Hard Luck

by Pascal Scott

  He beckoned her to follow him down a tiled hallway into his study. Closing the door behind him, he nodded toward a set of brown leather recliners. Built-in bookshelves covered two walls, filled with hard-cover volumes, framed family photographs, religious statues, and white candles. A polished wood table served as his desk. Behind it was a leather chair that matched the recliners.

  Elizabeth sat in one of the recliners, leaving it in the upright position. Don Emilio sat in the other. On a round wooden table between them was a box of miniature Cohiba cigars, a gold lighter, and a glass ashtray. Lighting a thin, brown cigar, he puffed until he was satisfied that the flame had taken. There was a knock at the door.

  “Entrar.”

  The butler brought in a tray, on which were two brandy snifters and a bottle of Hennessy cognac.

  “Gracias. Voy a verter.” I will pour.

  The butler left as Don Emilio poured a small amount of cognac into the snifters. After handing one of the glasses to Elizabeth, he picked up the other and swirled the golden liquid before tasting it.

  “You have a beautiful voice,” he said. “Do you sing?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You should sing.” He took another sip. “Tell me something, please. Did they teach you philosophy in your college in California?”

  Elizabeth relaxed into the chair. The only light in the room came from a brass lamp with a stained glass shade on his desk. She sipped her cognac. It was smooth and strong.

  “Yes, sir. Postmodern philosophy.”

  “I am not familiar.”

  “Foucault, Derrida, Deleuze.”

  “I do not know these gentlemen. Perhaps they are important. Perhaps not. I know a great man who was important. An adviser to royalty. Did they teach you Machiavelli?”

  “No, they didn’t.”

  “You must read The Prince. Machiavelli said, ‘Men ought either to be well treated or crushed.’ Machiavelli taught us that a man will avenge himself if his injury is slight. But if his injury is serious, he will be too afraid to avenge himself on such a brute. Therefore, said Machiavelli, when facing an enemy, the injury that is to be done must be so severe that one need not fear revenge.”

  He paused.

  “My daughter conveyed to me your wish for a private meeting with me. You have my ear. Please, speak.”

  Elizabeth cleared her throat and steadied her voice. “Don Emilio, I am here to ask for your protection.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Because you do not feel safe?”

  “I do not feel safe.”

  “You have enemies.”

  “I do. I have enemies.”

  “If I may ask, how do you believe this came to be?”

  “There was a woman,” Elizabeth began tentatively.

  A small smile played on Don Emilio’s lips. “There always is.”

  “She betrayed me.”

  He nodded and looked concerned. Then he rose and went to the bookshelf, where he lit three candles in tall glass jars. He reached down to the lamp and turned it off before returning to his chair. The room was cast into darkness except for the flickering candlelight and the slow-burning flame of his cigar. Its smoke smelled sweet and earthy, like rain-soaked soil.

  “Tell me, please.”

  Was it the candlelight? The incense scent of the Cohiba? Or was it the feel of the cognac like the Eucharist on her tongue? Whatever it was, Elizabeth felt seduced by the church-like setting into letting Don Emilio assume the role of father confessor. She began with Denise and Mickie and the theft of more than seven million dollars, La Pequeña and the hit-for-hire, and when she had finished that, she found herself confessing more. She told him how she had killed Billy.

  He took her confession like a priest. When she had finished, she waited in silence. At last, he spoke.

  “Some of what you have told me tonight I knew. Some I did not.”

  “How could you know? Did Teresa tell you?”

  “She did. She told me about La Pequeña, but I knew even before she told me. Forgive my frankness. You norteamericanos do not appreciate personal relationships. In Mexico, these are what matter. For that reason, I knew of your predicament perhaps even before Teresa.”

  Elizabeth looked puzzled. Don Emilio smiled again.

  “Do not worry. It will be taken care of. You are already safe. So long as you are under my protection, you will be safe.”

  “Thank you, Don Emilio.”

  “You are traveling under an assumed name?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how did you come by this name?”

  “From Denise. Denise gave me a stolen passport.”

