Hard Bite

by Anonymous-9

  There's just one thing. What if the guitarist says no?

  The sweet notes come back, the smooth gliding scales, and resonant low notes. She shivers and decides to make sure he says yes.

  ***

  Twenty minutes later, she stares at her naked self in the bathroom mirror. Usually, when she stares it's at her body in clothing because now that Alejandro's gone that's all that really matters—how she looks in clothes. But now that she has decided to offer something in return for a favor, it seems important. Her breasts are still large and firm, rounder perhaps and a little lower, but not unpleasing. Her waist is trim, hips and thighs lush but still good. These days younger men seem to have a fascination with older women anyway—so they take the age with experience. What's the old saying? "Plenty of good tunes in an old guitar."

  The hotel is equipped with every comfort, including a travel kit of toiletries and beauty tools. Impulsively she grabs a pair of small scissors and a razor. She trims her pubic hair away until it's very short over the pubis. The razor renders it similar to pictures of women she's seen that Luis and Mateo think they are hiding on their computers. A knock comes on the door.

  "Orella, qué pasa?

  There are no secrets from Maria. Orella opens the door without trying to hide her nakedness and holds up the razor. "I'm going to get the guitarist to play for Malverde," she says simply.

  Maria purses her lips. "I'll have the hotel deliver some clothes." Neither mentions the luggage lost with the abandoned taxicab. If what's lost can be replaced with money, it's not worth mentioning.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Laid on her bed is a selection from the hotel shop. Next door, the camaradas are resting. The hotel has sent a sleeveless dress of soft silk that skims the lines of her body. Her hair is long and loose. Seated on el sofá Maria watches her leave.

  "I'm just going as far as the café," Orella says, and slips outside heading across the grounds to the main hotel. Her new sandals tap the Mexican tile of the breezeway lined with hierba luisa growing in generous terra cotta pots. The clean, lemon scent is a reminder she's back in Mexico. Vibrant, inviting Mexico. As long as you have money she reminds herself.

  She pulls back the glass door into the hotel and cool air bathes her face. Shimmering notes spill from the café into the lobby. She follows the sound, and seats herself, pretending no interest in the player. After the events so far, a cocktail is welcome. The menu is surprisingly cosmopolitan. She orders a Mexican mojito, based on the Cuban recipe with lemon, lime and crushed mint. Instead of rum, it calls for tequila and a splash of agave. One sip and there's no going back to margaritas.

  The guitarist stops playing and when she looks up, he's almost at the table. "Good evening, welcome to the Ochos Palmeras. I'm Arturo."

  She tilts her head attractively. "Thank you."

  "You're a guest here?"

  "Yes. Thought I'd have a late dinner.

  He's looking at the curve of her breast. She pretends not to notice. "You play so well and this is such a little café. I'm surprised."

  "I'm on loan from the University. I play here over the dinner hour."

  "How late do you play?'" Slightly flirtatious but non-committal.

  "Until you leave, señorita."

  Señorita. How long had it been since someone called her señorita?

  The next hour passes, sharing smiles and glances. He dedicates Besame Mucho to her.

  Another break and as she sips another fresh mojito he comes back to the table. "Señorita, have you been to the Jardines Botanico? The outdoor artwork is superb, I hear."

  She had heard. The garden was other worldly compared to the streets of Culiacan—fresh and verdant, where pathways meandered under canopies of vine and stately palms stood at attention. "It's supposed to be one of the wonders of the world, " she answers.

  "There is a sculpture called Madre Naturaleza, the head of a beautiful woman, reclining. She looks like you."

  ***

  At the door of her casita they share a deep kiss, and fumble inside. She knows Maria must be listening from behind the closed bedroom door. As she lets down the top of her dress, she estimates the time and effort needed to extract what she wants. He exposes her breasts, which seems to please him a lot. Unbuttoning his shirt she whispers, "Tomorrow afternoon I need a favor. With your guitar."

