Sins As Scarlet

by Nicolas Obregon

  ‘Private investigator,’ Iwata took out his ID.

  ‘Well, this isn’t America. You can’t just walk in here and get access to our records. There are forms to fill out; it takes time. Even then I can’t guarantee you’d get the relevant permissions.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘A week. Maybe more.’

  Iwata took out the pictures of the missing women and laid them on the brick wall. Valentín sighed but put on her spectacles.

  ‘All American, I presume? If they were missing here, I’d know about it.’ She looked at them in turn, but shook her head.

  Then she came to Mara Zambrano’s driver’s licence. Valentín looked at it. She looked again and nodded.

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘She’s not missing. Her name was Evelyn Olivera. She’s dead.’

  ‘That’s not possible. I saw her two days ago.’

  ‘Dead women make good aliases. This is fake. Evelyn had no driver’s licence, let alone one from California.’

  Iwata looked at the ID again. The cop was right. It was a close likeness but it was not Mara Zambrano. Whoever he’d spoken to at Club Noir was not the person in the photograph. Why did she have a dead woman’s ID?

  ‘They found Evelyn’s body a few hundred metres across the US border. She had been raped and shot.’ Valentín shrugged. ‘She was trying for a better life.’

  Another connection. Another murder.

  ‘So this is a fake name – you’ve never heard of Mara Zambrano?’

  ‘Sure I have. Who hasn’t? She was one of the most important actresses in the Golden Age of Mexican cinema. Hell, she was known in all of Latin America.’

  Iwata scowled at the fake ID and pocketed it. ‘Detective, where can I find Evelyn’s family?’

  ‘Thing is’ – she blew out smoke – ‘you’re licensed to practise private investigations in the state of California, Mr Iwata. And that’s a way away from here.’

  ‘It would just be a few questions. It’s very important.’

  ‘To who? Your business?’

  ‘The families of these women.’

  Detective Valentín searched his eyes. Sighing, she stubbed out her cigarette. ‘I’ll give you the address, but you listen to me. You leave this city straight after, understand? The man that looks under rocks in Ciudad Cabral quickly finds the scorpion.’

  Río Rosita was in the centre of Ciudad Cabral, on the south side of the eponymous river, so-called for its evening pink. But despite the delicate name, its banks had been concreted over long ago, hills of silt and trash now stacked up over the slow, putrid water. The night was tinted a sickly peach by the streetlight. Little makeshift bunkers, ñongos, had been burrowed in the concrete here, in the dirt, in the storm gates – a festering Xanadu for the marooned. Further along the river a sluice gate doubled as a shopfront for the dealers. A long line had formed.

  At the bend in the river Iwata went up some rusted old stairs, as per the policewoman’s instructions. This was Cuauhtémoc, a market since pre-Hispanic times, an open-air kermis of barter, bliss, bereavement. If Ciudad Cabral was a family, then this market was the problem child. The streets here were not so much streets, more little runnels of black-market life. The smell of grilled meat and the sound of cumbia music buffeted him. Everywhere Iwata looked he saw love, scuffed knuckles, scams. To him, it just looked like another version of Santee Alley.

  Iwata weaved through bodies, the night crowd merry on cheap beer-margaritas. Never-ending stalls formed of rickety metal frames were clad in multicoloured tarpaulin – cloned DVDs, counterfeit sneakers, fake soccer jerseys, Real Madrid, Atlético and FC Barcelona. Though it was open air, the fairy lights overhead gave the market a feel of containment. Everywhere there was the sound of scooters and the bellowed mantra of Cuauhtémoc: Ofertas! Ofertas! Ofertas!

  The market was heaving tonight; it was Holy Week, after all. Though the official saint of Ciudad Cabral was Francis of Assisi, the patron saint of this quarter was La Flaca, the skinny one – Santa Muerte. Iwata saw her shrine in the middle of the market, festooned with flowers and offerings. The skeleton was dressed in white, her bones primped with pearls and flowers. At her feet, people had left apples, toys, money, tequila. There were cakes, bowls of chicken with mole, small clumps of marijuana. Her bony hands were outstretched, beseeching outsiders unto her – the outcasts, the wretched, the non grata. Those with illnesses, those with terrible secrets, those that lived with curses. The inhabitants of Río Rosita knew that, where other saints would not, Santa Muerte was willing to grant darker blessings.

