Dilated, he thought, looking at his reflection in the rearview mirror. The pupil is dilated.
El Güero crossed his arms and closed his eyes, dozing off. Elvis let him, feeling kind. Besides, that way he didn’t have to talk to the guy. They’d never gotten along and they weren’t going to start now, especially if the Hawks were done for and they wouldn’t see each other again.
Not that Elvis knew the Hawks were done for, but that shit Justo had mentioned hadn’t gone down well with him.
He lit a cigarette and, having nothing better to do, began thinking about the woman they were following. She reminded Elvis of someone. Bluebeard’s wife. Well, the way he pictured Bluebeard’s wife in one of the few books he’d owned as a child, a volume of fairy tales. Each story had an illustration. With “Jack and the Beanstalk,” it was Jack throwing the seeds on the ground and a tiny sprout emerging: that was his favorite story.
In Bluebeard’s case, there was a woman in a long dress, bending down to look through a keyhole. The way the picture had been drawn, you couldn’t see the woman’s face that well, her long hair partially obscuring her features, but you could see the eyes. The resemblance was in the eyes, and it seemed to him that if she had turned to look at the reader directly, the woman would have looked exactly like Maite Jaramillo.
The eye is dilated, he whispered.
It was the expression on Maite’s face, slightly lost and scared in all those pictures he’d found of her in that photo album.
Well, at least she had good musical taste, and he couldn’t fault her on the account of books either. She had books by Caridad Bravo Adams and he’d never read her, so he had no idea if that was a decent author or not, though he recognized the name from a soap opera. But Maite also owned a bunch of volumes from the Sepan Cuantos collection, and also a fair amount of Brontë and Austen and a fine edition of El Quijote, all of which pointed to class and sensibility; the sort of stuff the university students bought. He admired a gal with class. He wasn’t sure what to make of her taste in comic books. He’d never been one for those, and if he ever flipped through them at the newsstand, he flipped through Westerns.
He began humming “Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down).” Did Maite have any Nancy Sinatra in her collection? Chances were yes.
After a while, the woman came out, and Elvis nudged El Güero awake. They followed her back to her building, where she was intercepted by a young, long-haired man. He looked like a standard-issue hippie. They exchanged a few words and got into his car, making El Güero groan in frustration, because now they needed to tail her somewhere else.
They wound up in Tacubaya, going into the same building Elvis was supposed to visit that afternoon. Well. That was a mighty big coincidence.
“Asterisk,” Elvis said.
“What did you call me?” El Güero asked angrily.
“Shut up. It’s a meeting place for students. I’m gonna go in,” Elvis said. In his jacket Elvis was carrying a fake driver’s license, a few bills, a pack of cigarettes, the flyer, the bits of metal he used to pick locks in a pinch, and his screwdriver, all pretty innocent. Well, maybe not the screwdriver, but it wasn’t a knife or a gun, and even if the commies were paranoid they probably couldn’t say much about that. And he was dressed for the part; all he needed was to mess up his hair. He could pull it off.
“You gonna go alone?” El Güero muttered, skeptical.
“It’s easier that way. You get back to base,” Elvis said, looking at himself in the rearview mirror. He untucked his shirt.
“Don’t have to tell me twice.”
“Later.”
Elvis got out of the car, and El Güero drove away. He waited a little, eyeing the gray building. Didn’t look like much, some old dump, but then there could be five hundred reds with rifles inside. And wasn’t the Cuban embassy nearby? And the Soviets too. Maybe everyone liked to keep it nice and cozy and close together. Kind of stupid for Asterisk to set up shop near them, though. It would arouse suspicion.
On the ground floor of the building there was a shoe repair shop, but there was a little black door and an intercom with business names. Number three corresponded to “Asterisk Gallery.” It wasn’t five yet, not by far, but he wanted to see what the woman was up to. He pressed a button.
“Who’s that?” someone said over the intercom, taking his sweet time to answer.
