Velvet Was the Night

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  “Come on, you prick!”

  The blast of a gun and the piercing sting of a bullet hitting him smack in the arm made Elvis yelp. He raised his hand and shot back at the agent standing by the doorway. He didn’t even aim properly, just pulled the trigger and hoped he hit someone.

  The agent stumbled back into the office.

  Elvis took a breath and reached for the messenger bag dangling from his shoulder, fumbled with the speedloader for a second, and reloaded his gun. He winced as he held up the weapon with both hands.

  He thought the agent would be back to fill him with lead, but the doorway was empty.

  He walked into the office. The agent who’d shot at him lay flat on his back, with his mouth open. Gone.

  He spotted two more agents on the ground. Maybe they were dead too, Elvis wasn’t one hundred percent sure. A woman, her mouth filled with blood and missing a few teeth, stared at Elvis from behind a desk. She had a broken lamp in her hands. The hippie Elvis had been following was slumped in a corner. He couldn’t see Maite, but there was an unexpected spectacle: the fucking Russian who had given him a beating was fighting with Anaya, both of them struggling over a gun. Anaya seemed to be winning, though Elvis wasn’t sure if he was playing fair—the Russian had been wounded. He was trailing blood down his leg, and by the gash on his trousers it was a knife injury, which could be very bad news.

  He took a deep breath, trying to decide if he should intervene. This was like watching Godzilla versus King Kong, and he didn’t know if he should be cheering for the lizard or the monkey. Probably neither, but he also didn’t feel it was right to shoot both of them while they were distracted.

  Anaya gave the Russian a fierce blow to the head and grabbed the gun; then the fucker turned his head, saw Elvis, and pointed the damn weapon at him. Elvis couldn’t even duck. Jesus Christ, not again! He was going to get shot a second time in the span of three minutes.

  The bullet hit the shelf next to Elvis, steered off its course by the Russian, who had smacked Anaya in the arm, making the agent miss his mark. The gun went flying through the air, and the Russian clutched his leg, grimacing.

  That did it. Elvis shot Anaya in the leg. Not because the asshole had tried to kill him, but because it definitely wasn’t fair to have one man bleeding out all over the floor. Let the two assholes face each other in equal conditions.

  Anaya yelped and stared at Elvis in surprise. The Russian took advantage of the chaos and confusion to jump on top of Anaya and slam him down against a desk. Papers and pencils and splinters went flying through the air as Anaya’s body hit the cheap piece of furniture and he was toppled backward.

  The Russian didn’t waste time. He jumped on top of Anaya, punching him in the face two, three times. Anaya responded by roaring and punching back. Both men rolled across the floor, smashing into chairs and boxes.

  The Russian reached for a telephone and yanked its cord, wrapping it around the agent’s neck from behind. Anaya’s eyes opened wide, and he tried to elbow the Russian in the ribs, to no avail. The Russian held the cord tight against the man’s throat until he stopped moving. The Russian winced as he released his hold on the cord and let Anaya’s body flop against the floor. He was breathing hard as he looked up at Elvis and pressed a hand against his leg again.

  “Thanks. I thought you were DFS,” the Russian said.

  “We both know that was bullshit.”

  “I don’t like Hawks any more than I like DFS agents.”

  “And I don’t like Russians, but you just saved me from a bullet to the head.”

  “I guess that makes us even.”

  Elvis had assumed if he ever saw this son of a bitch again he’d beat him with a hammer, or the Russian would kick his teeth in. He didn’t think they’d take it easy with each other, but the Russian had his share of cuts and bruises, and Elvis thought that, yeah, it was as even as it would get.

  “Where’s the film?” Elvis asked.

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  Elvis walked toward the hippie slumped in the corner. The woman with broken teeth had retreated to the opposite side of the room, but she yelled at him. “Leave him alone!”

