by Carmen Amato
“Yeah, sure.” The cop on Eddo’s left grinned and yanked upward, nearly pulling Eddo out of his wet shoes. “And it’s not raining.”
As if to underscore his words, lightning streaked across the sky and thunder boomed in the distance. His collarbone protested vigorously and Eddo shut up.
As they reached the van a long black town car rolled up to the marina gate, wipers batting from side to side. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, Eddo twisted to catch a glimpse of a familiar thin man carrying a large umbrella walk out of the marina gate.
Metal clanged as the cops opened the rear doors of the white van. “Get in.”
“Wait a minute.” Eddo put his foot on the floor of the deck as if to step up but stalled, watching the scene at the marina gate. Hugo de la Madrid Acosta got out of the town car, ducked under the umbrella, and walked through the entrance with the thin man.
“You deaf? Get in.”
Eddo felt himself lifted bodily, his collarbone screeching now. He was thrown into the rear of the van. There weren’t any seats, just a smooth metal floor, slick with the rain spraying in. Eddo slid across the small space on his face, his hands still bound behind him. His head banged against a metal panel dividing the holding area from the rest of the vehicle. Shadowy daylight cut to black.
Chapter 81
Luz sat on the bench in the cemetery, trying to sketch under the warm afternoon sun but her attention kept wandering. Eddo still hadn’t called or texted and Luz was supposed to fly to Mexico City the day after tomorrow.
The image of Eddo dancing with Carolina Porterfield wouldn’t go away. Maybe he wasn’t out hunting El Toro, maybe he’d run away with Carolina Porterfield. Maybe Luz would miss having to tell him there would be no wedding because she’d never see him again. She’d know for sure that it was over when the security guards left and her phone stopped working.
The sketch reflected her mood. Headstones slumped mournfully and branches of the big tree at the far end drooped as if to comfort. She switched to a soft lead to smudge in the thick summer leaves when she heard footsteps on the gravel path.
Young Father Patricio, in paint-stained jeans and a cheap white tee, walked rapidly over the gravel. His head was down and he obviously wasn’t looking where he was going because he nearly tripped over Luz’s feet.
“Father?” Luz asked as she made a gesture of reassurance to the security guard by the church gate.
The priest halted in mid-stride and ran a forearm over his eyes, leaving a streak of white paint across his cheek. He was obviously nonplussed at encountering someone in the normally deserted cemetery. “Uh, hello,” he said uncertainly.
“I’m Luz de Maria,” Luz said. “Lupe’s sister.”
“Of course,” Father Patricio said.
“You left a smudge, Father.” Luz touched her own cheek. “Have you been painting?”
“No.” Father Patricio collapsed onto the end of the bench like a sack of onions.
Luz put her drawing pencil back in the case. She’d never seen him in anything but a long black cassock and the combination of jeans and sadness made him look younger than Juan Pablo. “Are you all right, Father?”
Father Patricio leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and buried his head in his hands. He couldn’t be more than 25, Luz guessed. He was her height and sturdily built, with a plain round mestizo face and dark hair that he combed straight back. If he hadn’t been a priest he could have been any one of the young men she’d seen in the bus station in Mexico City with a backpack full of resignation.
“I wasn’t painting,” he said into his hands. “I was making a mess of the sacristy. Just like I’ve made a mess of everything else.”
Luz felt herself torn between concern and chagrin. The last thing she wanted to deal with was this messy young man who was never going to take Father Santiago’s place.
But the priest looked miserable and she could neither draw while he was there, nor just rudely leave. “Show me,” Luz said.
She hadn’t been in the sacristy since her last confession with Father Santiago and she hardly recognized the room. The curling posters and threadbare curtains were gone. The table and cabinet, both pushed to the center of the room, had been sanded and refinished in a dark gloss.
One wall was streaked with white paint. Fat gouts dribbled down to puddle on the brown baseboard. The taupe color of the original wall color showed through the white. Newspaper on the floor was marked by paint footprints.
