the country's injustices while he'd surely pocketed his share of bribes. Half the fat on that belly was from corruption.
From the reports on what he'd been doing in my name these past few days, this guy was just another Mexican official. The typical weakling confusing weakness with goodness.
But it was a problem when an actor who should play his role looked so deflated and dark. Hadn't I given him that watch for a reason?
I layered feigned compassion over my indifference. “So that's why you tried to hook us up?”
“Yes. Korea's a good country, but I hear it's full of heretics, atheists, and bald pagans. You're a rare faithful man who kept premarital chastity, with excellent character too, so I thought you were perfect. Sorry if I offended you...”
“No need to apologize. Let's do this.”
“Pardon?”
“Once I'm done with business here, I'll find a job for young Maria. Korea, America, wherever she wants to settle. You won't doubt a job I guarantee, right?”
“N-no way! If you do that, I'll never forget the favor!”
“And some advice: parents shouldn't meddle in their kids' love lives. Leave it to their own choices. If Maria's worthy, God will help her. Just like He brought us together. Right?”
“Yes! Absolutely!”
It was just to get him off my back, but it was sound advice. Perucho nodded desperately, clutching the connection he'd snagged.
Of course, I had no intention of actually finding her a job. Wherever I placed her, the company would think it was tied to “Hwang”—and “Hwang” was someone who needed to vanish after his activities here. Was I crazy enough to leave loose ends?
I patted the beaming potbelly's shoulder. “I swear on high God above, as long as Hwang lives, this promise holds. We'll talk details later.”
“Thank you, Presidente!”
“What time is it now? Traffic's surprisingly bad. We can't be late for mass.”
“T-ten twenty! Plenty of time!”
Checking the time, Perucho was back to fussing over his precious watch. Good.
The limo's front screen was tuned to a news channel. Guadalajara's streets burned like a warzone in the low-res footage. I told them to turn up the volume.
Here, primitive magic Awakened were originally “the blessed (bendecidos),” but cartel ones were mostly “the damned (condenados).” At least on broadcast TV. Their superhuman feats were all evil deeds.
Culiacán was where Sinaloa cartel and government forces clashed. Urban fighting trapped civilians, forcing the army to withdraw. 'Civilians still die en masse, but this dodges direct blame. Politicians...'
The president's choice was pragmatic business.
The screen showed mangled bodies and wrecked vehicles. Mosaic hid wounds, but halved weapons and blade marks on vehicles were clear. Even armored cars had dozens of punctures; one door was diagonally severed clean. Pristine cuts on armor glass. One sword stroke, no doubt. Dried blood soaked the seats.
The TV volume dropped as the driver announced over the intercom.
“We've arrived. Our Lady of Guadalupe Church.”
Mass was still half an hour off, but the narrow alleys flanking the cathedral entrance teemed with attendees. Mostly folks who'd skipped their local church because “Hwang” was here. Without police blocking the main road, we'd have parked farther and walked.
Stepping out, police saluted. Whether I deserved it didn't matter. In a country where cartels appoint police chiefs, it was normal. A captain-equivalent (1° Oficial) gestured toward the church.
“An honor to escort you, Don Hwang. Please, inside. They're waiting.”
The waiters were the city's elite: officials, businessmen, local powers. The stars of my staged show.
'For jobs I can't do myself, outsource to pros.'
The shadowy alliance ruling this port from the shadows excelled at crafting plausible plans to give citizens hope. They'd fattened on such scams before. I just needed the plans, not results. I'd pay only the seed money, no matter the cost.
Poor hiring drives, sustained aid logistics, urban rezoning, tourism expansion—plans galore. The con artists of politicians, tycoons, and assorted bigwigs endlessly pitched ways to fleece the naive foreign investor, announcing them to ignite hope in the poor.
Watching their masterful work, I thought of market manipulators shaking stocks. Same essence: hype intangible hope into frenzy.
Spent so far: 8.2 million pesos, about 4.5 billion won. Under my 30 billion cap—solid. Three more days, no big extras expected.
“Don Hwang.”
After the hour-long Sunday mass, one of the corrupt approached confidently.
“Mayor Salazar Baquiano.”
“Hey now, Hwang. No need for formality between us. Call me Chelino.”
Marcelino Salazar Baquiano. This starving port's well-fed mayor. Five handshakes up from obese port officials.
“Fine, Chelino. What brings you?”
He grinned affirmatively. “Oh, yes. Not business exactly—people to introduce.”
The sixth link: federal official? Ruling party heavyweight? Cartel local lord? Any worked. It'd inflate hope while solidifying “Hwang's” exit rationale.
“Looking forward to it. Friends of yours must be valuable connections.”
“Hahaha! Your kindness saves face. If you're game, let's go now.”
“Now?”
“If possible. One's the type who acts on whims immediately, the other's squeezing time from afar. Unless you have urgent business?”
“No. Businessmen can't miss chances, and introductions from you? I'd cancel anything. Who are they? Can't wait.”
“Ha! Great attitude. Surprise till we meet.”
“Chelino” Salazar Baquiano led me to his Bucerías mansion north of the port, “Casa Sueños Del Mar” (House of Sea Dreams). Forty minutes north via arterial from Guadalupe Cathedral. Its endless beach would dwarf Korea's longest. Only flaw: tacky hotels and gawking tourists.
Bucerías split rich from poor along the arterial, too. The southwest afternoon breeze carried waves and sea scent from the sunny horizon, losing freshness over manicured yards before trickling into slums.
From the arterial, contrasts screamed: left-turn cars modern, right-turn relics. Even eras filtered in like wind here.
Our clean-bumper convoy—including my limo—descended a cobbled Spanish-style slope, halting at a private gate. Armed plainclothes guards stood by; luxury cars from earlier arrivals lined the fence.
“P-Presidente!”
Spotting a silver-gray Porsche 911 Carrera S, pale-faced Perucho whispered a warning.
“Be careful! That's El Fuego's car!”
I feigned ignorance. “Who's that?”
“Sinaloa cartel's Puerto Vallarta plaza boss. Vicious and sneaky. Know how many vanished in half a year since he returned? Could be a kidnapping trap for ransom! No one'd suspect the mayor's invite!”
“Calm down.”
I soothed the machine-gunning Perucho. The mayor waved us in with a smile. I signaled I'd follow soon, then handled the terrified mustache.