  Elvis knelt next to the man and pressed a hand against his neck. His eyes were closed but he had a pulse. And two bullet holes in his body. Elvis slipped his hands into the man’s jacket pockets. Nothing. He stood up. “You better phone him an ambulance,” he told the woman.

  She stared at him, then stretched a shaky hand toward a telephone and began dialing.

  Elvis walked to the door.

  “Hey! Where are you going?” the Russian asked.

  “I’m guessing if the film’s not here, then it’s with his lady friend,” Elvis said, pointing at the hippie with the two bullet holes.

  “Pretty big guess.”

  “I’ve got to find her.”

  “And get your film.”

  Maybe he wanted to find her, period. Elvis’s shoes were stained with blood, and his hands were shaky. He was tired and spent. Just damn fucking spent. Every last bit of him gone. He couldn’t do this shit.

  “You know where to start looking?” the Russian asked.

  “I’ve got a hunch.”

  “Wait a minute, I’ll go with you,” the Russian said, limping toward Elvis.

  “Why the fuck would I let you go with me?”

  “You look like shit. You’re left-handed, no? They fucked your stupid arm. I’ll drive.”

  “Someone stuck a knife in your fucking leg.”

  The Russian shrugged. “I’ll bandage it in the car.”

  “What car?”

  “My car. Unless you have a first aid kit in yours.”

  “Fine. Fuck it,” Elvis muttered. What did he care if the whole KGB was tagging along. He had a damn bullet in his arm and the Antelope was dead. Maybe Elvis would be dead too, and he supposed going out at the hand of a Russian agent was more interesting than getting killed by those pricks from the DFS or being knifed in Tepito, which was the way he originally thought he’d go.

  The Russian’s car was a piece of shit Volkswagen—it needed a paint job and to be washed sometime this century—which he’d left around the corner. It also reeked of pot and cheap booze. The Russian drove a few blocks from Asterisk and parked the car. He took a sip from a silver flask. Then he turned around and pulled a box from the back seat and handed it to Elvis. Inside Elvis found the promised bandages and gauze. He tried winding them around his arm and failed, so the Russian gave him a hand and a sip from the flask. It contained mezcal, of all things. He’d expected vodka.

  When Elvis’s bandage was in place, the Russian slapped several layers of gauze on his leg, tied it all up, and took another swig of mezcal. Then he opened the glove compartment and reached for a gun, which was tucked under a map of the city.

  “Smith and Wesson,” Elvis said and scoffed. “You own a Smith and Wesson.”

  “Model sixty. You got a problem with that?”

  “No, no problem,” Elvis said, wanting to break out in laughter. Another one of his teammates was dead, and he was in a beat-up car with a Russian who didn’t even own a Soviet weapon. “You gonna shoot me?”

  “If I wanted you dead I’d have killed you back at Asterisk. Don’t get paranoid. I figure it might come in handy since I’m not sure where the fuck you’re taking me. So. Where to?”

  Elvis gave him the first set of directions. He wasn’t going to blurt out the address. If the Russian wanted to murder him, he’d have to wait until they arrived at their destination.

  28

  SHE ALMOST BROKE down when they arrived at Emilio’s house. She had been able to keep herself in one piece until then, but the moment they walked into his living room she took a deep breath and then another, and she started shivering, her eyes brimming with tears.

  Emilio didn’t
look too thrilled about this. He quickly poured whiskey into a little glass and shoved it in her hands.

  “It’ll steady your nerves,” he said.

  “We shouldn’t have left. They’re probably dead.”

  “We’d be dead if we hadn’t left.”

  “But someone should call an ambulance!”

  “I’m sure the cops are there. Someone must have heard the gunshots.”

  “We shouldn’t have left,” Maite repeated. “We have to get the pictures to the papers, like Rubén wanted.”

  “I would if I knew where they are.”

  “I have them,” Maite said, and she spilled a little of her drink as she tried to open her handbag. Her hands were trembling. “I’ve had them all this time.”

  “All this time?”

