Author of the book ‘Gringasho’: “I believed that a hitman could be renovated, not anymore”

In 2018, the writer and publicist Charlie Becerra spoke face to face with the young hit man 'Gringasho', Alexander Manuel Pérez Gutierrez.

By then, the man from Trujillo already had a long record of crimes, including the cold-blooded murder of a pregnant woman.

Thus, 'Gringasho' became the public face of a generation that was trained to perpetrate crimes such as robbery, extortion and murder on demand.

Because of his young age and his ferocity, the fame of 'Gringasho' jumped to a national level. Above all, when he starred in a cinematographic escape from the correctional center ' Maranguita ', in 2013.

For Charlie Becerra, who describes his research in the book 'Gringasho' (Editorial Melquíades) , understanding the phenomenon of this murderer -who is currently serving a sentence in the Challapalca prison- is necessary, since Only in this way could solutions be sought to curb crime in the country.

Charlie, why write about 'Gringasho'?

It's interesting because he gave a name and a face to a phenomenon of It was known for a long time here, in the north of Peru, that these children were used by the underworld to commit crimes such as assaults, hit men, etc. 'Gringasho' was the first recognizable face of this phenomenon.

Do these minors used by criminals have a special term?

Yes, they are known as juvenile hit men, but when you read the book you will realize that 'Gringasho' -according to the criminals themselves- falls into a different category, which is that of the mandated kid. I mean, he belonged to that group of guys that are paid by the gangs and that, basically, you send them to do anything stupid. In the underworld they make a distinction with respect to the most professional hitman, who you can't send to do any stupid thing you can think of or go to collect absurd revenge.

So?

According to the dictionary, 'Gringasho' is indeed a hitman, but where I am going is to the conception of the underworld itself. He wasn't just any hit man… because of the media boom that was created around him. The book also mentions cases of juvenile hit men who are very seasoned, even more than him. In 'Gringasho' the phenomenon of social violence, media power, etc. come together. And finally, the legend.

Why among all of them he became better known?

Well, I think it was circumstantial. The first case for which he is being investigated is that of a pregnant woman who was brutally murdered. These grotesque elements surrounding this murder were very difficult to associate with the figure of a boy who was 15 or 14 years old at the time. Later, similar cases of extreme violence involving minors have been seen. But at that time nothing like that had been seen. All these elements come together to make the case something more twisted. The eight-month-old pregnant woman, who is brutally murdered by a minor, her body disappears, they hide it… so, it is not a simple case of murder. There is a whole story behind that gives the case a much greater relevance in the face of public opinion,

How many murders are attributed to 'Gringasho'?

There are only two proven murders. But up to ten murders are attributed to him. But we are talking about a person whose entire life has been hiding, staying in the shadows and very enigmatic, too. Right now he is 24 years old.

Product of what or consequence of what is this criminal?

Well, a lot of things come together in it. Dysfunctional homes, absence of the father. A crime prone environment. He has a family with criminals. Not only 'Soli', who is his uncle, has other uncles who are dedicated to crime, who have been accused or are in prison for other crimes. It is abandonment and opportunity. He at some point tries to avoid that, he tries to wriggle out of it, but he can't.

Perhaps many people disagree with the publication of this book, perhaps they think that it is an apology for crime, what would you have to say?

There is a great lack of knowledge. In other publishing markets, the 'true crime' subgenre is widespread and people understand that it is an approach to crime and the phenomenon of crime from a more literary stance.

I realize from the comments on social networks that many people think that this is an apology for crime, that what I want is to sell the image of this person.

First of all, I seek to explain how a character like him emerges in our society. There are already known factors, but in this case other special cases come together. Second, there is the fact that cases like that of 'Gringasho' help to understand -from a criminological perspective- the issue of laws, the issue of penalties with respect to minors. So, beyond what people can intuit is the morbidity, there is a story that explains more things and that will allow us to understand the future of our society.

‘Gringasho’ opened a door that many young murderers went through and that we should be concerned with understanding better.

What did you come to understand after your research?

I understand that, of course, it is not only the family that influences, but the environment. For example, if when we were teenagers we killed each other, we went to the corner, we ran away from school, we did a mischief... In the environment where boys like 'Gringasho' grow up, mischief is going to rob a business or rob a person or shoot at a house. This leads me to be much more aware that the environment is highly influential in these cases.

As a society, where are we failing?

