Someone else. Linda. Linda knew that one of Sara’s jobs at El Sol is checking the hotline. And only Linda would use “puchi” for the old man.
Sara’s head spins. She doesn’t recognize the nightclub, but she doesn’t go to places like that often. And this wouldn’t be just any club, otherwise Linda would come home. This must be a place where girls are kept against their will. If Linda was at the table with the puchi guy, she must be kept by these men too.
Then she realizes: Someone deleted the hotline e-mails. That means the criminals know Linda sent the e-mail. The thought of what they might do to her takes Sara’s breath away.
She calls Ernesto. “Hey,” she says, struggling to keep her voice calm. “Any way you and the Jaqueros can find out who the guy in the picture is?”
“Hold on. Okay, I’m looking at it now. It’s kind of hard to see his face. I’ll send it to my guys. There’s a ring on his finger that might help. That e-mail address is clearly an alias. We’ll see if we can trace it. What are you thinking? Is the girl in the picture a Desaparecida?”
“I’m about to check the files now. She looks familiar for some reason. But the e-mail was definitely sent by my friend Linda.” Sara swallows. “You know, the one I talk about all the time.”
“You positive?”
“Puchi was a special code word we used. Ernesto, this is really serious and … urgent,” she says. “The bad people know the e-mail was sent. They had someone in here delete it. So Linda and the other girl—”
“I know,” he interrupts. “I know what that means. I’ll get on it.”
Ernesto hangs up, and Sara takes one deep breath and then another. Electricity zips through her veins. She needs to find a way to slow down. She needs to do something. There is an evil place where attractive girls are kept for the pleasure of men like the drunk in the picture, and Linda is there. She looks at the picture again. This club is a place of fake luxury with garish booths and expensive Scotch. The men who go there are likely men of wealth and power. The man’s left hand lies limply on the table, and Sara can see a thick, platinum, expensive watch peeking from the edge of his sleeve. His giant gold ring with four small diamonds is ostentatiously rich. If the Jaqueros can discover the identity of the man, and she can discover who the girl is, she may find Linda. Because Linda is alive.
Alive.
In spite of the danger, Sara can’t help but smile.
Emiliano sits on a white leather sofa in front of a giant-screen television, waiting for Mr. Cortázar’s car. As Armando predicted, an inspection revealed that the brake pads were ninety percent worn out, and it will take a couple more hours to get the parts and install them. Emiliano is bored out of his mind. Earning good money by doing nothing is not what it’s cracked up to be. The only things saving his sanity are the English soccer games on an obscure cable channel and texting with Perla Rubi.
He’s also solved the problem of Mrs. Esmeralda’s birthday present. A commercial for a chocolate candy reminded him that Mami makes the best coffee liqueur chocolate cake anyone has ever tasted. A call to her at the bakery, a little begging, a little sweet-talking, and Mami agreed to bake a cake for Mrs. Esmeralda. It’s a perfect gift. Personal. And he doesn’t have to spend any money on it.
A friendly man wearing a wide purple tie comes in to inform him that they need to replace one of the calipers as well.
“How long will that take?” Emiliano asks. He doesn’t know what a caliper is but it sounds serious.
The man smiles as if he’s used to that being the first question out of people’s mouths. “I’ll have the car ready for you in an hour. I promise.”
He leaves. The man’s smile and the sincere way he said I promise remind Emiliano of a conversation with his father the week before he left for the United States. His father had taken him to the construction site where he was working. Emiliano’s job was to pick up debris in a wheelbarrow, take it to the front of the site, then load it into the dump truck when it came. They sat together under a skinny tree eating the lunch Mami had prepared for them. When they finished eating, Emiliano began to peel the blisters from his hands.
“Tough job, huh?” his father said.
“It’s not so bad.” But it was bad. His brain was fried from working in the ninety-degree heat. And there were still four more hours of the same.
“It’s no way to make a living,” his father said. Emiliano knew how much his father disliked construction work.
