“Look,” Justo said, lowering his voice until it was nothing but a whisper across the table, “They’re disbanding the Hawks, trust me on that. Things are way too hot and El Mago is up to his neck in problems. He fucked up—people are going to pounce on him. You ought to get yourself away from him now. The clock’s ticking for that guy.”
“Clock’s ticking for everyone.”
“He killed El Gazpacho.”
Parra spoke of the chains of destiny and strummed a guitar.
“I heard you the first time,” Elvis said. “But there’re others who could’ve done it. CIA, for one.”
“CIA? You kidding me?”
“They trained some of the Hawks. Maybe they got nervous,” he said, realizing he sounded as stupid as the Antelope when he got into one of his conspiracy streaks. “Fuck, I don’t know. El Gazpacho was one of El Mago’s boys, so you can’t peg it on him.”
El Gazpacho. Poor, smiling, Gazpacho with his love of Asian films and his good-natured jokes, saying brother this and brother that. And it didn’t mean anything, except it did. Brother. He’d never had a friend like El Gazpacho, a friend who really cared, someone who wasn’t there just for himself.
El Gazpacho was there for all of them, but mostly he was there for Elvis.
He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, just a damn second. He felt a black rage in his body, bile coating his tongue. He crammed a cigarette into his mouth.
“What’ll happen to the body? Is someone claiming it? He had family. A sister.”
“You know her name?”
“No,” Elvis muttered. “I don’t know his name or hers. Maybe you could find out?”
“I did enough finding him. You owe me for this, motherfucker.”
“You sure it’s him? If he really wanted him gone, wouldn’t El Mago have cut off his head or something? To prevent identification?”
“Why? He doesn’t have a name.”
Elvis wouldn’t even be able to go to church and have a mass said for the dead man because he had no idea who El Gazpacho had really been. Just a guy. An anonymous dead guy. If Elvis dropped dead tomorrow, he’d be an anonymous dead guy too. A fucker from the gutter El Mago had found and discarded, lower than El Gazpacho or the others.
Elvis wasn’t sure his mother would give a fuck even if he was identified. He hadn’t seen his family in years. They liked it like that.
His real family were the Hawks. El Mago, El Gazpacho, even those fuckups El Güero and the Antelope. That’s what he had.
Elvis let the cigarette dangle from the corner of his mouth, his eyes unfocused.
“You’ve got company tonight,” Justo said.
“Where?” Elvis asked, raising a hand, slowly holding the cigarette between his fingers, his voice made raspy with pain. Tears pricked his eyes, but he squeezed them away.
“Behind, to the right, table near the door.”
Elvis opened his eyes, but he didn’t look. Instead he fiddled with one of Justo’s books, pretending he was reading it. “What does he look like?”
“Tall, brown hair. Suede jacket and turtleneck.”
“Anaya’s man?”
“Couldn’t swear on it, but I’d said no. They usually travel in twos, and he doesn’t look like a gorilla. Snappy shoes, this one.”
“Fucking prick,” Elvis muttered. He’d bet an eyeball it was that Russian shit-eater again, with a Makarov tucked in its leather holster. It had to be a Makarov. What the hell did he want? He’d already given Elvis a good beating. His back was still tender from the damn newspaper he’d swatted him with.
“Not a friend?”
“No.”
“Who?” Justo asked, curious.
“Another player,” Elvis said, because he didn’t think it was a good idea to be revealing it was a damn KGB agent. He didn’t really know Justo. His whole idea to ask him for help was stupid.
He didn’t know what to do. Head back to the apartment and pretend everything was normal? Forget that El Gazpacho was dead?
God fucking damn it, El Gazpacho was dead. El Mago had killed him. El Mago had fucking killed him. Or maybe not. No sense into leaping to conclusions.
It better not have been El Mago.
“Is there a way out the back?”
“Past the bathrooms. Remember, you owe me, so if I ever need—”
“I know how it works,” Elvis muttered.
Elvis stood up. He walked at a normal pace, like he wasn’t worried, and wound his way out the back. He darted past a couple of waiters who were having a smoke break, leaning against the wall in their black vests and starched shirts. It was dark now outside.
He walked faster, began running. He ran until he was out of breath.
Brother.
22
WHEN SHE ARRIVED at work on the dot Monday morning, Maite told Diana that she’d gone to Cuernavaca for the weekend, but in her version of events it was with a new suitor. Diana seemed impressed when Maite said he’d be picking her up in his car. She asked if Diana could cover for her.
“Do I get to meet him?” Diana asked.
“Not today,” Maite said. “But later on, maybe.”
“What’s his name?”
“Rubén,” she said proudly.
“Is he good looking?”
“Very.”
They continued in that vein for a few more minutes, before the arrival of their co-workers made it necessary to retire to their desks. Maite smiled. Not only did the latest issue of Secret Romance show Jorge Luis waking up from his coma, but the lies she’d told perked her up. Besides, she’d leave the office early and in a car, no need to ride the stinking bus this time.
That’s not to say that the morning didn’t have its hiccups. Twice the phone rang, and she nervously picked up the receiver, fearing it might be that dreadful man from the DFS. But first it was a wrong number, and then it was Maite’s mother calling to say that the mechanic had phoned her and how dare Maite give out her number and why was Maite always suffering from money trouble. Maite really hadn’t had any money trouble other than with the mechanic. The reason she’d given her mother’s number was because she needed a guarantor when she bought the car, and then the mechanic had also asked for an emergency contact. Most women put down their husband’s name, but since Maite didn’t have a husband, she was subject to this extra layer of scrutiny.