by L T Ryan
She watched as Ayala disappeared into the café's doors two block up from where Hatch stood. Satisfied it was safe to proceed, she stepped off in the direction of the Peacock Man, walking in a slow meandering, touristy sort of way. Blend, even when you stand out, one of her survival instructors always said to her. Hatch was already at a disadvantage in her ability to blend in with the crowd as she was an American female. This was only worsened by the fact that she was also a few inches taller than anybody else around her, including the men.
Two old men squabbled in rapid fire Spanish in front of the bodega next door. The clamor of their argument was washed away by the loud hiss of an espresso machine the moment Hatch entered Café de Rosa. The aroma of fresh ground coffee beans swirled in the air and carried with it a note of vanilla and honey.
Ayala popped his head up from his newspaper and set it aside as Hatch approached the small table in the back corner where he sat. She was glad he chose a table away from the windows, but bothered he chose to take the chair facing the door. That left Hatch with her back to the door. She compensated by adjusting her chair, blading her body to Ayala which enabled Hatch to keep the entrance in her peripheral vision.
A wad of dirty napkins stuffed under one of the metal legs acted to balance the table’s wobble with little effect. Two cups of dark coffee appeared moments later. Ayala smiled.
"Were you expecting company?" Hatch returned the smile as she pulled the porcelain mug closer. The fragrant steam licked at her nostrils. "Pretty confident I was going to follow?"
"Confident, no. Hopeful, yes. I like to find the upside of down." He adjusted his gaze to the returning server. His smile widened. The cigar dangled loosely on the edge of his lip but somehow managed to remain in place as if sealed by super glue. "I also took the liberty of ordering two cups of atole. Ever had it before?"
"Can't say that I have," The cup set in front of Hatch was wider than the mug used for the coffee. In it was a thick, creamy liquid that looked like a cross between a vanilla milkshake and Quaker Instant Oatmeal.
"Well, you're in for a treat. It's my mid-morning snack. And it fuels me until lunch, sometimes dinner. It doesn't look like much, but it's quite filling." He leaned in, just as he'd done outside of the strip club. "Wanna know the secret ingredient here at Rosa's that makes hers so special?"
"Sure."
"Rosa uses masa harina, a traditional Mexican flour. Others have opted for store bought corn meal. Rosa also uses piloncillo, a thick syrup made from cane juice. Brown sugar can be substituted but here, tradition matters. And it makes a difference. You'll see."
"You seem to know a lot about this restaurant." Hatch sipped at the creamy mixture. She was shocked by its smoothness. It was sweet but not overwhelmingly so, with a hint of cinnamon.
"I should," Ayala spread his arms wide as he beamed with pride, "I own it. Well, I don't own it. My wife, Rosa, does."
"This is a great place. You'll have to tell your wife how delicious her atole is." Hatch had already worked her way through half the cup.
"Will do," he winked and then hollered something in Spanish toward the kitchen area. Hatch heard a female's voice return with gracias. "Done. Next up, let's talk about you and why you were at the police."
"I'm looking for somebody."
"I know. I overheard that part. It's why I followed you." "There are far too many eyes around the department. I wanted to wait until I was confident we were alone before I approached."
"Why were you in the lobby?" Hatch continued to scan the surroundings while being visually assaulted by Ayala's wardrobe.
"Waiting for my next story. That place is a treasure trove of leads."
"Looked like you had yours. The fruit thief took quite a beating in there."
"I know. I noted it. Even snapped a couple photos with my cell when nobody was looking. But that story won't print. Ever. Not here."
"Why not?"
"Because our media is tightly controlled. My editor would never accept a piece like that. Nobody would. It would literally be a death sentence."
"Then why take pictures?" Hatch asked.
His infectious smile reappeared. "Just because my paper won't run them doesn't mean there isn't somebody who will. A good pen name is a bulletproof vest for investigative reporters like me."
"How do you pick a pen name? If these stories are death sentences, wouldn't you be signing it for somebody else, then?"
"You're a smart person, Miss Nighthawk."
She set the atole down. And scooted her chair back.
Ayala must've read her body language because he quickly followed with, "Whoa, don't run off. I heard you give your name to Munoz back at the station. Bad dude by the way."
She settled. "Nighthawk. Just call me Nighthawk."
The inquisitive Ayala didn't ask for a reason for her naming convention, and Hatch didn't volunteer one. She exchanged the empty atole mug for the one containing her dark roasted coffee, still steaming.
"Your pen name question is a good one. And, yes, I too considered the potential fallout from naming a person. And, yes, it would be a death sentence. Unless that person was already dead."
Sadly, or ironically--Hatch didn't know which--she felt completely understood. It's a strange thing to be listed among the dead but walking among the living. It was the closest thing to being a ghost Hatch could imagine. Sitting here in the lively café with the quirky Ayala reminded her she was alive.