Father Patricio waved an arm. “Another crazy idea.”
Luz smiled. “The kids loved the egg hunt.”
“Father Santiago never wanted new holy water fonts,” Father Patricio said, mimicking the older ladies of the parish. He sounded like Chula. “Father Santiago organized the craft afternoons differently. Father Santiago’s sermons weren’t so long. Father Santiago understood Santa Clara.”
Luz cranked open the window to let in fresh air. The abandoned paint supplies were in a corner. The roller was sticky with paint but still in the manufacturer’s plastic wrap. The young priest had bought the right supplies but apparently just smushed the paint onto the wall without first unwrapping the roller. No wonder the wall was a drippy mess.
“Father Santiago was here for more than 30 years,” Luz said as she gingerly worked off the wrapping. “And then suddenly he was gone. People were upset. Even a little angry to see someone new.” Including me.
“I was ordained last December,” Father Patricio said. “I put a bigger lock on the door and that’s the only thing nobody’s complained about.”
Luz dropped the paint-smeared plastic wrapping on the newspaper with the wet shoe print then wadded up the paper and stuffed it into a trash bag. “We all still miss Father Santiago,” she said. “As a friend. And a priest. We’d all gotten used to the way he did things. It’ll just take a little time to get used to new ways.”
Father Patricio just stood there and Luz knew her words sounded lame. She busied herself with the task at hand. She found an old can, poured some paint into it, handed Father Patricio a narrow paintbrush and showed him how to cut in the edges of the walls while she filled in with the roller. They worked in silence, Father Patricio carefully following her directions while Luz redid the messed wall until it was a pristine sheet of white.
“That looks great,” Father Patricio said. “You’re really good at this.”
Luz moved to the next wall. The white paint was so much cleaner looking than the nondescript taupe. “I usually paint smaller surfaces,” she said.
Father Patricio sat on the floor to edge above the brown baseboard. “You did the Madonna I put in the vestibule, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So how come you never come to the crafts afternoon with your sister?”
Luz moved the small stepladder to get at the top of the wall. “That’s Lupe’s time to talk to her friends.”
“They’re not your friends?”
“Not really.”
Father Patricio dipped his brush in the can. “I watch the Elsa Caso Show.” He grinned for the first time that afternoon. “For the fashion.”
Luz clambered down the ladder to reload the roller with paint. “You listen to the gossip, too?”
“Hard not to.” Father Patricio stopped moving his little brush along the edge of the wall. “You’re pretty famous around here.”
Luz got back on the ladder and worked the roller against the wall.
Father Patricio came to stand by the ladder, paint can in one hand, brush in the other. “Are you going to marry him?”
Luz sat on the top rung, irritated at his blunt manner. “No. I have to take care of my sister and her girls.”
“You think your sister needs a babysitter? What about Armando?”
“Father, you shouldn’t be gossiping about your parishioners,” Luz said.
“It’s only gossip if you talk about somebody else and we’re talking about you.”
It was like arguing with Martina and So
phia. Luz shoved the roller against the wall again. “Look, I’m not marrying him for a lot of reasons.”
“Such as?”
Worse than Martina and Sophia.
“There was a picture of him in the newspaper with someone else,” Luz said. “He’s been traveling so I haven’t been able to ask him about it.”
“So you don’t trust him.”
He’d left 200 pesos for a taxi. The Vegas hadn’t paid her hospital bills; he’d taken care of everything. “He’s the most honorable man I know,” Luz said.
“Then there’s another explanation.” Father Patricio went back to the baseboard.
Luz loaded the roller again and started on the third wall, not sure how she’d ended up talking to a boyish priest she hardly knew and whose manner was a sledgehammer compared to Father Santiago’s soft voice and infinite patience. “It doesn’t matter, Father,” she said. “He’s going to be the Attorney General.”
“You don’t like Attorney Generals?”
“I used to be a muchacha,” Luz explained.
“So?” Father Patricio stopped moving his brush to look at her.