  "For you, my guitar will do anything." He strokes her bare skin. Buena, he likes her body, enjoying its curves with his tongue.

  In an hour, they pause for some champagne out of the little frig. She pours some in his navel and licks it out.

  "Does it taste better that way?" he asks.

  "Definitivemente."

  They leave the living room and tear the covers off the bed, sheets too. They knock over a chair and tip the lamp from the desk. The rug burns their skin and they don't mind, don't stop.

  From behind, she feels his erection move to the forbidden place—flinches but doesn't stop him. Only Alejandro did this. But handsome young musicians are used to women spoiling them… and this will be the tariff. She presses her body back against him.

  "Wait," he says.

  He searches his pants on the floor and brings out a little bottle of something—a clear liquid. Holds it up, shakes it a little.

  "You came prepared."

  "What kind of man would I be?

  She laughs and lets him slather some on both of them.

  A few hours later she hears him slipping clothes on in the dark.

  "Don't leave," she murmurs.

  "I have to." He comes over and caresses her nakedness.

  "Don't forget my favor," she murmurs.

  "What is it?"

  "Play at the shrine of Malverde this afternoon. Your beautiful music."

  "Darling, querido, I don't play the corrida."

  "Not the corrida. I want the classical Spanish guitar."

  "The shrine of Malverde? You can't be serious. What would the university think?" He laughs." I couldn't show my face after—"

  SMACK. The other bedroom door flies back—a door he'd paid no attention to before now—and Arturo looks into the icy, glittering eyes of Maria Stamos. Holding a gun.

  "What—" he starts.

  "Maria, call the camarades next door." Orella smiles reassuringly. "Don't worry, they'll treat you well until you play for us this afternoon."

  "Who are you?" His expression is outraged. Surprised as only a law-abiding man can be.

  "My name is Orella Malalinda." The blood drains out of his face, as expected.

  ***

  A short while later, she's smuggled into the back of the mortuary. Footsteps echo on the stone stairs and bounce off the close, cement walls. The place has a dry, crumbling smell. Many souls have passed through.

  Ambrose has his own cold chamber, registering a temperature of two degrees Celsius. The attendant unlocks the door, expertly opens the coffin and lifts the lid. The sight of him takes her breath away. His clothes are still crisp and fresh. The suit still fits beautifully and the fine material has an expensive sheen to it that makes him seem to glow. He looks like an angel. "Mijo," she says, stroking his hand. "I'm having a special tribute to Malverde, just for you. Tonight, you'll go to be with Papá in his house." She bends for a kiss, but remembers her lipstick and pats his hand instead. "I love you. Mañana."

  In the early light, the cemetery gardens are serene and solitary. Birds stir in the acacia trees, neon crosses flare against the sky. Orella wanders past ornate crypts and mausoleums, thresholds heaped with wreaths and flowers—past fragrant, flowering bushes, balloons and stuffed animals, silk flower arrangements, votive candles burning and occasional bullet holes in the concrete. Tonight is Vigil and she'll share quiet tears and whispered comforts with wives and girlfriends of the cartel family. After requiem mass, Ambrose will be interred in the Malalinda mausoleum beside his father. It will be beautiful.

  ***

  In the morning, Maria orders room service and brings the tray to Orella's bedside. Rea
l Café de Olla, roasted bean coffee brewed with cinnamon, aniseeds and brown sugar, made in a clay pot that lends earthy richness to the flavor.

  "Why don't we make this back in California?"

  Maria shrugs.

  "Push-button espresso is easier, huh?"

  Orella lifts the cover from a breakfast of capirotada, bread toasted not fried, dipped in brown sugar syrup and served with scrambled eggs, cheese, mashed bananas, raisons and nuts. Sinaloa style. Both women are ravenous and eat silently until it's time to dress for the day.

