by Sam Hawken
In another, smaller space in the back corner there was a dog-fighting pit. Brown-stained carpeting marked out the space, knee-high pressboard all around it and scarred by claws. Finally he found another large mattress, this one still clad in cheap sheets. Others were scattered around. Sevilla breathed deeply through his nose and out through his mouth but the growing nausea wouldn’t go away.
He fled up the stairs and back to the room with the barrels. He threw up in a corner there and gagged still further until there was nothing his stomach could give up. The stink of it was nothing compared to the petroleum reek of the barrels themselves.
Sunlight didn’t cleanse him. He felt the inside of the building crawling on his skin, beneath his suit, in his hair. Again he heard the metallic screech and he clung to the sound because it was normal and ordinary and brought him back to a place where men worked and had families and never came near a place like this.
After a long while he picked up the cut chains and strung them through the handle of the side door. No one looking closely would be fooled, but from a distance of just a few feet it was identical to the way Sevilla found it. He realized he’d left the bolt cutters inside, but he retreated down the steps and across the street not caring. He sweated more than the day’s heat demanded.
SIXTEEN
TWO MILES AWAY SEVILLA FOUND A drug store that seemed unchanged since the 1960s. It still had a lunch counter and an old man who jerked sodas from an ornate fountain with chromed spigots. Sevilla ordered food he did not want to eat and forced himself to bite, swallow and chew until the whole plate was empty.
He put down payment and a tip. His phone rang.
“Sevilla,” he answered.
“It’s Palencia.”
“Enrique,” Sevilla said. He hoped he did not sound so utterly spent on the other end of the line. “Where are you?”
“I’m coming back. I saw Rojas.”
Out in the sun, Sevilla’s eyes were hurting again. The headache was back. He had a bottle of aspirin in his pocket and he took two, grinding them between his teeth and tolerating the horrible bitterness because at least it was better than concentrating on the pain in his head.
“Are you there?” Enrique asked. “Can you hear me?”
“I’m here,” Sevilla said.
“I spoke to Rojas. He knows about it, Rafael. He knows all about it. Ortíz—”
“You don’t have to tell me,” Sevilla interrupted.
“What do you mean? What’s going on there?”
“I killed Ortíz,” Sevilla said.
Nothing but silence greeted him on the other end of the line. Sevilla heard the crackling of an unclear signal and the ghost whispers of other callers somewhere hundreds of miles away. Finally he heard Enrique clear his throat. “What happened?”
“He told me everything,” Sevilla replied.
“What happened?”
“I’ve seen the place. I’ve been inside. I saw where they do it, Enrique. It’s done in plain sight, all of it. They aren’t afraid of anything.”
“The Madrigals—” Enrique started again.
“It doesn’t matter to you anymore. Listen to me, Enrique. Listen carefully: I want you to walk away from this. You don’t want to be a part of it anymore. There’s no good that can come of it. Put your nose back into your paperwork. You’re safer with La Bestia.”
Sevilla caught the sound of a car’s engine in the background. He heard anxiety notching into Enrique’s voice. “What are you going to do?”
“It’s too late for me,” Sevilla said, and he closed his phone.
Enrique called back three times, but all three times Sevilla ignored the call. He took a walk with only his thoughts for company, moving through sidewalk vendors and farmers’ stalls until he was back at his car again. Back where he began with nothing to show for his effort.
He wanted to talk to Enrique because there was no one else. A part of him thought he should return to Kelly because he might not have a chance to explain himself. When Kelly woke — if he woke, Sevilla reminded himself — there would be no one to tell him the story of Paloma. But perhaps it was better that way. If Kelly woke they would put it all on him. El Cereso would seem a paradise compared to the hole they’d find for an American who raped and murdered a Mexican woman.
This time when he came to the neighborhood he parked in front of the apartment building he’d noted earlier. He considered hiding his car, but it seemed like there was no point; no one knew him here and no one would be watching.
There were seven apartments in the little building, each one marked with a little slip of paper and a buzzer. Sevilla pushed the buttons for the units on the second and third floors and said nothing if someone answered. A third-floor unit unlocked the front door without calling down. Sevilla went inside.
The hallway was narrow and the little space near the mailboxes smelled heavily of old cooking. A building this old had no elevator, so Sevilla mounted the stairs one at a time. He heard television sounds and radio sounds and the warble of people talking loudly to one another. On the third floor he found the foremost unit and knocked on the door.
Sevilla waited until an ancient man answered. The man peered through the space between jamb and the edge of the door at Sevilla’s battered face. A brass chain held the two together. The man looked Sevilla up and down. “What do you want?” he asked.
“Policía. My name is Sevilla. Here is my identification. Open the door.”
The ancient man squinted at Sevilla’s badge and ID. Sevilla saw an idea skitter across the man’s face — slam the door and call the police — but eventually he undid the security chain and let Sevilla inside.
The apartment was small but drenched in light from the casement windows at the front of the unit. The ancient man had an equally antiquated black-and-white television set and a portable record player on a folding table. Playing cards were spread out across an undersized coffee table opposite a threadbare couch.
