The Dead Women of Juárez

by Sam Hawken

  His full name was Rafael Sevilla and he was, to the best of Kelly’s estimation, closing in on sixty or just past it. His hair used to be black, but now was mostly white, though the whiskers of his little beard were still hanging on. He tended to short as many Mexican men did, but he made up for it with an upright bearing and presence.

  “Good morning, Kelly,” Sevilla said in English. He always spoke English to Kelly, even though his accent was heavy.

  “Señor Sevilla.”

  Sevilla investigated the kitchenette, the empty pans and dishes. He had a large nose and dark eyes and a heavy, melancholy face. He joked he was part hound. Kelly stood by the open door. He glanced outside. Sevilla was alone.

  “I hear you went to the clubs with Estéban last night,” Sevilla said. “All night long, club after club. You know, I wonder what the two of you are up to when you do that.”

  Kelly finally closed the door. Sevilla wandered to Kelly’s couch and sat down. He had an old man’s belly, but he wasn’t fat. He always rested so his gun was available, never pinned beneath or beside him.

  “Are you two selling drugs to the Americans again?” Sevilla asked.

  “Wouldn’t the city police want to know?” Kelly returned. He went to the kitchenette and busied himself cleaning. It was easier to keep his voice steady when his hands were busy under warm, soapy water. “Not state police.”

  “We’re all on the same side,” Sevilla said. “Besides, you know what drugs mean these days. Did you know they found six bodies without their heads outside the city limits last week? Who knows where the heads are.”

  “Estéban isn’t cutting off anybody’s head.”

  “Maybe I see a bigger picture. Maybe I’d like to know where Estéban gets his product.”

  Kelly rinsed and dried his pan. “No one cares about a little weed.”

  “Marijuana? Not really. Who hasn’t had a little hierba? But drugs are on everyone’s mind now. We have more federal police in the city than we have flies.”

  “So, what, then?” Kelly asked.

  “Chinaloa,” Sevilla said, and he looked over his shoulder at Kelly with his dark eyes. Kelly couldn’t figure their color; maybe they were brown, or maybe green. He didn’t like to look too long, because it was the intensity behind them that made him uncomfortable more than the mystery of their color. Kelly watched his hands instead.

  “I don’t handle that stuff.”

  “Never?”

  “Never. You should know that by now.”

  “But Estéban deals it,” Sevilla said.

  “You know that, too. Goddammit,” Kelly said, and he cracked two plates together in the sink. “Don’t you get tired of coming around here? I got nothing for you. Okay? Nothing.”

  Sevilla made a gesture with his hands as if he were tossing an invisible ball back and forth. He half-smiled and turned away. “Maybe I just like to talk to you, Kelly. Nobody wants to talk English with me.”

  “Talk to the turistas,” Kelly said.

  “Even turistas hate cops. They think we’re all taking money or looking to bust them for having a good time. Why do they think that, Kelly?”

  Kelly shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s you they don’t like.”

  “That’s being cruel.”

  They fell silent. Kelly dried the dishes and put them away. He didn’t look at Sevilla, but he felt the man at his back, eyes always searching.

  “How is Paloma?” Sevilla asked at last.

  “She’s good.”

  “Have I told you I respect her?” Sevilla asked. “She does good work with that group of hers. Many families are touched by the tragedy. Some of them would surprise you.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “You’re eating with her and Estéban today?”

  Kelly turned back to Sevilla. The policeman’s face was the same: heavy and sad looking, with a touch of flinty purpose behind the eyes. His body seemed relaxed, but somehow Kelly knew Sevilla was never at rest. “Yes,” Kelly said. “I always eat with them on Sunday. And I know you know.”

  “Then do me a favor, Kelly: just ask Estéban the question. If he answers, you pass it on to me. When we know where he gets his heroin, we’ll leave you be. It’s like painting your door with lamb’s blood; we’ll pass by in the night and you won’t be touched.”

  “What about Estéban?”

  “If he wants to sell weed to the turistas, that’s his business and no concern of mine. Like you say, I’m a state policeman. If the locals want to go out of their way, they can.” Sevilla paused. “Well?”