Actually, there are many factors, but I focus on the main one, which is that we don't have good parents. Peru is a fatherless country. In vulnerable homes it is the mother who is responsible for the children, for supporting the home. This absence of a father makes a dent in the lives of these boys. If I have one lesson left, it's that we need good parents.

You told me that in that environment, that of 'Gringasho', the mischief of children is to assault people, rob stores, is that still a latent reality?

No doubt. Completely. For the same work that I do, these cases constantly come to me, where minors perpetrate cases of violence. What's more, today the phenomenon of hit men has put our security system on the ropes.

Charlie, is Trujillo the cradle of hit men?

I wouldn't call it the cradle, but it has definitely wreaked more havoc here. What happens is that the north is made up of small large cities, so the impact of violence in Piura or Chiclayo ends up being much more devastating than it could be in a city like Lima. Second, there is the fact that the north was taken over by the underworld, basically because it was never prepared in terms of security or social planning to deal with this type of crime.

Criminals came here and did their thing because we didn't have the police prepared to fight them. Many criminals learned in the big cities, even abroad, and came to apply it in Trujillo.

Did you train abroad?

For example, the ‘Cojo Mame’, who died in Challapalca, had committed crimes for a long time in Lima before returning to Laredo (Trujillo). In Lima he learned many techniques that were not known in the province and he came to apply them here. Here he had no competition and the police were many steps behind him.

The same with ‘Old Paco’. He was a criminal who even came to rob Bolivia, I think armored trucks. He, with that knowledge, returns to Chiclayo and founds an empire. So, basically, it's like diasporas of crime that go outside of their hometowns, prepare better, and then go back to being whatever they want.

The hit men in Peru have skyrocketed, why do you think?

Well, it's the consent of civil society. These people wouldn't have anyone to kill if there weren't people willing to pay to have them do it.

Imagine, you and I have a mess of land and for neither of us it is difficult to hire these guys and give them 500 soles to kill. The same with those who buy stolen cell phones.

What do you know about 'Gringasho'?

He is in the Challapalca prison. I wanted to have a word with him, before the book comes out, but he doesn't want to hear from anyone. I understand, perhaps, it is a position that he has taken due to many factors. He is young. He will come out in about seven years, around 30 years old, he is not an old person to be able to rebuild his life.

Do you think a hit man reforms?

Look, I used to think so until I saw the case of a friend of mine, Óscar Narro, aka 'Scarface'. Surely you remember that this video came out more than a year ago, in Trujillo, of a guy who killed a Venezuelan with two shots.

The killer was my friend. I met him when he was beginning to investigate crime and he was always a model for me, you know? He was always the model of a person who managed to get out of the worst and dedicated himself to the gospel and suddenly I lost track of him for a few months and this video appeared. Back then, I used to believe it was possible, but now I very much reserve that opinion.

Not convinced?

I don't think so anymore, Johnny. I would like to believe that it is possible.

A key piece in the public biography of 'Gringasho' was 'Gringasha', Yasmy Marquina Casas... does she also have a chapter in your book?

(Laughter) When the publication was announced, many asked if it would come with a 'Gringasha' poster. And yes, it has a chapter in the book. She turned out to be an important character in his life. She doesn't want to have anything to do with anyone. He went abroad a while ago to rebuild his life. I think you already have family there.

So the book doesn't romanticize crime or heroize a criminal, does it?

No, nothing further than that. The apology for crime is too far from what I do.

A PREVIEW OF THE FIRST AND SECOND CHAPTER OF THE BOOK ‘GRINGASHO’:

Author's note

Most of the criminals in this book are still alive. Some of them may even be released from prison in a few years. In order to preserve the integrity of the people whose testimonies make up this story, some names, dates and places have been changed.

None of the murders narrated below was perpetrated more than fifteen years old.

The meeting

It was Sunday. It was a few minutes before five in the afternoon when the call came in.

—With Mr. Becerra?

—Yeah, he talks.

The woman identified herself, said she was calling on behalf of someone else. She asked:

—Can you come here to the San Andrés police station?

—What happened?

—Come see it. You have twenty minutes with him.

I was about to ask who with when I realized it could only be one person.

Alexander Manuel Pérez Gutiérrez, "Gringasho".

There had been no talk of anything else during the day, the networks were frantic. After the media constantly speculated for more than a year about his whereabouts ("he is in Ica, acting as a prostitute's bodyguard", "he is in Chile, he has gone to settle accounts with the new Gringasha couple"), the The most famous hitman of the decade had been recaptured the night before in the El Porvenir district of Trujillo.

