Hard Luck

by Pascal Scott

  Teresa arrived at 2:20, striding ahead of a hostess in a stylish black dress who tried to escort her to her booth. Elizabeth stood and waited for an American hug. Instead, Teresa leaned in and kissed her right cheek. She wore a flowing white linen dress that tied at her narrow waist, high-heeled beige sandals with ankle straps, and lots of big gold jewelry. Elizabeth felt self-consciously underdressed in her jeans and white sneakers and toucan shirt. A waiter appeared immediately, eager to take Teresa’s order. Teresa ordered something called a paloma. Elizabeth was nursing a goblet of chardonnay.

  As soon as the waiter was out of hearing range, Teresa released a barrage of questions. What brought Elizabeth to Mexico City? Where was she staying? What had she been doing since graduation? There was so much catching up to do.

  Before she could begin, Elizabeth needed to know something. “Do you ever hear from any of the girls we knew at Santa Cruz?” What she was really asking was if Teresa knew about Emily’s death.

  “No,” Teresa answered. “I don’t look back. It’s better not to look back. What about you? Do you ever talk to anyone? Do you ever talk to Emily?”

  Emily. Teresa’s ex. Obviously, Teresa didn’t know that Emily was dead, and Elizabeth wasn’t going to be the one to tell her.

  “No,” Elizabeth said.

  “Neither do I. I haven’t spoken to her since we broke up.”

  “When was that?”

  “October of 1989.”

  “I’m sorry. You guys seemed so happy in college. Why did you two split up?”

  Teresa sighed deeply. “Oh, Emily. Emily just couldn’t be loyal to me. She slept with each of my friends in Mexico. If there was an attractive girl and I introduced them, the moment I looked away, Emily would be making eyes at my friend, and the next thing I knew, someone would tell me they were lovers. Behind my back, she was sleeping with my friends. It is humiliating when this happens, is it not?”

  Elizabeth was nodding. “You’re better off without her.”

  “That’s what Papi said. He welcomed her into his home, and this is how she treats me.”

  “Terrible.”

  “What about you? Are you in love?” Teresa asked.

  Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably. “No. Love isn’t really in the stars for me.”

  “Don’t be an idiot. Love is in the stars for everyone. You just haven’t found her yet.”

  “You haven’t changed, Teresa.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re still a romantic. You were always a romantic, even in college.”

  “So? There’s nothing wrong with that. Love makes the world go ’round, isn’t that what you say?”

  The waiter returned with Teresa’s paloma, then glanced at their unopened menus. Teresa smiled and said something in rapid Spanish. He nodded and went away.

  “Listen, Teresa. I have to tell you something. It’s about why I’m in Mexico.”

  Teresa licked a few crystals of salt from the rim of her highball glass. “Yes?”

  Elizabeth took a long pull on her wine before she began. She started with Omega, omitting the fact that she had been sent there from prison where she was doing time for killing Emily Bryson, Teresa’s ex-lover. Instead, Elizabeth alluded to a need for rehab, implying a drug problem. In a whisper, she admitted stabbing Billy but stressed that it was in self-defense, that he had been about to rape her. She shared the plan to steal money from Brink’s with her foster sister and her foster sister’s girlfriend, her escape after killing Billy to Belize, her betrayal by Denise, and the hit woman sent to murder her on Caye Caulker, the hit woman who had spared her life only because of Elizabeth’s affiliation with the Barreras.

  “Jesus.” Teresa was wide-eyed by the time Elizabeth finished her tale. “Válgame dios.”

  They sat in silence. Clouds moved across Teresa’s eyes. Then her eyes cleared, and her face brightened.

  “This is what we’re going to do. I will put you in la casita, Papi’s guesthouse. You’ll like it there. You will be Papi’s guest for as long as you want. I have an apartment in Polanco, but it’s too small. You will be more comfortable in la casita. After we have lunch, you will go back to your hotel and pack and then you will call me at the station. I’ll send my driver for you.”

  “Thank you so much, Teresa. I’m in your debt.”

  “De nada. You’ve been through enough. Life should go easy for you. Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now we will eat. What is it you say? I am so hungry I could eat a horse?”

  “Yeah. I don’t say that, but some people do.”