  At the end of the market Iwata saw his destination, a colourful tenement block one earthquake away from crumbling. Inside, it was a maze of cracked concrete and precarious narrow walkways, children playing in its corridors, plants spilling over balcony railings, clothes on the line like bunting.

  The door to Evelyn’s mother’s apartment was ajar.

  Iwata nudged it open. ‘Mrs Olivera?’

  Inside there were six beds, each one occupied with men and women at varying stages of deterioration. They were stick thin, their legs little more than bones wrapped in skin, their kneecaps wider than their thighs. All over they had track marks and ruined veins – at the joints, at the ankles, toes blackened. The tang of death hung in the air.

  A man in a nappy at the end of the room had his face covered with a cloth, too weak to fend off the flies. In the next bed a gaunt young man with tattoos ignored his neighbour’s death rattle and watched TV. The local team was playing. It was still 0–0 as the match entered its final throes.

  A woman in a Mickey Mouse T-shirt wearing latex gloves came out of the bathroom holding a tray of syringes. ‘Who are you?’

  Iwata showed his card. ‘I’m a private investigator. Are you the mother of Evelyn Olivera?’

  ‘No, and she died a few months ago.’

  ‘Are you a relative?’

  ‘I live next door. She was my friend. But what does a man in your business want with Patricia Olivera?’

  ‘I’m investigating missing women.’

  The neighbour led him out to the balcony. Children were playing in the courtyard below. ‘I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care to. If you want to ask about my friend, I’m willing to talk. But you should know that asking questions here will lead to bad things. You understand that?’

  ‘I understand.’

  She nodded. ‘Evelyn left her mother’s place to live with a relative. They had argued, I know that. But Patricia wouldn’t go into detail. She only found out Evelyn had left the county later. She held on to the hope that maybe the girl would call or send a postcard. But it was the police that called. When Patricia found out her daughter had been killed, she lost the will to live. They even told her Evelyn was pregnant when she died. Can you imagine? It led my friend to the river, to drugs. She ended up with the same sickness as those people inside. I cared for her at the end. Before Patricia died, she asked me to look after others suffering from her sickness. Here I am.’

  Iwata nodded respectfully. They both looked down at a little girl on the floor below them explaining to a Labrador how to tie shoelaces.

  ‘Ma’am, did Evelyn know somebody called Mara Zambrano?’

  ‘Like the film actress? I don’t know. Did she cross the border too?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Then there is someone you could ask. They call him Lalo. He’s the one that helped her cross over. Like everyone else in this city, he belongs to Bebé Rivera.’

  ‘Where can I find him?’

  ‘You’ll find him in church.’

  17. We Are Watching

  Iwata was continually delayed by crowds and bad traffic. In the city’s central plaza cars came to a standstill to catch a glimpse of a crucifixion reenactment, complete with Roman soldiers and wailing mothers. Over the road, the street vendors were doing good business. Children skipped along the packed sidewalks and licked at flavoured-ice cups.

  The only lane that moved was for taxis
so Iwata parked up and hailed one.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘San Isaías.’ Iwata reeled off the address the neighbour had given him.

  ‘Ah, lovely church. My mother got married there.’

  The driver turned out to be talkative and unhurried, the opposite of what was needed. At a red light a wave of euphoric children ran past. ‘School’s out and they go crazy, huh?’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘When I was a kid the raspados were made with ice from the mountain and real hibiscus flowers. Now days these guys make them with syrup from Walmart.’ He shrugged. ‘Memories are just sandcastles built at low tide.’

  Iwata cut through the philosophy with a five-hundred-peso note. ‘I need to ask you something.’

  He chuckled. ‘If you’re looking for a girl, then we shouldn’t be heading for a church.’

  ‘Bebé Rivera. Where can I find him?’

  The driver eyed Iwata hard in the mirror before handing the money back. ‘You don’t need to pay for that. Everyone knows where he can be found.’ He pointed at the mountain to the north. Squinting, Iwata saw a little cluster of lights overlooking the city and what looked like a white mansion.

