When they reached the door of the girl’s apartment, the Antelope stood to the side, pretending to light a cigarette and blocking people’s view of Elvis from the staircase in case someone walked by. Elvis pried the door open with deft fingers.
Elvis told the Antelope to take the kitchen and the living room, while he surveyed the bathroom and the bedroom. They had an hour for this search mission. More than that might be asking for trouble. It would also be unnecessary, since Elvis held little hope that the camera they needed was inside the apartment. If the girl they were looking for really had disappeared, then she probably had disappeared with the photos El Mago wanted. But there was no harm in being thorough.
Elvis searched under the mattress, in the big dresser and behind it, in the bathroom. He opened the medicine cabinet, looked inside the water tank, and quickly rummaged through the girl’s clothes. He peered under the sink, making sure she hadn’t taped the camera or film canister to the furniture, like junkies did when they were hiding drugs. He even checked the hem of the curtains. But there were nothing but dust bunnies and a cat hiding under the bed. In the kitchen, the Antelope had gone through the refrigerator and was pulling cans and jars from the cabinets. Elvis noticed someone had been feeding the cat. There was a freshly opened tin set on the floor in the kitchen, by the stove.
“Find anything?” Elvis asked.
“She eats a lot of lentils,” the Antelope said, tossing a bag of them on the floor and popping a stick of bubble gum in his mouth. The Antelope chewed too much bubble gum, and he had the disgusting habit of sticking it under the arms of chairs. At least it was better than El Güero’s habit of leaving his toenail clippings in the sink.
“Nothing in the bedroom either.”
“Fucking boring assignment. You’d think they’d throw us something exciting once in a while.”
“Like what?”
“Something where we got to use guns. I’m fucking good with guns. Hey, did you know Sam Giancana is hiding here?”
“What?”
“Giancana! You know, the fucking mobster. He was in bed with the CIA. He’s hiding in Mexico and I know where. Right smack in the middle of Coyoacán; he works as a taquero. They should have us take him to the Americans. El Mago is real cozy with the Americans, you know? CIA this and CIA that.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“He is so cozy! I’m not lying.”
“I mean you’re bullshitting me about Giancana. You’re always talking shit. You never check anything out, flapping your mouth about whatever those potheads whisper to you,” Elvis said. He wasn’t wrong. A lot of the Antelope’s work consisted of hanging around full-on junkies and hippies who talked about weed all day long, trying to catch whatever rumors he could. Sometimes there was some truth to the rumors, and sometimes it was stories about mobsters who were making tacos de suadero.
The Antelope shrugged. “But if it were true it would be better than this tagging shit we’re doing. I’m damn good at target practice and never get to shoot anyone. Instead, there’s this fucking busywork, which, frankly, should be for bitches. We’re supposed to be elite.”
“It ain’t busywork. And who you gonna shoot?”
“I dunno. Giancana.”
“Giancana, Giancana, like you ever shot anyone.”
“I killed someone.”
“Yeah, like who?”
“Some fucker,” the Antelope muttered. “Problem is when you shoot the wrong fucker you end up like me.”
The Antelope was quiet and stopped chewing his gum. Elvis knew, thanks to that, that he was actually serious about something, his eyes looking at a point above Elvis’s shoulder. After a few seconds the Antelope resumed loudly chewing his gum and grabbed a can of angulas from a shelf.
“Man, who the fuck eats this shit? You ever had this shit?” he asked. “I think El Gazpacho eats this garbage!”
Elvis moved into the living room, to continue the search and let the Antelope keep talking to himself. In the end, the apartment yielded nothing.
It was too early to try their luck with the priest, so Elvis agreed that they should go have a bite, and the three of them stopped at a taco stand. El Güero wanted to eat at a cantina, but Elvis said no. He wasn’t going to have drunk operatives messing up his assignment.