“But it’s a living.”
“That’s what your mother says. She says I’m lucky to have a job.”
“She’s right.” In the never-ending discussion of whether his father should go to the United States or stay and be happy with what they had, Emiliano was on his mother’s side.
“I have a brain,” his father said. “Not much of one, but one that can do more than spread stucco. If we have brains, we should try to use them, don’t you think? To try to do better.”
“You can try to do better here in Mexico.”
“I’ve tried, son. I’ve tried. The only way I could find to do better here is the illegal drug business. I’m not going to do that. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to America and getting enough money that when I come back, we can do something together. Open up a business. Our own place. We’ll call it Zapata and Son.”
“What kind of business?” Emiliano asked.
“I don’t know. Over in El Paso they have these food trucks that go to construction sites. We could buy one of those. Take the truck to the factories and to the sites. Then after that, who knows? It’s more about being our own boss. Finding different ways to make money and going for it. Making our own decisions. When I get back, you’ll be done with high school, and we’ll have the money to start our own business.”
Emiliano chuckled. He liked talking to his father about the future. His father was strict in many ways, but when he talked about what they would do together in years to come, he was more of a friend. It was like when he and Paco sat around talking about the kind of car they would buy if they were rich. There were no limits to what they dreamed up. It was fun to be with someone that way. But the reality was that, if his father went to America, he would not be around for a long while.
His father must have noticed the sad look on his face, because he said, “I’ll be back. I promise you. And when I come back we’ll work together on something we both like.” He shook Emiliano’s arm affectionately. “You got to take care of your mother and sister while I’m gone.”
“Why four years? That’s a long time.”
“I’m not going to find a good-paying job right away. It’s going to take time to save up what we’ll need. And I’ll be sending your mother a lot of what I make. So if I’m going to go, I might as well go once and do it right. And when I come back, we’ll …”
“Buy a food truck.”
“Maybe something else. Anything. If I can learn to be an electrician or pick up a trade while I’m over there, I’ll do it. I’m not going to waste my time. You can be sure of that.”
Emiliano nodded, not very enthusiastically.
“Listen, I need you to believe in me. I need you to see that this kind of thing”—his father gestured at a pile of bricks—“would eventually kill me or drive me back to drinking. I think your mother and Sara are beginning to understand why I need to leave, but I need you to understand as well. I need your support. You of all people have to know that I am doing it for you. For all of you, but for you most of all. So you and me can be a team someday and do stuff we enjoy. Okay? I will return, Emiliano. I promise.”
I promise, Emiliano repeats to himself and shakes his head. Words are cheap. But it doesn’t matter. All that his father promised they would do together, he will do on his own. He will be a better provider than his father could ever be. And, unlike his father, he will keep the promises he makes.
It’s three thirty when the car is finally done, and Emiliano is more exhausted and deplete
d than if he had biked a hundred miles. His cell phone rings just as he drives out of the dealership. He pulls the car over to the curb and stops. It’s Armando. Emiliano tries to tell him about the brake job, but Armando doesn’t let him finish.
“Yeah, yeah. Listen, man, I had this brilliant idea. It came to me after you left and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. It was like a lightbulb clicked above my head, you know? Are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“You’re not driving and talking on your cell, are you?”
“No, I stopped right outside the dealership. I need to make a couple more pickups and then get to the shops downtown. What is it?”
“I thought of a way that you can make a lot, I mean a lot more money with your folk art business.”
Emiliano pauses for a moment. His folk art business is his business, and the fact that Armando has been thinking about it annoys him. But the purpose of the business is to make money, right? So he is also curious. “How?”
“Look, this is what I want you to do. I’m going to text you the address of one of my father’s business partners. I want you to head over there now. His name is Alfredo Reyes. All you have to do is show him the folk art objects you have with you today and tell him how you run the business. You know, who makes the objects, who you sell them to, who they sell them to.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know if I have time today.”
