The violent outburst disoriented Juan. “Customers, OK. I got it.”
Pablo leaned back in his chair, taking a big drag from his cigar before folding his arms across his chest. He seemed to be studying Juan, who squirmed uneasily. “I’ve been in this business for over thirty years,” he said at last. “And I’ve never been caught. You know why?”
“Why?”
Pablo flicked a long ash from his cigar, “Because I’m clever, OK?”
Juan nodded.
“I don’t go trying to make a big score,” Pablo looked far away, as if remembering adventures from his youth. “No. No, I hire a lot of people. They all carry just a few tortillas for me. Not too many. That way, if someone questions them, they just say they are carrying ballots for their family. Then, no one asks any more questions. You get it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s like a little trail of ants,” Pablo grinned. “All leading right back here to Latinos por la Liberdad.”
Juan smiled too, but then he frowned. “But Tio, my deliveries… There are so many …tortillas in my truck. Doesn’t that increase the risk?”
Pablo inhaled deeply and blew out a long cloud. “That’s my boy! Now you’re getting it. There are many levels to this operation. It’s vast, from the little ants to the local and even state authorities.”
“What level are we at?” Juan wanted to understand.
Pablo raised a finger and shook it towards the sky, “That is a good question. I always said you were the smart one,” he chuckled. “You are el soldado now,” he said, meaning ‘the soldier.’
Juan liked the sound of that. “And you, uncle? What are you?”
“Me?” Pablo drew in a long pull on his cigar. “I am ‘el señor de la guerra,” he announced dramatically, ‘the warlord.’