"What certain people want is beyond the scope of my authority," the official says. "What I can promise is that there will be no interference."

"So if something should happen with our friend in Puente Grande..."

"Then it happens."

Nacho gets up.

He leaves the suitcase.

- A semi truck rolls up to the gate of CEFERESO II.

Two of Diego's men, AR-15s in their hands, walk up to the driver. They talk for a few seconds, Diego's men bark some instructions, and the prison guards back off into the shadows of the walls. The blocking truck pulls aside, the metal door slides open, and the semi truck backs its rear door to the entrance.

Salvador Barrera hops out of the truck in his black leather jacket and jeans and looks around with all his father's bluff arrogance. It almost brings tears to Adn's eyes. Salvador is his father's son-thick, muscled, aggressive.

Aggression had been Ral's role in the organization. In the terms of cheap journalism, Adn was the brains, his brother Ral was the muscle. A generalization, of course, but fair enough.

Ral had died in Adn's arms.

Well, that's not quite accurate, Adn thinks as he embraces his nephew. Ral, gut-shot, died from a tiro de gracia that I fired into his head to end his agony.

Another memory he owes to Art Keller.

"You've grown," he says, holding Salvador by the shoulders.

"I'm eighteen," Salvador answers, just the slightest trace of resentment in his tone.

I understand it, Adn thinks. Your father is dead and I'm alive. I'm alive and the empire your father died for is shattered. If he were alive, the empire might still be intact.

And you might be right, my nephew.

You might be right.

I will have to find a way of dealing with you.

Salvador turns away to help his mother from the truck. Sondra Barrera has taken on the trappings of a stereotypical Mexican widow. Her severe dress is black and she clutches a rosary in her left hand.

It's a shame, Adn thinks.

Sondra's still a pretty woman, she could find another husband. But not looking like a nun waiting for death. A nice dress...a little makeup...maybe an occasional smile...The problem is that Ral has become a saint in her memory. She has apparently forgotten his endless infidelities, violent bursts of temper, the drinking, the drugs. Among the many names Adn remembers Sondra calling her husband when he was alive, "saint" was not one of them.

He kisses Sondra on her cheeks. "Sondra..."

"We always knew," she says, "that we'd end up here, didn't we?"

No, we didn't, Adn thinks. And if you did, it never stopped you from enjoying the houses, the clothing, the jewelry, the vacations. You knew where the money came from-it never stopped you from spending it.

Lavishly.

And, to my knowledge, you never turn down the package of cash that arrives at your house the first of every month. Nor the tuition payments for Salvador's college, the medical bills, the credit card payments...

One of Diego's men reaches up and helps Elena Snchez Barrera down from the trailer. Wearing a red holiday dress and heels, she looks wryly amused-a (deposed) queen arriving in a slum. "A trailer truck? I feel like a delivery of produce."

"But safe from prying eyes." Adn steps up to greet his sister with a kiss on each cheek.

She hugs him. "It's wonderful to see you."

"And you."

"Are we going to stand here proclaiming our mutual affection," Elena asks, "or are you going to give us something to drink?"

Adn takes her by the arm and leads her to the dining hall where Magda stands nervously beside the head of the table, waiting to greet them. She looks quite fetching in a silver lame dress that is, strictly speaking, a little too short for Christmas with a little too deep a decolletage, but that shows her to great advantage. Her hair is upswept and lustrous, held in place with cloisonne Chinese pins that give her a touch of the exotic.

"Leave it to you to find a rose in a sewer," Elena whispers to Adn. "I've heard rumors, but...she's magnificent."

She offers her cheek to Magda for a kiss.

"You're so beautiful," Magda says.

"Oh, I'm going to like her," Elena says. "And I was just telling Adanito how lovely you are."

This is going well, Adn thinks. It could as easily have gone the other way-Elena's mouth is a jar of honey with a sharp knife in it, and she has already gotten through an entire sentence without alluding to Magda's youth or his lack thereof. Perhaps she's mellowed-the Elena he knew would have already asked Magda if he helps her with her homework.

And the "Adanito"-"Little Adn." Nice touch.

"I love your dress," Magda says.

Women, Adn thinks, will always be women. In the middle of one of the bleakest prisons on earth, they'll act like they bumped into each other at an exclusive mall. They'll be shopping for shoes together next.

"I'm leaving my children nothing," Elena says, displaying the dress. "I'm going to spend it all."

"Now the party can begin!" Diego yells, making an entrance.

Everyone smiles at Diego, Adn thinks.

He's irresistible.

Today he's dressed in his Christmas best-a leather sports coat over a leather vest. A bolo with his purple shirt takes the place of a tie. And he has new jeans-pressed-over silver-tipped cowboy boots.

Diego's wife, Chele, is a bit more subdued in a silver-sequined dress and heels, her black hair in an updo. She's thickened in the hips a little bit, Adn observes, but she's still una berraca-hot stuff.

And a match for her husband, equally blunt. Chele will say anything that's on her mind, such as her opinions about Diego's numerous segunderas-she's all for them. "Better than him wearing me out all the time. Dios mo, I'd have a chocha wider than one of his tunnels."

She walks up, hugs and kisses everyone, then steps back and looks at Magda from toe to head. "Dios mo, Adn, you've become a mountain climber! Darling girl, don't the pitones hurt?!"

From anyone else, it would have been a horribly awkward insult; but it's Chele, so everyone, even Magda, laughs.

They've brought their children, three boys and three girls ranging from six to fourteen. Adn has given up on keeping their names straight but has made sure that he has a nice gift for each of them.