“Don’t get paint on the baseboard,” Luz said.
Father Patricio carefully wiped the drips. “I don’t understand.”
“Look.” Luz took a deep breath of latex fumes. “His world is rich and wealthy and I’d embarrass him and ruin his career.”
“Says who?”
Luz shook her head. Father Santiago would never have said Says who? “I just know,” she said.
“Really?” Father Patricio asked. “You went someplace with him and it ruined his career? What was he going to be before he got demoted to Attorney General?”
“No, that’s not what I meant. I just know what will happen.”
“Well, that’s a handy excuse.”
“An excuse for what?”
Father Patricio moved to the window and filled in around the opening. “So you can avoid facing anything too hard. Like leaving home and mixing with people you don’t know. Learning how to be a politician’s wife. If you stay here you’ll never have to do anything like that.”
“I told you,” Luz said. “I’ll ruin his career.”
“You still haven’t given me any proof.”
Stung, Luz dropped the roller into the paint tray. “Some people say there isn’t any proof that God exists,” she said.
“That’s why God invented faith,” Father Patricio said.
Luz started on the last wall, simmering with anger.
But by the time she was halfway done, she had to concede that this boy priest had a point. Her concern for Lupe and the girls didn’t need to be the determining factor. The decision to tell Eddo no didn’t have to be set in stone.
Maybe there could be a test, some way of proving if she was right. Maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t be so out of place in Eddo’s world. After all, she knew where to place salad forks and what drinks to serve business associates and how to drive a car.
The upcoming despedida, if Eddo was back by then, could be the proof. Arturo Romero and all of Eddo’s PAN colleagues would be there with their wives. The women would be clones of Señora Vega and Señora Portillo.
If the event was a humiliating disaster, Luz would tell Eddo no. He’d probably be relieved after seeing firsthand that she didn’t fit in. But on the slim chance she got through it without anything dreadful happening, she would tell him yes. Yes.
Yes. The despedida would decide. Luz couldn’t wait to tell Carmelita. It was a tidy, scientific solution and the thread wrapped around the notion as if it was an extension of her heart.
Luz clambered off the ladder with the nearly-dry roller. They’d used all the white paint and the sacristy glowed. The little room looked bright and spacious and a little like Elaine Ralston’s art gallery. Luz didn’t know why Father Santiago had never thought to paint the room.
“Thank you.” Father Patricio’s plain face lit with satisfaction. “I never could have done this by myself.”
“I think you’re going to be just what Santa Clara needs,” said Luz.
Chapter 82
The boat was a beauty, all right, and Hugo couldn’t help but admire the workmanship. But the cabin décor was garish and loud, with too much red and a painted mural of a giant black bull snorting and pawing the ground. The painting was a crude reminder of who Hugo was dealing with and it turned the yacht from a beautiful woman into a lap dance whore.
Gomez Mazzo’s creepy bodyguard with the slitty eyes was there again. Chino, Gomez Mazzo called him and the name was apt, although Hugo had never seen such a skinny bastard of a chink. Like the other time they’d met on board the yacht, Gomez Mazzo’s other keepers were heard but not seen.
As rain pounded the upper deck, the yacht rolled a little. Hugo dropped into one of the swiveling captain’s chairs and Gomez Mazzo sat in the other. Chino lounged against the wall. Below the hideous mural, the walls were discreetly divided into burled wood cabinets. Indentations substituted for door handles.
“So we wait for your friend,” Gomez Mazzo said.
“He moved money, that’s all,” Hugo said. “Not a friend.”
“His developments?”
“Whatever they are, it doesn’t matter,” Hugo asserted. The chink guy had a flat, unblinking stare and it was giving Hugo the creeps. For the first time since this whole scheme started he felt exposed, even more exposed than when he’d been in Betancourt’s office with Fonseca. The unspoken rules that had protected Hugo then were not the rules that Gomez Mazzo and his hired dog played by. Their rules weren’t steeped in tradition, just money and a twisted sense of loyalty to whomever was the most cruel.
