Osprey
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3694
Registered: 5-23-2004
Location: Baja Ca. Sur
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A Run with Chato
Hope you'll allow me to run an old piece from 5 years ago cause we have lots of new members since then.
No More Trouble with Chato
Chato always knows where to find me. He knows I’m a creature of habit. He just walked into Little Rudy’s in Redondo, bought me a drink, slapped me on
the back and took the bar stool next to me.
“Hey, Monkey, you still got the face. How would you like to sell it for ten thousand dollars amigo? How would you like that? My old cop buddies in
Ensenada are still buying a couple of SUV’s a week. They pay big. I made six or seven runs at $5,000 each but my gringo wheel man took his money and
ran away to Florida. How about you Monkey? It’s quick, easy money working for the Policia Mexicana. I just need your surfer’s face, guero, the pony
tail, the blond beard incase the wrong people stop us between the border and Ensenada.
They want black Tahoe’s. I’ll pop em around Palm Springs; got to move back from the border because it’s overworked right now. All you do is drive em.
I’ll jack em to get the keys, stash em for three or four days til the hotsheet settles down. Then you and I just deliver the rigs to Mexico. The fix
is on at customs in Tecate – we just glide in there between six and six thirty in the morning when our guy on the inside is there and he waves us on
through. Then we jam to Ensenada, see the man, catch a bus back to the border. All we need is driver’s license and passports. You got em Monkey?”
“I can get em. $5,000 U.S. per run, I just drive?”
“That’s it. I stole some old surfboards, we put em on top for insurance. Have never been stopped. Smooth and safe, amigo. Easy money.”
It all made sense. Nobody looks more mean Mexican than Ernesto “Chato” Flores. He needs a gringo blondie. Since he was buying I ordered a shot of
Hornitos. Little Rudy’s was filling up. No pool and patio people in here – edge people, people on society’s rim, fuzzy looking men and a few women
hiding in plain site. It would be good to get my hands on some cash, get away somewhere, some place real, dull and non-dangerous.
“Okay Chato, when and where?”
“Give me your cell phone number. I’ll let you know in the next couple days.”
On the first run there was just a minute or so of panic when we were in line at the Tecate gate. Chato couldn’t see or recognize our guy. While the
line crept forward, we were both thinking ‘way too fast’, we kept checking our watches and eyeballing all the gate guards. In nothing flat we were
next in line and Chato still couldn’t see him. Just as we pulled up to the gate Chato saw him coming out of the office. The guy just whistled to get
our guard’s attention, gave an almost unseen hand signal and the guard waved us through. We were both holding up our driver’s licenses, passports. The
guard saw a fairly new black Tahoe with California plates, two well-worn surfboards on the roof rack, a blondie surf bum driving and his darker pal in
the passenger seat.
After that it was smooth sailing. We met some cops on the beach, got the money, gave them the vehicle, caught a cab to the bus station and were back
across the border in no time at all. Chato disappeared back into the woodwork, I took a bus to Torrance, walked a few blocks to my little apartment
looking forward to more runs.
The next run was almost two weeks later and when Chato picked me up it answered the question about the delay. His left hand was heavily bandaged. I
didn’t even have to ask him what happened when he jacked the SUV.
“P-nche perro.”
I didn’t press it. He must not have seen the big dog when he stopped the rig, pointed the gun at the driver and waved him out of the car. Doesn’t take
much imagination to see what might have happened next.
Anyway, our guy was at the gate, right on time, waved us through at six fifteen and we were on our way. The sun was turning the canyons to gold on
Mexico 3 between Tecate and Ensenada and we were making good time when we saw the lights blinking on the highway ahead. Two black and whites with
lights flashing, four uniformed cops were just waving through a big empty flatbed.
I pulled up, stopped, held up my driver’s license and passport. Chato did the same.
“Where you going?” the cop asked.
“Ensenada.” I said.
“Pull over to the side, move up there.” He pointed to the side of the road to a spot behind the second police car.
He motioned for us to turn off the car, get out so they could check it. I opened all the door locks, got out and opened the back. The rig was empty,
spotless – thanks to the owner or Chato, didn’t matter to me but it was obviously clean as a whistle. They had no dogs.
They were good. I’ll say that. They took all our papers, everything from the glove box over to the car, used the radio, or pretended to. Chato had
showed me the registration and we both told them we borrowed the car from my cousin, John Enright of Palm Desert, California, that we going surfing
south of Ensenada.
More radio talk (or radio acting).