  “If I hear something about it, then I’ll tell you,” Kelly said at last.

  “That’s not agreement.”

  “It’s what you get.”

  Sevilla nodded shortly. He rose from the couch and only then did Kelly venture out of the kitchenette into the larger room. They met at the door. Sevilla opened it. “I knew there was a reason I didn’t throw you back to the police in the States,” he said. “Some people think fighters are stupid, getting hit in the head all the time and not complaining, but we know better.”

  “I’ll call you,” Kelly said.

  “Of course you will,” Sevilla said, and Kelly knew they both understood it was all a lie; Kelly would never call and Sevilla would not deport him. This was part of a game only Sevilla seemed to understand completely. Kelly wanted him out.

  When Sevilla was gone, Kelly paced the apartment. He waited twenty minutes before putting on sweats and running shoes. He would burn the agitation away.

  He locked the door and was halfway down the steps to the street when he spotted Sevilla. The policeman lingered by the pink telephone pole, his back to Kelly, absorbed in the flyers. As Kelly watched, Sevilla passed his hand across the flyers as if reading them with his fingertips. He did it twice more before finally walking on. He crossed the road, got into an unremarkable blue sedan, and drove away.

  TWELVE

  ESTÉBAN AND PALOMA LIVED IN A small house that once belonged to their parents. Kelly found it old but comfortable, smelling of age and many fresh-cooked meals. He watched fútbol on the little television with Estéban while Paloma prepared the meal. When the food was ready, they gathered around the modest dining-room table. Paloma led them in a prayer and then they ate.

  The character of their talk was different on Sundays. Paloma did not allow Estéban’s business into the house, and definitely not around the table. Instead they talked about sports and turistas and local news and even the weather. Paloma and Estéban discussed extended family Kelly had never met, but kind of knew from many Sundays before.

  Paloma’s meals were never fancy, but always hot and filling. They ate green chile stew and hand-pressed tortillas, black beans and rice and eggs. When they were full, Estéban went out back to roll a joker. Normally Kelly would go with him, but today he helped Paloma clean up.

  “Don’t you want to get stoned?” Paloma asked him.

  “Not today,” Kelly replied.

  They gathered dishes and scraped them into a plastic bucket. Later on Paloma would put the bucket outside and a trio of local dogs, lifetime strays, would gorge themselves on scraps.

  “You look nice today,” Kelly said after a while. He told the truth; Paloma always seemed lovelier on Sundays, even when she dressed down for work in the kitchen.

  The kitchen was small, but Paloma knew the space well. She cleaned without wasting any effort. “You look good, too,” she told Kelly. “How’s your nose?”

  “Better. I’ve been running, too. Getting a workout in. I figure I could lose ten, fifteen pounds easy.”

  “What for?” Paloma asked.

  “To get my walking around weight down. You know.”

  Paloma glanced at him, and Kelly felt her instant appraisal. “For fighting?” she asked.

  “Yeah. But real fighting, not the kind of stuff I’ve been doing. I’ve lived here long enough and I know some people. Maybe I could get licensed again.”

  The dishes and pans were cl
ean, dried and put away. Paloma wiped her hands with a threadbare towel. She wore no polish on her fingernails on Sundays, and the change made her hands look different, more honest somehow.

  “I thought you wanted to stop someday,” Paloma said. “We talked about it.”

  “I know. But what else am I going to do?”

  “There are things out there.”

  Paloma looked at Kelly and he looked back. He didn’t sense disapproval from her, but he couldn’t figure out the mind behind the face. Kelly lowered his head and pressed on. “I don’t know what else I could do better than this. Yeah, I’m thirty, but that’s not so bad; in my weight class, some decent training… I could win some fights.”

  She was silent for a while, and then finally Paloma nodded. “All right,” she said.

  They embraced in the kitchen. The smell of marijuana smoke drifted through the tiny window from the backyard and mingled with the pleasant odor of cooking and Paloma’s skin. “I think I’ve got it figured out,” Kelly said. “I’m trying.”

