“Help isn’t free,” Justo said, sliding his notebook across the table.
Well. That was different than the usual handing of envelopes. Elvis took out several large bills and tucked them inside the notebook and slid it back across the table. Justo placed his hands atop the notebook again.
“El Mago says you’re familiar with this thing called Asterisk.”
“I know the people there. You need info?”
“I need in. Where are they at?”
“You want to go there? No, man. It wouldn’t do. The people running that have gone paranoid.”
“Jacqueline,” Elvis said. “She’s the one who runs that place.”
“That’s right.”
“They’re supposed to be artists, no?”
“Sure. Painters and photographers and things like that. Jacqueline has always been into politics so naturally it’s always had a political bent. Leaflets, reciting poems. Just this little nothing of a group, but I think they’re trying to get in bed with the Russians now.”
“What, you mean Russian agents?”
“Yeah, man. KGB. Didn’t you hear? Three months ago a bunch of Russian diplomats were ordered to leave the country. They were spying and trying to support MAR. Of course, we couldn’t kick everyone out. Jacqueline says she knows one of the agents who managed to stay behind. She’s tired of painting pictures. She wants to join the armed struggle.”
“Wannabe guerilla groups.”
“They’re crawling out of the rocks these days,” Justo muttered and shook his head. “What are you doing here worried about Asterisk, anyway? I’d thought all of you Hawks would be running for cover. El Mago is toast.”
“What you talking about?”
“Anaya’s out for him.”
“Am I supposed to know who that is?”
Justo scoffed and shook his head in disbelief. “Anaya. Secret police, man.”
Ah. One of those dudes. The Hawks were a thing apart, not secret police, not regular police, and in the case of El Mago’s boys, they were that: El Mago’s boys. Despite maintaining his distance from the secret police, Elvis had a clear impression of them. They were abusive pigs who walked around as if they had dicks as big as King Kong. El Mago didn’t like them. Elvis concurred.
“What about him?”
“He’s had a long beef with El Mago, but El Mago’s got a magic shield. Everything slides off him. People can’t touch that dude. Except now they say he’s fucked up and Anaya is going to bury him.”
“Who says? Bury him how?”
Justo held both hands up in the air and chuckled. “Look, that I don’t know. I talk to people and people talk to me. But Anaya is one fucking asshole, and it’s not as if bastards like Anaya ever loved the Hawks.”
Elvis grabbed the glass ashtray and pulled it closer to him, tapping his cigarette against its edge.
“What’s the deal with you? If you’re talking to secret dicks then you’re not with El Mago.”
“Didn’t say I was. If you want to get technical, I’m DGIPS.” Justo chuckled and took another sip of his coffee. “I know what you’re gonna say: you look like a kid, but that’s the trick, isn’t it? Well, if you want to get any traction around these activists and shit.”
DGIPS. Swell. A pencil pusher. Intelligence service. The DGIPS was always at odds with the DFS. It was an old rivalry. Each side thought the other was redundant. The DFS called the DGIPS pansies. The DGIPS said the agents of the DFS couldn’t even fucking read, much less speak Russian or English.
The Hawks were too low for either side to bother with, just a group of hired punks.
“You should apply.”
“Apply what?”
“Apply to join the DGIPS. What else? There’s no future for the Hawks. Even if Anaya doesn’t bury El Mago, it’s all toast, and you’ve got the right look for this line of work,” Justo said. “We can always use young blood.”
Young blood, yeah. That’s what everyone was after. Men who could pass as students, as protesters. If you had something a little bit extra you could get to the top of the heap. Like El Gazpacho, with his Spanish accent, that little seseo. Everyone thought all Spaniards in Mexico were commies, and that meant El Gazpacho had a nice cover.
What Elvis had was a decent face for the job. El Mago had once told him that everyone looks like a character in a play or a book, that we are all someone’s doppelgänger. Elvis didn’t know what doppelgänger meant, but El Mago had explained it meant a double. Elvis then asked El Mago who he looked like. He was hoping he’d say Elvis Presley, because Elvis had a twin who died at birth, but El Mago had said Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Elvis didn’t think he could be prince of anything, except maybe of paupers, but El Mago had smiled and said, “The Devil hath power to assume a pleasing shape. You look like a kid who dances to Presley’s records and watches foreign films.”
