being pushed in matching wheelchairs; an overweight family sitting around a huge bucket of fries; anxious young men in business suits selling stuff over cell phones; a group of smiling young recruits in camouflage fatigues boarding a flight to North Carolina; a couple of college guys in shorts and flip-flops carrying Mexican sombreros; women in power suits and patent-leather shoes pulling black carry-ons; kids dressed all in black covered with tattoos.
These are the people we’re defending , he said to himself with a smile.
Carrying his Starbucks double espresso and Greek yogurt, he approached Suárez, Davis, and Akil. The last two were sitting near the gate howling with laughter.
“What are you two baboons laughing about?” Crocker asked.
Davis: “Suárez was just telling us that his ex-wife used to ask him to piss on her in the shower.”
“What for?”
“I’m not kidding, chief. She used to wipe it all over her face and body like this. She said it was good for her skin.”
“Where is she now?” Akil asked.
“She’s living outside Albuquerque making jewelry.”
Akil: “Next time I pass through, I’ll look her up.”
Their banter was interrupted by a PA announcement informing them that their fight’s gate was being moved from concourse A to C, which meant gathering their stuff and taking the Skylink. They walked in a group, dressed casually in jeans, polo shirts, and hoodies, looking like athletes.
Aside from Mancini, with his perpetual scowl and numerous tattoos, they seemed like a genial group of guys. Only if you looked carefully would you notice the confidence with which they carried themselves and the intensity in their eyes.
Approximately three hours later, the Boeing 767-200 they rode in cut through the smog and low-lying clouds and landed at Don Miguel Hidalgo y Castilla International Airport in Guadalajara.
As they stood in line at Immigration, Mancini explained that the modern steel-and-glass structure they stood in had been named in honor of Miguel Gregorio Antonio Ignacio Hidalgo y Castilla Gallaga Mandarte Villaseñor, who was a priest born of pure Spanish blood. Father Hidalgo was so shocked by the poverty he saw in his rural Mexican town of Dolores in the early 1800s that he marched throughout the territory preaching revolt against the Spanish and eventually raising an army of a hundred thousand campesinos armed with sticks, stones, and machetes.
When his peasant army ran into a force of six thousand trained and armed Spanish troops, they were slaughtered, and Father Hidalgo was executed by a firing squad. His last words were “Though I may die, I shall be remembered forever.”
His head was cut off in Guanajuato City, east of Guadalajara, where it was displayed for ten years. It was finally taken down and buried when Father Hidalgo’s goal of Mexican independence was achieved in 1821.
“Mexicans seem to have a thing about cutting people’s heads off,” remarked Akil, referring to a recent spate of Ciudad Juárez drug vendettas that had been reported in the U.S. press.
Suárez, whose mother’s family hailed from the colonial city of Puebla, east of Mexico City, turned to Mancini and asked, “Where did you learn all that?”
“I guess nobody told you that Manny’s really an oral encyclopedia,” Davis answered.
“More like a freak who reads constantly and never sleeps,” Akil added.
“But don’t cross him. ’Cause he’s crazy strong. Bench presses three seventy-five like it’s nothing, even though he looks like a puss.”
They had passed through Immigration and were retrieving their bags.
Grabbing Suárez by the shoulder, Mancini said, “You probably know that Mexican independence is celebrated on September sixteenth, which is the day in 1810 when Father Hidalgo gave a speech called the Grito de Dolores during Mass, which was essentially a battle cry for independence. I can quote a few lines from it, if you like.”
“Are you part Mexican?” Suárez
These are the people we’re defending , he said to himself with a smile.
Carrying his Starbucks double espresso and Greek yogurt, he approached Suárez, Davis, and Akil. The last two were sitting near the gate howling with laughter.
“What are you two baboons laughing about?” Crocker asked.
Davis: “Suárez was just telling us that his ex-wife used to ask him to piss on her in the shower.”
“What for?”
“I’m not kidding, chief. She used to wipe it all over her face and body like this. She said it was good for her skin.”
“Where is she now?” Akil asked.
“She’s living outside Albuquerque making jewelry.”
Akil: “Next time I pass through, I’ll look her up.”
Their banter was interrupted by a PA announcement informing them that their fight’s gate was being moved from concourse A to C, which meant gathering their stuff and taking the Skylink. They walked in a group, dressed casually in jeans, polo shirts, and hoodies, looking like athletes.
Aside from Mancini, with his perpetual scowl and numerous tattoos, they seemed like a genial group of guys. Only if you looked carefully would you notice the confidence with which they carried themselves and the intensity in their eyes.
Approximately three hours later, the Boeing 767-200 they rode in cut through the smog and low-lying clouds and landed at Don Miguel Hidalgo y Castilla International Airport in Guadalajara.
As they stood in line at Immigration, Mancini explained that the modern steel-and-glass structure they stood in had been named in honor of Miguel Gregorio Antonio Ignacio Hidalgo y Castilla Gallaga Mandarte Villaseñor, who was a priest born of pure Spanish blood. Father Hidalgo was so shocked by the poverty he saw in his rural Mexican town of Dolores in the early 1800s that he marched throughout the territory preaching revolt against the Spanish and eventually raising an army of a hundred thousand campesinos armed with sticks, stones, and machetes.
When his peasant army ran into a force of six thousand trained and armed Spanish troops, they were slaughtered, and Father Hidalgo was executed by a firing squad. His last words were “Though I may die, I shall be remembered forever.”
His head was cut off in Guanajuato City, east of Guadalajara, where it was displayed for ten years. It was finally taken down and buried when Father Hidalgo’s goal of Mexican independence was achieved in 1821.
“Mexicans seem to have a thing about cutting people’s heads off,” remarked Akil, referring to a recent spate of Ciudad Juárez drug vendettas that had been reported in the U.S. press.
Suárez, whose mother’s family hailed from the colonial city of Puebla, east of Mexico City, turned to Mancini and asked, “Where did you learn all that?”
“I guess nobody told you that Manny’s really an oral encyclopedia,” Davis answered.
“More like a freak who reads constantly and never sleeps,” Akil added.
“But don’t cross him. ’Cause he’s crazy strong. Bench presses three seventy-five like it’s nothing, even though he looks like a puss.”
They had passed through Immigration and were retrieving their bags.
Grabbing Suárez by the shoulder, Mancini said, “You probably know that Mexican independence is celebrated on September sixteenth, which is the day in 1810 when Father Hidalgo gave a speech called the Grito de Dolores during Mass, which was essentially a battle cry for independence. I can quote a few lines from it, if you like.”
“Are you part Mexican?” Suárez
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