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family’s mythology.
    Francisco’s peers were mostly dead, victims of either the war against the state or the
norteamericanos
’ war on drugs. Francisco was accompanied by a man near sixty; his young men stayed in the hillsides because their English was inadequate for the trip. They would be joined later in the trip by a young American immigrant from Cuba for whom Francisco had elevated expectations.
    “Alberto, me gustaría un Heineken, por favor.”
    “Sí, señor Escobar. Un momento,”
replied the older man as he went to order the drink.
    Upon his return, Alberto handed Francisco a stemmed pint glass with a handle, a half inch of foam at the top, and a napkin under the base.
    Francisco said, “Thank you, Alberto. Let me ask, have you practiced your English lately?”
    “Yes, Mr. Escobar. I watched the TV satellite to practice.”
    “The satellite TV, Alberto. Very good. We all are a little in need of oiling.”
    Francisco felt progress’s buzz ripple through his emotions. He’d begun undoing the damage to his family’s operations. Outside South America, his family’s role in the trade was severely diminished, displaced by half-breed Mexicans and medieval Afghanis, both lacking in artistry. Their assets were violence, numbers, and a willingness to prey on and then discard the weak. Francisco followed Pablo’s blueprint of elevating the weak, giving them strength when they accepted his patronage, and removing them when they did not. Using the new passports, Francisco would expedite the resumption of meaningful trade in Europe and the United States. That, plus exploiting the new legalized marijuana rules sweeping the globe, would provideFrancisco the opportunity to promote his lieutenants into colonels and his colonels into generals. His men were of better stock than their competitors and would rise above them once again. He needed to spend some time assessing his operation’s assets and evaluating the risks of running a legal, regulated business.
    Looking at his competition, he bemoaned the trade’s current lack of romance. How had it fallen so far? Planes no longer dropped bales at designated coordinates that boats with overhauled engines gaffed and raced to shore. No longer did they use submarines to smuggle kilos under the waves. It was now brute force. Coyotes forced fence jumpers to carry backpacks full of product. Now, eighteen-wheelers were half filled with legitimate goods and half filled with cocaine. They pushed so many through the border that they tolerated the loss of a third of their product to confiscation.
    The proud
norteamericanos
who murdered and marginalized his family deserved punishment. Perhaps they were already being punished. The arbitrary violence of the new suppliers had ruined their southern playground. A vacation on the cheap in a Mexican paradise just over the border now risked more than bad water.
    Nancy Reagan, her “Just Say No” campaign, and her long, skinny finger pointing at Colombia; the first Bush and his
This Is Your Brain on Drugs
ads; the womanizer-in-chief—these worthy targets were too guarded for him to personally eliminate. So Francisco ignored them and sponsored dissent in the Mexican cartels. This could help him gain traction as they accelerated the rate at which their triggers were pulled on each other.
    Francisco and his comrades carried no luggage to the airport; all their necessities waited in the States. The security guard gruffly requested Francisco’s ticket and passport. Francisco was in a conversation with Alberto and did not respond immediately.
    The guard raised his voice.
“Señor, su atención! Necessito un pasaporte aquí. Ándale ya.”

    Francisco’s eyebrow arched as he turned to the barking poodle. He handed over his ticket. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his new passport. The guard worked to hold the fold on the stiff passport open; this was the passport’s first use, and it did not bend open easily. The guard began the process