The Antelope ordered three tacos de cachete and began talking about how anyone who had half a brain and listened carefully knew that the CIA killed Marilyn Monroe by stuffing heroin pills up her ass. Ass death! Elvis didn’t pay attention to the Antelope’s babblings because he was always talking crazy shit. There was some truth mixed with the lies, but you don’t go wading into a swimming pool filled with vomit to try to drink fresh water. Then the Antelope swore that Kennedy had been murdered by Johnson and his goons over El Chamizal, and that’s when Elvis began singing “Love Me Tender” inside his head—he could sing a dozen Presley songs by heart and sounded pretty decent, like a well-trained parrot—because there was no way to stomach this bullcrap.
Around five they parked across the street from the priest’s four-story building, which was close to the Alameda, and began their watch. Elvis fiddled with the screwdriver in his pocket. El Mago always said knives and fists were better than guns. He taught his men to shoot, but not needlessly.
Some guys, like the Antelope, they felt like they were real machos with a gun in their hands, and Elvis couldn’t deny he had loved the idea of owning a weapon, the bullets as enticing as candy to a child. But the unit leader was the one with a firearm—though Elvis suspected that El Güero had a hidden gun somewhere in his room—and the firearm available was therefore El Gazpacho’s gun, and he didn’t want to grab it.
Not yet. To do so would mean he was taking El Gazpacho’s place, and he couldn’t accept that El Gazpacho had left the unit. He kept thinking El Mago had lied and even came up with explanations about why he’d lie, but they were all garbage excuses.
He wondered if El Gazpacho was back with his family. He knew El Gazpacho had an older sister. They were not supposed to discuss personal details, but it was hard to stay tight-lipped all the time, and although nobody dwelled on their families or previous work, you eventually learned something about everyone.
Elvis knew El Gazpacho liked strawberry milkshakes and playing dominoes, that he loved Japanese movies and smoked quality cigarettes. They had conducted many meaningless conversations, discussing what actresses they’d like to fuck—Raquel Welch topped their list—and the cities they wished to visit—for Elvis, it was obviously Memphis; for El Gazpacho it was Seville. He’d almost forgotten Spain and he wanted to go back, but God knew when he would. He spoke nostalgically about its streets and smells. Elvis didn’t want to return to Tepito, but he told El Gazpacho stories about his old neighborhood.
In between all this insignificant banter there had emerged some truths and real camaraderie.
El Gazpacho had been his friend, even if Elvis had never learned his real name.
Maybe he should go to mass and light a candle for him, ask a saint to protect El Gazpacho and ensure he healed and went back to his family safely.
Mass. Elvis wasn’t even sure why he was thinking about a mass when he was sitting in a car with two other men, waiting to interrogate a priest. Maybe, he decided, it would be good to stop by a church and light the candle immediately after this assignment was over. God might understand, or at least feel a little less pissed off, if Elvis showed a little contrition and placed a few bills in the collection box.
The priest didn’t get home until nine, but they waited until close to eleven, when most of the lights in the building had gone off, to make their way inside. Once again, Elvis picked the appropriate locks, and they marched quietly into the priest’s apartment.
There was still a light on in the bedroom. The apartment was very small, and the light spilling from the room and into the combination dining room/l
iving room was enough that they could see their way easily. The priest had the TV on, and they heard a woman talking about how hip, young people drank Nescafé with milk and sugar.
The priest was standing in front of the bathroom sink, in his pajamas and ready to brush his teeth. Elvis was glad to find him like this. He didn’t look like much of a priest when he was wearing his fancy pajamas.
“Father Villareal—” Elvis said. And he might have said something else, because he’d thought about introducing himself all proper-like, the way El Mago might do it. Like a gentleman. But the fucking priest took one look at him and rushed out of the bathroom.
Not only that, but the fucker grabbed an old-fashioned razor that had been resting by the sink, and Elvis had mere seconds to throw himself aside for fear of being sliced in the stomach. It wasn’t that the priest knew what he was doing with the razor, but that he didn’t. He was waving his hands in front of him and spinning around like a wind-up toy, but such chaotic stupidity could be dangerous.
