by Rebecca Shea
“Uh-huh.” He winks at me. “And clearly, he was smitten.”
“He’s nice. I’ve only talked to him for a few minutes, but I’m impressed. He’s clearly ambitious, has a good career—”
“What does he do?” Jax inquires.
“Not sure. He said he works for the government.”
Jax nods. “Ah, I think he’s one of those federal guys. He’s been coming in almost every day for a few years. Like clockwork, he gets the dark roast. Creature of habit, predictable. I like that quality in people.”
“Federal guys?” I ask as Jax sorts cash from the register. I’m curious and digging for information.
“I think it’s something law enforcement related.” He shrugs casually. “I’ve seen his badge before when he pulled out his wallet. Just didn’t know exactly what kind. Probably an investigator with the IRS.” He laughs, then counts the bills under his breath.
“He asked me to dinner,” I admit as Jax fills the large metal iced tea dispenser.
Jax raises both eyebrows. “And…”
“And I don’t know. I said I can’t.” Because I love Alex.
Jax frowns, confused. “Is there a reason you shouldn’t go to dinner with him?”
I let out a nervous chuckle. “Is that your way of asking if I’m single?”
Jax laughs out loud. I love how our friendship is developing. I can tell he’s someone I can trust. I’ve had so few of those in my life; it’s a comforting feeling. “Not really. I’m more of a ‘let’s be direct with each other’ kind of guy… but sure. Are you single?” he asks nervously and stills as he waits for me to answer.
I feel myself starting to squirm. “It’s complicated.” Understatement of the century.
Jax lets out a long, dramatic sigh. “You and half the people on Facebook are in a complicated relationship.”
“I’m not in a relationship, I don’t think. That’s why it’s complicated.” I want to be in a relationship with Alex more than anything, but I heard his words loud and clear last night when he said he couldn’t offer me anything more than sex, and my heart hurts. I never expected anything to happen with Alex, but like the tornado that he is, he pulled me into his storm and uprooted me. And just like a treacherous storm, he’s shaken me with his truths and abandoned me when he left this morning.
“You don’t think you’re in a relationship?” Now he’s thoroughly confused.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“So, you don’t really know?”
“Right.”
“Jesus, you’re complicated.” He shakes his head at me and chuckles. “Well, if it’s that complicated, then having dinner with Loverboy isn’t such a bad thing, you know? Maybe it’ll bring some clarity to your situation.” He says that last word with a hint of sarcasm, then laughs again and stands.
“Yeah, maybe,” I mutter, although I don’t think anything will bring clarity right now.
“Sunshine, I wish I had your complications.”
“Do you have lady problems, Jax?” I turn the tables on him.
“More like lack of lady problems.” He sighs lightly and shakes his head, dropping the subject and continuing on with work.
Jax hums as we finish the afternoon rush. The day has flown by just as it did yesterday. Megan spends most of her time working in the back office, since Jax and I have the front handled. I make a point of glancing out the front window every hour or so, and Andres hasn’t moved once today. As I’m wiping down the counter, I smile at Jax’s assessment of Sam.
“Look, go home and get some rest. I’ll finish up here.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes! Here.” He hands me another envelope. “Today’s tips.”
I untie my apron and hang it up before collecting my belongings. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Have a good one, Sunshine!”
I should turn right, but my feet take me left. Heat from the scorching pavement seeps through my flat sandals, and I can almost feel the soles of my feet begin to burn as I walk quickly through downtown Phoenix. It’s late afternoon, and the sun is as hot as ever. The tall palm trees provide little shade as I walk briskly toward my destination.
My long legs take the steps at the large church two at a time. I stop to catch my breath at the top of the stairs. Gathering myself, I pull open one of the large wooden doors and step inside. It’s dark with just the sun shining through the stained-glass windows. There’s one light over the altar, illuminating the large crucifix behind it.