And when Elvis had told him, confused, that this was what he did, El Mago had chuckled and told him, “Exactly. That’s the trick.”
A prince was no king, and Presley was the King, but it had all sounded pretty good to Elvis, and from then on he understood he had the right look and this was like currency. With his face and his training, his stock had to rise.
Unless something really bad happened. Unless El Mago was about to get fucked, which meant they were all going to get it.
“How do you know it’s all toast?”
“Man, it’s logical. They’re going to get rid of the Hawks.”
“You can’t know that,” Elvis said quickly, slamming his cigarette against the ashtray, putting it out with one fierce motion.
Justo seemed amused. He grabbed his cup of coffee and took another sip. Both men stared at each other.
They couldn’t shut down the Hawks; they’d never! El Mago would have given them advance warning. But what if it was true? What would he do then? Elvis had been saving his money. He had a bank account under a fake name. Fake names and fake IDs were as easy to come by as one, two, three. But he didn’t have a fortune in cash; it wasn’t like he could retire. If he wasn’t a Hawk, then what could he do? He really didn’t want to be an agent of some dipshit place like Justo was suggesting, but he also had no interest in bouncing back to his mom’s house. Plus, there was no guarantee the DGIPS would want him, good face or not. Elvis hadn’t even finished high school.
Pawn, he thought, remembering El Mago’s words.
The noise of dominoes, of people talking and laughing, the scraping of chairs against the floor and the radio by the counter loudly playing Victor Jara all mixed together, threatening to give Elvis a headache. He rubbed a hand against his cheek and felt the stubble there. Shit. El Mago hated it when they weren’t clean-shaven and well-dressed. No untucked shirts with him. But Elvis had been up since early. He’d hardly had time for proper grooming.
“I’m not trying to bust your balls. I say it how I see it,” Justo smiled, all friendly-like. Elvis suspected he wasn’t as chirpy and fun as he appeared, that it was all a cover and he was fishing for info or wanted to trick Elvis in some way. But if that’s the game he played, let it be.
Maybe he was a clown. Maybe not. You couldn’t trust these guys. But it didn’t matter if he was Bozo if he had the info he needed.
“Sure,” Elvis muttered. “You know a girl from Asterisk called Leonora? She’s pretty, an art student.”
That has why he was there, after all. To find that woman. Not to worry about El Mago or the Hawks.
Justo nodded. “A Bohemian. She has money, but likes to pretend she’s slumming it. Her uncle pays her bills. Jackie used her as her little piggy bank for a bit there,” Justo said. It was his turn to reach for a cigarette. He took out a little book of matches and lit his cigarette, dumping the match in the ashtray.
“How so?”
“Jackie lives in a shitty vecindad with her fam
ily. She hasn’t two pesos to rub together. So she depends on other folks to get anything done. You know, if they need to get food for a meeting or drinks. Leonora pitched in for a bunch of things. Even paid Jackie’s rent one time, I think. I heard people talking about that.”
“Then they’re good friends.”
“I guess so. Jackie’s kind of bossy and Leonora can get on people’s nerves easily. She’s very anxious, very wishy-washy. Jackie’s no-nonsense, you know? Leonora would skip meetings because she had a cold or because she hadn’t slept well, or she had homework to do. Jackie doesn’t believe in colds or lack of sleep. She’s a fucking robot. Anything for the cause, you know?”
“The cause being a guerilla group.”
“If she gets her way, sure. One day. But everyone wants that and no one can get really organized. They’re amateurs. Guevarism ain’t ever going to work in this country. Kinda sad, you know?”
“Does Leonora have any other friends?”
“She’s friendly enough, I guess. There’s a guy…Rubén. They used to date and she dumped him, so I’m not sure if they’re friendly anymore at this point or if they try to keep it civilized. Let me think. There’s a girl. Concha. Wears Coke-bottle glasses, short, has lots of freckles.”