  “Ah, Señorita Holland. The untrustworthy Señorita Holland. You will need new papers. I will provide these for you.”

  “Thank you.” It was dangerous to ask, but she asked anyway. “What are you going to do to them?”

  He considered. A long white ash hung on the red tip of his burning cigar.

  “Remember what Machiavelli said? ‘Men ought either to be well-treated or crushed.’ In this case, shall I crush your enemies, Elizabeth? Or are they to be well-treated?”

  Elizabeth considered. “La Pequeña didn’t hurt me. She saved my life, in fact. And Mickie is my foster sister. Even if she knew about the hit, I wouldn’t want her crushed.”

  “I understand.”

  “But Denise, I’m not sure about Denise. She’s the one who tried to have me killed.”

  “It is tempting, is it not?”

  “Yes. But…no. I don’t want to be responsible for that, if it can be done another way.”

  “And yet you, yourself, have killed.”

  “Yes, but only because I was forced to.”

  “Ah. You do not accept responsibility for your actions. Because you are una hija de los Estados Unidos. You norteamericanos let your government kill for you, so you can wash your hands of it and feel clean. Forgive me, but your people have an insatiable appetite for the marijuana and the cocaine of Latin America. If you did not, there would be no need for the Mexican businessman who wants only to sell a marketable product. What your government does not tell you is that it permits the river of drugs into the U.S. so that it can sell its guns to the warring families. Look at your NRA, your CIA. There is violence all around us. The world is a violent place.”

  “You’re right,” Elizabeth said. She was not about to defend the U.S. to a narcotrafficker, even if she believed he was wrong. And he had a point, she could admit at least that much.

  She watched Don Emilio sip his cognac, letting the weight of his words settle. Then she asked, “So, what are you going to do to them? La Pequeña and Mickie and Denise.”

  “I have already spoken to La Pequeña. Her future is with La Familia. As for Señoritas Forrest and Holland, I will find them, and I will talk to them. We will be reasonable people coming to an agreement.”

  “Good.”

  He paused. “Señorita Bundy, you come into my home asking for my protection. And so I must ask, what is it you are offering in return?”

  Elizabeth’s body stiffened. “You’re right, Don Emilio. I am a guest in your home. I will do whatever is necessary.”

  “Ah,” he said. “You are a pragmatist.”

  She looked into his eyes, but they were too dark to read.

  “The money your friends stole. It is a small amount to me, but when it is found, I will take it. This is how you will repay me.”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “I must be clear about something.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “This does not mean that you are part of La Familia. You are a friend of my daughter. Do you see the difference?”

  “Yes, Don Emilio. I do.”

  “Good.”

  He stood.

  “It is late. I will let you sleep. Buenas noches, Señorita Bundy.”

  “Buenas noches, Don Emilio. Y gracias. Gracias por todo.”

  Walking back to her guestroom, Elizabeth took stock. One problem had been solved
. She was now under the protection of one of the most powerful men in Mexico City, who had promised that Denise and Mickie would be dealt with nonviolently. But a new problem had taken its place. When he found it, Don Emilio would appropriate the seven million dollars, or what remained of it, for his own use. And that left Elizabeth with no funds of her own in a foreign country, a murder charge pending back in California, and a known association with a Mexican drug lord. Things were getting complicado.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  On the Monday after the San Miguel weekend, Gabriella made an announcement. Today, they would try a new approach.

  “Conversación y mas conversación. Será como una nina. Escuchará y hablará y aprenderá.”

  Conversation and more conversation. Elizabeth was to become like a child. She would listen and talk and learn the way a child learns a language. Gabriella lit a cigarette and inhaled.

  “Voy a ser. ¿Cómo estuvo su fin de semana?”

  Gabriella would start. How was Elizabeth’s weekend?

  “Bueno. Le vi en el club el viernes en la noche.”

  Good. I saw you at the club in Friday night.

  “Por la noche.” On Friday night.

  “Por la noche,” Elizabeth repeated. “Con su novia.”

  With your sweetheart.

  “No es mi novia. Estamos saliendo.”