“I have done nothing wrong,” the ancient man said.
“You aren’t in trouble,” Sevilla replied.
He looked out the front window. His car was below and then the street and then the terrible building. The angle was not perfect and Sevilla could not see all three sides of the structure, but it was good enough for what he needed that he didn’t think to complain.
When he turned back to the ancient man, Sevilla saw fear on the man’s face. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to cause any problems for you. But I will need to stay here for a while. I’m sorry.”
“What are you looking for? I have nothing here.”
Sevilla motioned the ancient man closer. In his pocket his phone began to vibrate. It was Enrique. He paid the call no attention. “Come here,” he said. “You see that building over there?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever seen anything happening there? People coming and going?”
The ancient man thought for a while and then nodded. “Sometimes I’ve seen many cars. At night when everyone else has gone home. Fancy cars. But I don’t pay such things attention, señor. I mind my own business.”
“Of course you do. When do the cars come?”
Again the ancient man considered. “Sometimes every month. Less when it’s cold.”
“They are coming again tonight,” Sevilla said. “I will watch for them.”
“Are they narcotraficantes? I watch the news. I know they are everywhere.”
“They are,” Sevilla lied. “And if all goes well tonight, you’ll never see them again.”
“Good,” the ancient man said. “We don’t need their kind here.”
Sevilla prevailed upon the ancient man to bring him a chair to put by the window and another of the little folding tables on which to put his notepad and his phone. Without being asked the man brought Sevilla something to eat, and though he was still not hungry Sevilla made himself finish this meal, too.
They had nothing else to say to each other. The ancient man went back to his
game of solitaire. From time to time he shuffled, the cards purring in hands with big knuckles that looked as though they were arthritic but clearly were not. Sevilla looked at the man and saw himself in twenty years if he would live twenty years more. It was not as terrible as he thought it might be.
“What is your name?” Sevilla asked the ancient man at last.
“Rudolfo.”
“Thank you for this, Rudolfo.”
“De nada.”
From time to time a car would pass down the lonely street and Sevilla would tense, but these never stopped. The sun tracked across the sky, bleeding away the afternoon and shifting the shadows. Finally Sevilla saw a Lexus sedan turn the farthest corner and cruise to a slow stop before the building.
Two men emerged with a third still behind the wheel. Sevilla wished for a pair of binoculars but he had none, so he squinted to make out faces. He did not recognize them, but he couldn’t see them clearly, either.
One of the men undid the chains that bound the front doors. He pushed one half of the entrance aside and the Lexus slipped inside. The door closed behind it. A few minutes later the little entry door opened and another blurry-faced man stood outside for a smoke.
Sevilla’s heart jumped when he saw the city police unit turn the same far corner and crawl along the block. It was the first such car he’d seen all day and his pulse sped up still further when it came to a slow stop in front of the building.
One cop got out. The smoking man greeted him. Sevilla saw them talking but it was silent here. The cards purred between Rudolfo’s hands as he shuffled once again.
Another man came out of the building to speak with the cop. Sevilla leaned forward as if he could catch word of what they said, but it was an unconscious gesture and pointless. His phone vibrated again and for an instant he wanted to smash it.
The second man produced something white from his jacket pocket, an envelope, and passed it to the policeman. The policeman put the envelope away. He saluted both the men and got back into the cruiser. They stood aside and let the cops drive off.
Sevilla let his breath out in a rush. He didn’t realize he’d been holding it.
That was how they did it. The place was remote and the building without anything remarkable about it. And to keep the streets secure they paid the locals to stay away as they went about their business. Of course it was so simple; it needn’t be any more complicated.
SEVENTEEN
WHEN THE SUN FELL LOW IN THE west it was in Sevilla’s face and he squinted against the glare behind sunglasses. Rudolfo abandoned the couch and retreated to the apartment’s little kitchen to begin preparations for the evening meal. Though they did not speak, Sevilla got the impression that the ancient man enjoyed the company because he had so little otherwise. Sevilla was sure there would just happen to be too much food for one man and he would have to share. He still had no appetite.
At half past seven a van approached the building. It pulled up to the great sliding doors and honked its horn. The entrance was spread wide. Sevilla could make out a telephone number on the side of the van, but not the text above it. He called the number. No one answered, but the machine told him it was a business that rented sound systems for parties and dances.
Eventually Sevilla saw the van leave and it was quiet until sunset. As he expected, Rudolfo brought him a complete dinner to eat at the little folding table.
“How old are you, señor?” Rudolfo asked Sevilla while they ate.
Sevilla told him.
“I have a son your age. He lives here in the city, but he never comes to visit. His mother and I raised him in this apartment from when he was a little boy. He never comes.”
Sevilla had nothing to say to that. He merely nodded.
“Do you have children?”
“I have a daughter,” Sevilla replied. “She lives with me and her mother while she studies. I’m very proud of her.”
“You are a lucky man.”
“Very lucky. I have a granddaughter, as well. When I hold her, I feel twenty years younger. It’s as though I have my baby daughter back again.”
