Death in Veracruz by Hector Camín Page B

insisted.
    â€œI’m telling you it’s too far away, and it’s not my territory. You know the saying: ‘In heaven God, but in Tamaulipas,
La Quina
’. What’s more, it’s been agreed that Altamira belongs to a district controlled by the workers’ sector of the PRI. You get your support from the CNOP. So even if it were my territory, I’d be disloyal to my own sector if I backed you.”
    â€œThat’s all been taken care of, Lacho,” Miranda went on. “The people are behind me, I can’t lose. You’re more important than
La Quina.
That’s what everybody says in Tamaulipas, as well as here.”
    â€œStop bullshitting, brother. It’s important not to shoot your mouth off,” Pizarro said as he got to his feet. “What I’m telling you is this. You know what your chances are if you run, but, remember, no one backs a loser. In other words, play politics the right way, and forget about settling personal scores. Don’t break party ranks. Help your people get ahead. I’ve said time and again that you don’t just win by winning. Especially if you’re plotting against Joaquin. Loyalty is what comes first in life. Didn’t they teach you that?”
    â€œBut everyone’s behind me, Lacho.”
    â€œI’ve told you what I know. Now. it’s up to you to learn what’s good for you. If you don’t, then just carry on, and at the end of the day we’ll see who’s right. Meanwhile, this show is over, and it’s time to hit the road.”
    As soon as he spoke, he bolted for the door. Roibal yanked my arm and lodged me squarely back into the scrum near Pizarro. His bodyguards piloted him through the gauntlet of instant barriers and walky-talkies, hallway by hallway to the elevator and the street.
    Instead of Pizarro’s car, we now climbed into a large van. Its interior was outfitted with chairs upholstered in burgundy velvet and a table where Roibal placed a report with blue covers for Pizarro. He spoke to the driver in their odd code: “L-1 in zero. Leaving for G-23 in two casings.”
    L-1 was code for Pizarro, zero referred to the vehicle we were in, G-23 was for our destination, in this instance the union’s farming operation. Casing meant minute.
    â€œLet him know R-1 is staying at Dinner Party,” the driver went on “until L-1 arrives at 05. And everyone on 4. Over.”
    R-1 was Roibal, Dinner Party was Pizarro’s house, 05 meant 5 p.m., and 4 meant all points bulletin. It was a complicated and ridiculous code that changed every three or four months. At the time, 61 meant “wait”, 53 was “be advised”; 57 was “affirmative” and 75, “negative”. 58 meant “outsiders listening in”, 34 meant on assignment. Hummingbird 007 meant “danger: prepare to fire”.
    â€œTo La Mesopotamia,” Pizarro said when we had settled in.
    Another guard climbed in the front. From under the seat he pulled out a submachine gun and a pistol whose holster he left on the seat. A black Maverick pulled out in front of us with three guards inside, and a Galaxy fell in behind us with two more.
    We made our way through the streets of Poza Rica towards the road north to Tuxpan. The noonday sun seemed to melt the asphalt beneath the tires of tanker trucks, trailer trucks, and dump trucks parked at the corners. Passenger buses unable to negotiate the narrow streets lurched to a halt, spewing out plumes of black smoke from poorly refined diesel fuel. In the distance, a homely array of squat buildings crept along the horizon in an astonishing display of money and bad taste topped by a clear blue sky riddled at intervals by smoke from the gas flares surrounding the city. Flames from the stacks made the air around them shimmer and punctuated the skyline with small dashes of soot. We crawled past imported eighteen-wheelers, pickups, and cranes, symbols of a