The notes of “The Girl from Ipanema” drifted from an open window on another floor.
“What’s he doing here?” Rubén asked gruffly, pointing at Emilio, who simply quirked an eyebrow at them.
“You said you needed a photographer,” Jackie told him. “This is what I could do on short notice. He’s fast, he knows how to use the equipment. What did you want, a first-year student?”
“Fuck, Jackie, are you serious? Him! Of all people!”
“I’ve financed this space so I think I’m allowed to step foot in it,” Emilio said. “Besides, I also want to see what’s on the film.”
“This jackass will sell us out for five cents.”
“Unlike you, I don’t need five cents, thanks.”
“Yes, rub it in, rub all your money in our faces.”
“Not all of us can be deadbeats.”
Emilio chuckled, and then Rubén jumped forward and threw a punch, just like that, no warning, straight to the jaw, and Emilio yelped, his back hitting the desk. Rubén attempted another punch, but Emilio moved and the young man missed. And then it was Emilio throwing a punch and hitting Rubén in the belly.
It was like watching two orangutans fight in the jungle. Maite had never been to the jungle, but there were orangutans in her comic books, and when they snarled, they looked like these men, their eyes narrowed and the mouths savage. She almost expected them to beat their fists against their chests and start biting each other.
Jackie yelled at the men, telling them to stop it, to stop being stupid. In his corner by the window, the man in the suede jacket observed the spectacle with amusement, but did not seem interested in stopping it. Maite merely clutched her purse and pressed herself against a bookcase, far from the brawlers.
“What do you two think you’re doing?”
Maite turned her head. Four men had walked into the office. She recognized the one who had spoken. He was the fellow who had visited Maite’s office: Anaya. He stood with his hands in his pockets, looking puzzled. The men standing next to him had their guns out and had pointed them at Emilio and Rubén.
“Hands up in the air,” one of the men ordered.
Everyone was silent. Emilio and Rubén slowly stood up and raised their hands.
“You too, in the back.”
The man in the suede jacket shrugged and obeyed, raising his hands up high. The altercation between Rubén and Emilio had not interested him, and this didn’t seem to ruffle him either.
“Let’s give up all the guns,” Anaya said. “All the guns, or everyone is going to get shot.”
Rubén slowly took out his gun and tossed it onto the floor.
“Is that it?” Anaya asked. “If I find you have a gun, you fuckers, I’m going to shoot it up your ass. Line up. Come on.”
They lined up. Rubén stood next to Maite. She wanted to clutch his hand but didn’t dare move; she was holding her purse tight. Bossa nova was still playing nearby.
“Now where’s the film?”
“How do you know we’ve got the film?” Rubén asked.
“We heard you mention a darkroom, you idiot. The line was bugged,” Anaya said. “Now do you want to try and get smart with me again? All of you, empty your pockets. Everything, come on. And you, your purse.”
Anaya was stuffing his hands into Rubén’s jacket and found nothing but a pack of cigarettes. Then he turned to her. Maite stared at the man, not knowing what to do. Her lips trembled.
“The purse,” Anaya said. “Open it up, come on.”
She wanted to. She really did. She didn’t mean to be brave or stubborn. Fear had rendered her mute and made her dig her fingers into the cheap purse, feeling that it was the only thing keeping her safe. What would they do if they found the film inside? What would they do to her? Would she be hauled to jail? Tortured and branded a dissident?
“Lady, the purse.”
Her hands shook, and she fumbled with the clasp.
“Come on!”
And then the guy in the suede jacket kicked one of the men and slammed him against the ground. At the same time, Rubén jumped at Anaya. He threw himself against him, like an angry bull, no finesse in the attack. It was brute force. Jackie grabbed a green table lamp and swung it at one of the men.
“Run!” Rubén yelled.
There was a gunshot. Maite screamed. She didn’t know who shot who, because Emilio grabbed her hand and pulled her with him, and they ran to the other end of the office. By the windows, to the left, there was the door that led to the back stairs.
They made it onto the street and into Emilio’s car, which was parked behind the building. From an open window the sound of samba drifted onto the street, a plaintive saxophone bidding them goodbye.
27
ELVIS WAS STARTING to believe his life was an unending circle, because they were back at Asterisk. The woman and the hippie had gone into the building. God knew he would have preferred it if they had driven back to the diner of the previous evening. At least there he might have ordered a coffee and picked a song from the jukebox.
Elvis readied himself for a few more boring hours of his ass stuck inside a car, watching the rain droplets slide across the windshield, when he saw a bunch of men jump out of two vehicles and head into the building. He counted seven of them. Elvis didn’t need the binoculars to know these were DFS men and that Anaya was with them.
“Son of a bitch,” the Antelope whispered. “What’s that all about?”
“The film’s inside,” Elvis said.
“What? You sure?”
“Why else would they be here, all of them at once?”
“To arrest people.”
“Same story.”
Elvis took out his gun from the messenger bag. The Antelope gave him a weary look. “What’re you doing?”
“We can’t let them grab the film,” he said. The film, yes. Though, for a second, the thought flashed in his mind: the woman was in there. The woman with the sad eyes. And these assholes had beaten El Güero. El Güero wasn’t his buddy, but he was part of his team. Maybe they had even killed El Gazpacho.
He would bet that’s what happened, yeah. It hadn’t been El Mago, it had been Anaya and his goons. They had murdered his friend. It would be their style. He was sure of it.
“There’re seven of them. We don’t know if anyone inside is armed,” the Antelope said.