The Antelope was quiet and stopped chewing his gum. Elvis knew, thanks to that, that he was actually serious about something, his eyes looking at a point above Elvis’s shoulder. After a few seconds the Antelope resumed loudly chewing his gum and grabbed a can of angulas from a shelf.
“Man, who the fuck eats this shit? You ever had this shit?” he asked. “I think El Gazpacho eats this garbage!”
Elvis moved into the living room, to continue the search and let the Antelope keep talking to himself. In the end, the apartment yielded nothing.
It was too early to try their luck with the priest, so Elvis agreed that they should go have a bite, and the three of them stopped at a taco stand. El Güero wanted to eat at a cantina, but Elvis said no. He wasn’t going to have drunk operatives messing up his assignment.
The Antelope ordered three tacos de cachete and began talking about how anyone who had half a brain and listened carefully knew that the CIA killed Marilyn Monroe by stuffing heroin pills up her ass. Ass death! Elvis didn’t pay attention to the Antelope’s babblings because he was always talking crazy shit. There was some truth mixed with the lies, but you don’t go wading into a swimming pool filled with vomit to try to drink fresh water. Then the Antelope swore that Kennedy had been murdered by Johnson and his goons over El Chamizal, and that’s when Elvis began singing “Love Me Tender” inside his head—he could sing a dozen Presley songs by heart and sounded pretty decent, like a well-trained parrot—because there was no way to stomach this bullcrap.
Around five they parked across the street from the priest’s four-story building, which was close to the Alameda, and began their watch. Elvis fiddled with the screwdriver in his pocket. El Mago always said knives and fists were better than guns. He taught his men to shoot, but not needlessly.
Some guys, like the Antelope, they felt like they were real machos with a gun in their hands, and Elvis couldn’t deny he had loved the idea of owning a weapon, the bullets as enticing as candy to a child. But the unit leader was the one with a firearm—though Elvis suspected that El Güero had a hidden gun somewhere in his room—and the firearm available was therefore El Gazpacho’s gun, and he didn’t want to grab it.
Not yet. To do so would mean he was taking El Gazpacho’s place, and he couldn’t accept that El Gazpacho had left the unit. He kept thinking El Mago had lied and even came up with explanations about why he’d lie, but they were all garbage excuses.
He wondered if El Gazpacho was back with his family. He knew El Gazpacho had an older sister. They were not supposed to discuss personal details, but it was hard to stay tight-lipped all the time, and although nobody dwelled on their families or previous work, you eventually learned something about everyone.
Elvis knew El Gazpacho liked strawberry milkshakes and playing dominoes, that he loved Japanese movies and smoked quality cigarettes. They had conducted many meaningless conversations, discussing what actresses they’d like to fuck—Raquel Welch topped their list—and the cities they wished to visit—for Elvis, it was obviously Memphis; for El Gazpacho it was Seville. He’d almost forgotten Spain and he wanted to go back, but God knew when he would. He spoke nostalgically about its streets and smells. Elvis didn’t want to return to Tepito, but he told El Gazpacho stories about his old neighborhood.
In between all this insignificant banter there had emerged some truths and real camaraderie.
El Gazpacho had been his friend, even if Elvis had never learned his real name.
Maybe he should go to mass and light a candle for him, ask a saint to protect El Gazpacho and ensure he healed and went back to his family safely.
Mass. Elvis wasn’t even sure why he was thinking about a mass when he was sitting in a car with two other men, waiting to interrogate a priest. Maybe, he decided, it would be good to stop by a church and light the candle immediately after this assignment was over. God might understand, or at least feel a little less pissed off, if Elvis showed a little contrition and placed a few bills in the collection box.
The priest didn’t get home until nine, but they waited until close to eleven, when most of the lights in the building had gone off, to make their way inside. Once again, Elvis picked the appropriate locks, and they marched quietly into the priest’s apartment.
There was still a light on in the bedroom. The apartment was very small, and the light spilling from the room and into the combination dining room/living room was enough that they could see their way easily. The priest had the TV on, and they heard a woman talking about how hip, young people drank Nescafé with milk and sugar.
The priest was standing in front of the bathroom sink, in his pajamas and ready to brush his teeth. Elvis was glad to find him like this. He didn’t look like much of a priest when he was wearing his fancy pajamas.
“Father Villareal—” Elvis said. And he might have said something else, because he’d thought about introducing himself all proper-like, the way El Mago might do it. Like a gentleman. But the fucking priest took one look at him and rushed out of the bathroom.
Not only that, but the fucker grabbed an old-fashioned razor that had been resting by the sink, and Elvis had mere seconds to throw himself aside for fear of being sliced in the stomach. It wasn’t that the priest knew what he was doing with the razor, but that he didn’t. He was waving his hands in front of him and spinning around like a wind-up toy, but such chaotic stupidity could be dangerous.
Elvis thought about tackling him, then reconsidered. The Antelope was equally startled and equally put off by the guy, and he didn’t try to block the man’s path when he stormed forward, blade in hand.
“Grab him!” Elvis yelled and ran behind the man and into the living room. For a second he feared the fool would actually make it outside.
But then El Güero’s lumbering form emerged in front of the priest. The man hesitated in his flight, and that second of hesitation was enough. El Güero caught the priest’s hand and twisted it. Father Villareal yelped in pain and dropped the razor. Then El Güero punched the man in the head.
The priest fell to the floor and moaned softly.
El Güero was getting ready to kick the man in the head. “Hey, wait,” Elvis said. “We’re supposed to talk to him.”
“Fuck it, this prick tried to cut me,” El Güero complained.
“Drag him back to the bedroom.”
El Güero grumbled something about pricks and marshmallows. Elvis bent down and picked up the razor and followed both of them into the bedroom.
“I don’t have any money,” the priest said as El Güero shoved him in the direction of the bed.
“Sit down,” Elvis told Villareal. “Antelope, check the room.”
The Antelope nodded and began opening drawers. El Güero stood at the doorway, arms crossed, blocking any exit. The priest sat on the bed, clutching the covers with one hand. In a corner, a picture of an eagle looked down at Elvis, serving as the only decoration. The apartment seemed simple, but the television was new, and by the bed Elvis spotted a pair of good leather shoes. Maybe the priest didn’t have cash lying around, but he had enough bills to purchase certain fancy goods. Perhaps he’d passed the contribution plate around his congregation.