  “The first time I heard that, I thought it was so funny. A horse! In Mexico, we say me pica el bagre. The catfish is biting me.”

  “The catfish? I need to improve my Spanish.”

  “Te encontraré una profesora.”

  “You’ll find me a teacher?”

  “Sí.”

  “Gracias, Teresa. Really. Thank you for everything. I don’t know what I would have done.”

  “No worries, chula. You’ll be fine.” Chula was a term of affection among friends in Mexico. It translated to something close to “cutie” in English.

  Teresa squinted at her. “What size do you wear?”

  “Dress size? Probably an eight. But I think I’ve lost weight.”

  “Ocho. That’s thirty-two in Mexico. I’ll have my shopper bring you some things. There’s a boutique I like called Couture. Lots of young independent fashion designers like my friend Diego Cordova.”

  Teresa looked and then frowned at Elizabeth’s hair. Self-consciously, Elizabeth touched the soft fuzz on her head. It was only eight weeks ago that she had been shaved completely bald. The Omega. Billy. Everything connected with her time there had taken on a dreamlike quality. It felt unreal.

  Teresa set aside whatever unspoken criticism she had of Elizabeth’s hair and raised her glass.

  “¡Salucita!” she said brightly.

  “¡Salucita!” Elizabeth repeated.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Don Emilio’s guesthouse was in the Lomas de Chapultepec colonia of DF, as Teresa called Mexico City. Elizabeth was learning that residents like Teresa, who had been born and raised in Distrito Federal, were snobbish about their birthright and referred to one another as capitalinos. Outsiders were pochos.

  La casita was a four-bedroom industrial structure built of concrete, steel, and glass, protected by a six-foot-high red brick wall. At the driveway, a uniformed sentry in a bulletproof guardhouse opened a wrought-iron gate electronically to admit the rain-drenched black Fleetwood carrying Elizabeth. The Cadillac’s driver was named Ernesto. According to Teresa, Ernesto was once a poorly paid traffic cop who made the mistake of pulling over Don Emilio one evening for driving erratically. When Ernesto saw the name on the license, he apologized repeatedly. Don Emilio decided at that moment he needed a driver to avoid such annoyances in the future. He told Ernesto he would be working for the Barreras from then on.

  Ernesto would be available to Elizabeth now, as well. Elizabeth was not to go out alone at night. DF was a beautiful city, but it was also dangerous, especially for a woman. And if it was still true that a sicaria was hunting her, then it was even more important that she stay inside la casita, Teresa said. Elizabeth agreed. Elizabeth would have everything she needed provided for her, and if she wanted anything, she should tell Ernesto or Rosa Maria, the live-in housekeeper, or Olivia, the hostess. Yes?

  Yes.

  Inside la casita, Elizabeth was greeted by Olivia, an attractive, middle-aged woman exuding an air of competence and sophistication. Apologizing for the rain, she told Elizabeth in perfect English that it was the rainy season and that each afternoon like clockwork, the sky opened with a downpour. Elizabeth followed her up a circular steel staircase, sliding her hand along the glass rails, to a guestroom on the second floor. There was a queen-sized bed with crisp white linens, a down comforter, and perfectly placed accent pillows in red silk. Through an open door, Elizabeth saw a
bathroom that was bigger than her cell at Diablo. The room was gleaming with high-end fixtures like a double shower and jetted white tub. There were sparkling mirrors, votive candles, and L’Occitane soaps and toiletries on the Carrara marble counter. Soft, fluffy towels hung from polished racks shining in the recessed lighting.

  Next she was shown the walk-in closet glistening like a jewelry box with clothes by Versace, Prada, Chanel, and Paola Arriola. Dozens of shoes were lined up on display beneath accent lights, as if they were works of modern art. Some may have been, Elizabeth decided, examining a pair of psychedelic orange and turquoise mules by Pineda Covalín. She exchanged them for a pair of Gucci sandals in black velvet strapped by a golden metal braid with crystals. She had to slip them on, just to get a sense of what a thousand dollars felt like on her feet. Her toes had never touched anything so pricey. Olivia smiled bemusedly.

