“I didn’t. I’ve been busy.”
Maite looked at Rubén, frowning, wondering why he was asking about Emilio. He’d had nothing to do with this.
“Was there anything Leonora said that struck you as odd?”
“Aside from the fact that she was being secretive and nervous? Come on.” The journalist smiled and grabbed her glass again, letting out a low chuckle.
“We’re trying to look for any clue that might allow us to find her.”
“You might ask the man who dropped her off here. After all, he was driving your car.”
They both stared at the journalist, too stunned to reply. Finally, Maite licked her lips and spoke. “Our car?”
“Or one that looked very much like it. I’m pretty sure it’s that one, though. It was red, at any rate. The man didn’t come in; he waited for her and then they drove off together.”
“Can you describe him?” Rubén asked.
The woman nodded. “Yeah, a little. I got a quick look. He was young. Brown hair, glasses. He was wearing a bandana and had on a blue jacket. Does that help?”
“It does,” Rubén said, getting up quickly. “Thanks. We should head back.”
“Wait, let me give you my card,” the woman said, standing up and going to the bookcase, where she took a business card from a plain, white cardboard box. “If you find your friend, tell her to call me. I can help get this story out.”
“Sure,” Rubén said, stuffing the card in his pocket.
“Tell Emilio I say hi.”
“We will.”
Rubén placed a hand on Maite’s back and ushered her out of the house, the gesture insistent.
When they were back in the car, Maite turned to him. “How could it be this car? Isn’t it Jackie’s car?”
“Yeah, but she lends it to us when we need it.”
“Then it could have been anyone from Asterisk?”
“Oh, she doesn’t lend it to everybody,” Rubén said, turning the key in the ignition. “It’s a handful of people. And Sócrates is the only man with glasses and a bandana in our group.”
She recalled that young man from the previous day. He seemed to be friendly with Jackie and all the other people there. He had even gotten into a bit of a verbal sparring match with Rubén.
“But then that means he didn’t tell you he drove Leonora to Cuernavaca.”
“Yep,” Rubén said.
“What do we do?”
“We head back into the city and ask him why he had the sudden memory lapse.”
19
BY THE TIME Elvis returned to their apartment, El Güero was foraging for snacks in the kitchen. When El Güero saw him, he grinned.
“You’ve got blood on your shirt. What happened? They figure you out?”
“Bad luck,” Elvis muttered, opening the refrigerator door and taking out an aluminum ice-cube tray. Rather than carefully prying the cubes he slammed the tray against the sink, and the cubes bounced out. He wrapped them in a rag.
“You must be real upset that they messed up your hairdo.”
Elvis didn’t reply and pressed the rag against his cheek. Let El Güero chuckle if he wanted. It’s not like one could expect solidarity from that piece of shit. Never had and never would.
“That’s what happens when you don’t carry a gun, marshmallow boy,” El Güero said, waving a fried chicken leg in Elvis’s face.
“El Mago says no guns.”
“Sure, sure thing. And you’re such a good little kiddie you do everything El Mago tells you.”
Elvis elbowed El Güero away. “We’re up at five sharp. Morning call.”
“Fucking five? What for?”
“Morning call, I said. Go switch places with the Antelope, then come back at midnight, and at five you’re up again.”
“Fuck you. You’ve got us round the clock!”
“Whatever El Mago needs. Unless you want to complain to him. I’ll even dial the number for you. Want to?”
El Güero didn’t reply, instead gnawed at his chicken leg.
“Good,” Elvis said, tossing the rag with the ice cubes into the sink.
He locked himself in the bathroom. The warm shower was a damn blessing on his aching muscles. Eyes closed, chin pressed against his chest, he let the water slide down his body. How the hell did you get yourself involved in this shit? he asked himself. But the truth was he was going to get involved in bad shit of one kind or another. He didn’t know any better and could admit it. And like El Mago said, no sense in wallowing. Keep your priorities simple and stick to the rules.
The rules were El Mago was the boss and he’d assigned him a job. He was there to fulfill it.
After a long time Elvis closed the tap and stood before the mirror, wiping it with the palm of his hand and examining his face. He had to admit the Russian was good. He’d beaten Elvis thoroughly but didn’t leave many marks. For that, he was grateful. He wasn’t terribly handsome, but Elvis didn’t want to lose the few points in his favor.
He grabbed the clothes he’d tossed on the floor. The t-shirt was useless, and the jacket also had bloodstains. He tried washing the blood out and hung the jacket to dry from the shower rod.
He ran his hands through his hair and stepped back into his bedroom, plucked a record from the stack by his bed, and let Sinatra soothe him. He opened the folder El Mago had given him.
He scanned Emilio’s file, which consisted of a bunch of snapshots and the usual dry information. Age, height, full name. He recognized his address as soon as he saw it: it was the same place where the woman had gone, that house in Polanco.
Elvis considered that tidbit. Maite was now paying visits to Emilio Lomelí, the boyfriend of their missing girl, and she was also at Asterisk. Was Emilio worth checking out? He was going to pay either Emilio or Sócrates a visit the next morning, and although a rich kid wasn’t his usual target, he was willing to change things around if that’s what it took.
But Emilio looked dry. Nothing sticky he could find. His record was clean. A wannabe artist with no teeth. His associates were writers, journalists, cultural critics, other photographers, but none of them were the sort that attracted the attention of the authorities. They worked for papers toeing the official line. He wasn’t palling around with agitator cartoonists like Rius; instead he had dinner with editors of El Nacional and was good friends with boot-lickers like Denegri.