  She looked up at Emilio, who was frowning. Clumsily she sat down on an acrylic bubble chair and put her drink on the floor. She opened her bag and took out the film canisters, showing them to him before quickly stuffing them back in her purse. “I didn’t know. I swear. I…she put them inside this little statuette…I swear I didn’t know. Shouldn’t you develop them? You have a darkroom.”

  “I’m not sure I should touch the film rolls.”

  “But we need to see what’s inside.”

  Emilio grabbed the bottle of whiskey and filled a glass for himself, topping her off in the process. “It depends. The newspaper might want to do it, to make sure we don’t tamper with anything. I know an editor who might be willing to publish them.”

  “Really?”

  “I’ll give him a call. Wait here. Drink up.” he said, downing his whiskey. “Liquid courage for the both of us.”

  He disappeared up the stairs, and Maite was alone, in the large room of paneled oak, sitting in front of Emilio’s black-and-white photographs. A gigantic eye stared at her from a frame, and she drank as he’d suggested.

  She wondered if the others had escaped the building. It was possible. If they had, she had no idea where they might have gone. Aside from the hospital, that is. She supposed it depended if they were badly hurt or not. If Rubén was alive, she promised herself she’d waste no time finding him and nursing him back to health. And then they would leave the city together. She could become a modern adelita, caring for the sons of revolution, the guerilla fighters deep in the mountains. Rubén would have scars from this night, but he would wear them proudly.

  The eye stared back at her, unblinking and cruel.

  She raised the glass to her lips, hit her teeth in the process and winced. Emilio came walking down the stairs just then.

  “He’ll be here right away. No later than half an hour, he said. He lives nearby.”

  “Does he? That’s good. What’s his name?”

  “José Hernández. He works for El Universal.”

  “He’ll publish the pictures?”

  “If there’s anything to publish, he will. You want something to eat?”

  “I don’t think I could eat anything. I’m so nervous.”

  “You’ve been very brave.”

  “I don’t think so,” she whispered. Her purse was on her lap. She clutched it with one hand, not letting go of it for an instant. If she let go, she feared she’d lose what little composure she possessed. Somehow the purse and the film canisters held the tears at bay.

  Emilio sat in front of her, in a matching chair, and solicitously offered to refill her glass. She accepted but didn’t take another sip. Her mouth tasted sour. He then offered her a cigarette, and she declined. He shrugged and lit one for himself, leaning forward a little as he smoked. Their conversation dwindled as the smoke rose.

  The bell rang. She almost dropped her glass, startled by the noise, but Emilio smiled.

  “It’s probably José. Give me a second.”

  She heard a muffled greeting and then Emilio was walking back into the room, still smiling. “I was right. José, this is Maite, the young lady I was telling you about.”

  The man who walked into the living room in the company of Emilio was older and distinguished, dressed in a good camel coat. He was also terribly familiar. Maite knew that face. She’d seen it before in the house belonging to Leonora’s sister. It was Leonardo, the uncle in military uniform, whose photo sat proudly in a silver frame.

  Maite glanced down quickly at the floor, trying to conceal this flash of recognition.

  “Maite. I’m glad to meet you. Emilio was saying you’ve kept some important photos safe.”

  She nodded and licked her lips.

  “Have you developed them?” the man asked.

  “We haven’t had the chance. We thought perhaps you’d like to do that,” Emilio said.

  “Of course. Even though you haven’t developed the film, perhaps Leonora told you what was in the photos? Did she, Maite?”

  She wanted him to go away, to leave her alone. The purse felt heavy on her lap. She shook her head again, no.

  “But you’ve been keeping the film safe for her all this time. You must have done it for a reason. You must have an idea of what’s in there.”

  “I didn’t know,” she muttered.

  She looked up at the man. He had a hand in one coat pocket. A casual detail, unimportant. Except he might be concealing a gun. She stood up. “Excuse me, I drank too much and I need to use the bathroom. Where is it?”