Adn had questioned the wisdom of bringing children to the prison, but Chele was firm about it. "This is our life. They need to know what it is, not just the good parts. I won't have them being ashamed of their family."

So the children, impeccably dressed in brand-new holiday clothes, came, and now line up to kiss or shake hands with their to Adn.

They're nice kids, Adn thinks. Chele's done well with them.

Diego's youngest brother is a (much) smaller version of him, the classic case of the sibling becoming the oldest brother, only more so. Alberto Tapia's one concession to Christmas is a red bolo in his otherwise totally narco-cowboy, norteo outfit-black silk shirt, black slacks, lizard cowboy boots, black cowboy hat.

Short as he is-and he's shorter than Adn by at least two inches-the get-up looks comical on him, like a child playing cowboy. No one is going to say that to Alberto, though, because his fuse is shorter than he is.

Adn worries about Alberto's violent temper, but Diego assures him that it's nothing to worry about, that he has his little brother under control.

I hope so, Adn thinks.

Alberto seems convivial today, all laughs and smiles, and Adn wonders if he snorted up on the way here. Certainly his wife did-Lupe's black eyes are pinned and her tight, short dress is wildly inappropriate. Another example of Alberto's recklessness, Adn thinks. You sleep with strippers if that's your taste, but you don't marry them.

"Just because he bought her tits," Chele once observed, "doesn't mean he had to buy the rest of her." Lupe's remarkable breasts-cantilevered precariously on her petite frame-notwithstanding, she looks almost childlike, vulnerable, and Adn makes a mental note to be kind to her.

Former stripper or not, she is Alberto's wife and therefore family.

Martn Tapia is the perfect middle child, as different from his brothers as the tyranny of genetics will allow, and the family joke is that a banker crept in one night and impregnated his mother while she was asleep.

The financial manager and diplomat of the Tapia organization, Martn is soft-spoken, quiet, conservatively dressed in an expensively tailored black suit and white shirt with French cuffs.

He and his wife, Yvette, have just moved to a big home in an exclusive Cuernavaca neighborhood, close to Mexico City to be nearer to the politicians, financiers, and society types whom they need to cultivate for business.

His job is to play tennis and golf, have drinks at the nineteenth hole, go to parties at the country club, be seen at expensive restaurants, and throw soirees at their home. Yvette's job is to look pretty and be the charming hostess.

They're both perfect for their jobs.

Yvette Tapia is another former beauty queen-impeccably dressed in an expensive, stylish black dress on her svelte body-the personification of class. Her hair is cut in a short bob, her makeup is subtle, a slash of red lipstick makes it all sexy.

She's perfect.

"Yvette," Chele has said, "has the beauty and warmth of an ice sculpture. The only difference is that an ice sculpture eventually melts."

In Adn's day, they would have been called "yuppies." He's not sure what the word would be now, but they're politely tolerant, if mildly embarrassed, at being at the prison party. Yvette smiles thinly at Chele's jokes, Martn finds topics of conversation that he can share, mostly about ftbol.

They can't complain about the meal.

While it isn't the nouvelle cuisine they search out in Cuernavaca (they are both self-admitted foodies), but heartier, simpler Sinaloan fare, fresh and beautifully prepared filet mignon, shrimp, lobsters, roast potatoes, and green beans served with expensive wines that even Martn and Yvette can't find fault with.

Dessert is the traditional flan, with galetas de Navidad, then champurrado and arroz dulce, after which the piatas are hung and the children go at them with sticks, and the dining room floor is soon covered with candy and little toys.

As the evening settles into the post-feast languor, Adn nudges Elena and says, "We should talk."

- They sit in one of the consultation rooms.

Adn says, "The situation in Tijuana-"

"I've done the best I could."

"I know."

Elena took charge only because she was the last Barrera sibling not in a grave or a jail. A number of their people would have rebelled just because she was a woman. Some of the others were Teo's people anyway. Once he broke away, they went with him. So did a number of the police and judges, who no longer had Ral or Adn to fear.

The miracle of it is that Elena has held on as long as she did. She's a good businessperson but not a war leader. Now she says, "I want out, Adanito. I'm tired. Unless you can give me more help on the ground..."

"I'm in prison, Elena." They're in a staredown, as they so often were in childhood. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes."

"Then trust me on this," Adn says. "It will work out, I promise you. I'll deal with it. I just need a little time."

They stand up and she kisses his cheek.

- Diego interrupts playing with his children to take a phone call.

He listens and nods.

The Christmas present is on its way.

- "May I have a word?" Sondra asks Adn.

Adn suppresses a sigh. He wants to enjoy the party, not endure Sondra's gloom, but, as the head of the family, he has responsibilities.

It's Salvador, she tells him when they retreat to a quiet corner. He's disrespectful, angry. He stays away for nights at a time, he's cutting classes. He parties, he drinks, she's afraid he might be doing drugs.

"He won't listen to me," Sondra says, "and there's no man at home to set him straight. Will you talk to him, Adn? Will you, please?"

She sounds like an old lady, Adn thinks. He does his math-Sondra is forty-one.

Salvador is none too pleased when his uncle comes up and asks to talk with him, but he grudgingly follows Adn back to his cell, sits down, and looks at Adn with a combination of resentment and sullenness that is almost impressive. "My mother asked you to do this, right?"

"What if she did?" Adn asks.

"You know what she's like."

Yes, I do, Adn thinks. I truly do. But he's the head of the family so he asks, "What are you doing, Salvador?"

"What do you mean?"

"With your life," Adn says. "What are you doing with your life?"

Salvador shrugs and looks at the floor.

"Have you dropped out of college?" Adn asks.

"I've stopped going to class."