Then they told us they were going to have to arrest us, hold us for a day or two while they transported the vehicle on a flatbed to an impound yard in
Ensenada. It was finally time for some palaver. Chato told them they should first talk to a friend of his, a high-ranking police official in their
very own jurisdiction. He punched in a number in his cell phone, handed it to the head cop. The cop put the phone to his ear, turned on his heel,
walked away to a place where we couldn’t hear the conversation. He seemed to talk forever – it was like waiting for the jury to come out to give their
verdict. We were both sweating bullets.
He folded the phone, smiled, gave it back to Chato then walked away again motioning all the officers to his side. He spoke only a few words and they
burst into uproarious laughter. They were holding their sides when they walked back over to us.
“Do you know the term bajo la mesa, under the table? Your friend, the Commandante got caught. He would not share so he is no more. Señor Morris, you
may go. Mr. Flores will come to Ensenada with us to straighten all of this out. It may take some time. If we see you again, you will be arrested. Bien
Viaje.”
It was closer to Ensenada than Tecate so I started walking south. About nine a gringo in a green and white bronco picked me up, gave me a lift to
town. I walked to the bus station and had no trouble getting home.
Nothin’ more came my way. I did see a little piece on the tube about a carjacking gone bad in Hemet where they found a woman, Karen Enright, a wife
and mother of two from Banning, shot to death along with her three year old Rotweiller dog, Storm. No witnesses, no leads. Nothin’ about SUV’s,
Mexico, Mexicans – just some bad guy wanted a big car, would stop at nothin’ to get it.
That was months ago. I still hang around Little Rudy’s – the more time that passes without seeing Chato’s face, the luckier I feel. I’m curious of
course; wonder what happened to the big car, to the Commandante, to Chato. I’m not curious enough to go pokin’ around down there. People have many
reasons to travel to the Baja. Some people have reasons to stay up north here, stay here and wonder what changes are taking place down there. Some
things change very, very slowly, others, quick, like a snake striking, like you can’t see it coming. You could get hit, either place.
Wherever you go, there you are.
No More Trouble with Chato
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DavidE
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3814
Registered: 12-1-2003
Location: Baja California México
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Mood: 'At home we demand facts and get them. In Mexico one subsists on rumor and never demands anything.' Charles Flandrau,
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Sorry. I got a sick feeling in my stomach reading this...
A Lot To See And A Lot To Do
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woody with a view
PITA Nomad
Posts: 15939
Registered: 11-8-2004
Location: Looking at the Coronado Islands
Member Is Offline
Mood: Everchangin'
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way to dust off an old gem, Osprey!
i new some guys who would take sailboards to qudalajara in the mid 80's and stay at the beach for a week, all expenses paid, without the boards. one
night the taxi would show up with the sailboards strapped to the roof. my friends would be on the a.m. flight back to TJ. once they retrieved the
boards they would walk outside and a random guy would walk up and usher them to a particular cab that was waiting.
they would never see the boards again and be driven to the border. a week later they would get paid something like $2500 and a pound of buds each.
they did this every other month for almost a year.
the kicker? one of my friends had an arm that never developed below the elbow. the military at the airports never put it together that a one armed guy
prolly wasn't able to sailboard! oh, and the boards weighed about 100 pounds each!!! 
[Edited on 5-27-2012 by woody with a view]
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Iflyfish
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3747
Registered: 10-17-2006
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Like it says in Ezekiel, there is a wheel in a wheel, and here a wheel man at the wheel. Great story, I always find myself wishing they were longer. I
love these characters. Thanks.
One aught to get a sick feeling in one's stomach as we read a tale with a self destructive and predictable denouement. These things never end well.
Like an Elmore Leonard novel, peopled by disgusting characters who are fascinating in their banal bizarreness. There is truth in these characters, a
truth that at times we might want to avert our eyes from, tales from a sleazy bar or a low rent trailer park peopled by characters who scrape by on
what little whit they have, like refuges from a Canadian Sitcom called Trailer Park Boys. Sort of like passing a bad accident, we look and revile
ourselves for doing so at the same time, like a sick-day spent watching these people trash each other on Jerry Springer.
Iflyfishinswimmingpoolsthatpeoplehavepeedincauseittakesallkinds
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Marc
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 2802
Registered: 5-15-2010
Location: San Francisco & Palm Springs
Member Is Offline
Mood: Waiting
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I remember reading this years ago while "lurking".
Thanks again.
[Edited on 5-28-2012 by Marc]
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willyAirstream
Super Nomad
Posts: 1786
Registered: 1-1-2010
Member Is Offline
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Very entertaining. Thanks for the baja tales.
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