El Toro Rojo

Retirement can be a curse. It leaves you energetic and busy with things to do or you slowly wither on the vine and die. Which brings me back here, to Moss Landing. The place where, in a sense, I was made.

The sign is still there: El Toro Rojo. The Red Bull. The place hasn’t changed. I go inside to find the same stained floorboards, the same faded wooden walls, the same sagging and rundown bar. The same photos hang on the walls, the same sea-theme decor lines the ceiling, and the same musty smell permeates the room. There are few customers, as is usual for two o’clock on a Tuesday. I walk up to the bar, haul my ass up on a stool and place my hat on the bar facing the doorway. A minute later I have a cold Guinness draft in my hands and am watching the soccer game on the overhead screen. I am on my second beer when the door squeaks open and in walks a tall man with an orange baseball cap. The background noise fades as I stare into my beer and let the memories take me away.

Thirty years earlier. Same town. Same bar. I walk into The Red Bull with the same confidence as a rat entering a maze. My first undercover assignment. I am to walk in, grab a seat at the bar, place my cap on the bar facing the door, and drink beer for the next five hours. I am to speak to no one, acknowledge no one, and look at no one. Sometime in the next 10 days a tall guy with an orange ball cap will come in, sit next to me, hand me a paper wrapped package and walk out. I am to get up exactly 29 minutes later, leave the bar and walk over to a speed boat waiting for me at the public dock and get in.

For 10 straight days I follow this routine. On the last day in my last hour a tall guy with an orange baseball cap comes in, sits next me, asks about the weather and the catch of the day, drops a paper wrapped package on the bar next to me and walks out. I follow exactly 29 minutes later, find the waiting boat and within two hours I am on a plane to Denver where I spend the next five days undergoing an intensive debriefing.

Four days after the debrief I am outside the El Toro Rojo bar in Crescent City. Same deal. I go in for five hours a day and drink beer. Within the next 10 days a guy in an orange cap will come in and drop off a package. I am to leave 29 minutes later and board a boat waiting for me in the harbor. This time it is on day seven. The boat takes me out two miles to a fishing trawler, which takes me up to Portland, then a flight back to Denver for another rigorous debrief.

I do it again in Ensenada. The El Toro Rojo is a bit classier, meant for a more upscale and touristy clientele, and even has a mechanical bull labeled El Toro Furioso. It’s pretty dead at 11 o’clock in the morning on a Thursday. I’m about to order a Guinness, but I remember where I am and go with a Pacifico instead. For six days I watch soccer games on the television and the occasional drunk tourist that takes a ride on the bull (usually female), before orange hat shows up. I wait 29 minutes, catch my ride in the harbor and end up on a shrimper that takes me north to San Diego. Another flight to Denver for a debrief and then I’m back in Moss Landing.

The cycle continues for three months.

I am on day six in Ensenada when orange cap shows up earlier than normal. When I leave the bar I notice a commotion down the street. Mexican police are all over my hotel. I get to my ride and I’m back in Denver within 48 hours. They inform me the police raid was for me. They see it as a good sign. I’ve been noticed by somebody high up and they are curious. I’m not as happy, but I’m still too dumb to know better.

Another month goes by. I’m in Moss Landing. I get a nod and a wink from the bartender and I get nods from the two “regulars” that are always playing chess in the corner. I no longer have to ask for a beer, it is sitting there waiting for me. The next day I’m finishing my last beer of the day when a loud and obnoxious white guy that looks like he escaped from a college fraternity comes in and starts blathering about “scores” and “crews” and where can he get “blow.” He gets even louder when he is ignored. He is ordering a gin fizz when one of the “regulars,” a bald guy I know as Rex, comes up to me and tells me to stay away from the loudmouth.

“He’s a cop,” Rex tells me. “Bad news.”

I finish my beer, tilt my cap to Rex, and leave for the day. When I am far enough away from the Red Bull, and positive I am not being followed, I use a phone in the back room of a laundromat set up for this purpose. The loudmouth hangs around making a fool of himself for another two days and then disappears. Quiet comes to the bar and normalcy settles back in. Orange cap walks in and we play our little shuffle. Three weeks later I am in Ensenada when Rex walks in, drops off a newspaper clipping and pats me on the shoulder. He goes into the back room and I sip my Pacifico and read the clipping. It’s about an off-duty cop from San Jose that was killed in a burglary attempt. The photo in the clipping matches the loudmouth.