And now I, who since the end of 2017 had also tried to keep up with him, trying to convince —without much success— the people who could have helped me reach him, had the opportunity to see him face to face. As someone who has been researching and writing about crime in northern Peru for a long time, it was the type of call I thought about every night before I went to sleep.

"I'm going there," I answered.

After leaving the Ancón II prison after completing his sentence and now twenty-two years old, no one was sure what his future plans might be. More than one, however, agreed on something: he seemed to be more seasoned than ever.

—Besides, you'd have to talk to Soli first and that's already more difficult,” one of my contacts told me, referring to Roberto Carlos Gutiérrez Guzmán, incarcerated in the Challapalca prison (Tacna), Gringasho's uncle and leader from Los Malditos de Río Seco, a band that welcomed the hitman in its beginnings. He would have to give the green light.

The idea of ​​engaging in any type of correspondence with the Soli, in addition to offering him generous parcels in order to win his favor (“he likes fried trout a lot”), did not appeal to me at all. Not only that, there was no guarantee at all.

—The Soli is “cockroach” —was the term one of my fellow crime investigators used to describe him.

—Cockroach?

—He doesn't keep what he promises, words aren't worth anything to him. He has no codes, he has killed people from his own gang without disgust. Even his trusted man. Imagine what he would be able to do with a journalist like us.

Soon other projects took their place on my desk and I decided to postpone the Gringasho theme. Until that Sunday afternoon in September 2018.

On the way to the police station, a habitual feeling: the dilemma between getting out of the taxi and returning to my peaceful and recently launched job as a fiction novelist or continuing, facing reality and seeing face to face the subject responsible for, according to the most modest conjectures, a dozen homicides. Not only that. I was about to break one of my cardinal rules: never interview any criminal under thirty-five. The youngest are the most unpredictable, their word is usually not reliable. "They are the ones who are going to be calling you later to screw around," a veteran once warned me. Curiosity, of course, ended up taking over. This was bound to happen: the day of my first interview of my writing career, when I had just published my first book on organized crime, was the same day that Gringasho was released, in November 2017.

I remember the interviewer interrupting one of his comments about the book to announce live that, at that precise moment, the release of the hitman from the Ancón II prison had just been confirmed.

—I take it you're going to interview him at some point? she asked me.

I said yes, very confident, that I would love to. I would have loved to save some of that confidence for the day I finally got to meet him.

The entrance to the police complex was cordoned off with police officers and their shields. They seemed prepared to respond to a riot. The next day a newspaper would affirm that this had been a preventive measure against a possible attempt by Gringasho's cronies to free him.

I didn't believe it for a second.

I called back the person who contacted me. I entered the police station and was led to a room normally used to check detainees one last time before putting them in jail. As I walked there, I passed in front of the office where the prosecutor and Gringasho's lawyer were discussing some issues. Next to them, sitting on a sofa, was him.

The image stopped me dead: I was crying. He was looking at and talking to the phone screen in front of him. They had allowed him to make one last video call. It was clear that it was a farewell.

—He was my partner. She told me that she better not come — she would tell me about it later.

Overcoming that first impression, I continued my way to the room where I would wait for him. But he wouldn't do it alone. An agent was sitting there.

After shaking hands, I took a chair across from him. He asked me what he was coming for. I told him.

“We captured him,” he blurted out.

I asked him to tell me. She didn't even bother to ask me if he would take notes.

They had received a call advising that in a warehouse in the Kumamoto sector, in El Porvenir, a group of six men were drinking and passing a revolver from hand to hand. The inhabitants of the place usually call, if not the police station, directly those policemen in whom they trust. Aware of the high rates of collusion with criminals, they do not risk reporting this type of thing to anyone. That time they feared a shootout would break out.

—We went there without knowing who we were going to find. I didn't find out who it was until after we framed him. We plan the intervention on the fly, as they say.

During the following days he would return to the agent's words, contrasting them over and over again with the official version that the same director of the Third Macro Police Region La Libertad-Áncash, PNP General César Vallejos Mori, would give at a press conference . Then the general would claim to have had his eye on the criminal for a long time:

—Since it came out, we understood that he was involved in various criminal acts, unfortunately we could not implicate him or associate him with the cases. We have information that he was involved in acts of extortion and usurpation of land and that he would be leading the Los Malditos de Río Seco organization, he would categorically point out1.

