That night, around eleven, my friend called and the first thing he asked was whether it was a secure line. Bad sign, bad news, I thought instantly. In any case, I turned ice-cold again. I said the line was utterly secure. Then my friend told me that the name I’d given him (he was careful not to speak it) belonged to a banker who, according to his sources, laundered money for the Santa Teresa cartel, which was like saying the Sonora cartel. All right, I said. Then he said that this banker, in fact, owned not one ranch outside the city but several, although according to his sources there hadn’t
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