  The humble peasant-woman in the mirror will pass as a local at the shrine of Malverde. Orella slips flat shoes on her feet and scuffs them together, making wear marks here and there. "Maria," she calls, "tell them we're ready." She folds a large scarf and tucks it in her purse while everything of value goes on her person. The shrine of Malverde can be crowded and a purse is tempting for pickpockets. She takes two large bills, folds them flat and safety pins them into her bra. A stiletto switchblade goes into the waistband of the skirt. A final adjustment of this stifling outfit and she steps outside the casita with Maria. The camarades appear with Arturo and his guitar case, one on either side. A practiced eye would notice both men wear shoulder holsters.

  "Arturo," she says lightly and kisses him on both cheeks. Close to his ear she drops her voice to whisper, "My backside is still throbbing. " He looks at the ground and stays silent. They walk over the tended lawn as a group, looking like any band of tourists to the casual observer.

  Malverde's shrine is just around the corner from the statehouse but driving directly there calls too much attention. Several blocks away the driver lets them out and she pulls the scarf—unfortunately made of wool—over her head like a woman from the farmlands. In this heat it's like putting a blanket on and sweat trickles down her back. Orella lets herself be escorted. The corrida brays from blocks away. Brass instruments and an accordion overlay the bustle on the street, as a loud-lunged singer belts:

  En un mesquite colgado, Jesus Malverde,

  Ahora queda una tumba, con flores, y musica,

  Nos protegen, por favor, Jesus Malverde!

  Hanged in a mesquite, Jesus Malverde,

  Now is a grave, with flowers and music.

  Protect us, please, Jesus Malverde!

  Street-sellers hawk candles, plaques, amulets, prayer cards and plastic-wrapped busts of Malverde. Booklets on display tell the history—that he was hanged across the street, that back at the turn of the century, he robbed from the rich and gave to the poor, like Robin Hood. A hundred years later, traffickers pray and make offerings to Malverde for good crops, safe transport and protection.

  Once, she tried having a conversation about Malverde with a priest in an LA parish. It did not go well. The priest's serene expression had withered into contempt…

  "This myth is not Catholic, my dear. There is no documented evidence he even existed, and if he did, the legend shows a criminal."

  "Father you don't understand. He did good things. He robbed to give money to the poor."

  "He was just a man, not a saint. Never a saint."

  "Malverde understands us, Father"

  The priest waved her away and turned his back. She never returned to that church again.

  Suddenly they are at the worn, blue doorway of the shrine. She turns to give instructions to Arturo—she can see his beautiful mouth moving. Eyes wide with terror, he's calling silently for help to someone, anyone in the crowd. He must assume they are going to kill him after the concert. Orella considers...he might be right.

  Arturo hefts the guitar into the air and then shoves it roughly into Orella's men. They scuffle to subdue him as he shouts, "Socorro! Help me!" Maria is knocked to the ground as the guitar case hits her and falls open. Orella tries to pull it from harm's way, but a heavy foot stumbles back on it, tramping on the fine wood and splintering it into pieces. Someone screams, "Federales!" Orella hauls Maria up by the arm. Gunfire tears up a cart in front of them—exploding beads and plaster. Federales have them spotted. Two men hurry toward them in a crouch.

  A woman and child dart across the path. Orella snatches the child and whips out a switchblade, holding it to the small girl's throat. The mother screams in horror but it stops the Federales in their tracks. People fleeing and scuffling partially hide Orella as she keeps her back to the building and crab-walks sideways with the struggling child in front and Maria clinging to her side.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The girl is about six years old, raging and trying to fight. "Stop, stop I won't hurt you," Orella growls. As they back around the corner, carnales engage out front with fresh firepower. Orella puts away the blade. "It's just a game," she says to the enraged child. "Mama said it's okay." The girl is having none of it and elbows Orella in the stomach. Hooking both arms under the child's, Orella finds the main arteries on both sides of her neck and squeezes. The child grows limp before Orella releases her neck.

  Sirens wail close by and people stream in all directions but no one stops them. By her side, Maria bleeds from the shoulder.