  Is there anything la señorita will need before dinner? A cocktail, perhaps? The chef will arrive later to take her order. Elizabeth requested a glass of chardonnay. Very well, señorita. And may she draw la señorita a bath? She may. And it’s Elizabeth, call me Elizabeth, please.

  Clearly, Teresa lived a privileged life, and now she was sharing it with her old college friend from California. The question was, what did Teresa expect in return? Elizabeth was not cynical; that was not it. She didn’t doubt Teresa’s good-heartedness or generosity. But Elizabeth had learned that nothing in life was free. There was a price to pay for everything. Love didn’t make the world go ’round, self-interest did. Then again, maybe Elizabeth was being too cynical. Maybe Teresa was one of those rare human beings who expected nothing in return, who gave because she enjoyed giving.

  In any case, Elizabeth was getting ahead of herself. Today, she was nothing more than one of Teresa’s many chulas. She was a guest of the Barreras. Emily had abused that privilege. Elizabeth wouldn’t make the same mistake.

  An hour later, still luxuriating in the perfect temperature of her lavender-infused bath water, Elizabeth sipped a buttery chardonnay and thought about the heist money. Had Denise and Mickie stashed it in a storage unit in San Diego as they had planned? Or had they brought it with them to Mexico? Mickie was somewhere in Mexico City, that much Elizabeth could assume, based on what the FBI was reporting. What she couldn’t assume was that Denise was with her. Maybe Denise was still back in San Francisco.

  Seven-and-a-half million was a lot of physical cash. That was bags and bags of bills. It seemed unlikely that Mickie had lugged all that money around with her. But there was just no way to be sure until Mickie was found. Until they both were found. This much she knew for sure: She and Mickie were being tracked like prey—Mickie by the FBI and Elizabeth by Denise. Elizabeth needed help, of that much she was certain. It was presumptuous of her, but she would request a private meeting with Don Emilio. The worst that could happen was that he would say no.

  Chapter Thirty

  On Friday morning at 10:00, Elizabeth was waiting for her Spanish tutor, sitting on the red leather couch in the living room of la casita. Her tutor was late but only if Elizabeth was still keeping Anglo time. Elizabeth was learning that Mexicans were even more time-fluid than lesbians. When someone in Mexico said she would arrive at 10:00 a.m., that meant you could expect her at 10:00 a.m. or 11:00 a.m. or even noon. Elizabeth was rapidly accepting the idea of ahorita, literally translated as “right now.” In Mexico, right now could mean anything from right this moment to five hours from now to never.

  At 10:30, the teacher arrived. Olivia escorted her down the Saltillo-tiled hallway to where Elizabeth sat flipping the pages of a glossy photo book of paintings by Frida Kahlo. Setting the book on a fashionably distressed coffee table, Elizabeth stood. Olivia made the introductions. Gabriella Paz Lopez was a handsome woman with a serious expression, tall in height but not as tall as Elizabeth. She was in her late thirties, Elizabeth guessed, with short wavy hair the color of burnt wood. Her skin was light in tone and complemented her eyes, a shade of brown so deep that Elizabeth felt she could get lost in them. Gabriella was wearing a flowing silk shirt of a deep blue color over designer jeans and high-top white sneakers with no socks.

  Olivia was still standing as she explained that Señorita Paz’s schedule permitted her to instruct Elizabeth each morning, Monday through Friday, from 10:00 until noon. Gabriella had seated herself on the couch, removed a set of instruction materials from a suede messenger bag, and was arranging them on the table in a determined manner. Elizabeth sat back down.

  “Voy a dejarte ahora,” she heard Olivia say. I am going to leave you now.

  “¿Te importa si fumo?” Gabriella asked, taking a red pack of Boots out of the bag along with a silver lighter. She pulled a crystal ashtray closer to where she sat and was lighting a cigarette even before she heard the answer.

  “No,” Elizabeth said. The air was so bad in Mexico City, what did it matter? “How long have been you teaching?” she asked as Gabriella inhaled.

  “En español. Hablaremos en español.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “¿Hay cuanto—”

  “Hace cuanto.”

  “¿Hace cuanto que—”

  The word for teach wouldn’t come. To teach? What was to teach? She understood Spanish when she heard it or read it, but it was harder to speak it. And conjugation! Forget it. That had been her weakness in college Spanish. She could speak in the present tense, but the past and future gave her trouble.

