“It’s Anaya.”
“You lying to me? Because remember: knives cut balls.”
“It’s true!”
“Well, you’re lying about something,” Elvis said. He had no idea about that, but he decided to throw it out there. See what he got. It seemed to work, because suddenly Sócrates was rubbing his forehead and looking down. But he didn’t speak. He pressed his lips together.
“You son of a bitch,” Elvis said, and he grabbed the knife and pressed it against the guy’s leg. “I’ll slice you, one ball and then the other. How would you like that? It’ll take me a minute, so no danger in running into Anaya.”
And for a moment as he held the knife like that and stared at the dude’s face, he wondered if he wasn’t overdoing it—this had been El Gazpacho’s role, and El Gazpacho was always a bit of a gentleman—and he even felt a little sorry for Sócrates, because the guy was about to shit himself while El Güero chuckled in a corner. But Elvis hadn’t been lying when he said he’d had a lousy week and his body still ached, so he wasn’t exactly in the best of mindsets.
“An ad! I said I’d put an ad in the paper!”
Elvis frowned. “What paper?”
“When I dropped her off at Casimiro’s apartment building I told her you can’t be too careful. I said, people might be after you…because, because of Anaya. Because I was scared. And I said if there’s trouble and you have to lay low, do that, stay hidden, and then I’ll put an ad in the paper letting you know if the coast is clear.”
“Son of a bitch,” Elvis said, stepping back and smiling. “You were trying to double-cross Anaya?”
“I was trying to keep her safe.”
“Can’t do that. Too many people are looking for the girl. What paper, and what is the ad supposed to say?”
“El Universal. In the classified section.”
“Write down the message.”
Sócrates sat there, stiff as a rod, but then Elvis angled the knife a little, and Sócrates grabbed a notepad by the bed and scribbled a few words.
“Have a good day,” Elvis said, folding the piece of paper and putting it in his pocket. Then he motioned to El Güero, and they went down the stairs. It was still early and taxis were scarce on the street they were walking down, so they went looking for a taxi stand rather than attempting to hail one. Elvis didn’t mind, even though it was still drizzling. He wanted to think.
He didn’t have Leonora’s location, but he did have the message that was supposed to tell her the coast was clear. Or at least he thought he did. It could be Sócrates had mangled the code, in which case Elvis and El Güero would have to go back for a visit. But he thought Sócrates had written down the real message. This meant Elvis could put it in the paper and see if he flushed Leonora out.
The problem with this strategy was that he wasn’t sure where Leonora might go if she really thought the coast was clear. Immediately back to her apartment? Would she be that foolish? Or would she show up at her sister’s house? Her ex-boyfriend’s? Leonora hadn’t trusted Jacqueline, and the people at Asterisk mistakenly thought she was the mole in the organization. This probably rendered all of her associates there null—including Casimiro and Sócrates. She wouldn’t go to them.
Though if she trusted Sócrates’s message, maybe that meant she trusted Sócrates? Definitely. Sócrates was a possibility. She might try to go back to her apartment—it was stupid, but also not unlikely if she truly felt safe. Elvis mentally cancelled out Emilio and Leonora’s sister. El Mago had told him to keep his distance from them, and in the case of Emilio, Elvis felt that, though he’d supplied her with the name of a journalist, if Leonora truly had trusted him—or if he had wished to assist her—he would have taken her there himself.
Yeah, now that Elvis considered it, Emilio was probably a crafty bastard. He agreed to help his ex, but in a way that wouldn’t get him into too much trouble. A simple referral to the journalist was no crime, while harboring her when the DFS and the Hawks were on her trail was another matter. No, that rich boy wasn’t going to be of much value. The sister…well, Elvis couldn’t say. He really didn’t know anything about her, and if El Mago hadn’t released info on her then that avenue was closed.
Leonora would either attempt to return to her apartment or she’d contact Sócrates. That was Elvis’s conclusion. This meant he needed two damn lookouts. He had two men, but they couldn’t watch a building for twenty-four hours. This was going to be complicated. Elvis figured if he put the ad in that morning, then it couldn’t be in the papers until the next day. It might even have to go in Tuesday’s edition. Either way, this gave him at least a little time to figure out their schedules. Maybe he could hire Justo to watch Sócrates’s building. El Mago wouldn’t like it, but Elvis didn’t have enough manpower.
For now, Elvis and El Güero stood under an awning, shielding themselves from the rain, and lit their cigarettes. The owner of a newspaper stand had arrived and was beginning to open for business and arrange his wares at the corner. Elvis bought El Universal from him and circled the phone number of the classifieds’ office with a pencil. He’d ask what they needed for a quick ad in a bit. But first, there were other matters to attend to.
He placed the newspaper under his arm and walked to a pay phone, then phoned El Mago to give him an update. It was early, but El Mago answered at the first ring, and he didn’t sound sleepy.
“Found the mole,” Elvis said. “It was Sócrates, feeding info to Anaya.”
“Anything else?”
“Nothing worth repeating now. I’ve got to look after a few things,” he said and hung up, following procedure. Keep it quick and simple, that’s what El Mago said. Anyway, he couldn’t discuss his concerns with El Mago over the phone. He’d have to ask to meet again, and he was leery of doing that. He didn’t want to seem like a helpless buffoon who ran to him for everything. Elvis was team leader, after all. He could figure this out.
Elvis whacked El Güero’s arm with the newspaper. “Come on, let’s get going.”
20
THEY HAD TACOS de barbacoa on the way back from Cuernavaca, in a little eatery on the side of the road.
This is what people do on their weekends, she thought. They go out with their friends.
Rubén wasn’t her friend, and they weren’t hanging out together because they enjoyed each other’s company; he was merely hoping to find his ex-girlfriend. Still. Maite was going to tell Diana she’d visited Cuernavaca with a date. A new beau. Diana would look at her in admiration, since she rarely went anywhere alone. She traveled, as if a part of a troupe, with her mother and sisters.