“Carlito told me I should stop by. Something about a meeting Saturday.”
Elvis was buzzed in, and he went up the stairs. When he reached the third floor he saw a red door with a sign affixed to it that read “Asterisk Art Gallery and Cooperative.” He knocked. A young man opened.
“Who are you?” the man asked.
“Carlito told me to stop by,” he said, showing the man his flyer.
Elvis was ushered in, no other questions asked. Like Justo had said, these guys were amateurs.
The gallery space consisted of a very long room with tall ceilings and few windows. On the walls there were photos and paintings with tiny pieces of white cardboard affixed next to them indicating the name of the artist. There were a couple of doors; one said “Office” and the other “Bathroom.” Foldable chairs had been piled in a corner. The air was a cloud of tobacco and marijuana smoke.
There were maybe a dozen people in attendance, but he didn’t spot the woman or her companion. They were probably in the office. Or they could even be on another floor. He wasn’t sure about the setup of this place.
He walked around, pretending he was eyeing the paintings, which were, in his limited opinion, a crock of shit. There was a picture of a chacmool. He recognized it from a visit to a museum he took with his class before they kicked him out. He stood before it for a couple of minutes before resuming his walking.
He saw a girl standing by one of the few windows, cigarette in hand. She had a lot of freckles that covered her skinny shoulders and went down to the top of her breasts, easily visible with the clothes she was wearing. Her Coke-bottle glasses and her hair tied in a bun made her look like a clueless school teacher who had been stuffed into a tiny crocheted top and a mini-skirt. Concha, standing all alone and looking bored.
On a plastic table there were pamphlets and a few bottles of soda. He grabbed one and opened it with the screwdriver, aimlessly walking toward the woman.
“Hey, got a light, girl?” he asked her, opting for the tone of a down-to-earth student, but avoiding the intonation that would identify him as someone from Tepito. He’d learned, while working for El Mago, at least to hit a bland, middle-class way of talking. El Mago’s posh, smooth voice and vocabulary were still not quite within his grasp, mostly because he got nervous and flubbed it when he spoke to the man.
It took more than a word of the day to pin that down, to be a gentleman.
The girl opened her morralito made of yute, searching until she produced a pink plastic lighter, and he bent down, pressing the tip of his cigarette to the flame.
“Thanks,” he said.
“No problem.”
“Nice shirt,” he said, pointing at her garish crocheted top. His comment pleased her immensely, and she gave him a huge grin.
“Thanks!” she said, placing the morralito back on her shoulder. “I made it myself.”
“That’s nice. Not much going on?”
“Not yet. It’s kinda early.”
“Guess so. If I’d known I’d have stopped for a couple of quecas.”
“Gosh, nothing ever starts until six,” she said and then, as she held her cigarette between two fingers and tilted her head flirtatiously, “I haven’t seen you around before.”
“First time,” he said, with a fake smile that mimicked her flirtation, since that seemed to be her line.
“Really?”
“Yup. To be honest with you, I’m not even sure what I’m doing here. I got an invite from a friend who said I sho
uld stop by, said things were hopping here but can’t say it looks like anything’s hopping.”
“Not now,” Concha said with a sigh. “It used to be fun. I came to so many parties and openings. But Jackie’s really dull these days. She says it’s no time to party and I get it, but also, man, it can’t all be super serious, can it?”
“Agreed.”
He offered her a sip of his soft drink, and she took it, smiling again. “I don’t think I see my friend,” Elvis said. “I’m wondering if she’s coming.”
“What’s her name?”
“Leonora.”
Concha touched his arm, squeezing it dramatically, and gasped. “Leonora? You don’t expect she’ll be here!”
“Why not?”
“Well…not after what happened. Why, Jackie has practically excommunicated her.”
“I don’t know what happened. I haven’t spoken with her in a couple of weeks.”