  “¿Hace cuanto que enseña?” Gabriella prompted.

  Right. Enseñar.

  “Repita por favor,” Gabriella said.

  “Hace cuanto que enseña.”

  “Como una pregunta. Hazlo como una pregunta.”

  She wanted her to ask it as a question.

  “¿Hace cuanto que enseña?”

  “He enseñado durante diez años.” Ten years.

  Gabriella separated two spiral workbooks with bright orange covers, giving one to Elizabeth and keeping the teacher’s edition for herself.

  “Lección uno pagina uno.”

  This woman was all business, Elizabeth thought. After opening to page one, Elizabeth looked up and smiled. Gabriella appeared puzzled but then, responding to the social cue, she smiled in return, but only enough to be polite.

  “Empezamos.”

  We begin.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  ¡Reventón! was not a word Elizabeth learned from Gabriella. It was Teresa’s word. It meant party. Mis parranderas, Teresa said. Her party animals. It was Friday night, and they were moving through the crowd of sweaty bodies at Envidia, a popular gay club in the Condesa, the hippest neighborhood in DF. Elizabeth felt as if she had entered a dark cave pulsating with sexual energy. The walls were glossy black, the ceiling blood red. From poles affixed high overhead, rainbow flags and the flag of Mexico swayed in the cool air blown by circulating fans. Bare-chested men in denim and laced-up work boots cruised the cavernous, candlelit room.

  The bar itself had been built from glass blocks that glowed with an iridescent blue light. Behind the counter stood hunky bartenders in tight black T-shirts tagged in yellow with the word Envidia. Teresa took Elizabeth’s hand as she led her to a stairwell where roped red lights showed the way up to the floor reserved for women. On a platform behind a dark wood façade, a pretty DJ with oversized headphones worked two turntables and a synthesizer. Like the bartenders, she was dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt bearing the club’s name. From the loudspeakers, a hard-driving electronic beat bounced off the walls.

  Elizabeth found a corner while Teresa went to the upstairs bar to get drinks. There were dozens of women on the dance floor, some of them coupled, some solo or joining another pair temporarily and then circling away. The women here moved gracefully, fluidly. There were none of the jerky movements Elizabeth associated with Anglo women like herself, none of that stiff-shouldered, rocking motion she thought of as the white girl’s two-step. She watched the dancers until Teresa returned with two clear plastic cu
ps. Handing one to Elizabeth, she raised her own.

  “Viva la vida.”

  A painting by Frida Kahlo. And a toast. Live life.

  “Viva la vida.”

  Elizabeth took a sip and tasted fizzy grapefruit. “What am I drinking?”

  “Tequila.”

  It was a paloma, but tequila was the important part.

  “Oh. Gracias. I was just noticing that the lesbians here dance better than the lesbians back in the States, to make a generalization. They dress better, too. To make another.”

  “Fashionistas,” Teresa said. “We are all fashionistas in Condesa.”

  Teresa explained that most of the clothes Elizabeth was looking at were knock-offs. A woman could buy a pair of Tommy jeans on the street for one hundred fifty pesos—about twenty dollars American—but they weren’t real. Teresa’s clothes were the real thing. Tonight, she was wearing a thousand-dollar pair of Gucci jeans, a fifteen hundred-dollar Versace blouse made of silk, and a nine hundred-dollar pair of Prada pumps.

  “¡Teresa! ¡Teresa!”

  The exclaimer came over, striding on impossibly long legs in high-waisted linen pants and two-inch heels. She had an engaging smile, bright eyes, and una buena onda, a good vibe. Cheek kisses were exchanged, introductions made. The good-vibe woman was named Araceli. She was a journalist who had done a profile piece on Teresa for Ahora magazine. A rapid conversation in Spanish ensued between the two women that Elizabeth was unable to follow because of its speed and the competing decibels of the music, if it could be called music. It was this electronic fad, this drum and bass thump-thump-thumping like a heart about to give out. When Elizabeth had gone into prison, dance music still had lyrics you could sing along to. It was rhythm and blues and Janet Jackson. When she got out, it was this.