“I’ve got to get into Asterisk. You have an address for them?”
“I told you, Jackie’s gone paranoid.”
“Jackie could shoot bullets out of her ass, I still want to see what her band of friends is up to. You telling me or not?”
“Stubborn fucker. What do I care? If you want to see Jacqueline you should wait until tomorrow. They have meetings on Saturdays, around five.”
Justo reached into his knapsack, which was hanging from the back of his chair. He rummaged inside it, taking out a black-and-white flyer and handing it to Elvis. “The address is there, and if you have one of those, they’ll let you in. Tell them Carlito handed it to you. He talks a lot and is always half baked. He won’t remember if he talked to you or not.”
Elvis folded the flyer and tucked it inside his jacket. “Thanks. I have one more thing to ask.”
“What, you want me to sneak you into Palacio Nacional now?”
“Man, I’m not trying to be rude. I’m trying to figure stuff here. And I mean…you’re friends with El Gazpacho, no? I’m friends with him too. He is…was my unit leader.”
“Yeah, I’m friends with him. Why else do you think I’d talk to you?”
“Good. Because I was hoping you can find him. He’s left the unit and I don’t know where he’s gone. It’s not like El Mago’s gonna tell me, and I want to make sure he’s all right. Plus, all his stuff is back at the apartment.”
“You want to mail him his nail clipper and shoes? And you think I know where he lives or something?”
“Well, I sure don’t know. But you being DGIPS and all, and being El Gazpacho’s friend and everything…”
Elvis took out a few bills and stuffed them inside Justo’s notebook. “I’d be more interested in knowing what your boss wants with Asterisk than your cash,” Justo said.
“I ain’t telling.”
“And after I’m being nice to you, you little shit.”
Elvis took out two more bills and stuffed them in the notebook. “Nice my ass. You’re trying to jack up the price. Take the money or I’ll look for another crooked asshole who’ll find out.”
Justo seemed amused. “Kid, you have an attitude. But you’re lucky: I’m in need of petty cash. Come back in a couple of days,” Justo said as a goodbye.
Elvis nodded and stepped out, feeling cheery. It didn’t last.
He ate at a random tortería and stared at the calendar taped behind the counter featuring a corny Hawaiian dancer, paper flowers strewn around. The dancer’s eyes reminded him of Cristina. Elvis didn’t believe in losing his head over a girl, but that was now. A few years back, he’d gone and joined a fucking cult for one, hadn’t he?
Yeah, he had, like the ass he’d been. In his defense, Cristina had been real pretty and she’d also seemed interested in him. Not like Elvis had been interested—he’d been neck-deep—but he also hadn’t imagined the whole thing. The problem was she’d gone hot and cold and then hot again. Sometimes she wanted to leave Tlaquepaque, sometimes she wanted to stay forever.
She fucked Elvis, sometimes, yeah. But it always felt like a favor, and he didn’t like it when he saw her with their leader or some of the other men around the complex. Complex! A rickety building with a few sad chickens and goats. Elvis working under the searing sun, Elvis feeding the damn chickens or trying to fix a piece of furniture. The others were lazy and assigned most chores to him. Every time he thought about quitting, though, she’d soothe him with a couple of kisses.
He liked that and he also didn’t like it. It reminded him of the older American woman who’d kept him as her lover. In her eyes he read a definite indifference. He knew he was replaceable.
When Elvis left, it was because he couldn’t stomach any more of that merry-go-round of emotions. In the months after, he’d thought of writing to Cristina, and then he’d figure it was pointless. But sometimes he still got the urge to go back. To see what she was up to.
He didn’t want to live like a hippie, much less with that idiotic cult. But the money could be enough to rent an apartment, and they could install themselves somewhere nice and cozy.
Though God knew if Cristina was still in Tlaquepaque. And he hadn’t spoken to her in years. It was stupid. He didn’t even know why he was thinking of her. He supposed it was because Justo was making him nervous, talking about that man Anaya.