“I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but you seem all right,” Concha said, now running her hand down his arm, giving him an even bigger, more flirtatious smile.
He responded by resting his palm against her hip for a few seconds, close and cozy to the girl, but casual too. “You seem all right too. Why don’t you tell me?”
She spoke in a whisper, obviously relishing the chance to gossip despite her mock secretiveness. “Jackie thinks Leonora is the mole.”
“The mole?”
“Yeah. Someone’s been talking to cops, telling them every little thing that’s going on here.”
“How’d you figure that?”
“I’m not sure. But even if Jackie’s wrong, it doesn’t matter much, does it? Luz never liked Leonora, when push comes to shove Sócrates falls in line with Jackie, and Carlito is kissing Jackie’s butt, so it’s a done deal. Rubén objected, but you know, he can be easily overruled. Are you good friends with Leonora?”
“Not really. She lives in my apartment building,” he said, because he felt it was safer than saying they had taken classes together. He’d played the role of student before well enough, but right now he wanted to distance himself a bit from Leonora, seeing as she was persona non grata. That was a term he’d learned from El Mago. He quite liked it.
“You’re friends with her?”
“I guess I was,” Concha said thoughtfully. “But she’s been very mysterious lately. I think because she was back together with Emilio and she didn’t want others to know.”
“Emilio? Why would that bother anyone?” he asked innocently.
“Oh, you know, Rubén’s still sore about what happened. Leonora dumping him for Emilio. And then they broke up anyway! She’s silly like that, sometimes. I mean, obviously she’s my friend, but…well, you know Leonora. She’s always burning bridges. I think the only person who still likes her now is Sócrates. I think he has a thing for her. But of course everyone has a thing for Leonora.”
“Popular girl,” he replied. Leonora had a bunch of associates, but they seemed to have let her down. Jackie had turned on her for some reason, and Leonora hadn’t gone back to the priest for help. Could be she was hiding with Emilio, Sócrates, or Rubén, but the last two were apparently Jackie’s underlings. Nevertheless, Rubén had objected, and Sócrates might be a fan of the girl. What Elvis needed was to figure out the coordinates of those two.
And Emilio Lomelí…El Mago had said he, like the girl’s sister, was a dead end. But was he? Anyway, why had El Mago been so adamant about keeping him and the sister out of this? Sure, he’d said Emilio was money and also PRI, but that didn’t quite explain everything. And Leonora’s file was so thin, like El Mago was trying to hide half of the girl’s life. It didn’t add up, and though it didn’t have to add up for Elvis to do his job, he was getting curious.
“You think Sócrates would be her type?”
“Why, you’re also waiting in line for her?” Concha said, scoffing, and she flicked her cigarette out the window and rolled her eyes.
“I’m curious, that’s all,” he said, his hand resting against her hip again.
“I don’t know. He’s Jackie’s right-hand man these days, so I don’t think he’d go there even if he could, what with everything. But he did have a crush on her for a while. He tried reading poems to her. It was goofy.”
He nodded. And then, just as Elvis was smiling charmingly at the girl and wondering if he couldn’t squeeze a few more drops of information from her, the door to the office opened and out walked several people. Three men and a chick. One of the guys was the fucking Jesuit priest they’d beaten up a couple of days before. His head was all bandaged, and he had dark purple bruises around his eyes. Looked like hell.
Before Elvis had time to duck or hide, the eyes of the priest fixed on him, and he let out a hoarse scream.
Elvis ran. He pushed aside the people in his path and yanked the door open, rushing down the stairs like a man who had been set on fire. Before he reached the ground floor, someone slammed him against a wall. Elvis elbowed the person away, tripped, and fell the last three steps, landing at the foot of the stairs.
The street was a few paces from him, but Elvis didn’t have a chance to get up and slip out, because the same person who had slammed him against the wall now pressed a knife against his neck.
“Stay still,” a man said.