“Emiliano, don’t be stupid. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. All you have to do is see Mr. Reyes. Just listen to him, that’s all. I called him a little while ago and he’s expecting you. Look, I’ll pay you for your time, okay? I’ll give you two hundred pesos just for going over to his house and talking to him.”
“What does Mr. Reyes do?”
“Just a guy trying to make some money. Like all of us. Hey, I got an idea. Why don’t you keep the car tonight? Bring it to my house tomorrow morning. You can drive it to Mrs. Esmeralda’s birthday party. How were you going to get there anyway? You were going to show up at Jorge Esmeralda’s house on that bike of yours? Emiliano, Emiliano. Come on, optics are everything.”
Emiliano imagines driving up to Perla Rubi’s house in the elegant black Mercedes. He does need a way to get there tonight, and it would be kind of nice to show Perla Rubi’s parents that he’s—well—important.
“Listen, I have to go. I’ll text you Mr. Reyes’s address as soon as I hang up.”
“Wait,” Emiliano says. “Assuming I like what this Mr. Reyes has to say, what’s in it for you?”
“That’s my boy!” Armando crows. “You have a great head on your shoulders. We can talk about that later. But this isn’t about me. It’s about you right now. Say hi to Mr. Reyes for me. And listen, if you don’t like whatever he proposes, don’t be rude and say no to his face. Just say you need time to think about it. I’ll call him later and give him a good excuse. If the deal he offers you doesn’t sound right to you, you don’t have to take it. This is business, pure and simple, Emiliano. Got it?”
“Got it.”
He waits a few seconds for Armando to text him the address and then he loads the coordinates into the car’s GPS. He pulls out onto the street. This car is luxury on wheels. It responds to the slightest touch on the steering wheel or the gas pedal. What a difference from Brother Patricio’s old Honda, in which Emiliano learned to drive. He speeds up. According to the GPS, the place he needs to go is thirty-seven minutes away with no traffic. Perla Rubi wanted him to be at her house at six, and it’s almost four, so he’s cutting it close.
He should probably swing by Paco’s house on his way home and borrow Paco’s loafers. Paco is the snappiest dresser of all the Pumas and possibly all of Colegio México. Should he wear socks with Paco’s loafers or go sockless like Paco sometimes does? Maybe no socks is a little too informal. Perla Rubi told him to dress casual, but he’s going to be talking to Perla Rubi’s mother about his business, and business talk requires socks. That much he knows. He’ll wear his best pair of denim pants and a black crewneck T-shirt that’s a good imitation of the super-soft, expensive shirt Armando was wearing this morning. His only problem is the shoes. He’ll call Paco on his way home after he sees this Mr. Reyes.
As he leaves the city behind, Emiliano thinks that maybe, just maybe, this is his lucky day. He’s going to come out of today and tomorrow with nine hundred pesos. That’s next month’s rent payment right there. He’s on his way to talk to someone who will help him expand his folk art business. He’s going to see Perla Rubi later, and he’ll drive up to her house in a Mercedes. Perla Rubi’s plan feels clear to him now. She invites him to her mother’s birthday party. He meets her mother and impresses her with his ambition, so even though he’s poor today, he will be successful in the future. The mother likes his drive and determination, his level-headedness, and, of course, the respect he shows for her daughter. Perla Rubi’s mother then convinces her husband that Emiliano is solid, a good prospect, and he and Perla Rubi can date openly. That’s Perla Rubi’s plan. No doubt about it.
The lady inside the GPS tells him that in five hundred feet, his destination will be on the right. He has traveled for thirty-seven minutes in the blink of an eye. Emiliano slows down and stops. He can see a two-story white house behind a tall gray wall that takes up the rest of the block. He gets out of the car and walks to a black iron gate. He’s about to push the white button on the intercom when the gate opens magically. Only then does Emiliano notice the camera on the side of the wall.
He drives into the compound. There’s a separate garage-like building next to the three-story house. A man wearing a blue blazer has come out from a side door and waves him over. Emiliano parks the car and rolls down the window. Before he can say anything, the man says, “Mr. Reyes is waiting for you.”