That speech would not be the only thing that would unleash my doubts about what really happened the night of the capture.

—When we arrived at the location and after assessing the situation, we began the intervention. All those who were gathered drinking were stung. A couple of us went for the one in the jumper, all in black. That turned out to be Gringasho.

—Was he armed?

—It only had one round of ammunition. If he had a revolver he could have thrown it on the run. The submachine gun we found him later.

In fact, the carbine was a Benelli MR1, a long-range weapon of war. Until then, he hadn't seen a gang or hit man use one of those. To maneuver it you need both hands, it has straps, nothing practical.

—Were there shots?

—Yeah, we had to do some on air.

—Did they fire back?

—No. At least not that we have noticed.

Then the agent went on to tell about the innumerable similar cases —and much worse— that there are besides that of Gringasho. His speech about the lack of values ​​and the negative effect of the absence of the father at home took him at least ten more minutes. In the end, he himself went to see if the detainee was ready to talk to me.

He was escorted to the door of the room. I got up to greet him. It wasn't how I remembered it. Or as he thought he remembered it: the boy whose DETAINED vests danced over his bones and whom the policemen could boss around with no major effort, had given his place to a man who was over six foot seven. After shaking hands, we were left alone in the room. I told him who I was and that I wanted to ask him a few questions.

—Where were you before coming to Trujillo? I asked after talking about the call he just made.

—In Lima.

—What were you doing there?

—Working.

—In what?

—Selling shoes, with some relatives.

—And how are you doing with that?

—It's hard.

—Why?

—People recognize you and get scared, they don't want anything anymore.

We were sitting three feet apart. He spoke softly, as if he was afraid that someone besides me might hear him. He wouldn't leave his jacket sleeves alone.

—What did you come back for?

—It was an uncle's birthday, I came to see him.

—What were you doing?

—We were there, calm down.

—Drinking?

—I don't.

That's exactly what the agent I'd spoken to earlier had assured me. “He was the only one who was clean. I sure wanted to be alert."

—And what happened?

—The cops appeared out of nowhere.

—That's where you ran.

—Yes.

—Why did you run if you weren't doing anything?

The look that had been wandering from one corner of the room to another, recognizing the dire dimensions of the confinement, suddenly landed on me. So I could recognize it. There was again the one who at the time was the most photographed teenager in the country: the deranged gesture, the lunatic and accurate eyes. I also realized that there was not a single policeman left in the corridor outside the room.

“They are using me,” she replied through clenched teeth, on the verge of tears again, “they are using me. I did nothing. I've already changed, but they still want to use me. They and all, the journalists. They only make money with me.

—What's your story then?

—What good is it going to do me to tell you? What's the use of talking to you?

The question would extend beyond our interview, looming over the subsequent work of unraveling the life of one of the most savage killers we have ever heard of. What is the use of telling this story? Being both in that room it was still early to try an answer.

After that it was impossible to fit any other questions. He just shook his head and repeated that the police and the press were using him. Eventually, I would learn more about his ability to withdraw into himself, which he has used repeatedly during his difficult relationship with the law and which he then used with me.

—How does it feel to kill? was my last question. I felt it thrown at his face.

Silence. Erratic gestures. It was the closest thing to an answer.

Within a few minutes a policeman appeared in the room. There was no more time. Gringasho continued on his way to the cell and I left the police station. Before, however, I told him that I was interested in knowing more about him. He thought about it for a moment: "talk to my lawyer," was the last thing he said.

The interview was not like the others. Before, I have sat down with extortionists and the like who, once the first stage of mistrust has been overcome, when they finally manage to ignore the fact that they have a subject putting each of their confessions on paper, they go off to tell their work and miracles without the minor objection Of them and of everyone they know in the criminal environment. Not so Alexander. It's airtight. Challenging, even. Perhaps experience has taught you that talking too much doesn't do you any favors. He is not just any criminal, he makes headlines with the slightest appearance —or without it—, he is not capable of controlling any consequence.

I was appalled. What do we know about Alexander Pérez Gutiérrez beyond the crimes he has committed or those that are foisted on him? What are the factors and characters that have come together in his story to make him the most famous hit man in recent times?

In summary: What kind of person deserves a biography even before the age of twenty-five?