15
SHE SPUN AROUND, startled by the man’s touch. For a moment, she was afraid, thinking of what Emilio had said, that she might be in danger, and recalled Anaya. But she was greeted by a familiar face.
“Hey,” Rubén said.
Maite slid a hand down the strap of her purse. “What are you doing here?” she asked with a frown.
“You told me to come see you around lunchtime.”
She’d completely forgotten about that. She’d been too busy thinking about her meeting with Emilio, the stupid cat, and financial matters to even remember what she’d told him.
“I’m sorry,” she said, quickly changing her tone of voice. “Were you waiting for me?”
“Not too long. You already ate?” Rubén asked.
“I haven’t.”
“Then wanna go get a bite? Jackie lent me her car,” he said, pointing to a sad-looking red Chevy.
From the car’s mirror dangled two pine-shaped air fresheners and in the back Maite spotted a couple of cardboard boxes. It wasn’t a carriage, but it was something, and Maite bitterly remembered her own car, still at the mechanic. Even a student had four wheels.
“Where would you like to go?” Rubén asked.
For a moment Maite thought of all the expensive restaurants she’d read about in the newspaper. Focolare and La Cava and Jena. The one place that had really caught her imagination was the Mauna Loa, which was over on Hamburgo Street. The menu promised “Oriental” delights and the décor was supposed to be inspired by the South Seas. It was the sort of restaurant that excited her imagination. It made her think of the island in Secret Romance, the pulsating lure of drums, adventure, and romance.
But she couldn’t afford such a venue, and she doubted he could either.
“Wherever you want to go,” she muttered.
They ended up at a lonchería with plastic chairs, red plastic salt shakers, and plastic plates that offered the sort of cheap, unassuming fare you’d expect at such a place: tortas and more tortas, washed down with Coca-Cola and Sidral Mundet. She worried about dirtying her dress. She didn’t particularly like it, but it had to be dry cleaned. All she needed was to have to pay another dry cleaning bill.
“Did you talk to Emilio, then?” Rubén asked as they sat down in a corner with their drinks. There was no waitress at this joint. You paid at the cash register and someone barked your order. It was so different from Emilio’s house that she began to feel glum, deprived of what to her had been an Edenic delight.
“I just came back from seeing him
,” she said, suppressing a sigh and looking at the sleeves of her dress. Under the harsh lights inside the lonchería she thought her hands looked ugly and rough.
“What did he say? Does he know where Leonora is?”
She hid her hands in her lap, clasping her purse tight. “He doesn’t know where she is. She wanted to go see a journalist last weekend, but Emilio couldn’t drive her there, and he’s not sure if she ever made it. He’s worried about her.”
“So am I,” Rubén muttered.
Maite looked around the lonchería. It wasn’t busy, and the cashier was far from them, behind the counter, looking up at the television set. They were broadcasting an old movie with Miroslava. Still, Maite leaned forward and spoke in a whisper.
“A man came to speak to me at my office yesterday. He was also looking for her, and he mentioned your name.”
“He mentioned me?” Rubén asked, frowning.
“Yes. He said he was from the Dirección Federal de Seguridad. He said you were a…a ‘subversive element.’ What does that even mean? You wouldn’t be, right?”
“The government calls everything subversive,” he said. “A poster of Mao Tse-tung is subversive. They can accuse you of promoting social dissolution and jail you because you went to a rally. They’ll spy on you if you’re a journalist who writes the wrong sort of columns.”
“Sure, but Emilio said something about terrorists. But you aren’t terrorists, right?” Maite insisted.
“We should eat our food and then pay Jackie a visit,” Rubén said.
“What for?”
“If someone from the DFS is going around looking for you and me, then she needs to know.”
A teenager yelled their order number. Rubén stood up, went to the counter, and returned with two plates, placing one before Maite. While they ate, she kept glancing at Rubén. Discreetly, of course. Or as discreetly as she could.
Velvet Was the Night Page 15