“Get me something,” El Mago said. “Get me anything.”
There was something raw and desperate when El Mago spoke, and Elvis almost felt like laughing.
It was his cue to exit. Elvis opened the car door and got out, clasping the leather messenger bag tight, feeling the weight of the gun and the bullets tucked inside. He ended up thinking about the woman again so he wouldn’t think about what the fuck he was doing, so he wouldn’t think about El Gazpacho bloated and purple in a ditch.
26
SHE WAS HAPPY, and it occurred to her this was an unusual and unforeseen state.
The morning was lazy, spent in bed, oversleeping. Normally she banged her palm against the alarm clock and got up quickly, but since she wasn’t going to the office there was no need for that. She simply lay under the covers, feeling the warmth of Rubén’s body against her own.
It was strange resting like that, with no worries or obligations, no papers to file or notes to type. Of course, she still had obligations. Her job would be there tomorrow, and her car was still at the mechanic’s, and she had to get up and feed Leonora’s cat. But for now, for a precious, brief now, there was the cocoon of the bedsheets and curtains pulled tight, preventing the sun from sneaking into the room.
She wondered if this was how Rubén lived. Maybe he didn’t work every day, maybe he worked when it pleased him. If he really went to Guerrero, he’d have to wake up at the crack of dawn. She pictured revolutionaries performing exhausting daily drills.
When Rubén finally woke up, it was close to noon. She asked him if he wanted to have lunch, but he seemed uninterested in food and asked her if she wanted to fuck before he showered. So they did that. He was enthusiastic, and it pleased her immensely to be desired in such a raw way, with minimal preamble and no need for the hollow, useless conversations she had had to endure on previous occasions with other men. No lies, either, like the ones Cristóbalito whispered into her ear about loving her forever.
I’ve been doing it all wrong, she thought.
They showered and eventually ventured out, to a café where Rubén wolfed down a sandwich and she rested her chin on her hand, watching him and wondering if Leonora was ever coming back, and if it mattered at this point.
They stayed out for a while doing nothing of importance and went up the stairs arm in arm. It was dusk, and the apartment lay in shadows. They headed straight to the bedroom. Rubén took off his jacket and tossed it away. He had removed his shoes, unbuckled his jeans, and taken off his shirt before they even reached the bedroom’s doorway. She thought they might end up fucking on the floor again.
Maite laughed, her palm against the wall, trying to find the light switch. Instead, Rubén caught her face between his hands and kissed her, and she bumped into her vanity, and there was the noise of things being knocked down as his tongue found her mouth.
Laughing again, she turned on the light and there, on the floor, was the broken statue of San Judas Tadeo. It had cracked neatly in half, and two film canisters had spilled out of it, like treasure from a galleon run aground.
Maite bent down and picked them up, holding them in the palm of her hand. She looked at Rubén. “It’s the film,” she whispered.
“What?”
She held the canisters up, for him to see. “The film…Leonora’s photos. You couldn’t find them because they were in here.”
“You had them all this time?”
“I…I took the statue from her apartment. I didn’t know.”
Rubén stared at her, and then he launched himself into the kitchen. He was in his underwear and socks. Maite watched as he grabbed the telephone and dialed a number. He tapped his foot impatiently and cursed under his breath.
“Jackie? Yeah, that’s right. Listen, I need you to get Néstor over to Asterisk,” Rubén said. “What do you mean he’s not around? Fine. Then get any photographer. I don’t know! Anyone who knows their way around a darkroom.”
Rubén checked his watch. “Forty minutes. Yeah. Bye.”
Rubén hung up, and then he was rushing back to the bedroom scooping up his jacket from the floor. Maite was still carrying the film canisters in her hands.
“We’ve got to get the film developed.”
“Now?”
“It’s what I’m going to try to do. Put those in a purse or something, will you? Where’s my shoe?” he asked, his voice like sandpaper.
“Oh…oh, yes.” Maite grabbed her purse, which she’d dropped in their dash to the bedroom. “I had no idea,” she added. “I thought it was garbage she’d thrown out.”
It was true. It was not like she ever stole anything that mattered. And even if she did, even if she was a consummate thief, he didn’t have to know that. But the way he was looking at her, the way he frowned, she didn’t like it.
Maybe he could tell she was dishonest. Maybe it was the way her voice trembled.
But he shook his head. “Don’t worry. It’s fine. But we’ve got to see what’s in those pictures.”
He found his shoes, found his belt, and she watched him as he sat on the bed and dressed again; watched him as he inspected the gun he’d borrowed from Jackie before tucking it in his jacket’s pocket. She ran a hand through her hair.
“What happens after we develop the film?”
“We take it to the papers. Not every journalist is a coward. And even if they are…I don’t know, we’ll figure something out.”
“Will Leonora come back if we do that?”
Rubén tied his shoelaces. “I’d like to think so.”
Maite didn’t know if she agreed. The thought of returning to the dull normality of days past suddenly frightened her. Rubén looked at her. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I guess I was getting used to you being around.”