  “Oh, that way,” Emilio said, raising a hand and pointing in the right direction.

  Maite tried to walk without a hurry, her purse slung over her left shoulder. Multiple eyes, rendered in black-and-white, watched her from the walls. As soon as she stepped into the bathroom she locked the door. It was a large bathroom, spotless, with plush towels and expensive looking fittings. If she’d had more time, Maite would have admired it and carefully gone through all of Emilio’s prescriptions and toiletries. She would have stolen a memento. But she didn’t have time. She pulled the shower curtain aside and stepped into the shower.

  There was a window there. It was high up. She grabbed a stool that was tucked by the sink and stood on it, attempting to pry the window open. It remained stubbornly jammed. As she stood there on her tiptoes there was a knock on the door.

  “Open up,” the man said.

  She didn’t bother replying. Maite looked around in a panic, but there wasn’t anything she might use as a weapon; she tried to wedge the window open, pressing her hands against the glass. There came a sonorous crash, and the door slammed open and the old man walked in. She stood in the shower, stunned, not knowing what to say or do while he reached forward and pulled her with him.

  Maite reflexively grabbed on to the shower curtain, and when the man yanked her by the arm, she yanked the shower curtain in turn, ripping it off the shower rod. Silver shower rings fell onto the floor, rolling across the tiles.

  “Let go of me,” she said.

  The man did not reply. Although he was old, he was still strong, and soon he had hauled her back into the living room, where they almost collided with Emilio. He stared at them and stepped back, mouth open.

  “You recognized me. How do you know me?” the old man asked, shoving her until her knees hit the back of one of the chairs and she was forced to sit down.

  “Leonora’s graduation photo,” Maite said quickly.

  “Really? How unfortunate. Now, give me the film.”

  She sat in the bubble chair, one hand on the strap of her purse, and looked at Emilio, waiting for him to intervene. To say something. Anything.

  “Do what he asks,” Emilio muttered at last.

  “Why?”

  “Because otherwise I’ll wring your neck,” the man said simply.

  She realized that Rubén had been correct about Emilio all along. He was nothing but a rich kid who was out for himself and himself alone. He wouldn’t raise a finger to protect anyone, least of all Maite.

/>   “Did he send you to find the film? That first time we met, when you were trying to get into Leonora’s apartment?” she asked, staring at Emilio.

  Emilio lit another cigarette and avoided her gaze. “No. He got in touch with me later.”

  “But the people at Asterisk are your friends. Leonora is your girlfriend.”

  “I’m becoming impatient,” the man said.

  She touched her mouth, thinking of Rubén. He was probably dead. And then she didn’t know what got into her, what needless idiotic impulse flashed through her brain, but she tried to run. It was useless. The man was old, but he wasn’t decrepit, and he caught her in a swift few steps and slammed her against a wall, the back of her head hitting one of the black-and-white photographs.

  Rather than surrender the prize, she tried to scratch him, but he slammed her back, harder. She heard the crunch of glass and winced. Her hands trembled.

  The man snatched the purse from her and opened it, taking out the canisters. He began pulling the film out of them, exposing it to the light.

  Nothing. Rubén was probably dead over nothing.

  She slid against the wall, clumsily trying to step away, toward a door.

  “Don’t move,” the man said, as he continued unspooling the film. “I still have business with you.”

  Her head ached. He’d hit her hard, and she didn’t want to be hit again, so she stood stock still until he was done and he looked at her, tossing the useless negatives on the floor. In a second he had erased the truth. A second was all it took.

  “Where’s my niece?” the man asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You fraternize with terrorists. You keep Leonora’s precious photos. I’m pretty sure you know more than you’re saying.”

  “I didn’t mean to. I stole the film by accident. I didn’t realize—”

  He punched her in the stomach. She was left breathless, bending over, and then he grabbed her again, sinking his fingers into her hair, and pulled her head up. He slapped her face so hard she knew he’d leave bruises.