Elvis thought about tackling him, then reconsidered. The Antelope was equally startled and equally put off by the guy, and he didn’t try to block the man’s path when he stormed forward, blade in hand.
“Grab him!” Elvis yelled and ran behind the man and into the living room. For a second he feared the fool would actually make it outside.
But then El Güero’s lumbering form emerged in front of the priest. The man hesitated in his flight, and that second of hesitation was enough. El Güero caught the priest’s hand and twisted it. Father Villareal yelped in pain and dropped the razor. Then El Güero punched the man in the head.
The priest fell to the floor and moaned softly.
El Güero was getting ready to kick the man in the head. “Hey, wait,” Elvis said. “We’re supposed to talk to him.”
“Fuck it, this prick tried to cut me,” El Güero complained.
“Drag him back to the bedroom.”
El Güero grumbled something about pricks and marshmallows. Elvis bent down and picked up the razor and followed both of them into the bedroom.
“I don’t have any money,” the priest said as El Güero shoved him in the direction of the bed.
“Sit down,” Elvis told Villareal. “Antelope, check the room.”
The Antelope nodded and began opening drawers. El Güero stood at the doorway, arms crossed, blocking any exit. The priest sat on the bed, clutching the covers with one hand. In a corner, a picture of an eagle looked down at Elvis, serving as the only decoration. The apartment seemed simple, but the television was new, and by the bed Elvis spotted a pair of good leather shoes. Maybe the priest didn’t have cash lying around, but he had enough bills to purchase certain fancy goods. Perhaps he’d passed the contribution plate around his congregation.
“Father, where’s the camera?”
“I don’t know anything about a camera,” Villareal said, and he began rubbing his head and wincing, like it hurt real bad. Theatrical bastard. El Güero hadn’t roughed him up that much, not really.
“You know something about a girl, no? Leonora? Where is she?”
The priest stared at Elvis as if Elvis had said a dirty word. “I have no idea.”
“I thought you guys were friends. You going to deny you know her?”
“I know her.”
“Then where’s she at?”
“It doesn’t mean I keep track of her every movement.”
“Easy, Father. No need to get riled up. We’re dialogating,” Elvis said, trying to sound the way El Mago sounded.
“Dialogating,” the priest said, practically sneering at Elvis.
Elvis didn’t like this fucker’s face, nor the way he was looking at Elvis. Respect. That’s what El Mago said you had to instill. Not fear, respect. Though fear could be an easy shortcut to respect. Elvis didn’t have all night to be talking to the priest; he couldn’t hold his hand and warmly beg him to talk a bit. Not only because El Mago was waiting to hear from them, but because El Güero was standing at the doorway, smirking at Elvis.
Elvis knew that if he did anything wrong that blond dickhead was going to tell El Mago every little detail. He didn’t want to give El Güero the satisfaction. Besides, Villareal had that smug look of a man who has never had the shit properly beaten out of him, and Elvis felt the sudden need to teach him what was what, man of the cloth or not.
Elvis slammed his fist against the priest’s face, hard enough that the priest fell back on the bed with a sharp groan.
“When’s the last time you saw her?” Elvis asked coolly.
The priest groaned, and Elvis repeated the question, curling his fingers into a fist again.
“Tuesday morning,” Villareal said, sitting up again, a hand pressed against his bleeding nose, his eyes glued on Elvis’s fist.
“Go on,” Elvis said.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Everything. What time she was here, how long she stayed, what the hell she was wearing.”
The Antelope had opened a drawer and found a Bible in it, which he was flipping through. The priest looked at him sharply. “Don’t touch that,” he said. “There’s nothing there.”
“Hey,” Elvis said snapping his fingers. The priest turned to him again. “You’re talking to me, not him.”
“My nose is bleeding,” the priest complained.
