They wound up in Tacubaya, going into the same building Elvis was supposed to visit that afternoon. Well. That was a mighty big coincidence.
“Asterisk,” Elvis said.
“What did you call me?” El Güero asked angrily.
“Shut up. It’s a meeting place for students. I’m gonna go in,” Elvis said. In his jacket Elvis was carrying a fake driver’s license, a few bills, a pack of cigarettes, the flyer, the bits of metal he used to pick locks in a pinch, and his screwdriver, all pretty innocent. Well, maybe not the screwdriver, but it wasn’t a knife or a gun, and even if the commies were paranoid they probably couldn’t say much about that. And he was dressed for the part; all he needed was to mess up his hair. He could pull it off.
“You gonna go alone?” El Güero muttered, skeptical.
“It’s easier that way. You get back to base,” Elvis said, looking at himself in the rearview mirror. He untucked his shirt.
“Don’t have to tell me twice.”
“Later.”
Elvis got out of the car, and El Güero drove away. He waited a little, eyeing the gray building. Didn’t look like much, some old dump, but then there could be five hundred reds with rifles inside. And wasn’t the Cuban embassy nearby? And the Soviets too. Maybe everyone liked to keep it nice and cozy and close together. Kind of stupid for Asterisk to set up shop near them, though. It would arouse suspicion.
On the ground floor of the building there was a shoe repair shop, but there was a little black door and an intercom with business names. Number three corresponded to “Asterisk Gallery.” It wasn’t five yet, not by far, but he wanted to see what the woman was up to. He pressed a button.
“Who’s that?” someone said over the intercom, taking his sweet time to answer.
“Carlito told me I should stop by. Something about a meeting Saturday.”
Elvis was buzzed in, and he went up the stairs. When he reached the third floor he saw a red door with a sign affixed to it that read “Asterisk Art Gallery and Cooperative.” He knocked. A young man opened.
“Who are you?” the man asked.
“Carlito told me to stop by,” he said, showing the man his flyer.
Elvis was ushered in, no other questions asked. Like Justo had said, these guys were amateurs.
The gallery space consisted of a very long room with tall ceilings and few windows. On the walls there were photos and paintings with tiny pieces of white cardboard affixed next to them indicating the name of the artist. There were a couple of doors; one said “Office” and the other “Bathroom.” Foldable chairs had been piled in a corner. The air was a cloud of tobacco and marijuana smoke.
There were maybe a dozen people in attendance, but he didn’t spot the woman or her companion. They were probably in the office. Or they could even be on another floor. He wasn’t sure about the setup of this place.
He walked around, pretending he was eyeing the paintings, which were, in his limited opinion, a crock of shit. There was a picture of a chacmool. He recognized it from a visit to a museum he took with his class before they kicked him out. He stood before it for a couple of minutes before resuming his walking.
He saw a girl standing by one of the few windows, cigarette in hand. She had a lot of freckles that covered her skinny shoulders and went down to the top of her breasts, easily visible with the clothes she was wearing. Her Coke-bottle glasses and her hair tied in a bun made her look like a clueless school teacher who had been stuffed into a tiny crocheted top and a mini-skirt. Concha, standing all alone and looking bored.
On a plastic table there were pamphlets and a few bottles of soda. He grabbed one and opened it with the screwdriver, aimlessly walking toward the woman.
“Hey, got a light, girl?” he asked her, opting for the tone of a down-to-earth student, but avoiding the intonation that would identify him as someone from Tepito. He’d learned, while working for El Mago, at least to hit a bland, middle-class way of talking. El Mago’s posh, smooth voice and vocabulary were still not quite within his grasp, mostly because he got nervous and flubbed it when he spoke to the man.
It took more than a word of the day to pin that down, to be a gentleman.
The girl opened her morralito made of yute, searching until she produced a pink plastic lighter, and he bent down, pressing the tip of his cigarette to the flame.
“Thanks,” he said.
“No problem.”
“Nice shirt,” he said, pointing at her garish crocheted top. His comment pleased her immensely, and she gave him a huge grin.
“Thanks!” she said, placing the morralito back on her shoulder. “I made it myself.”
“That’s nice. Not much going on?”
“Not yet. It’s kinda early.”
“Guess so. If I’d known I’d have stopped for a couple of quecas.”
“Gosh, nothing ever starts until six,” she said and then, as she held her cigarette between two fingers and tilted her head flirtatiously, “I haven’t seen you around before.”
“First time,” he said, with a fake smile that mimicked her flirtation, since that seemed to be her line.
“Really?”
“Yup. To be honest with you, I’m not even sure what I’m doing here. I got an invite from a friend who said I should stop by, said things were hopping here but can’t say it looks like anything’s hopping.”
“Not now,” Concha said with a sigh. “It used to be fun. I came to so many parties and openings. But Jackie’s really dull these days. She says it’s no time to party and I get it, but also, man, it can’t all be super serious, can it?”
“Agreed.”
He offered her a sip of his soft drink, and she took it, smiling again. “I don’t think I see my friend,” Elvis said. “I’m wondering if she’s coming.”
“What’s her name?”
“Leonora.”
Concha touched his arm, squeezing it dramatically, and gasped. “Leonora? You don’t expect she’ll be here!”
“Why not?”
“Well…not after what happened. Why, Jackie has practically excommunicated her.”
“I don’t know what happened. I haven’t spoken with her in a couple of weeks.”
“I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but you seem all right,” Concha said, now running her hand down his arm, giving him an even bigger, more flirtatious smile.
He responded by resting his palm against her hip for a few seconds, close and cozy to the girl, but casual too. “You seem all right too. Why don’t you tell me?”