"So," Ayala continued, "years back I decided I would expose the truth no matter the consequence. To do that I had to come up with a way of protecting myself and my family from repercussions. I've crossed paths with many people I consider heroes in my fifty-six years of life. Many have become martyred by their cause. My stories are published using the names of the brave people who get one last chance to champion their cause. I honor them while honoring my code of bringing light to the darkness."
"These stories you write, do they ever go beyond Nogales?"
"All the time. Mexico is my jurisdiction. I go where the story takes me." He scooped the last bits of the atole up with a teaspoon. Setting aside the cup, Ayala focused his undivided attention on Hatch. "I think you have a story worth listening to. And I'd like to see where it takes me."
"Not much of a story. We came to Nogales on our family trip to Copper Mountain—"
Ayala held up a hand. "Not to be rude, but I'm going to stop you there."
Hatch was confused at the interruption and it showed in the expression on her face.
"I understand your need to be aloof with those cops. I get it. You don't trust them. And with good reason. You couldn't have lucked out with a worse person than Eddie Munoz. That's one bad guy. I've been looking into him for a while. He's a hard man to catch. Even in the lobby exchange with the poor man who was unnecessarily beaten, Munoz remained at arm's length, never actually dirtying himself with the act, always there but never directly involved," he stirred a spoonful of sugar into his coffee and continued. "But if we're going to have a conversation, a real one, then honesty is the only way to continue. If you're going to feed me the same story you did those dirty cops, then I would like to pleasantly break company and wish you the very best in whatever it is you're trying to accomplish."
He was curt, but courteous. Hatch appreciated his candor. "I see you're observant."
Ayala patted his fanny pack where he stored his press badge. "All part of the job." Punctuating his statement with a wink.
"And you're right." Hatch drank her coffee, the heat of it warmed the back of her throat as she made her decision. "I'll tell you what I can. Know that anything I hold back is done only to protect you. Because what I'm involved in, no pen name can protect you against."
A quiet intensity stirred between them. Ayala took out his notepad and pen. He cleared space and set them on the table. He clicked the butt of the pen, "I'm ready to listen, if you're ready to talk."
Nine
Hatch spent her second cup of coffee explaining a chance enco
unter with the teenage stepdaughter of multimillionaire, Kyle Moss, who sold her into slavery. And while trying to find her and bring her back home, Hatch had stumbled across an international sex trafficking ring, moving girls through Arizona into Mexico near the border at Nogales.
Angela Rothman had been one of these girls. She was suffering from a bout of Stockholm Syndrome. And in the brief opportunity to escape with Hatch, Rothman resigned herself to her captors. Hatch summarized a brief connecting of the dots bringing her to the here and now, sitting at a coffee table in downtown Nogales with the newspaper man, Miguel Ayala.
He set his pen down and looked up at Hatch. She eyed the journalist’s shorthand. He used Hatch's fake initials to note any time she was involved. The D and N overlapped in Ayala's hieroglyphic note taking. The curve of the letters made it look as though they were in the crosshairs of a sniper's rifle. Maybe it was symbolic of her life. She hoped it wouldn't always be.
He took out his cell phone. "If you don't mind, I'd like to send some of this information you gave me to some people that I know."
"Can you be more specific?"
"I know people who might be able to help find her or at least give a good idea of where she may be." He tapped his journalist notebook. "You meet a lot of people doing this job, and a lot of those people find they like to share things with me."
"And why is that?"
"Because I'm a great dresser." He belted out a laugh. "Kidding. I guess I'd like to think I'm one of the good guys, Miss Nighthawk. Or at least I try to be. And I'd like to see if I can help you now."
"Mind if I ask why you do it?"
"Help people?" He chuckled softly as if the answer was obvious. Hatch had her reasons for what she did and was interested to know his. He grew serious. "Because it's the right thing to do. It's the human thing to do, something my father used to say. He believed every interaction had meaning. That nothing happens in isolation. How we interact with the world matters. I didn't get it then."
"And now?"
"Lots of things my father said and did make a lot more sense now that I'm older."
"That's why your father did it. But I asked why you chose this. Going against these people is dangerous business."
"Life is a dangerous business. You could get killed walking across the street. Choosing to use the life you’re given to do something positive for others is an easy one to make. But you're right. I didn't answer your question. I'll answer it with a story. If you indulge me while we wait on my friend to get back to me, I'd like to tell you a fable my father used to tell before bed. It's a children's tale but I hope you see the relevance."
"Only if we get another round of coffee." Hatch smiled.
Their mugs were filled a moment later and after taking a sip, Ayala began his tale with a question. "Have you ever heard the one about the boulder and the troll?"
Hatch ran the mental library of her childhood children's books. "Nothing but the Billy Goats."
"Then you're in for a treat."
Hatch stirred in a scoop of sugar and gave Ayala her full attention.
"There was once a land filled with endless acres of fertile soil, but nobody in the neighboring village could access it because it was blocked by a massive boulder. Atop the boulder lived a huge, nasty troll and the brave few villagers that tried to cross never returned.