  She is not my sweetheart. We are dating.

  “Tengo una pregunta.” I have a question.

  “¿Cuál is su pregunta?” What is your question?

  “Su amiga. Por qué cambia su cabello a—” Your friend. Why does she change her hair to—oh, what was the word for blond? “Amarillo?”

  “A rubia.”

  “¿A rubia?”

  “Blond,” Garbiella said. “Not yellow.”

  “Ah, sí. Por qué cambia su cabello a rubia?”

  Gabriella paused to consider her answer. “Malinchismo,” she said after a moment.

  “Malinchismo,” Elizabeth repeated.

  “La mentalidad colonial. Quando acepta las normas de los extranjeros y rechaza su propia cultura.”

  Malinchism. The colonial mentality. When you accept the standards of the foreigners and reject your own culture.

  “¿Usted no—” What was approve in Spanish? “¿Abrevar?”

  It was the first time she had heard Gabriella laugh.

  “Aprueda.”

  “Aprueda,” Elizabeth repeated.

  “Usted preguntó, ‘You do not water?’”

  “Oh.”

  “Hace la pregunta otra vez, correctamente.” Ask the question again, correctly.

  “¿Usted no aprueda?”

  “Muy bien. No, no lo apruebo.” Very good. No, I do not approve.

  “¿Por qué? Si puedo preguntar.” Why? If I may ask.

  “Ah, es complicado. Le contaré una pequena historia.” It’s complicated. I will tell you a little story.

  “Crecí en la ciudad de Hermosilla, la capital de Sonora.” I grew up in the city of Hermosillo, the capital of Sonora.

  “Mi padre era médico en una clínica privada. Mi madre era ama de casa.” My father is a doctor in the public health care system. My mother is a housewife.

  “Mis abuelos vinieron a México de España.” My grandparents came to Mexico from Spain.

  “No éramos ricos pero me criaron bien.” We were not rich, but I was raised well. “Recibí una educación y valores, y tuve deliciosa comida y vacaciones.” I got an education and values, and I had delicious food and vacations. “¿Entiende?”

  “Sí.”

  “Bueno. Un año, mi padre nos llevó a Cancún, donde el sol volvió mi piel de un color marrón oscuro.” One year, my father took us to Cancun, where the sun turned my skin the color—”

  “¿Marrón oscuro?” Elizabeth asked.

  Gabriella pointed at her eyes. Dark brown.

  “Sí,” Elizabeth said.

  “Cuando regresé con mis compañeros de clase en mi escuela privada, me regañaron por mi bronceado.” When I returned to my classmates at my private school—

  “¿Qué significa esto? Me regañaron por mi bronceado.”

  “They scolded me for my tan,” Gabriella translated. “Dijeron que mi piel clara había sido mi mejor característica.” They said that my—

  “¿Piel clara?” Elizabeth asked.

  She touched Elizabeth’s cheek, holding her fingers there for a moment.

  “Light skin,” Gabriella said in English. They said my light skin had been my best feature. “Es así.” It is like that.

  “Lo siento,” Elizabeth said, feeling the need to apologize for Gabriella’s experience and for her own light skin and the privileges that went with it.

  Gabriella shrugged. “Estoy haciendo un punto.” I am making a point.

  “Yo entiendo. Es un punto triste.” I understand. It is a sad point.

  “Sí, lo es. Malinchism.”

  Elizabeth changed the subject. “¿Cómo usted conoce a las Barreras?” How do you know the Barreras?

  “Todos en Sonora conocen las Barreras. Específicamente, mi padre atendía a los linaje del Señor Barrera como su médico.” Everyone knows the Barreras. Specifically, my father—

  “¿Atendía a los linaje?” Elizabeth asked. “Attended to the associates?”

  “Sí. He took care of the associates of Señor Barrera as their doctor,” Gabriella said. “Cuando Don Emilio te pide algo, lo haces por él.” When Don Emilio asks something of you, you do it for him.

  Well, yeah, Elizabeth knew that only too well. How do you say, “You are preaching to the choir” in Spanish? But it was probably one of those idioms that would get lost in translation.