  “I believe you,” Paloma said. She kissed his forehead. Kelly put his hand on her ass. Paloma pushed it away. “Not on Sunday.”

  “Okay.”

  She said the same thing every week.

  THIRTEEN

  HE WENT TO THE FIGHTS THOUGH he wasn’t going into the ring.

  Vidal worked the corner of a poor young fighter from one of the colonias outside Juárez who couldn’t be making much more than the bus fare that brought him there. Kelly raised his hand to get the old man’s attention before he sat down. Vidal nodded, which was as much as he ever offered.

  The card wasn’t much – six fights with no one weighing in heavier than welter – but the matches were sanctioned. The atmosphere was better in the athletic hall than at the smokers: Kelly saw women and even a few kids. The crowd was bigger and there were more smiles, fewer scowls. If there was blood, then there would be blood, but it was not what brought the spectators here.

  Kelly bought a warm packet of tamales and a bottle of tamarind-flavored Jarritos. Rickety pullout bleachers lined two sides of the hall and shuddered with the moving weight of Mexicans standing up, sitting down or wandering around to talk with friends. A few eyes passed over him with questions behind them, but no one crossed Kelly’s path or objected when he found a good spot. Down by the ring there were folding chairs three deep, but those were assigned and the tickets cost more.

  The hall packed them in until everyone had no choice but to sit down hip to hip and arm against arm. A man in a white shirt, black pants and neat bow tie swept the ring with a straw broom. He and another man, similarly dressed, would referee the fights.

  When the announcer came onto the canvas things got rolling. He introduced the three judges and read a list of local sponsors. Kelly didn’t know any of the names, and didn’t recognize the first pair of fighters, either. One was Vidal’s boy, the other a rail-thin flyweight with acne pits in his face. The crowd cheered them both the same.

  Heavyweight fights got all the attention and the big money, especially in the States, but the little guys had technique. When Kelly fought welterweight, he always hit the scale at exactly 147 pounds. He had the frame to go a real middleweight back then or even super-middleweight if he wanted to push it, but those extra fifteen or twenty pounds felt like a concrete overcoat whether they were fat or muscle. Light fighters were meant to fight light.

  The bell rang and the fighters closed. Vidal’s kid had long arms for his size and maybe a two-inch reach advantage if his tape was applied just the right way. He worked from behind the jab and didn’t keep still; he was circling, always circling, and even though the other kid blocked, those little impacts took their toll after a while.

  It took most of the first and second rounds, but the other kid got his feet under him and started moving the fight his way. Vidal’s boy relied on the jab too much, and when his opponent moved inside he danced back like he was stung even before a punch landed.

  Kelly ate his tamales between rounds and sucked on the Jarritos. The Mexicans around him were excited and he was excited, too. He’d forgotten the smells outside the ring, the sound and shape of the fight when the gloves weren’t on. The man beside Kelly nudged him and they traded smiles.

  Round three was tough for Vidal’s boy; some fighters locked into a losing game when shaken, and everything narrowed into a desperate corridor of try, try again. He kept trying with the jab even though it wasn’t working anymore. A flyweight couldn’t hit with the power of a heavyweight, but solid punches to the inside rocked Vidal’s fighter. Kelly saw the old man shaking his head over his bucket.

  The kid went to the corner with a visible kink in his side. Kelly watched Vidal rinse the kid’s gumshield with one hand and press a cold pack against his ribs with the other. He talked low and quiet. Kelly had never seen Vidal talk so much. The kid nodded.

  The fourth round was the final round. The fighters came forward at the referee’s command. Vidal’s kid circled, started to throw the jab again, but hesitated. Kelly focused on his face, the perceptible struggle to follow corner advice, break from a losing pattern and change things up.

  The other kid came in hard with more body punches. Vidal’s kid backed up, but with control this time. He still got hit, but he traded well and then jabbed his way out turning from the corner.

  His aim was combinations, trying to put two or three punches together that would keep the other fighter guessing and off those swollen ribs. Vidal’s boy was used to having his way with his arms, being able to reach out and pepper the other guy with jab after jab at distance. The other kid was hardheaded, but knew how to weave in for the sharp body shots he preferred.

