by Tim Baker
‘Sit down and enjoy your breakfast.’
‘I’m late.’ At least the coffee was drinkable. ‘I’ll have someone drop you at the airport.’
‘No need. I’m driving it in via El Lobo.’
Driving? ‘Wait a minute, the airport is secure.’
‘This way I can take in forty K, easy.’
She was getting greedy. It never takes long. ‘I have a funny feeling.’
‘I can do something about that, you know.’
‘Why is sex always on your mind?’
‘Maybe because I hang with a crew of moron males?’
‘Well, this male’s no moron. Airport or drive, I want the normal tax.’
‘No way! We have a deal.’
‘An airplane deal. It’s different.’
‘Why is it different?’
‘Lower freight. Higher risk. And I like you.’
‘You’ll make me cry. Airport tax. Besides, you just said driving over was a risk, a huge risk you said.’
‘I said you have to be more careful.’
‘Ten.’
‘Fifteen.’
‘Ten.’
‘Twelve.’
‘Ten! Keep it simple for Christ’s sake, you know neither of us is good at math.’
Why even bother arguing with a hard-ass like Mary-Ellen? El Santo accepted ten and got away without eating breakfast.
So by the time they left, they were running eight hours late. And when they do finally arrive, in broad fucking daylight now, it doesn’t feel right. ‘Where are all the motorcycles?’
‘Probably out being serviced,’ El Feo says. El Feo is the kind of guy who makes all the other crew members feel smarter than they should.
‘Are you sure this is the right place?’
‘Fuck yes, positive, boss.’
It’s been almost a year since El Santo participated in an operation. He hates them. It isn’t the killing, or the risk he might be killed, that bothers him. It’s the way everything is always the same. The stunned looks on the victims’ faces; the reaching for the weapons and the break for the back door. The chaos of screams and then the simmer of silence. A video loop with the same images, the same sounds, playing over and over again. It reminds him of what that priest with the bleeding hands used to lecture about when he was preparing them for Holy Communion: ‘Heaven is change, children, but hell is the horror of repetition.’ Go figure: hell turns out to be Groundhog Day. But he needs to be here in person for this operation. This one is special: a rare chance to take out a Tijuana crew stupid enough to invade his home turf.
One, two …
The front door explodes off its hinges.
He makes sure El Feo goes in first, just in case they’re expected.
They all stream inside after him, a toxic tide in ski masks and ballistic vests, holding gunmetal black in their hands. In the microsecond after they enter, El Santo knows they have screwed up bigtime.
It’s not the Happy Birthday sign. Or the balloons hanging from the ceiling. Or the pile of empty Coke cans crowding the ruins of a cake.
And it isn’t the teenage couple lying stoned in each other’s arms on the sofa, or the boys around the TV screen, playing World Cup 98, or the bored girls smoking cigarettes as they watch them play.
It’s the sight of the maid coming out of the kitchen, a garbage bag in one hand, a dustpan in the other. She could be his mother. She is ordinary; already tired at the beginning of the day. Pissed to find the place looking like this. And kind enough never to tell the parents.
Two words scream inside his head.
Three words actually.
Wrong fucking house.
He turns to El Feo but already there’s that telltale red orb burst and then the white bloom of combustion blast.
Too late.
The massacre has begun.
Shrieks. Screams. The explosions of screens, windows, furniture. The thump of bullets through walls, hollowing craters out of the facade of domestic harmony. No one goes for a gun. There aren’t any. No one even has time to run. He looks at the couple on the pockmarked sofa. They haven’t even moved and they’re already dead.
Fifteen seconds, give or take. Fifteen dead, give or take. The maid slumped on the floor, her dustpan still in her hand. Faithful to the end to her mission: to clean up after others.
And a traumatized boy trapped in El Feo’s arms. At least El Feo has got that right: make sure there’s at least one survivor they can question. ‘What’s your name, kid?’
The kid tries to answer, moving his mouth, but nothing’s working. El Feo slaps him. ‘Lay off!’ El Santo says, then turns back to the boy. ‘We’re not going to hurt you. What’s your name?’
‘Tomás.’
‘Okay, Tomás. What were you doing here?’