Elvis tried to force himself to imagine a different life from the one he led, maybe a life with Cristina. Or maybe he’d try to be an agent, like Justo had suggested. It couldn’t be that hard. Maybe they’d throw him in cells with activists so he could pose as a fellow revolutionary and inform on them. Sometimes they used former real activists for this. People who had been hauled to Lecumberri and decided to become collaborators and squeal. Áyax Segura Garrido had squealed, and that’s how the courts had found him innocent. He was now in the pocket of the DFS.
But none of that was what he really wanted. It was all a bit seedy. None of it resembled El Mago’s life. He wanted El Mago’s place, with his bookshelves and his car and his suits. It wasn’t the things El Mago owned. It wasn’t the silver cufflinks on his shirts or the fine cigarettes. It was the way El Mago spoke, the way he looked.
He worried that he’d never have that now. Not only that, but El Mago would disappear from his life. Just like El Gazpacho had disappeared. It was crazy to think people could be gone with a snap of the fingers.
God damn Gazpacho. Where’d he headed?
Elvis finished eating, gave the Hawaiian girl one last, longing look, and went back to the apartment. It was empty. El Güero was supposed to be completing his first shift. He supposed the Antelope had gone to relieve him.
Elvis opened the door to El Gazpacho’s room and stood in the doorway, looking at the bed, the closet, the little desk in the corner. El Gazpacho kept his room neat and tidy, with a minimum of things. In a corner he had a poster of Yojimbo, a movie that Elvis had never seen but El Gazpacho had described in detail. Elvis stood in front of the narrow closet and looked at the shirts and trousers and what El Gazpacho jokingly called his “civilian” jacket: an avocado-green jacket with yellow patches.
It’s what El Gazpacho wore to the movies. Elvis didn’t know why he liked that ridiculous outfit, but he did. Then again, El Gazpacho didn’t complain when Elvis put on his sunglasses at night or tried to comb his hair like James Dean or Presley, and when Elvis didn’t know how to say a word in the dictionary El Gazpacho never laughed.
Although he didn’t like either El Güero or the Antelope, he suddenly felt very lonely and wished they were in the apartment with him.
Elvis went into h
is room and rummaged among his records. He found his copy of “Blue Velvet” and held the record up to the light, looking at the grooves. Elvis had the version by Bennett. He put the record on and sat down on his bed.
He thought about the woman who owned the Prysock cover, Maite Jaramillo, and as the record began to spin he felt a little less alone. She was probably playing the same song now. And if she was, if they were both repeating the same motion in two different places, somehow it felt like they were doing it together. Which meant he wasn’t really alone.
He pictured two dust motes spinning in concentric circles. Maybe it was like that everywhere, for everyone. There was always someone doing the exact same thing. Like a shadow or a mirror image, like the doppelgängers El Mago talked about. People simply didn’t know it. Could be you were cutting vegetables with your left hand while it rained in Japan and a woman in Puebla was doing the same thing, and you both looked up at the sky at the same time and saw a bird fly by.
Elvis lay back on the bed, stretching up his arms until he got hold of the headboard, and he hummed to the music. He didn’t know what the words meant, but he knew what they sounded like: it was the sound of sadness.
13
SHE DECIDED TO wear the yellow print dress with the bow at the neck. The color was vibrant and brightened her face, but it looked a little young. When she’d bought it, the dress had been perfect on the rack, but as often happened with Maite, when she put it on at home she had an entirely different opinion of the garment. It was garish, it exposed her knees, and no matter how hard she rubbed a pumice stone against her knees they always looked dirty.
She hadn’t worn it, stuffing it into the back of her closet. But it really was the nicest dress she owned and the most modern one. The rest of her wardrobe consisted of her drab office outfits, and her scant weekend wear was nondescript.
She clipped the tag off the dress, ruefully noting the price—my, she had spent too much on that. Then again it was a special-occasion dress. The problem was she didn’t have enough special occasions to wear it.
She carefully ironed the dress and hung it up while she busied herself with her makeup and her hair. Again the fear of artificial youthfulness assailed her. She didn’t want to look like a sad matriarch who rubs too much blush on her cheeks. Not that she looked exactly like a matriarch.
Velvet Was the Night Page 13