“No?” As Gomez Mazzo spoke, the chink guy moved closer to him. Rain drummed on the roof of the cabin and the deck rocked gently.
“He walked away with my money.”
“Did he?” Gomez Mazzo smiled in genuine mirth. “He handled your money and just walked away with it? It sounds as if you were not very careful, my friend.”
“I mean to get it back today,” Hugo said. He pointed to the chink. “With or without your help.”
Gomez Mazzo shrugged noncommittally. “He took your money but he spoiled my arrangements.”
Hugo crossed one ankle over the other knee and affected complete composure. “These arrangements can be made over again, but even better this time, because I’ll be in charge of every detail. But first let’s talk about what happened to the operation and where the money from all my ideas has gone.”
“The operation was no longer in El Toro’s interest,” Gomez Mazzo said. “Some business interests become liabilities. Others become more important.”
Hugo slammed both feet on the hideous shag carpet and his finger punched the air at the same time. “We had a deal, Gustavo. I put my name on the line with that land and those bank accounts.”
“You were supposed to keep the federales away from the bank,” Gomez Mazzo snapped. “Twice you did not do what you promised. Maybe one time El Toro can fix it. But the second time the promise is as good as dirt.”
“I lost everything,” Hugo reminded him. “You already had your cut in your pocket.”
Gomez Mazzo didn’t reply.
“Look,” Hugo said. “So we start again. We get the money that Max took and start again. I have a plan to restart Lorena’s campaign. You’ll still get what you want after the elections.”
“That’s all you have to negotiate with?” Chino spoke for the first time since meeting Hugo at the marina gate with an umbrella. His voice was a thready rasp. “Money someone stole from you?”
“When Lorena is president,” Hugo argued. “She can be your partner or someone else’s.”
The threat hung in the air.
Gomez Mazzo waved his hand at Chino. The chink moved. For a moment Hugo felt a shiver of fear. He relaxed when the thin man opened a tall cabinet, revealing a well-stocked refrigerator, and took out two bottles. He popped the tops and handed a bottle to Gomez Mazz
o and to Hugo.
Hugo looked at the bottle. It was a cooler drink. A fucking rum cooler.
Chapter 83
Eddo woke up face down on cool concrete. He pulled himself to a sitting position and nearly passed out again. All the blood in his body seemed to have pooled in his head and it pulsed like an angry drumbeat.
The handcuffs were off and he gingerly touched his face. A swelling under his right eye hurt like hell and caused his eye to squint. Pain seared across his face as he found his cheekbone. Probably something in there was broken but at least none of his teeth felt loose. Dried blood flaked off his forehead and he traced it to a scrape near his hairline. It hurt, too, but didn’t seem serious.
As things came into focus, he realized he was in a jail cell. White walls, stainless steel toilet, narrow cot, no blanket, strong smell of disinfectant. He was barefoot and his pockets were empty. No cell phone, watch, belt, or wallet. His backpack, containing not only his essentials but the warrant and Fonseca’s letter, was probably still in the restaurant.
Eddo stepped to the bars. They were painted white and very clean. Not even any fingerprints. Our institutions got more professional every day.
“Hey,” he shouted, nearly sending the pain in his face into overdrive.
After an eternity, a heavyset cop ambled through a doorway. “Sleep off your drunk, eh?”
“I’d like to make a phone call,” Eddo said.
The cop shrugged and walked away.
“Wait a minute,” Eddo called. “What time is it?”
The cop didn’t come back and Eddo allowed himself a string of Spanish invective. He stood by the bars for a couple of minutes then sat on the cot and closed his eyes.
The guard ambled back, as if there was all the time in the world. He unlocked the cell and rolled the bars to the side. “One call.”
He led Eddo to a clean white hallway and handed him a token for a pay phone. “Three minutes.” The guard sat down in a chair about ten feet away.
Crispell answered his cell phone on the second ring but the connection buzzed with static.