The church is quiet. No one is here, so I walk slowly down the long aisle, my fingers brushing the top of each pew. Sliding into one near the front, I sit quietly, a million thoughts and emotions bubbling at the surface.
I’ve never been a spiritual person, but there’s no denying the presence I feel here. I stare at the large crucifix in front of me. It reminds me of the one Alex wears around his neck. At that, I close my eyes and think of him, tears burning under my closed eyelids. How can a person be so good to me and still be the person he claims to be?
A tear slips out, and I swat it away, soaking in the comfort of the church. I spend a few minutes praying to a God I’m still not sure exists, or is even listening to me.
“Emilia?” Even though the voice is gentle, I still startle.
“Father Mark.” I exhale loudly. “You scared me.”
He chuckles. “I’m sorry. I was surprised to see anyone in here.”
“I hope it’s okay I stopped by? I think I just needed to be here.” To clear my head, if that’s even possible.
“You’re always welcome here,” he says, his face so kind. “Mind if I sit down with you?”
“Please.” I scoot over a bit, and he slides in next to me.
“What’s bothering you, child?”
Child… I forget ever being a child. To be carefree and innocent. “You’re the second person to ask me that today. Is it that obvious?”
“Emilia, you’re crying. And most people don’t show up here in the afternoon for a simple visit. They’re usually reflecting or giving their problems to God.”
“If only it were so easy to just give your problems to God.” I snicker.
“Emilia. It is as easy as giving your problems to God. He won’t be able to fix them, but he’ll certainly guide you and show you how.”
I contemplate his words.
As I’m in my thoughts, he says, “Tell me what’s bothering you, child.”
Those traitorous tears are back and quickly filling my eyes. I feel my lips shake and my chin quiver as I try to form words. After several failed attempts, I just shake my head, and he squeezes my hands, which are folded in my lap.
“When you’re ready, I’ll be here.”
I nod, bury my face in my hands, and sob—loud, painful, breath-stealing sobs. I sense Father Mark quietly leave, and I lean forward to rest my arms on the pew in front of me. I silently pray to God to show me, guide me, and offer me some direction. Raising my head, I stare at the statue of the Virgin Mary that sits in front of me, her arms open and welcoming. The church begins to get darker as the sun retreats in the sky. With a sigh, I stand to leave, but not before I whisper another quiet prayer.
As I turn, I notice Andres in the very back pew, not even attempting to hide himself. Not that he could. As I head down the aisle toward the door, he keeps his eyes turned down, but noiselessly stands as I pass him.
“Let’s go, big guy,” I mutter as I exit out into the sweltering Phoenix night. I glance back at the church once as I amble away, Andres on my heels. Today was a first for me. I gave my problems to God. Now let’s see if he can figure out what I should do, because I sure as hell can’t.
YOU KNOW YOU’RE in Mexico when the smell of exhaust burns your nose. As I maneuver this pickup truck through the pothole-riddled streets, I glance warily at the rundown concrete buildings doubling as bars, neon lights flashing signs for Modelo and Bud Light. I’m on my way to meet a business partner about a shipment of guns we have line
d up for delivery, but this piece of shit pickup does little to disguise me in this small town in northwestern Sonora. Everyone knows everyone here, and I’m the outsider.
Men stand on street corners and hold their stare as I drive slowly through the streets, scanning the area for the building I’m meeting Navarro at. There are no building numbers to guide me. All I know is it’s a teal building with a Tecate billboard above it.
Dust kicks up from the gravel street as I turn the steering wheel quickly, finally spotting the building. Juan Santiago and Alvaro pull up in a truck next to me. They work for my father here in Mexico and will ensure my safety while I’m here. As a habit, I make note of my surroundings before I exit the truck and approach the steel door. I nod at a local who’s made it his business to let me know he’s watching me, and he turns and goes back to whatever he was tending to.