  ‘How do I meet him?’

  The driver laughed. ‘Just ring the bell and ask for tea with lemon.’

  In the church of San Isaías Iwata took a seat in the back pew. The floor tiles were black and the walls were adorned only with hand-painted verse and dark wood Christ figurines. Evening Mass had just started.

  To his surprise Iwata crossed himself with everyone else when the priest spoke. As he listened to the words of resurrection and victory over death he kept his eyes on the soft orange glow of the votive candles.

  When it was over the priest, a tall man with a wild grey beard, chatted amiably with the faithful as they shuffled out. Finally, Iwata approached.

  ‘Father Lalo?’

  ‘That’s me. But I haven’t seen you before.’

  ‘I’m not from around here.’ Iwata wondered if there was any place in the world where he’d be able to refute such a statement. ‘I need to discuss something with you.’

  ‘Confession will be taken after Mass tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m not confessing anything.’

  Father Lalo’s eyes lost their warmth. ‘Then what can I do for you?’

  ‘Do you know Mara Zambrano?’

  ‘No, I do not. Now, if I’m not being rude –’

  ‘Evelyn Olivera. I know she came to you for help. And I know you have answers.’

  The priest tugged on his beard for a moment, then led Iwata to the confessional box and slipped past the drapes. ‘Speak quietly.’

  Iwata looked at the mahogany frame of the booth, almost blood red. Above the grille, a Bible verse had been etched:

  Si vuestros pecados fueren como la grana, como la nieve serán emblanquecidos; si fueren rojos como el carmesí, vendrán a ser como blanca lana.

  Though your sins are as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red as crimson, they shall be white as wool.

  Iwata moved his lips close to the grille and words almost tumbled out: ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.’

  Instead, it was Lalo who spoke. ‘Look, it’s true that I used to help people to cross, but that was a long time ago. I can’t do the same for you –’

  ‘I didn’t come for that. I want to know who Mara Zambrano is.’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know any Mara Zambrano. As for Evelyn, she was a good girl but she was living in sin. She cut herself off from the world, from her family. And all for that’ – he struggled to say the word – ‘homosexual.’

  ‘A friend of hers?’

  ‘No, her cousin. Adelmo Contreras.’ Lalo winced at the name. ‘They lived together in a cottage outside the city. It was … an abomination.’

  ‘They wanted to leave this place?’

  ‘Evelyn, God forgive her, came to me for help. Begged me. Said they couldn’t live here any longer, that she wanted a new start for her and the baby. What could I do? I arranged for them to cross the border. She thanked me and went to the migrant shelter.’

  ‘Where is this Adelmo Contreras?’

  ‘They crossed together. That’s all I know.’

  ‘The migrant shelter, where is it?’

  ‘The Diódoro Latapí Refuge is on the outskirts near the border. It’s where they all go. The coyotes come at dusk to make their money.’

  ‘And what about you, Father? How do you make yours?’

  ‘Be sober, my son.’ the priest spoke sadly. ‘Be vigilant; for the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.’

  Iwata left the booth.

  Outside the church Iwata pulled his shirt tighter around his body. The nights were colder here. He stepped on to the sidewalk to hail a taxi when a car horn resounded behind him. It was Detective Valentín behind the wheel.

  She rolled down the window. ‘What did I tell you about poking your nose in?’

  ‘A man can’t pray?’

  Laughing, she started the engine. ‘Get in.’

  It was nearing midnight in a packed dive bar near the river. Reggaetón jangled out of crappy speakers and green neon illuminated thick clouds of marijuana smoke. Valentín was drinking cheap mezcal, Iwata was drinking Mexican Coke, made with real sugar. Between them, there was a bowl of grasshopper salsa and tortilla chips.

  ‘I like it here,’ he offered.

  ‘Me too.’ Valentín smiled. ‘No cops.’

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘A little birdie told me.’ She held his eyes too long. ‘You married, Iwata?’

  ‘Used to be.’ He looked at the dead grasshoppers in the sauce. ‘You?’

  ‘There was a guy once. But the prick went and got himself killed.’ she toasted the river outside.

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Just this place.’