  “Discutamos algo mas,” Gabriella said. Let’s discuss something else.

  “Muy bien. Tengo una pregunta. Teresa está…” Elizabeth struggled for the words. “Como sé dice in the closet?” Elizabeth lapsed into English. “Teresa is in the closet. I wanted to ask if you are you in the closet. Like Teresa.”

  “No comprendo. What does this mean, to be in the closet?”

  “It means you aren’t out. You aren’t open about being a lesbian.”

  “Ah,” Gabriella said. They were speaking only English now. “No, I am not in your closet. What we say here is cuento conmigo.”

  “I count with me?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Correct.”

  “In San Francisco, we call that gay pride.”

  “Yes, we are proud of who we are. We count.”

  “Really? There’s a gay community here? I mean, besides the one in the bars.”

  “Of course! We had our first parade in 1979. We opened a community center in 1994. There is a presidential election next year. The Party of the Democratic Revolution is nominating Patria Jiménez to run for the legislature. She is an open lesbian.”

  “An out lesbian. I didn’t know Mexico was so, ah…”

  “Modern? You thought we were what you call a third-world country? Because only Anglos belong in the first world?”

  “Well, no, but…

  “You norteamericanos have much to learn from us, I believe.”

  “You’re right,” Elizabeth said. “We do. I’m learning from you already.”

  “Yes,” Gabriella said, as if she just remembered her purpose. “Debemos hablar español.” We must speak Spanish.

  “Sí. Hablaremos español ahora,” Elizabeth said. Yes, we will speak Spanish now.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  It was not an easy thing to be a businessman in Mexico in the 1990s. In January 1994, President Carlos Salinas de Gortari and President Bill Clinton signed the North America Free Trade Agreement. NAFTA was supposed to build a middle class in Mexico but, instead, broke the back of its farmers and its indigenous population. Despite its good intentions, NAFTA turned out to be very bad for the poor and very good for the rich, including men like Don Emilio. NAFTA opened up the trade routes across the border, making it easier to get a product to market. After NAFTA, cocaine went north for sal
e hidden in the wheels of the convoys of commercial trucks carrying coffee and cotton, electronics and television sets. Wealth poured into Mexico, billions of American dollars, but not into the coffers of the poor or the middle class. It went into the pockets of the elite.

  In December 1994, newly inaugurated President Ernesto Zedilla devalued the peso. Immediately, the peso fell fifteen percent as foreign capital sought safer investments. Panicking further, President Zedilla let the peso float. It then fell another fifteen percent. By 1995, the peso had lost half of its value. This, too, was bad for the country but good for men like Don Emilio, who accepted payment in American dollars, not pesos, for his merchandise.

  Across the border, President Clinton organized a six billion-dollar bailout from the U.S. government to Mexico. Despite this, Mexico suffered a severe recession. Banks failed. Unemployment nearly doubled. Real wages crashed. Mortgages went unpaid. Homes were lost. In 1996, one of every three Mexicans lived in poverty.

  All this was bad for Mexico but good for La Familia. A people who are hungry and homeless are a people who are easy to recruit. They will work for you and be thankful for the work. And if they are not? If they change their mind and try to leave once they have been recruited? Well, then they will be killed and their bodies displayed like warning signs, hung from the bridges for everyone to see. Don Emilio knew that Machiavelli was a wise man. Machiavelli could have told everyone how events would play out in Mexico.

  Even before Elizabeth came to Don Emilio with her request for protection, he had known all about Señoritas Holland and Forrest. He knew, for example, that Señorita Forrest was a guest of the Hotel Rosa, the luxury hotel on the Avenida Paseo de La Reforma, and that Señorita Holland was back in San Francisco, talking to the FBI. Moreover, Don Emilio knew that on Sunday, June 2, Señorita Holland had called a Hells Angel named Dan Shelton to confirm that the hit on Señorita Bundy had been carried out. The Angel had told her there had been a problem, and she had hung up on him. His next call had been to his superior in the club, and the message had gone up the chain of command until it had reached Don Emilio.