“Make it stop!” Wagner yells.

God knows what the hell he’s seeing, Keller thinks.

“You make it stop,” Keller says. “Give me a name.”

Mikey holds on. Literally, his bound hands grip the arm of the chair, his knuckles go white, he shakes his head back and forth.

Keller hits him with three more pops. Doesn’t want to, but then he makes himself picture the photos of Irma Córdova, chopped to pieces with machine-gun fire, and that makes it easier to jab this fucking mutt with the needle.

You think you’re seeing things, Mikey?

You want to see what I see?

And my shit’s real.

Wagner starts sweating. First it pops out of his forehead in little dots, then it streams like rain down a window in a tropical storm, and then Mikey starts getting happy feet, tap-tapping away on the concrete floor, his thighs bouncing. Pretty soon Mikey’s rattling like an old heap down a highway and begging for Keller to stop.

“It’s not going to get any better, Mikey,” Keller says.

Jabs him.

“Oh, fucking shit!”

Wagner’s face gets red, his chest heaves, and for a second Keller’s afraid of losing his potential source. He lays two fingers on Wagner’s neck, takes his pulse, and says, “It’s not looking good. A buck ten. You are off to the races.”

“Motherfucker, make it stop.”

“Give me a name.”

“I can’t.”

“A buck forty, now, Mikey,” Keller says. “And you were one Big Mac away from a coronary before you got here, so I don’t know…”

Keller administers another hit.

Been over a hundred shots now.

Wagner isn’t going to last.

But will you do it? Keller asks himself. Can you do this?

He hits him with three more—pop, pop, pop.

Wagner’s face goes scarlet, veins pop out, his chest heaves like some bad sci-fi movie.

“Tachycardia on the way,” Keller says, holding an ampule in front of Wagner’s face. “This one might take you over the top.”

“You…won’t…do it.”

“Don’t test me.”

“You…won’t…”

Keller shrugs and goes to plunge the needle into Wagner’s vein.

“Carrejos!” Wagner screams. “José Carrejos! They call him El Chavo!”

“You sell him guns?” Keller asks, the needle still pressed against Wagner’s arm. “Did you sell him guns, motherfucker?!”

“Yes!”

Keller takes the needle away. “Where do we find Carrejos?”

“I don’t know! Please, give me something…”

Keller unties Wagner’s left hand and then gives him the cell phone he took from him. All the numbers and contacts have already been downloaded. “Call him.”

“What…do…I…say?”

“I don’t care. Just keep him on the line.”

Wagner finds the number and hits it. “Chavo, it’s me, Mikey…No, I’m good, I’m just high is all…really jacked up, ’mano. Hey, do you guys need any more stuff? I just moved that…that…two pounds and I…I…”

The FES technician gives Keller a thumbs-up.

They have Carrejos’s location.

Keller grabs the phone and clicks it off. He turns to the medic. “Take care of him. Ease him down.”

The medic looks at Keller, like, Why? But he does it. Half an hour later, Mikey-Mike Wagner is in the front seat of Keller’s car, sound asleep, when they cross back over the border. Keller drives him to the bus station in El Paso and then shakes him. “Wake up.”

Wagner looks bleary.

Keller hands him a bus ticket. “Chicago. It’s Sinaloa cartel turf—the Zetas can’t get to you there. If you ever come back here, the Z Company will kill you. If they don’t, I will. Now get out.”

“Thank you.”

“Fuck you. Die.”

Driving away, his phone rings. It’s one of the FES guys, they already have Carrejos, and he’s already talking.

Keller doesn’t doubt that. They’re holding a Mexican citizen on Mexican soil and there’s nothing stopping them from doing what they’re going to do—track down the men who killed their comrade’s family.

They’ll strip Carrejos of everything he knows and then, if he’s lucky, put a bullet in the back of his head and dump his body out in the desert.

Keller doesn’t care—he just wants the information, even as he knows that the hunt for the Zeta killers takes him further away from his search for Barrera. It’s the principle of a river—the deviation of even an inch at the source takes that river on a new course, farther and farther from where it started to go.

Now he drives to meet Marisol.

They’re going to a New Year’s Eve party.

—

It turns out to be not a bar or a restaurant but a bookstore café. And she’s right, Cafebrería has that feel of a meeting place, a cultural center, a refuge from the insanity that’s taken over so much of this city.

Marisol introduces him around. Her friends are nice but he feels out of place, clearly a stranger, a gringo, a North American government official and therefore a curiosity and a little bit of a threat among a crowd of writers, poets, activists, and unironically self-proclaimed intellectuals.

Still, even though he’s standing on the periphery, there’s a warmth to this circle that he hasn’t seen or felt in a long time. The affection is palpable and genuine, the humor of a gentler sort than he encountered in Cuernavaca, and there seems to be no other agenda than friendship and a shared cause, even if he thinks that cause is too inchoate and impractical to ever be realized.

A woman friend of Marisol’s, a reporter, invites them over to her house afterward, and as Marisol seems keen to go, Keller agrees.

It’s the usual suspects—intellectuals, activists, writers, poets—cheap wine, and cheaper beer, and Keller gets the feeling that joints would be passed around if he weren’t there, and he wants to tell them that he just doesn’t care, but doesn’t know how to broach the subject.

He’s standing in the little backyard sipping a beer when a somewhat plump man with long black hair and a day-old beard comes up to him.

“Pablo Mora.”

“Art Keller.”

“I write for El Periódico,” Pablo says. He’s clearly had more than one beer, and he says, “Some of us have been talking and the consensus is that you’re some kind of a spy. If that is the case, what kind of a spy are you?”

“I’m with the government,” Keller says, “but I’m not a spy.”

“That’s disappointing. It would be more fun if you were a spy,” Pablo says. “So why are you here?”

“Marisol asked me.”

“We love Marisol,” Pablo says. “We all love Marisol. I love Marisol. I mean, I love her.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“Well, I blame you,” Pablo says. “How can she love a gringo?”

“Well, I’m only half gringo,” Keller says. “Half gringo, half pocho.”

“A pochingo.”

“I guess.”

“I just made that word up,” Pablo says. “I’m a Juarense. Born and bred.”

Marisol walks over to rescue him. “Pablo, I see you’ve met Arturo.”

“The pochingo spy.”

“Pochingo?” Marisol asks.

“I’ll tell you later,” Keller says.

“You’re okay, pochingo,” Pablo says. “I’m going to get another beer. You want another beer?”

“I’m good.”

“Okay.”

Pablo walks away.

“He’s a little over-refreshed,” Keller says.

“Kind of a sad story, Pablo.”

“I like him,” Keller says. “He has a crush on you.”

“A small crush,” Marisol says. “He’d be in love with Ana if he had any brains. Are you having a good time?”

“I am.”

“Liar.”

“No, I am.”

“Let’s go talk with Ana,” Marisol says. “I’d love for you to be friends.”

They go and sit on the steps with the petite black-haired woman who’s in an intense discussion with a bespectacled middle-aged man with a cane. Keller figures that this has to be the famous Óscar Herrera, the eminent journalist whom the Barreras tried to assassinate back in the day.

“Tell me how it’s different, Óscar,” Ana is saying. “Tell me how this isn’t an army of occupation.”