‘Celebrating …’ His voice cracks and he has trouble finishing the sentence. ‘Gerardo’s …’ His face is lost.
‘Birthday?’ Tomás nods. ‘Where are his parents?’
‘In Monterrey.’
There’s a burst of gunfire from upstairs and a jolt runs through Tomás’ body, like someone’s just hooked him up to a car battery. Plaster dust drifts from the ceiling, covering them in surly white. ‘Tomás, hey, listen to me, hombre. You ever heard of Los Toltecas?’
For the first time Tomás looks at him. ‘Sí.’
‘What did you hear about them?’
‘They were like the Mayans?’
‘I’m talking about the motorcycle gang. Do you know them?’ Tomás shakes his head. ‘Listen carefully, Tomás: when the police come, you tell them it was Los Toltecas who did this, understand?’
The kid could have nodded. Three of his men stomp down the staircase, one of them holding a fistful of jewelry. ‘Do we do him?’ El Feo says, pointing to the kid with a gun.
‘Were you even listening?’ He pushes El Feo towards the front door. ‘We need the kid to tell the cops who did this.’ El Feo grunts the way he does when he doesn’t understand a fucking word you tell him. ‘Who fed you this crap information?’
‘My contacts.’
The way he makes it sound, it’s like he said my aircraft carrier. El Santo checks the neighbors’ houses through the windshield as he drives away. Not a single sign of life. There will be no witnesses. There never are, these days. Legally speaking, that is. But El Santo knows the look the maid gave him just before she died will be testifying against him for the rest of his life. Of course he’s killed kids younger than these. Hell, he was younger than some of them when he first killed. But the maid looked like his mother, and the kids were …
He leans over and punches El Feo so hard in the face that he knows he’ll need to ice his hand.
‘What was that for?’ El Feo whines, as though he didn’t know. He probably doesn’t. El Feo’s cell phone rings and he stops his sniveling enough to answer it. He turns to El Santo like a dog to the master who mistreats it – forever hopeful of change. ‘Good news.’
‘I could do with some.’
‘It’s done.’ The snort is supposed to be a laugh. ‘Pinche unions.’
‘At least someone did their job right.’
‘Come on, boss. One out of two’s not so bad. They turned him into toast.’
‘Fuck, did you say him?’
El Feo looks at his cell phone, as though it’s just stung him. ‘That’s what they told me.’
‘The target was a fucking chica!’ He’d hit him again if his hand wasn’t so sore. So instead El Santo steps hard on the accelerator, imagining it’s El Feo’s face. They roar towards the highway, the other vehicles speeding after him, fanning out on either wing, as though all of them are racing each other, trying to get as far away as possible from that fucking birthday house.
6
Pilar
Inside the hangar-like room, scores of women bend over rows of sewing machines but there’s nothing domestic about this scene. It’s more like something out of a military field hospital. The hum and stutter of sutures
. The grind of saws. The slap and slash of retaining belts and the machine-gun percussion of automatic needles firing thread through welts of leather. The savage sounds coalesce into a furious chorus of repetitive noise made worse by the certainty of its rhythm. The torment of hell is not the pain itself, but the knowledge that it will never stop.
Sunlight lances through large openings in the roof, creating a contrasting patchwork of brilliant solar glare intercut with cubes of cold shade. Why pay for electricity when you can use desert flare for free? The lights only come on for the night shifts, when the electricity rates go down anyway.
Pilar works against the puzzle of the irregular natural lighting, passing hems through an arc of darting needles. A single slip would cost fingers, maybe the whole hand. But Pilar has the concentration and reflexes of the young. Ten, maybe fifteen years in a factory like this and then you are through, whether you like it or not. Twenty years, max. In most countries, that’s a life sentence.
A uniformed guard taps her dangerously on the shoulder, startling her, Pilar’s fingers almost slipping across the line of mutilation. She pulls away angrily, her shout of protest lost in the noise. The guard indicates an elevated office in the back of the building. She exchanges glances with Maria and Lupita as she’s guided towards the stairs. Pilar feels like a prisoner suddenly being escorted out of her cell on Death Row. But is she heading towards reprieve or execution? The steps she’s mounting sure feel like a scaffold.