A quick note: The cop in question wasn’t exactly a good cop. He worked for the cartel and was there to test me. Luckily, my call went unnoticed. My case agent decided to stir things up by making it look like I killed the guy. In truth, he is alive and well and living somewhere in Nebraska.

Another month. Another cycle.

I’m in Crescent City when I meet Sandy. She was a real looker and about as out of place in this fishing town as a fish out of water. Even if I hadn’t been warned at my last debrief it wouldn’t have taken a genius to figure she didn’t belong. I knew for sure when I saw her slip the powder in my drink. I was drinking rum and coke instead of beer. It was easier for the powder to take effect. I played the game, finished my drink and did my best to be the typical horn dog while we walked back to my motel room. I got the door open and then the drug kicked in and I was out.

They must have been happy with what they found. I woke up, naked, in bed next to Sandy, also sans clothes. She smiled at me like I had been the lover of a lifetime even though not a thing had happened. At least until that moment.

I watched the video at the debriefing a week later. Three guys, including Rex, searched through everything and only found what was intended for them to find. They told me phones had been ringing off the hook at various levels in Washington. I was being vetted at some pretty high levels. I had a last chance to back out.

“You are going to be snatched within the next month,” the agent with the handlebar mustache told me (I never knew their names, less for me to tell.) “We will do our best to follow, but you are going to end up south of the border and out of our immediate help.”

To be fair, the thought excited me.

I was taken from the El Toro Rojo in Ensenada. A black hood was yanked over my head and two quick rabbit punches drove me to the floor. My hands and feet were zip-tied and I was carried out of the bar and thrown into a van. I’m not sure how long we drove. When we stopped and they tore off the hood it was night. The lights of the van were in my face but I could see that they had me kneeling before an open grave. The rest gets a little hazy. Later, when it was over and we were enjoying a few beers Rex told me that I jumped to my feet and started hopping toward the nearest guy. He said I was yelling and screaming at the top of my lungs for them to be real men and kill me like real men. I managed to get close enough to kick one guy and got my hands around another’s throat.

“Some guys cry, some confess their sins, others zone out,” Rex told me. “Damn, bro, you tried to take us out! We thought we might have to kill you for real!”

I was in.

My people knew when and where I was taken. Though they had eyes on me it was another two months before I had a chance to contact them. Rex and I had taken a load up to Anchorage when he sent me to fly back on my own. I knew it was a test. It wasn’t hard to spot the three that were tailing me. I managed to leave my report in a folded up newspaper in a bathroom at LAX during a layover.

My one saving grace was that this was not a typical law enforcement undercover operation. They told me from the beginning that evidence was not needed or wanted. I was to infiltrate, and when I thought I was in a strong enough position, tear their heart out. It took three years, but by the time I was done three different cartels were left bleeding, battered, and headless.

Not knowing what to do with me they put me behind a desk for a year. That didn’t work well. My place was in the field, and that is where they finally sent me back to.

Today. The present. The guy grabs the stool next to me and places his orange ball cap on the bar. A paper wrapped package goes next to it. We talk a bit about baseball and the Giants and the A’s and how baseball is becoming a true international sport.

He finishes his beer, places the orange cap on his head and walks out. I drink my last drop, grab the package and walk out of the bar exactly 29 minutes later. I get into my Jeep Cherokee and drive to Seaside where I pull into the parking lot of a small beachfront motel. I get out of the car, careful to watch my damaged knee, and head for room 131. Inside, the room is full of electronic surveillance equipment that has every inch of The Red Bull covered. The guy with the orange cap greets me.

“Thanks for doing this,” he says. “What do you think?”

This is where I catch myself. Depending on what I say will determine whether I walk away and retire or stay on as a consultant and very likely die. I go over and watch the live feed on the monitors. I see the almost empty bar. I see the red bull sign swinging in the wind. I watch the bartender clean glass after glass. I watch the two regulars at their tables watching the soccer game. There is no doubt in my mind.

“He’s back,” I say. “El Toro Furioso is back.”