“Are you looking for a new roommate, Maite?”
“Don’t tease me.”
He chuckled and stood up, buckling his belt as he looked at her. “I didn’t realize you liked me that much.”
“I don’t, but maybe you could grow on me.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “Maybe I could.”
She leaned forward and kissed him. It wasn’t something that she’d normally do, too worried about what a man would think of her, whether he’d like it or not, whether she was his type or was completely off base. But she figured what the hell. If she pretended she was bold long enough, maybe she could actually be bold.
He kissed her back, and then he said they should go, and they were walking down the stairs and into the car. It was raining outside, and traffic was heavy. By the time they reached Asterisk, the streetlights had bloomed into life.
Familiar faces awaited them in the office. Jackie, sitting behind a desk; the man who had been in the background last time was also there, smoking, sitting by the window. And Emilio Lomelí: he was leaning against Jackie’s desk, bending down to tell her something.
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.
“Seven means we have to kill three each and hope one of them pisses his pants and runs off.”
“Well, that’s damn easy, no? You’re crazy.”
“El Mago’s fucked—we’re all fucked—if we don’t get those pictures. Come on, are you a wimp? Do I have to do it alone?” he said, his voice a blade, thinking of all the times El Güero had called him a marshmallow and the Antelope had snickered in agreement.
But not today, no sir, and ultimately the Antelope was the kind of man who did what he was told, and Elvis was…well, he wasn’t sure what kind of man he was, but he knew he was going into that building. He wanted blood and he wanted that film because, fuck it, they’d been working at this too long to let it go and it was a night for death.
“You’re all machín when it comes to shooting imaginary motherfuckers and American gangsters, but what happens when it’s for real, huh? Did your balls shrink?”
“Fuck you,” the Antelope muttered as he took out his gun and patted the pocket where he was carrying his ammunition. “I have better aim than you, you prissy fucker. I’ll put three bullets up their ass, like I promised. I bet you can’t hit one of them, you fuck.”
“Up yours.”
They went into the building and up the stairs carefully and quietly, the way El Mago liked it. Elvis poked his head through the open door of the gallery. Three men stood near the entrance to the office, at the other end of the room.
Because the gallery space had little in the way of furniture and because it was essentially one long rectangle, there would be few if any places to take cover, though there was a small nook in the wall right in front of the gallery’s entrance.
At the same time, three men standing like that, a little distracted, were three men in the open ripe for the picking. Elvis stepped back into the hallway and whispered what things looked like to the Antelope, who frowned and nodded.
“So three in the gallery. Where’re the rest of them?” the Antelope asked.
“Probably in the office, maybe torturing someone.”
“What do we do then?”
There was the sound of a gun going off and a shrill scream. “Let’s roll,” Elvis ordered. No time for elaborate plans.
They ran into the gallery. The Antelope shot dead one of the men standing by the office door with his first bullet and ran straight toward the nook, kneeling down and then peeking around and shooting again. No luck this time, he
missed his target. Elvis ran behind the Antelope and also took cover behind the nook.
“I’ll cover you and you run across, back to the entrance,” the Antelope said. “Draw them out.”
“Like hell.”
“You think I can’t cover you? You wanted to come in here in the first place. We can’t hide in the corner. We need to move, fast.”
“Fuck it,” Elvis muttered.
Shots rang again, shattering glass, and Elvis gritted his teeth. He sprinted across the gallery, back in the direction of the doorway. When he reached the entrance, he spun around and crouched low. One of the men had taken the bait and was headed in his direction. Elvis shot and missed, but the Antelope did not. He got the agent square in the back. When the man spun around, in the Antelope’s direction, Elvis shot again. This time he made the target.
The Antelope motioned to Elvis, pointing toward the office, and they both sprang forward and aimed their guns in the direction of the remaining agent, who was taking cover behind a large statue. For a few minutes the fucker managed to tuck himself safely there, like a snail, before the Antelope got tired of this bullshit.
“Cover me,” the Antelope said.
Which Elvis did, although there wasn’t much need for this, since the Antelope essentially unloaded his gun and the agent didn’t have time to scream, much less shoot back.
The Antelope reloaded his gun and grinned. “Pretty neat, no? Told you I was a better shot than you. Three down. That’s half, no?”
“Nearly half,” Elvis muttered, looking at the blood on the floor.
“Come on, let’s get it over with,” the Antelope said and rushed into the office.
Elvis followed, but had not taken more than three steps when the Antelope staggered back into the gallery space and slumped onto the floor. Elvis pressed himself against the wall and eyed the door to the office.
There was yelling and the sound of broken furniture and someone had shot the Antelope dead. Or was he dead? Elvis needed to check. He couldn’t leave him there on the floor.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Elvis dashed forward and pulled the Antelope by the arms, dragging him away from the spot where he’d fallen. He checked his pulse, pounded on his chest.
Velvet Was the Night Page 25