I inhale a deep, calming breath before tugging the heavy door open. Inside, it looks like any other dive bar. Tall, beat-up pub tables are scattered throughout the sparse room. A few pool tables line the wall to the left with lights flickering over them—a sign of Mexico’s still badly managed utility infrastructure.
“Estrada,” the deep voice calls out from a corner booth behind me. When I turn, I see Navarro, flanked by two women—prostitutes, I assume. Empty shot glasses and beer bottles line the table, and I can make out the red, burning light of a cigarette.
“Navarro,” I say as I approach the table. He reaches out his hand to shake mine and nods for me to take a seat across from him.
Juan Santiago takes a seat at the bar to watch us, and Alvaro stands near the entrance. They’re good. They position themselves away from each other, but where they can easily watch everything happening inside.
“Ladies, Alejandro Estrada.” Navarro introduces me with excitement in his voice.
I swallow hard and nod politely, barely containing my cringe when I see the bruises lining the inner arm of one of the women, a telltale signs that she’s a junkie. Both women are dressed provocatively and hanging on each of his arms. I feel simultaneously disgusted and sympathetic toward them, but I hide it. I hide it all, keeping my face professional, powerful; exactly the façade I need to have while I’m here, even though I’m tired of this charade.
“Navarro, thanks for meeting me on such short notice.”
“Is there a problem, son?”
“No, but we need to move back the shipment and change the route of the AKs. ATF is all over my ass, and I’m sure they’ve got our route marked. They’re waiting to take this shipment out.” Cortez and his men have been everywhere. The nice thing is they make their presence known. They don’t hide. They want me and my business and they’re brazen about taking it.
He nods as he licks his lips. “We can manage that. We’ll come through Texas instead. Will take us longer to get them to you, but it’s safer, I agree. It’ll cost more, you know.” He narrows his eyes slightly, an unspoken understanding that I’ll have to pay.
I nod firmly. “I’m willing to pay. My buyers understand there will be a slight delay.”
“Then let me make a few calls. How long will you be in Mexico?” the old man asks with a raspy voice. He reminds me of my father but heavier with short graying hair and dark sullen eyes.
“Not long. Tending to a few things, then I need to get back to Phoenix.”
“How are you managing? I know things are tough right now.” He glances at a man that stands with his elbow propped on the bar. I presume it’s one of his men.
I sigh loudly, but don’t want to let on that shit is bad. Navarro knows; he’s testing me. “We’re doing good. Shipments have been coming in—”
“Of all kinds?” he interrupts me, meaning drugs, guns—humans.
“Yes.”
“Good. And you’re turning them quickly?”
He watches me closely, and I keep my face neutral. The girls giggle with each other, paying no attention to us. “We are. We never hold on to goods long. We get them out of our hands, into the buyers’. Safest way to do business.”
“Smartest way, son.” He nods, pleased. “Your father was right about you. I’m proud of you.”
Bile rises in my throat as he says this. Nothing could be further from the truth. I hate this business. I’d drive it into the fucking ground if I could. Honestly, I’m damn near tempted to, but I fake a smile and nod once again.
“Thank you.” It’s all I can say right now without showing how sick I feel.
“So, let me call you tomorrow after I make a few calls.”
“Sounds good.” I reach across the table and offer the man my hand once more, a sign of respect and thanks.
He’s doing me a huge favor, and he didn’t have to. I slide out of the booth, feeling every eye on me as I approach the exit. I can’t help but wonder who works for whom, or who is a lookout for other organizations and how fast word will spread that I’m in town. Being at the top of the Estrada Cartel and running the show, I’m a target. The head they want severed and delivered to our rivals, and, if delivered, I’m the body that would bring our organization down.
It’s dark when I start the truck and head back toward my dad’s ranch on the outskirts of town. Juan Santiago and Alvaro are following closely behind me. We’re a little over an hour from the border, but it feels like the heart of Central Mexico. I drive cautiously down the bumpy street, careful not to hit stray dogs or call attention to my vehicle. The drive to the ranch takes about twenty minutes, and I’m happy to see the security Dad has in place is still there. It’s more of a compound than a ranch. With high stucco walls and decorative wrought iron that doubles as security fencing, it stands out in a town where dilapidated houses are the norm.