They walk across a courtyard toward the front door of the house. Inside, the house is cool—not air-conditioned cool, but cave cool. Leather chairs and dark antique bureaus line the hallway, and on the wall hangs a painting of a dark volcano spewing ash and lava that reminds Emiliano of the picture Nieves and Marta made with bottle caps. In the air is a smell he can’t identify, something flowery, as if there were a garden of roses inside the house.
The man in the blue blazer leads him to what looks like a dining room. Mr. Reyes is sitting at the head of a long table, and Emiliano stops at the other end. The man’s thin white hair is carefully combed, and his gray suit jacket and purple tie make him look distinguished and wealthy. He is thin but not frail. A bowl of soup in front of him gives off steam. Beside the bowl sits a plate with one piece of bread, a roll. A woman dressed in black enters from a door behind him with a saucer and a cup. Mr. Reyes waits for the woman to place what looks like hot chocolate on the table and gestures with a nod for her to leave. Only then does he look at Emiliano.
“Emiliano Zapata, correct?” Mr. Reyes says, pointing at a chair in front of him.
Emiliano pulls out the chair and sits. He watches the man dip a large silver spoon into the soup and then raise it slowly to his mouth. Mr. Reyes grimaces slightly when he swallows. The man in the blue blazer stands in the corner of the room.
“Armando tells me you have a business. Tell me about it.”
Emiliano should be nervous but he isn’t. He feels the same confidence that comes to him on the soccer field when he knows he can outrun the player in front of him. “I belong to this explorers’ club called the Jiparis,” he begins. “One time, when we couldn’t hike because of the weather, we made papier-mâché animals. Some of the kids were good at it, and I thought I might be able to sell the things they made. So that’s what I do. I sell them to shops by the bridge to El Paso, shops that sell mostly to Americans. The kids—the Jiparis and their families—make different folk art objects. My job is to get the best price for them. I take a ten percent commission. I have some objects in the back of the car.”
Mr. Reyes nods. The man in the blue blazer moves next to Emiliano and stretches out his hand. Emiliano han
ds him the car keys and the man walks out. Mr. Reyes drinks from the cup and wipes the foam on his upper lip with a crimson linen napkin. He raises his eyes and fixes them on Emiliano.
“How often do you sell these folk art objects?”
“Every week. There are always new things to sell. The families of the kids who make them need the money.”
“But there must be lots of competition for these objects, no? So many places make them.”
“The ones that my kids make are the best. I don’t take any pieces that aren’t well made. You can tell they’re different, they’re quality. The shop owners like them. They can’t get enough of them. One of them, Lalo Torres, he sells them to stores at airports in the United States.”
Mr. Reyes smiles for the first time, and so does Emiliano, although he’s not sure why. The man with the blue blazer enters the room with a cardboard box in his arms. He places it on the table and then goes back to the same corner where he stood before. Mr. Reyes pushes himself slowly away from the table and stands. Emiliano does as well.
Mr. Reyes lifts the package with Doña Pepa’s purse out of the box and unwraps it. He examines the colorful design. Doña Pepa used thousands of tiny beads to make a red-and-silver rooster crowing at a golden sun. Emiliano watches the man for signs of approval, but there is no change in his expression. Then Mr. Reyes picks up one of Javier’s piñatas. Now a tiny grin appears on his wrinkled face, as if he’s remembering something from his childhood.
“How are these made?” Mr. Reyes asks, dangling a small purple burro by the string on his back.
“Usually, you blow up a balloon and glue pieces of paper around it until you get your base shape. When it dries, you pop the balloon and construct the rest.”
“But the balloon could be filled with something solid.”
Emiliano is not sure what Mr. Reyes is getting at or whether he is even asking a question. “It doesn’t matter so much with these small piñatas, because they’re just used for decoration. But in a bigger piñata, you want the inside hollow so you can fill it with candy.”
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