“Grandchildren are a blessing,” Rudolfo agreed.
Sevilla cleared his plate. He brought it to the kitchen himself. The space was cramped and the sink small. When he returned, Rudolfo was watching him.
“Do you want to see your daughter and granddaughter again?” Rudolfo asked.
“Yes.”
“Then you should go away from here.”
Sevilla went to the window. He saw two cars with their headlights on against the gathering darkness. They stopped at the building and disgorged their passengers. He saw one woman among them in a bright dress. She looked like a whore. The men were all in jackets and shirts as if they were headed for a night on the town at restaurants and casinos. They went in through the little door by the boarded window.
“I have to stay,” Sevilla replied at last. “These men… they must be stopped.”
“If you wanted to stop them, you would not be alone. I’m old, señor, but I am not blind. You are here to die.”
Rudolfo’s words made Sevilla look away from the street. The ancient man was on his couch again with the deck of cards on the coffee table untouched. As he regarded Rudolfo, the man switched on a lamp and yellow light spilled around the room.
“I’m not here to die,” Sevilla said.
“Aren’t you?”
“No. I’ve come too far with this to die before it’s done.”
More cars came and more still until there was a crowd of them along the curb in front of the building and across the street. Sevilla saw more women, more prostitutes and some that even from a distance and in the dark he could see were not whores. The acid feeling in his stomach increased again and made the food there like stone.
“These men you seek, they aren’t narcos, are they?”
Sevilla took up his notepad. He began to scribble instructions on them, then slowed himself deliberately so his handwriting would be clear; Rudolfo would have to follow them and so they must be legible.
“Who are they?” Rudolfo asked again.
“You don’t want to know what kind of men they are,” Sevilla replied.
Now Sevilla did hear something from the street. He paused and turned his ear to the night and heard it again: the thudding pulsebeat of loud electronic music. Lights shone through the spots and cracks in the corrugated aluminum doors and out of the windows high above. Someone had opened them to let the party noise spill out.
He finished writing and came to Rudolfo on the couch. “Listen to me,” he said. “When I’m gone I want you to wait fifteen minutes and call the number. This number here.”
“My telephone doesn’t work,” said Rudolfo. “They are supposed to repair the lines on Monday.”
Sevilla flinched, and then he went into his pockets. He pressed his phone into the ancient man’s hands. “Here. This is my phone. You know how to use a phone like this?”
“Yes.”
“Good. It also has a clock. Wait fifteen minutes by the clock and call the number. When you are put through, give them my name and then tell them exactly what I’ve written here. Every word.”
“Who am I calling?”
“The Policía Federal,” Sevilla told Rudolfo. “When they come, close your windows and go to your bedroom. There may be gunshots. I don’t want you to be hurt. Stray bullets go far.”
“You are going in there?”
“Yes, I am.”
“What good do you think you can do that the policía cannot?”
Sevilla put his notepad in Rudolfo’s lap. He clasped his hands around the ancient man’s, the cell phone clutched between those strong old fingers. “I can do one good thing. Only promise me you will do what I ask. I thank you for everything, but do what I ask now.”
“I will do it.”
“Gracias, señor. Muchas gracias.”
He left the apartment and waited long enough to hear Rudolfo put back the chain and lock the doo
r behind him. The stairwell was dimly lit, but it was illuminated enough for Sevilla to check his pistol one last time. He was breathing too quickly and the edges of his vision glowed white. He made himself relax and then he took the stairs.
Out on the street he could better hear the music. It thudded louder and louder as he closed the distance to the building until his heart beat in the same rhythm and his nerves steadied. He did not wish for whisky.
There were bodyguards out on the street. Sevilla thought one of them might have been Ortíz’s man, but he did not want to make sure. He cut across the vacant lot, crouching low with the line of the tall grass, making no sound that the music didn’t cover. He heard a burst of cheering from inside as he passed around the back.
Light poured out the gap in the building’s rear doors. Sevilla pressed his eye close. He saw the Lexus parked close at hand, the trunk up. The heavy bass of the music seemed to push air against his face. There were flashing strobes and somewhere a mirrored light cast a thousand little spots across the gloomy interior of the structure.
The edge of the fighting ring was visible, but Sevilla couldn’t see more, or the great banquet table with its oversized chair fit for a baron. He moved on, circling around to the building’s far side and then up the rusty steps to the chained side door. No one had disturbed it. Sevilla gathered the links in both hands and set them down gently.
As earlier, the hinges on the door squealed, but it was so loud inside that it swallowed up the noise. Sevilla could not hear his own thoughts, and in a way that was good because he did not want to hear the fresh fear scratching at the back of his mind or the echoing response that would make him shake and piss himself.
He pulled the door shut behind him. He stayed in the dark among the reeking barrels for a long time, half-waiting for someone to throw the interior door open. Light would wash over him and he would be exposed, crouched in a puddle of leaking benzene, blinded and trapped. Bullets would follow and he would be cut down. No one would come.