I pull up to the gate and roll down my window. Rogelio sweeps the truck before letting me through with a curt nod, and I park the truck next to my SUV, stepping down onto the cobblestone driveway. Rogelio stands outside the gate with a semi-automatic rifle propped on his shoulder as the gates slowly close. Small landscape lights illuminate the palm trees in the front yard. The landscape is manicured to perfection, another thing my dad set in place, even from jail.
Even with him in Federal custody, life in Mexico seems to continue as if he’s a free man. No one misses a beat. The house is tidy and his housekeeper keeps food in the fridge and the pantry. Security is tight, and the Mexican contingency of his business is still operating as usual. I haven’t been here in years, but everything is exactly the same, a testament to my father’s high standards.
My mobile phone rings. It’s my father’s defense attorney, Jefferson Whitley.
“Mr. Whitley,” I answer.
“Mr. Estrada. Is now a good time to talk?”
“It is.”
“Good. I just wanted to update you on a few things. I have good news and bad news. The good news is, I may be able to get your father released until trial. We’re asking for a reduced bail amount, and the hearing is scheduled for next week. The bad news is, you’re still going to have to come up with at least half a million to make that happen.”
“It’s not a problem,” I respond. We have millions of dollars in a clean bank account if we need it.
“Good, then I’ll keep you posted. I think it’s best if you steer clear of the hearing.”
“Yes, sir.” I’m not sure if I’m more stressed or relieved that my father will be out of prison soon.
The phone clicks, and he’s gone. I’m sure that call will cost me two hundred and fifty dollars. I grumble under my breath as I take a moment to check for other messages and texts. My finger hovers over Emilia’s name. I just want to hear her voice, to see if she’ll speak with me, but then the front door swings open and Rogelio enters with another man.
“Alejandro. This is Fernando. You two have never met. He’s taking over for me out front for the evening. I’ll be back in the morning.”
I shake Fernando’s hand.
“Let me know if you need anything,” Fernando responds before closing the door.
The doors to my dad’s office are open, and I step inside. A large, hand-carved wooden desk takes up the center of the room. A laptop sits on the desk with its screen closed, and bookshelves line an entire wall. Dispersed amongst books are small, decorative items and a few framed pictures. One large frame holds a picture of my mom. Her long, dark hair is swept back over her shoulders, her head tipped back in laughter, and her hand over her heart. A smile tugs at my lips at the pure joy emanating from her face, but that smile quickly disappears as I remember that it was this business that took her from me—from my family. If I really think about it, this business that has given our family its wealth and reputation has also taken everything. My mother is dead, my father in jail, our family torn apart. I have nothing. Except…
Emilia…
I sit down at the desk, open the laptop, and enter the password that pulls up contact names, addresses, business information, and financials. Long ago, my father and I agreed on a password in the event that one of us would be incapacitated. Another reality of this life.
The screen comes to life and folders populate the screen. I spend the next hour doing spreadsheets, moving money in and out of bank accounts, and sending out emails. While the goods we’re moving are illegal, we operate like a legitimate business. And as I sit here, I feel much more at home. This is where I belong, behind the desk, not running shipments of heroin, weed, guns, and setting up transportation routes for smuggling people into the country. I run the business. I have no business wielding a gun and running drugs.
An hour later, and I’m still scrolling through endless files, saving the ones I don’t have at home to a flash drive. There’s a light knock on the door, and a young woman peeks her head inside.
“Mr. Estrada. I’m Esperanza, your father’s housekeeper. May I bring you anything to eat or drink?” She looks barely eighteen, her hair pulled into a ponytail and her dark brown eyes doe-eyed and innocent. I hate when my father hires young girls. I hope her involvement here doesn’t get her killed.