  The clock ticked. Each punch thrown was a half-second closer to the last bell. Vidal’s kid tried to bring some technique to bear and pull some points back on the judges’ cards, but he didn’t have the ring smarts to keep the other kid away.

  Bell and ref were in time with each other. One rang and the other stepped in. Both fighters dropped their hands. They were slick with perspiration and so was Kelly. He stood and clapped and hollered with everyone else. Corner men climbed through the ropes and the ring was crowded the way it always was at the end of a bout.

  The other kid took the fight three rounds to one. The fighters embraced. Photos were shot. When Kelly settled back down he was smiling. This was the magic of the fight: no matter how small the purse, the fight mattered when it happened as much as any other fight for any amount of money.

  “I forgot,” Kelly said aloud.

  “¿Qué?” the man beside him asked.

  “Nothing,” Kelly told him. “Good fight.”

  The man nodded. “Sí, era una buena lucha.”

  FOURTEEN

  EACH DAY HE WALKED LESS AND ran more. He’d quit smoking altogether and now he wasn’t even drinking beer except on those nights when he and Estéban did business. Running the same route along the main roads got boring, sucking up the smog, so he changed it up with smaller streets and neighborhoods far from his usual haunts.

  He found the gym this way. A pack of short, lean Mexican fighters crossed his path on the run. Kelly recognized them immediately the way fighting animals know their own kind. He fell in with them without having to say a word and they loosened their ranks to accommodate him.

  Theirs was a humbler section of Juárez, well away from the bright lights and clean sidewalks of the tourist district, but not as broken or filthy as the colonias. Boxing was a poor people’s sport, maybe poorer even than fútbol. Kelly saw kids playing fútbol in the streets with cheap plastic balls or even bags of leaves, but boxing could be had on its own terms, fighter by fighter, on the strength of the body alone.

  Kelly ran with the fighters until he thought he couldn’t run anymore, but he didn’t fall out. He kept up with them until at last they reached the gym: a solid square of high-windowed concrete beside an attached auto yard walled high with the rusting hulks of cars behind a sagging chain-link fence.
r />   Most filed through an open front door heavy with shadow. It was morning, but bright and there were no clouds in the sky. Inside it would be cooler and darker and it would smell of perspiration and mildew. One fighter waited. “Bueno,” he said. “¿Cuál es su nombre?”

  It was a formal way to ask, but Kelly was white and certain things didn’t change. Kelly put his hands on his knees and sucked air. “Me llaman Kelly,” he said after a while.

  “Jacián,” the fighter said. He was tiny and as lean as a strip of leather. He reminded Kelly of the hardheaded kid that beat Vidal’s fighter, but he was older and his face showed the lines of premature age. “Do you fight?”

  “Sometimes,” Kelly said.

  “Come on in.”

  It was better out of the sun. The gym was small but clean and the expected odor of mildew was replaced by motor oil. Dusty ceiling fans stirred the air around.

  The gym had a ring with cracked-leather ropes and shoe-scuffed canvas, three hanging heavy bags and two speed bags. An uppercut bag patched with successive layers of duct tape dangled from a hook on one wall. There were pads on the concrete floor, ancient medicine balls and a pair of weight benches near neat stacks of iron. Men and boys were working, some using muscles and others their minds, student to teacher to student in an endless loop.

  Jacián introduced Kelly to Urvano; a man perched on a high stool near the door, partly shielded by a desk like a lectern and piled high on one side with thin gray towels. Urvano was older, going white, but still fit. His face looked familiar, and when the old man shook Kelly’s hand, he said, “I know you: Ortíz brought you around Gonzalo Lopez’s place.”

  Kelly nodded. He was sweating and his face was already hot, but he felt his cheeks go red anyway. “Yeah,” he said. “Yes, sir.”

  “You should stay away from Ortíz,” Urvano said. “He’s no good for anybody.”

  Kelly nodded again, but he wasn’t sure what to say.

  “Good run,” Jacián told Kelly, and clapped him on the shoulder. “Hasta luego. I need a shower.”