The guard closes the door behind them and immediately the noise level is halved. Pilar feels like sagging with relief, but instead makes sure she straightens her back as she stares defiantly at the sweatshop manager, López. The buttons of his expensive shirt strain under pressure from a belly that has grown with the size of his bonuses.
Standing to the side of the room are Fuentes and Gomez, the two detectives from the crime scene. López points to Pilar. ‘Is this the one?’ Fuentes glances mildly at her, then nods. López turns back to Pilar. ‘You’re fired.’
Pilar stands there, stunned by the arbitrariness of the action, her face flushing with anger. She takes a step towards the desk, the security guard yanking her back. She pulls away from his touch with disgust. ‘You think firing me is going to stop the killings?’
‘Keeping you here isn’t going to stop them, that’s for fucking sure.’ López nods and the guard grabs her by the arm. She tries to pull free from his clutch but he’s not letting her get away again. He opens the door, noise racketing in. Pilar twists around, staring back at López.
‘And my pay?’
‘Fuck your pay. It’ll go towards making up for all the time wasted by your little demonstration this morning.’
Pilar turns to the two detectives. Gomez shrugs. Pilar’s eyes blaze with cynical confirmation. What the hell is she expecting from these two cops – support? She must be out of her mind. ‘You stand by the bosses when they fire us, and you stand by the killers when they murder us.’
Gomez whistles with mock trepidation, and Pilar is yanked out of the office. She manages to slam the door hard behind her.
‘Doesn’t she realize there are thousands like her, just waiting to take her place? The stupid cunt.’
‘Hey! She’s somebody’s daughter, show some respect.’ Fuentes crosses to the desk, making a money gesture with his fingers. López looks at him, feigning bewilderment. ‘Hand it over.’
Sighing theatrically, López pulls some bank notes out of his wallet. ‘I suppose you’re going to give it to her?’
Fuentes snaps his fingers impatiently. ‘All of it.’ López hesitates and Fuentes snatches his wallet from his hand, pulls out a wad, then tosses the empty wallet back.
López stares at the bereaved wallet as though it has a bullet hole in it. ‘You’re exaggerating!’
‘So the fuck are you.’ Fuentes shoves the money inside his jacket and leaves. Gomez blows López a kiss, following his partner out.
López thumps the table, shouting after them, ‘Motherfucking thieving cops!’
The staccato of needles and heave of heavy machinery recedes as Pilar walks out through the doorway, towards a vaulting desert sky. She puts a hand up against the dazzle and heads towards the bus stop on the highway, walking across an enormous field of obliterated glass glittering like cheap trinkets in the sunlight. Without the buses, the improvised parking space outside the factories is transformed into a huge wasteland, empty now except for a cluster of a dozen cars surrounded by men drinking beer.
One of the men calls out to her as she passes. ‘Hey, chica, come and have a beer.’ Pilar moves on, not glancing in his direction. The man begins to follow her. ‘Come on, baby, all I want is a black kiss.’ His friends laugh. Pilar increases her pace, passing another man urinating between two cars. He turns to Pilar, exposing himself, still pissing. ‘Hey, nalgona, want to suck me?’ Pilar mutters an insult as she swerves away. She can hear footsteps behind her. She glances back. The first man is following her. ‘Be nice or we’ll make you be nice.’
The man who was pissing also starts following her, his fly still undone. ‘We know how to make you be nice.’
Pilar wheels on them, pulling out a set of door keys and waving them menacingly. ‘Try anything, you assholes, and I’ll take someone’s eyes out, I swear!’ She glares at the other men standing around the cars. ‘Whose eyes will they be?’ She points to the man who was pissing. ‘Yours, motherfucker?’ The man takes a step back, zipping up his fly, watching her. Pilar feigns masturbating like a man. ‘Not you. You’ll go blind without my help.’ The other men laugh and he shoves one of them angrily. Pilar surveys the group. ‘Take a look at yourselves, drunk in the morning while your wives and sweethearts work themselves to death in the maquiladoras to pay your rent. You’re fucking pathetic, all of you!’