  ‘You ever think about leaving?’

  ‘Where to?’ Valentín smiled. Some smiles were shields. Others were wounds.

  ‘I don’t know, somewhere men aren’t decapitated and slung over bridges.’

  ‘Over here or over there.’ She shrugged. ‘Everybody dies, Iwata.’

  ‘Some more than others.’

  ‘You know’ – Valentín drained the last of her mezcal – ‘I could tell you were a cop the second you opened your mouth.’

  ‘A lot of private investigators are former police. It’s not much of a guess.’

  ‘It wasn’t your little ID card that told me. It was your tone. Even in another language I recognized it.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll bite. Why?’

  ‘Most people live by some guiding principle – money, success, religion, whatever. And they use those principles to place themselves in the scheme of things, the world itself. Now all those principles will, in the end, be self-serving. Mother Teresa didn’t wash feet for fun, right?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Yet in you I see the detective’s contradiction: your only guiding principle is the truth. It’s why you’re here. I mean, I know you didn’t come to watch me drink mezcal because you like the shape of my ass.’

  Iwata laughed. ‘Maybe if we were standing at the bar I’d have a better view. But I haven’t heard a contradiction in your theory yet.’

  ‘The truth is your god. It’s your everything. There’s no self-serving in it. It just is.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But why? Why do you live by it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘That’s the contradiction I’m talking about. See, Iwata, I never knew why, either. Yet we give our entire lives to it. We see things people aren’t designed to see. We try to make sense of the senseless. We expose ourselves to things that ruin us. So how do we live with all that?’

  ‘Learn to accept. Disassociate. Compartmentalize.’

  ‘Exactly. And so we live in this strange no-man’s-land where belief and feeling led us here to begin with. But then, in order t
o survive, we’ve learned to stop believing and feeling anything. You’re like me – your heart is good but rotten.’

  Iwata could only nod. He liked Valentín. It wasn’t anything particularly to do with her, more just the fact that she inhabited the same world as him. There were lots of lonely people. But few lived in his particular brand of solitude.

  ‘Valentín, I saw something this morning and I can’t get it out of my head. Driving into the city, I saw a headless man hanging from a bridge.’

  ‘La Familia Cabral.’ She motioned for another glass. ‘They’re the reason you should leave this place.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘Sooner or later they are going to notice you.’

  ‘Then you might as well tell me what I’m dealing with.’

  ‘Fine.’ Valentín waited for the waitress to leave, then she spoke in a low voice. ‘Fifteen years ago they were just a self-defence group, farmer vigilantes, sick of the kidnappings and murders by the dominant cartel at the time. They followed a strict code. No innocent blood to be spilled, the spoils to be given to charity. They managed to destroy the cartel and they evolved into an official peace-keeping force to ensure Ciudad Cabral remained free of drugs and murder. That was the plan.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  She swallowed her mezcal with great difficulty. ‘Infiltrations from other cartels. Lines blurred. The families at the top got a taste for the good life. And so the narco-flow was reintroduced. A decade later, they’re just a more savage mutation of what went before them. Today, La Familia Cabral controls a dozen major cities across two border states. It’s become an aggressive corporate acquisitions unit. A paramilitary organization. A terror organization. The black trucks, the masks, the beheadings on YouTube? They were doing this a decade before ISIS.’

  ‘Why that name? La Familia?’

  ‘In the beginning, members were all brothers, cousins, fathers. Everybody knew everybody. It was a community thing. But now they’re sending several billion dollars clean to Saint Lucia each year. They own copper-mining projects in South America. Gold, iron ore, wind farms. And what does this city get for it?’ Valentín pointed at the river. Human shadows drifted over the dead water. ‘Thousands living in ñongos, deported and hooked. Black ribbons on doors. Bodies hanging from bridges. Factories full of workers being paid one sixth of what an American makes. Children missing in the desert. And what do we do? We keep the public fooled into thinking they’re unaffected by the people that live in those camps. Or the child prostitutes in the Cuauhtémoc basements. Or the fresh bodies that La Familia serve up every other week. The old ladies stabbing the earth all around this fucking city hoping to smell rotten flesh so they can find their sons, daughters, husbands.’