“Let’s cut him in the belly,” El Güero suggested. “That’ll teach him about bleeding.”
“Damn right,” the Antelope said, nodding.
Of course that would be El Güero’s first suggestion. He probably thought turning the priest into a human pincushion would be a great idea, but that was not what Elvis was aiming for.
“Talk to me.”
“I need to get gauze and rubbing alcohol. I’m bleeding all over the place,” the priest insisted.
“Cut open his gullet,” El Güero said.
“Go look around the living room for the fucking camera,” Elvis ordered, then he turned to the priest. “You can worry about your damn gauze later.”
El Güero snapped his mouth shut, but he didn’t move from the doorway. The priest frowned, looking at his bloody fingers. “She stopped by late Sunday night. I was already asleep when she rang the bell,” he muttered.
“What did she want?”
“Spiritual advice.”
“Go on.”
“Leonora found out something important, something about a politician. She was thinking of talking to a reporter but she was also scared and she was worried it would affect people she knew. She was afraid of the blowback.”
“What politician?”
“She didn’t quite say it, but I suspected Echeverría.”
Echeverría. Motherfucking President Echeverría. Elvis frowned. “What about Echeverría?”
“She didn’t say Echeverría. I suspected Echeverría because she stayed over…she was afraid of going back to her apartment and she stayed over, and Tuesday I heard her talking on the phone with someone and she mentioned the Hawks.”
Elvis could feel the stares of the other men in the room. The Antelope had stopped riffling through drawers and had grown still. El Güero was still standing by the doorway.
“Where’s she now?”
“I told you, I really don’t know. When I realized how scared she was…how messed up this could get…I…I told her she couldn’t stay here anymore. I told her maybe she’d be better off going over to Jackie’s.”
“Who’s ‘Yak’?”
The priest sighed. He was sitting at the edge of the bed, his hands clasped together, looking down at the floor. The priest was young. Elvis didn’t know they could make priests this young. He was used to old men; wrinkled, ancient priests. This one looked like he might be Elvis’s age. Fresh out of the seminary in Monterrey.
Elvis wonde
red why Villareal hadn’t gone to the Tec like all the other rich little boys there, instead picking the priesthood. Of course Elvis couldn’t be sure the priest was a rich boy, but what he read in the file sure indicated that, and there were all the telltale details in the room. The TV, the silk pajamas, the Italian shoes. Even the way the priest talked. El Mago had taught Elvis to notice stuff like that. Okay. Maybe not rich. Upper middle class. But for sure he hadn’t grown up in a vecindad.
“Jackie. Jacqueline. She’s the leader of Asterisk. It’s an art collective.”
“How could this Jackie help her?”
“Jacqueline…she’s into radical stuff. She advocates for armed struggles and…look, Jacqueline doesn’t leave her house without a gun. She sleeps with it under her pillow and carries it in her purse. If Leonora was going to be safe somewhere, it was with Jackie. At least she has a weapon and I don’t.”
“So she’s with that Jackie then?”
“I’m not…I don’t think she is.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not even supposed to get involved with this kind of shit,” Villareal said, raising his voice.
“And what are you supposed to get involved with, padrecito?” Elvis asked. He didn’t raise his voice. Nothing good would come of that, except a screaming match, which he was trying to avoid. No, he kept his voice steady and low. “You’re a commie troublemaker. And all commies want to get into some very bad shit, don’t they? So tell me: why don’t you think she’s with Jackie, huh?”
Villareal glared at Elvis, but he moderated his tone. “I left to run a few errands, and when I came back Leonora was gone. Then Jackie calls and asks if Leonora’s around. I thought she was with her.”
“She’s not at her apartment, so who could she be with?”
He shrugged. “She had a boyfriend. Emilio Lomelí. And she has a sister. I really don’t know.”
“Did she leave anything with you?”
“No. If she had, I would tell you.”
“I’m not sure I believe that.”
Velvet Was the Night Page 9