As soon as she says it, she knows she’s gone too far. Their eyes collectively harden. They’re no longer lazy, dishonest men lounging around their cars drinking beer.
They’re a pack.
Pilar turns and marches off, breathing hard to control her anger and her fear. One of the men shouts after her. ‘Come back and suck us, you fucking whore.’ Behind her is the ominous growl of a car engine starting up.
Pilar fights the urge to break into a full run. Approaching fast from behind is the sound of tires crushing gravel. She can feel the heat from the engine. The car brakes hard, sending dust blooming all around it. She picks up a rock and turns, facing a black sedan.
Two doors slam as the dust settles, revealing Fuentes and Gomez standing on either side of their car. Gomez holds up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Please, lady, don’t hit us.’
Pilar glares at him, taking a step back towards the highway. ‘Leave me alone.’
‘I’d like to offer you a lift back to town.’
She turns to Fuentes. ‘Do I look stupid enough to accept a lift from the police?’
Fuentes sighs. ‘All right then, I’d like to offer you a choice. Either you accept a lift, or I arrest you. But one thing’s for sure: I’m not going to leave you alone with those sad motherfuckers back there.’
Gomez opens the front passenger door with a flourish, smiling sarcastically. Pilar hesitates, unable to disguise her fear. She looks from the detectives to the beer drinkers around the cars, all watching intently. She turns back to Fuentes. ‘You two get in first, then I’ll get in the back. On my own …’
Fuentes and Gomez exchange pained looks but obey, shutting their doors with exaggerated slams. Pilar stands there, not moving, listening to the tick of the engine block in the heat. She glances back at the parked cars. The man who was pissing smashes a beer bottle against the ground, staring at her.
Gomez sticks his head out of his window, slapping the door with his hand. ‘Hey, señorita? Your taxi is waiting.’
Pilar circles around the car, dropping the rock as she climbs into the back, the car lurching forwards before she even closes the door. She turns, staring out the back window, yellow dust rising behind them, blockin
g her view of the jeering men. She straightens, looking ahead. Fuentes’ eyes are framed in the rearview mirror, watching her. Gomez turns, his arm across the back of Fuentes’ seat. ‘What the fuck is wrong with this country when a woman can’t accept a ride from the police without being afraid?’
‘I didn’t make this country, I just live in it.’
‘So do we, chica, so do we.’ With a sigh of disgust, Gomez turns back to the road. The slur of gears tests the uneasy silence as they hump up onto the highway. Pilar looks back at the rows of maquiladoras, all the anger and fear now replaced with a flooding despair. How could she have let this happen – at the worst possible time?
The ring of a cell phone makes Pilar jump. Gomez speaks brusquely, then hangs up. Fuentes looks at him as he drives. ‘Fucking nothing,’ Gomez says. ‘Someone turned into toast at a hotel. I told them to leave it for the delegación to handle. Probably a drunk with a cigarette. Nearly happened to my father. I woke up in the middle of the night once and the house was full of smoke, only I was too young to even know it was smoke. Know what I thought it was?’
‘No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.’
‘I thought it was ectoplasm. Some kind of spiritual shit. I was so excited, I just about pissed myself. I thought I was going to see a real live ghost.’
‘Only ghosts are dead.’
‘That’s the trouble with you. No sense of humor.’
‘Ghosts are not funny.’
‘See what I mean? You’re a literal kind of man. Nobody likes it when you’re so fucking literal. Ghosts are dead. Ghosts are not funny. Technically you’re right, but who cares?’
‘Technically I’m wrong because there’s no such thing as ghosts.’
‘There you go again! Lighten up, man, I’m just trying to tell a story.’
‘So tell it.’
‘I will when you stop interrupting me …’ He turns to Pilar for a response but she’s staring out the window. She feels his eyes on her and glares at him, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. ‘Those things will kill you,’ Gomez says, looking at her hands. They’re shaking. ‘Like this sorry drunk at the hotel. Like my old man.’ Pilar holds onto the door handle, going back to staring out her side window. Gomez gives a fast snort of frustration. He’s a man who’s used to people listening to his stories. And here he is, stuck in a car with two people who may as well be asleep. Gomez sulks, the car slowing as they enter the city center.