  "Maria, you got a gun?"

  "No, just a blade, like you."

  "Hold onto me."

  Maria grasps Orella with her good arm and they flee. With no free hand to stop it, Orella's headscarf slips off and sails away. A shout comes from across the street. "Malalinda!" An old street seller is in the mouth of an alley. He waves his arm. Can he be trusted? There are no other options so Orella steers across the street. A woman can be seen standing beside a rickety cart, peering over his shoulder.

  "This way!" the man indicates and they withdraw down the alley, stinking with trash.

  "Do I know you?"

  "I know your picture. Your husband, he was a famous man in Culiacan."

  "Where did you see my picture?"

  "In the homes of the bosses." He's regarding her like a rock star, like royalty.

  "Can you get us out of here?"

  "We were on our way to sell at the shrine when we saw what happened. We retreated here. This alley is blind. The only way out is the street."

  "That's not safe."

  The child moans. Whites of her eyes show. Maria looks stern. "Have you got anything to calm her? When she wakes we can't have her screaming her head off."

  The woman moves forward. "Si Señora. A little Dust of the Angels for an angel." She rummages in the cart and takes out a vial half full of powder. Dipping a pinkie in it, she motions to Maria who holds the child's lower lip out. The woman coats the inside of the child's mouth with the powder. "That will keep her happy."

  "Gracias," Orella smiles gratefully. "Will you sell me your cart and your clothes, por favor? How much do you want?"

  The man backs away. "Señora, the cart is my life."

  Orella rummages in her blouse, holds out a thousand dollar bill. "Take all the merchandise you need out of it." She winks, "Including the dust. Buy two carts. Buy three." The man's eyes grow large. The woman is already slipping out of her faded skirt.

  "You trade with me," she orders the man. "I'm taller."

  He grabs the money with one hand and unfastens his pants with the other. His wife feels around in the cart and pulls out a rag which she ties over his head like a scarf. "Nobody will know who you are," she murmurs.

  She rearranges things in the cart and makes a space on a pile of rags. Taking the unconscious child from Orella's arms, she places her on the bottom, out of sight.

  ***

  An old couple with a homely cart emerge from the alley. The small woman of the pair is bent over with a hump on her back. The little old man guides her with a shaky hand. Hauling the creaking wagon behind them tinkling with beads, gewgaws and candy, the fragile old twosome make their way up the street. Sirens wail and federales comb the area, yet they pass undisturbed.

  In a few miles there's rustling at the bottom of the cart. The child sits up. She is a little wobbly with a faint smile on her face. "Hola Mama," she chirps. She does not recognize that Maria is not her
mother. Maria takes down a packet of sugar candies hanging on the cart and gives them to her.

  Eventually they come upon a pay phone and with no small difficulty, Orella makes a collect call. Back in Los Angeles, Luis picks up.

  "Yes, I'll accept the call," he tells the operator.

  "I need you to contact the family."

  "Mama?"

  "We had a little trouble. Maria and I need to be picked up."

  "Where are you?"

  She squints at the street signs. "Still in Culiacan. Ciudad Street where it meets Oregas."

  By the time an unmarked van pulls up, the child is unconscious again. "We heard what happen," the driver says.

  "I need to drop this little angel off."

  "Where? We can't go to a police station."

  "She needs to stay safe. I don't need a kid on my head."

  "Qué tal un hospitalidad?"

  "Sure. Then lets get out of here."

  Orella removes the remaining thousand dollar bill from her bra. She fishes inside the child's skirt and finds the elastic waistband of her underpants, safety-pinning the bill inside her panties. "Mama will find this when she gets you back," Orella whispers. "This will make it all better."

  Maria shakes the girl awake. "Come on, time to go home."

  The child opens her glazed eyes. "Mama," she says plaintively.

  Navigating the narrow streets at top speed, the van finally pulls over and Orella points to the main entrance of the hospital. "Up there. Mama up there," she says to the girl.