But instructive.

“Top secret” consultations take place involving the Mexican attorney general’s office, the interior secretary, and a representative from Los Pinos, as well as the DEA chief and the American Justice Department.

The decision comes back down—SEIDO and DEA should make every effort to locate the time and place of Barrera’s wedding, but it should be considered strictly an “intelligence opportunity” and not an “operational mandate.”

Barrera’s right, Keller thinks.

He’s untouchable.

Keller has long believed that you have to be lucky to be good, but not good to be lucky.

But sometimes luck just rolls your way.

It’s nothing you did, nothing you didn’t do, and it can come from the most unexpected places.

Now luck rolls the other way.

From the unlikeliest of sources.

—

Sal Barrera is clubbing at Bali.

Not as cool as clubbing in Bali, but it is the coolest disco in Zapopan, and he and his buddies were ushered into the VIP section because they’re buchones—Sal is Adán Barrera’s nephew, of course, César is the son of Nacho Esparza’s latest mistress, and Edgar’s father is a big shot in Esparza’s organization.

So they sit in the raised center of the club, which is decorated in Indonesian style, and scope out the talent around them.

“A little sparse tonight,” César says. He’s a good-looking dude—slim, with wavy black hair, and well dressed in a black Perry Ellis shirt over custom jeans.

“It only takes one,” Sal answers, scanning the lower level where the plebes are. Sal is dressed to score, too—silk batik shirt, white jeans, Bruno Magli loafers. He’s there to get his knob polished, at the very least. Figures he needs the release, because Nacho’s been working him like a burro.

Adán was as good as his word—Sal finished his degree, and then went to his uncle.

“You’ve done everything that I’ve asked,” Adán said.

“I gave you my word,” Sal said.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed,” Adán said. “So I want you to serve as an apprentice to Nacho Esparza for one year. As such, you’ll be present at important meetings and privy to the family’s business. If that goes well, as I expect it will, I’ll bring you in as my second in command here in Sinaloa. Be a sponge, soak up everything that Nacho has to teach you.”

Sal blushed with the unexpected news. “Sí, patrón.”

“ ‘Tío,’ ” Adán corrected. “I’m your uncle.”

“Sí, Tío.”

“To get you started,” Adán said, “I’m giving you five kilos of cocaine. Market it through Nacho. He’ll help you make a good profit and set yourself up in business. “

“Thank you, Tío.”

“Sobrino,” Adán said, “the days ahead are going to be interesting…and dangerous…I’m going to rely increasingly on family. Do you understand? On family.”

“I’m honored, Tío Adán.”

“Well, don’t be too honored,” Adán said, “until you see what it entails.”

It’s been a revelation to Sal how boring the drug business is. Yeah, there’s the women, the money, the parties, the clubs, but at the heart of it are numbers.

Endless columns of numbers.

And not just the money coming in, but the money going out, which Nacho keeps a sharp eye on. The price of precursor chemicals, shipping costs, dock handling charges, equipment, transportation, labor, security…it goes on and on.

Sal spends most of his time double-checking figures that some worker bee has already checked, but when he objects to the redundancy of this “busy work,” Nacho tells him that he’s learning the business, and the business is numbers.

Then there are the meetings.

Holy fuck, the meetings.

Everyone has to sit down, everyone has to be given coffee or a beer, everyone has to be fed. Then everyone has to talk about their families, their kids, their kids’ kids, their prostate problems…then they finally get to the tedious details. They want a lower piso, they want someone to pay them a higher piso, so-and-so is overpaying the truck drivers and fucking up the market for everyone else, some chemist in Apatzingán is fucking with the meth recipe…

It goes on and on until Sal wants to swallow his gun.

At least he has that.

At least Nacho lets him carry and feel like a narco instead of an accountant, and Sal has a Beretta 8000 Cougar tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

All the buchones carry—a piece on the hip is as mandatory an accessory as the gold chains around your neck. You just aren’t a buchón without the pistola. You might as well not have a dick.

He scans the crowd and then sees this babe sitting at a table, sipping on some fruity drink.

She’s with two guys.

No problem—the guys look like jerks, cheaply dressed, no style at all. And neither of them is Salvador Barrera.

“I’m going in,” he says to César.

“She’s with somebody.”

“She’s with nobodies,” Sal answers. He pours a glass of champagne from the complimentary bar, descends to the floor, and walks up to the girl’s table.

“I thought you might like a good drink,” he says. “Cristal.”

“I’m good,” she says.

“I’m Sal.”

“Brooke.”

“What a nice name,” Sal says, ignoring the two guys sitting there like crash test dummies. They look annoyed, a little bewildered, a little scared. They’re both Mexicans, they know what’s what. “Where are you from, Brooke?”

“L.A.,” she says. “Well, Pasadena. South Pasadena.”

She’s pretty. Blue eyes, honey hair, turned-up nose, nice rack under a white blouse.

“What brings you to Mexico?” Sal asks. “Spring break?”

She shakes her head. “I’m a student at UAG.”

Universidad Autónoma de Guadalajara, right here in Zapopan.

“A student. What do you study?”

“Pre-med.”

Now she’s looking a little nervous, like this guy is hitting on her, right in front of her friends, so Sal moves to close the deal. “How would you like to come up to the VIP section? It’s better.”

“I’m with friends,” she says. “We’re celebrating David’s birthday.”

“Feliz Navidad, David,” Sal says to the jerk she points out. “Listen, you all three can come. It’s cool.”

They look at each other, like, what do you think? But Sal sees that David isn’t having it. Jesus, is this plebe tapping that? Unbelievable. But she’s looking at David, and he just slightly shakes his head, so Brooke looks up at Sal and says, “Thanks, but…you know…we’re just having a little birthday party here. But thanks.”

It pisses Sal off. “Well, how about a little later? I mean, after you shake these losers.”

David makes a mistake.

He gets up. “The lady said no.”

“Is that what the lady said?” Sal asks. “What are you, a tough guy?”

“No.” His voice shakes a little, but he stands there in Sal’s face. “Why don’t you leave us alone and go back to the VIP section?”

“You going to tell me what to do now?” Sal asks.

“Please,” Brooke says.

Sal smiles at her. “You know, you must be a dumb cunt, you can’t get into pre-med in the States. It’s okay, I’ll still fuck you until you scream my name and come on my dick.”

David shoves him.

Sal takes a swing and then bouncers are there, squeezing between them, and César and Edgar pull him back.

“Big mistake, birthday boy,” Sal says to David.

Edgar’s big and he gets his arms under Sal’s and hauls him away, toward the door. “Come on, ’mano. This chiflada isn’t worth it.”

They wrangle him out the door. On the sidewalk, Sal says, “This isn’t over.”

“Yes it is,” Edgar says. “Nacho—”

“Fuck Nacho.” They get into Sal’s red BMW, but Sal won’t leave. “We wait.”

“Come on, man,” César says.

“You want to go, go.”

“You’re my ride.”

So they sit and wait, and instead of Sal cooling off, he gets hotter and hotter. By closing time, 4:00 a.m., he is seething.