“I’ve given you over fifty arrests.”

True enough, Keller thinks. Based on María Fernanda’s information, the FES have captured a slew of Tapia soldiers, along with weapons, cash, and drugs. It’s good, but makes it all the more urgent to get Diego, because every arrest shortens the informant’s shelf life, and now Keller makes exactly that point. “I wouldn’t want to be you when Diego figures out who you are. You need to put him away.”

“I don’t know where he is.”

“I want Diego,” Keller says. He walks away and heads back to the office thinking that the best time to nab Diego Tapia is coming up.

Narcos take the holidays very seriously. The peces gordos have to throw elaborate parties or they lose face. And none of them can afford to lose face, not this year, with loyalties and alliances on the fence, waiting to be tipped to one side or the other. Diego will throw a party and “María Fernanda” goddamn well better invite me.

María calls two weeks later.

“Ahuatepec. 1158 Avenida Artista. Tonight.”

Keller puts up a photo of the address, a big house in a gated community outside Cuernavaca.

“He’s an arrogant son of a bitch,” Orduña says when Keller relays the phone conversation to him. Diego has invited dozens of guests, and hired twenty of Mexico City’s highest-priced call girls and one of Mexico’s most renowned norteño musicians to play at the party.

“We don’t want a bloodbath,” Orduña says. They both know the political reality—it’s a far different thing to shoot up a wealthy suburb than some impoverished colonia. Maybe that’s why Diego feels safe.

“We know where he is now,” Keller said. “We can’t lose him again.”

Keller puts a call back in to María Fernanda.

Then sits back and watches the party from a distance.

—

Eddie hopes like hell it was goat.

Diego demanded that Eddie show up for his holiday party, and Eddie was all like “I’m busy” but Diego was like “Fuck that, m’ijo, you’re showing up.” So Eddie went and the usual crew was there—the bodyguards and some Zetas and the squadron of whores and they were all doing blow and then dinner was served.

Sitting around the table eating chili verde and Diego started talking about Manuel Esposito, this old Sinaloa cartel sicario—genuine tough guy stone-cold killer—who sided with the Barreras, and alone among the guests asked Whatever happened to old Manuel and Diego, he got this weird smile on his face and said, “Maybe you’re eating him.”

Everybody laughed, like, yeah, that’s real funny, but then Diego looked all serious and said, “No. Maybe you’re eating him.”

Eddie set his spoon down.

Diego said, “I mean, they say you should eat what you kill, don’t they? Besides, the flesh of a strong enemy makes you strong.”

Eddie thought he might blow chunks right there at the table. He didn’t eat any more chili, and probably Diego was kidding. But with Diego these days, who knows? And Eddie was pissed, because, well shit, did Diego just make him into a fucking cannibal?

That’s just not right.

That could mess with a guy’s head.

Turn him into a vegetarian.

Anyway, Eddie don’t have time for this crazy shit.

He’s got a business to run and he’s married again.

Yeah, okay, well, sort of married, seeing as how he never got divorced. But he found himself another Tex-Mex honey, the daughter of one of his big-time coke runners, so they got “married” in Acapulco by a priest who wasn’t anal about the paperwork and maybe wasn’t really a priest anyway.

Honeymooned right there in Acapulco and she got knocked up, like microwave pregnancy. So now there’s a kid on the way, so who has time for Diego’s crazy death-worshipping maybe-I’m-a-cannibal-maybe-not bullshit?

And then there are these command performances he has to make when Diego requests his presence at one of the many safe houses he has in the greater Mexico City metro area, which he refuses to leave.

The visits to Diego are risky, because the federales have a hard-on for him like a fence post, and they’re also a pain in the ass because El Jefe’s always busting Eddie’s balls about why he’s not killing more of Barrera’s people, “carrying more of his weight” in the war.

Well, in the first fucking place, it’s not my weight to carry, Eddie thinks. I didn’t start the war with El Señor, I only did what I was asked-slash-told and offed the nephew, and now my ass is on the line? My business?

Eddie don’t want no part in the war, either in Sinaloa or in Juárez, because what’s Juárez to him? He ain’t gonna get a piece of the plaza, even if they win, so fuck that. So he’s held back a little in the fighting—let his guys do a little here and there if they were eager to win their spurs, but that’s about it.

So every time he goes to see Diego, it comes up.

And Diego is motherfucking crazy when he does coke, which he does more of every day, it seems. Coke and booze and hookers and the Skinny Lady, and it’s getting stranger than strange.

The whole thing is jacked up, though. Killing cops. This is not what we used to do, this is not how we ran business. And this new stuff—the extortion, kidnappings, for Chrissakes—all this Zeta-type shit that Diego’s into now.

It’s not right.

It’s not right and it’s going to get us fucked up. And fucked up is something Eddie can’t afford right now. Yeah, he’s clearing over a hundred mil a year in coke sales north of the border, another twenty in Monterrey—it’s not a money issue, it’s a quality-of-life issue.

The DEA has put two million on his head, the Mexican government has matched it, and who knows which cop is on whose payroll anymore? It’s chaos out there, not to mention that the Barrera faction has him high on their to-do list for canceling young Sal’s reservation.

So he’s on the move, splitting time between condos and apartments in Acapulco and Monterrey. Not only does he have to manage business in both places, he has to keep his ass moving lest it get shot off.

It’s a hell of a party, though, Eddie has to admit now, looking down at the thousand-dollar blond head bobbing for apples on his lap. He’s never been a fan of norteño—Eddie’s taste runs more to Pearl Jam—but it is pretty cool to listen to a freaking Grammy winner sing “Chaparra de mi amor.” Kind of like when Johnny Fontane sang at Connie’s wedding in One, only better, because it comes with a blow job.

Even Diego’s in a good mood, walking among the guests playing Santa Claus, handing out expensive watches, jewelry, and envelopes of cash—the aguinaldos—the yearly bonuses. He’s also passing out raffle tickets with drawings later for cars and houses—this is how you keep the employees happy. And the women he brought in are fantastic, right out of Mexican Playboy. A little different from Barrera’s parties where wives but not mistresses were invited. Wives were banned from this shindig.

What happens in Ahuatepec, Eddie thinks, stays in Ahuatepec.

A good thing, too, because guys are fucking women right out there in the open, booze flowing like water, coke everywhere, tables loaded down with food (Eddie only hopes that the chicken in the fajitas is really chicken).

It’s like Six Flags for narcos.

The Mexico Ten finishes him off, he zips up and rejoins the party. Diego comes up to him and hands him a gift-wrapped box.

It’s a diamond-studded Audemars Piguet.

Eddie figures the watch goes for about a half mil.

“I feel bad, Diego,” Eddie says. What he got Diego for Christmas was a pair of Lucchese alligator boots, custom made. True, they cost him eight grand, and Diego’s proudly wearing them now, but still.

“You got me Salvador Barrera,” Diego says, and then wraps Eddie in a bear hug and says in his ear, “I love you, m’ijo.”