The Border (Power of the Dog, #3)

by Don Winslow

Adán had faith in money, power and himself, Elena thinks as the priest moves to wrap it up. That was his Holy Trinity, he didn’t believe in God. “I do believe in Satan, though,” he had told her once. “You can’t believe in one without the other,” she said. “Sure you can,” Adán said. “The way I understand it, God and the devil were in a giant battle to rule the world, right?” “I suppose.” “Right,” Adán said. “Look around you—the devil won.”

Physical pain, emotional pain, economic pain. He’s looking at all three. The Heroin Trifecta.

If you asked the average citizen to name America’s longest war, he’d probably say Vietnam and then quickly amend it to Afghanistan, but the true answer is the war on drugs. Fifty years old and counting. It’s cost over a trillion dollars, and that’s only one part of the financial equation—the legitimate, “clean” money that goes for equipment, police, courts and prisons. But if we’re going to be really honest, Keller knows, we have to account for the dirty money, too. Tens of billions of drug dollars—in cash—go down to Mexico alone every year, so much cash they don’t even count it, they weigh it. It has to go somewhere, the narcos can’t stick it under their pillows or dig holes in their backyards. A lot of it is invested in Mexico, the estimate being that drug money accounts for 7 to 12 percent of the Mexican economy. But a lot of it comes back here—into real estate and other investments. Into banking and then out to legitimate businesses. It’s the dirty secret of the war on drugs—every time an addict sticks a needle into his arm, everyone makes money. We’re all investors. We’re all the cartel.

They smile at each other and then she drifts off into heroin world, so vastly superior to the real world. Which isn’t that high a bar to clear.

but you can always hope. Except he knows junkies, and if anyone’s capable of doing something stupid, counterproductive, and self-destructive, it’s a junkie. It’s what they do.

ensalada de Nochebuena—lettuce, beets, apples, carrots, orange slices, pineapple chunks, jicama, pecan, peanuts and pomegranate seeds.

“This doesn’t mean you get to stay permanently,” Santi says. “It only means you get to stay until they hold a ‘deportation hearing.’ Most of the time, they deport you. That’s why it’s not called a ‘Welcome to America’ hearing.”

You can’t save junkies.” “I guess not.” “You know why not?” “I know you’re going to tell me.” “Because, end of the day,” Darnell says, “junkies ain’t lookin’ to get high. They lookin’ to get gone.”

“Jason, he raped me.” “Oh.” Oh. That’s it. Oh. What you have to remember about this world, Jacqui knows, is that at the end of the day no one gives a shit. Not at the start of the day, either. At no time during the day does anyone give a shit.

Five dead and fourteen wounded. The aftermath was the usual—thoughts and prayers and talk about gun control and mental health and then absolutely nothing was done.