For Paco Ignacio Taibo II, the renowned Mexican detective novel writer, this in itself would be the first big mistake: never write literature about things that haven't finished happening, never biograph a living character, I've heard him say in some interview. You may be right. However, as the reader will be able to intuit throughout the book, and will probably confirm in the last chapters —as it has happened to me—, the only death that remains to be added in the story of Alexander Pérez Gutiérrez may be his.

The teacher

The story begins with César Velásquez Montoya, alias Chino Malaco. He was one of the first to start the quota and salvage business: he protected transportation companies and stole private cars. If the owner of the latter paid, the car appeared. If not, it vanished in parts that ended up in other cars. Soon he needed more people to help him in the business. To leave envelopes under the doors, to scare.

He started looking at another type of business: land grabbing. And other types of companies: construction companies, restaurants, etc. The high point of the organization led by Malaco and his partner, Érica Rodríguez Arce, would come a few years later with the extortion of none other than the Coca-Cola Company itself. The plant, located in the Moche district and which would be the largest in South America once it was inaugurated, first had to pay a percentage of the budget allocated for its construction, amounting to more than one and a half million soles. Later, she would be forced to hire security personnel made up of men from the organization. After that, Malaco would never have to knock on doors again. The businessmen would begin to come to him to ask for his protection, as if he were The Godfather. Their ranks would soon be increased by corrupt police officers and even an assistant in the Congress of the Republic and an Aprista militant, Fernando Gil Palacios, the same person who, according to the prosecution, provided information on land that was later usurped by the people of Malaco1.

To further consolidate his power, Malacchus began appointing lieutenants in other districts.

In El Milagro, for example, Malaco left his cousin, Jorge Reyes Velásquez, alias Yogi Bear, in charge, who would be murdered in July 2013 very close to the center of Trujillo. In La Esperanza he reached an agreement with Paco, Segundo Correa Gamarra, and in El Porvenir, in addition to having the support of his wife's cousins, the Cruz Arce brothers, Los Pulpos, he also arranged for the services of a then not so known Roberto Carlos Gutiérrez Guzmán. Gutiérrez Guzmán was not exactly a neophyte. He himself had worked under the orders of the Cruz Arce brothers. Soli told him.

The alias almost gave himself. He would not let any of his acquaintances pass through the street without yelling at them: "Speak, my soli", synonymous with friend. At that time, Roberto Carlos Gutiérrez Guzmán earned his living driving a Tico model taxi, assigned by Chino Malaco, with which he transported weapons and hit men. Like many others, Gutiérrez Guzmán was a criminal in the making. The difference with his peers would soon be revealed: he was willing to do whatever it took to climb to the top.

The sporadic thefts that he carries out became more and more frequent: headlights, tires, spare parts. It jumped from auto parts to complete vehicles. He wanted to take advantage of the strength and energy of his twenties to continue growing. He would pay dearly for his first big mistake.

El Soli took a car from a company "chalequeada" by Jhony Reyes Velásquez, alias Loco Jhony, a former member of Los Ochenta and at that time the leader of his own band; the same person who was to be assassinated in 2008 by, apparently, one of Trujillo's death squads. Within a few hours, the vehicle had been dismantled. The body, skinned, was found in the Las Delicias spa, ten kilometers south of the city of Trujillo. The person responsible was found not long after.

It would be Yogi Bear, brother of Crazy Jhony, who would bring Gutiérrez Guzmán with the rope around his neck, literally. Bound, he dragged him out into the yard at the back of his brother's house, like an animal going to slaughter. The blows continued for more than two hours, which was the time it took Soli to convince Reyes Velásquez that this would not happen again and that, if he let him, he could bring back all the stolen parts. Reeling, drenched in blood, Gutiérrez Guzmán went to keep his word. It's not that Crazy Jhony was interested in recovering what was stolen more than punishing the lack of respect for his authority and leaving a laughingstock like that alive. However, he preferred to avoid further conflict with his cousin, Chino Malaco, and not kill one of his men.

The punishment didn't ruin Soli's plans: he still wanted to be powerful. Perhaps precisely for this reason, to leave behind the timid and creeping image that people had of him. No one would have guessed what he would end up becoming. His time would come, he was preparing for it.

Like any large criminal organization, Los Pulpos also fell into decline. Its growth led to a fragmentation of the group into factions that sought their independence: Los Pulpos de la Cruz Blanca, Los Pulpos de la Cruz Verde, etc. The dome lost strength. At the same time, new bands appeared. El Porvenir revealed itself as the vast district that it was. There were places for everyone. Also for what was initially known as La Banda del Soli and that the police would end up renaming Los Malditos de Río Seco.

