By Jon Beight
It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I came to Juarez last night looking for some tequila and a woman. I found them both, but afterwards I somehow wound up in an all night poker game that didn’t go my way. Credit only goes so far, and then you have to pay the piper.
To settle up, all I had to do was get a “package” over the border and delivered to an El Paso address. Today. That’s all. “Hey, jugador. You fuck this up, we find you, here or across the border! It no matter,” threatened that cigar smoking little shit, Pedro. Pablo. Whatever. He was the number two guy when his boss, the one they call El Mago wasn’t around. He got that nickname because people that crossed him seemed to disappear. Like magic. Pedro’s threat was punctuated by his two simian brained compadres that laid into me for a few go rounds. I suppose I was lucky they didn’t pull their guns, which they weren’t afraid to show off.