The Cartel Lawyer by Dave Daren (ebook reader below 3000 TXT) 📕

I kept an eye out for Fuentes Shipping while I drove past the chain-link fences that kept the civilian populations out of the work areas. The warehouses brimmed with workers in dirty shirts, and men with impressive basso voices yelled directions to the crane operators.

Fuentes Shipping was the last shipyard, and the largest, with an imposing chain-link fence that featured barbed wire around the top and warning signs to inform passersby that the fence was electrified. The hum of the live metal vibrated through my bones as I rolled my window down and pulled up to the squat, red brick gatehouse.

“This is private property,” a gruff, dark-haired man with a shaggy beard said when I stopped next to his window.

“I have a meeting with Alvaro Cruz,” I informed him and watched as his eyes swept over me suspiciously.

“What’s your name?” the rough security guard asked as he grabbed an old office phone.

“Roberto Torres,” I answered. “I’m a lawyer. I helped Diego Perez.”

“You’re the guy that helped Diego?” the dark-haired man’s eyes widened, and his bushy eyebrows climbed his forehead as he gave me another once over. “You’re a little young to be as good as he says.”

“Thank you,” I said and tried to hide how pleased I was that Diego had apparently bragged about me to so many people.

“Let me just call down to make sure,” the guard said as he dialed the number to the main office. “Yeah, I got a Roberto Torres... Sure... Yeah... Alright. I’ll let him know.”

The burly, hairy man hung up the phone and then popped his head back out of the window with a grin that revealed he had a few missing teeth.

“Mr. Cruz is waiting for you in his office,” he announced. “You’ll drive through the gates and head straight to the docks. It’s the last building down there on the left. You can park anywhere. His office is up on the second floor. Can’t miss it.”

“Thank you,” I said with a nod as I repeated the instructions again in my head so I wouldn’t forget them. “Have a great day.”

“You, too,” he replied as he waved his hand at me.

He shut his plexiglass window and turned his attention back to the soccer game that played on his small TV. For a moment, I thought he’d forgotten to let me in, but after a few seconds of staring at the gate, it started to roll slowly out of the way.

I waited until the gate was wide enough for the Civic to pass through, and then I drove forward, even though the gate was still creaking open. I did a quick scan of the area and saw that there were three warehouses to the left, a field of shipping containers stacked three high in tidy rows to the right, and straight ahead were four cargo ships that were anchored next to well-maintained docks.

I found a parking spot in front of the last building, and glanced over at the two assigned spaces. One was for the president of the company, Osvaldo Fuentes, and the other was for the Vice President, Alvaro Cruz. A black Mercedes-Benz S class was parked in the vice-president’s spot. The sleek, high-class car seemed out of place in the grime of the shipyard, and I wondered what exactly the Fuentes company was shipping. I started to doubt the wisdom of my impulsive decision, but then I thought about the costs again, and I quickly banished my doubts.

The inside of the warehouse was busy when I walked through the front door. There was a hallway that led into the back of the building with clearly marked bathrooms, and the wall to the left opened up to reveal a wide open space with workers shouting orders as they moved crates out of the metal container that was parked just outside the warehouse. To the right was a typical industrial staircase that climbed up to a second floor, and I could just make out a couple of office doors along a hallway near the top.

I climbed the metal stairs, and I tried to ignore the way they bounced a bit under each step. The last one even whined when I put my weight on it, and I looked down just to make sure it wasn’t rusted through. But it looked like it was brand new, so maybe it had been recently replaced by someone who hadn’t done such a good job.

When I was on safer ground, I studied the hallway where I found myself. It was perfectly ordinary, with gray walls, linoleum floors, and a row of office doors along one side and a railing that overlooked the warehouse below on the other side.

Alvaro Cruz’s office was easy enough to find. It was the first door to my left, and his name and title had been engraved on the frosted glass window. I took a deep, steadying breath, reminded myself why I was there, and then knocked on the wood frame.

“Come in,” a soft, deep voice called.

I opened the door and stepped into an office that could only be described as a gray square. It featured black and gray squares of carpet, gray metal filing cabinets that lined the side walls, and a large gray desk. The only color came from a small plant on the windowsill, and the view out of the three large windows that overlooked the docks. The blinds on the windows had been pulled up so that the single occupant could look out when he wasn’t at his desk with its neatly arranged computer, files, and phone.

I’m not sure what I expected Alvaro Cruz to look like, maybe something like Diego Perez or the security guard, but the giant that stood with his hands clasped behind his back was much more intimidating. The top of his head almost touched the ceiling, and