El Soli began to offer protection to businesses in the sector. Then, as he learned from his former boss, Chino Malaco, he covered transportation companies. At one point, a large number of transport units from El Porvenir came to pay double quota. One sun for Los Pulpos, another for El Soli and his people. His arguments were convincing: without truce, without prior notice, without codes, Gutiérrez Guzmán did not find the slightest qualms about ordering his adversaries to be killed. His domain was strengthened in the role of his hitmen. One in particular, older than the character whose life this book deals with and who would become a kind of prototype of a juvenile triggerman, was Manuel Jesús Corcuera Quispe, alias Niño Jesús, his first "protégé".

There is no shortage of voices eager to rectify history: «Gringasho does not come close to the heels of the Child Jesus». The second, six years older, is credited with more than twice as many murders as the first. Only four have been confirmed. Even so, his value in the eyes of Soli is undeniable. There are videos of the wake of Freddy Rodríguez Arce, another of the strong men of Los Plataneros, brother-in-law of Chino Malaco, annihilated, like Loco Jhony, by another alleged death squad in 2008, in which the leader of Los Malditos de Río Seco embraced by the Child Jesus, in a dissonant attitude with the reason that calls them to said meeting: the Soli appears with his left arm raised and a radiant smile on his face, while his hitman whispers something in his ear.

Beyond how twisted and ruthless a character like his is —those who knew him attribute him to being responsible for no less than a hundred deaths—, the second most outstanding thing about Gutiérrez Guzmán is his excessive vanity. The audiovisual files, extracted, presumably, from Soli's own cell phone, not only account for important parts of the relationship with his nephew —a subject that will be dealt with later— but it is also possible to peek into the mind of the criminal and put it better

It is worth mentioning the dozens of photographs of himself, in which he poses with clothes that could well be imported: jerseys from different NBA teams, Nike jackets and shiny boxing gloves. The flaunt of him reaches beyond his wardrobe. Women. All of them photographed in the same room on different occasions. All of them posing for the Soli in a suggestive attitude and underwear. Even from prison —then in the Piedras Gordas maximum security prison— he did not stop showing off the various pairs of sneakers that made up his collection and the technological devices that made his life more comfortable. At the time, a scandal when verifying the access that Gutiérrez Guzmán had to his social networks2.

The message was always the same: I have the power to do what I want. It was not without foundation. At the time, with the slow but steady decline of Los Pulpos, Los Malditos de Río Seco rose as the most feared criminal group in El Porvenir. Trujillo was next on his list. Soon, the diplomacy with the Chino Malaco broke down. El Soli, unlike Malaco, extended its range of action from the periphery to the center of the city. He began to take "chalequeos" from Los Plataneros. Malaco was astonished: the driver whom he bossed around at will, who had escaped Crazy Jhony's clutches with more than a few scratches thanks to him, was now threatening him with death if he didn't take a prudent step forward. side stand. She knew she couldn't come to any arrangement with him. He needed the intervention of someone as bloodthirsty as his new adversary. He could only think of one name: whoever was his lieutenant in the La Esperanza district and who for a couple of years had also led his own gang. According to Correa Gamarra, Paco.

The big difference with Soli was that Paco, captured in January 2010 and who was to be murdered eight years later in the Challapalca prison, was willing to get his hands dirty. Despite the fact that his bulk made him less agile, he did not shy away from the risk of being immersed in a shootout. There were deaths that one had to write down oneself, he thought. That earned him a respect that the Soli could not even dare to dream of. Furthermore, it was not easy for Gutiérrez Guzmán to find a lawyer. No matter how much money he offered them, the criminal law experts passed on representing him. Everyone knew that the only solution that the defendant could think of before an uncomfortable witness was to have him liquidated, for example. Trying to reason was like begging a countdown bomb to please not go off. Paco, also very cruel and violent, at least knew how to listen.

In addition, the Correa Gamarra gang had more logistics in the field: more men, more weapons. It was not difficult for Paco to control everything from the Castro Castro prison in Lima, where he was confined at that time. Nor did it make any effort for him to pick up the phone and tell the leader of Los Malditos de Río Seco, with whom until then he had had no confrontation, that Chino Malaco was not alone.

The matter is settled. Momentarily. Once again, the Soli learned his lesson. He needed to reinforce the front, new blood. Luckily, he had already been working on his next ace up his sleeve: his nephew.