“Over time, their land no longer took seed and soon they began to starve. The smallest boy in the village, seeing his people's suffering, decided he needed to save them. He went to the medicine woman who gave him a seed. She told the boy that this seed carried a power strong enough to destroy even the biggest of stones. The woman told the boy to find a seam in the boulder and place the seed inside. The boy eyed the medicine woman warily and she whispered, 'The smallest seed can split the biggest rock'.
When the boy arrived at the base of the giant stone, the troll stirred and sat up. He beat his chest like a mighty gorilla and laughed. In a deep rumble, he told the boy, 'You're too small. Go back home before I make you my snack.'
But that brave boy walked over to the rock and stuck the seed inside a thin crack in the jagged boulder's surface. He stood back from the boulder and bravely looked up into the dark eyes of the monster above. He repeated the words the medicine woman had said to him, 'The smallest seed can split the biggest rock.'
The troll laughed at the boy and asked him what he had done. He answered simply, 'I will show you when the time is right. I will walk through the center of this rock and your taunts will fall on deaf ears.'
Keeping his word, he returned as a grown man with the rest of the villagers behind him. Where the boulder once stood was a massive tree. Thick viny roots created an archway between the split rock. The boy stood between the two halves of the split boulder and smiled upon his people. The tree had grown so tall it had launched the troll high up into the sky where his rants and protests couldn't be heard above the gusting wind."
Hatch took a sip of her coffee. It was no longer hot. She'd been so mesmerized by Ayala's retelling; Hatch had forgotten to even take a sip.
“That is why I do it, Miss Nighthawk. I want to be that seed for my people. Capable of splitting wide this terrible rock that is the cartel. I want to stand under that tree and call them forward."
"And as for that story you heard, I will say to you what my father said to me upon first telling it. The story is a part of you now. Your retelling will not be the same, nor should it. The magic of this story is an experience now of your life."
Hatch finished off the tepid coffee, trying to imagine her retelling. Set against the violent backdrop of her life, Hatch couldn't fathom how she could ever make a parallel to Ayala's fable.
Ayala received an alert on his phone and looked up at Hatch. "It looks like we got some information on your girl. They're using a nightclub called Club de Fuego. It's on the outskirts, on the eastern side of Nogales."
Hatch jotted down the information on her napkin.
"I can come, or at least drive you."
"I prefer not. No offense, but I usually go these things alone."
"Here's my card. My number’s on it. Day or night, if you need something, you let me know. And if you find her, let me know that too."
"Will do." Hatch stood up from the table and shook the man's hand. He noticed the scar but chose not to mention it. "I'm glad there are people like you out there. Continue being that little boy from the village."
He smiled. "Got any plan for how you're going to do this?"
"Name of the place is Club Fire, right? Maybe I'll just burn it down."
Ten
Rafael Fuentes watched the long-barreled shotgun draped across his father's support arm. Ever since the razor-sharp machete opened his mother's throat, Rafael eyed any weapon in his father's hand with concern. Concern that his father would turn on him without warning, as he had Raphael’s mother.
Hector Fuentes' button-down white shirt was untucked from his khakis and flapped in the warm afternoon breeze. Heeled along his right side was his beloved Doberman Pinscher, Red.
Rafael always hated that dog. Though less leery now that he was older, he was terrified as a child. He rarely, if ever, put his hand near the dog. He had never bitten Raphael but had growled on several occasions.
Red was not a house pet designed for companionship. No, he was one of the several attack dogs guarding the massive compound's expansive grounds. But Red was different. When Hector was home, Red never left his side. Red was a killer. Just like his owner.
Hector yelled, "Up!" On command, one of his servants pulled the trigger on the target thrower and released two clay pigeons into the air. Hector swung the shotgun up and locked it into the natural pocket between his shoulder and pectoral. Steadying the muzzle with his supporting hand, Hector took aim. He fired, pumped it, ejected the spent casing, and repeated. The two clay plumes drifting like lost clouds attested to the accuracy of the volley. Hector lowered the weapon and ejected the second cartridge.
"I think I'm d
one for the day." The same servant who'd launched the clay pigeons now hustled to retrieve the long-barreled gun. A thin trail of smoke escaped from the ejection port and chased the departing man.
Hector turned to face Rafael. He ran his hand along the top of Red's jet-black hair. "It's all about the training. It's what I've been doing for you since you were born. Do you think this dog wanted to stand beside me when I fired those shots? Do you think he wasn't terrified of them? At first, yes. But now, barely a flicker of his ear. How did I do it? Training. Over time conditioning his mind much like I've been conditioning yours, to accept the duties and responsibilities of my position, should the time come for me to hand it off to you."
His father always spoke in rapid Spanish when giving life lessons. His speeches were always filled with questions. But Rafael had learned long ago, those questions, if answered, were done so by Hector himself.
It was assumed that Rafael, eldest son to Hector, would eventually take over the family business. But his father rarely spoke openly about Raphael’s role in the future. And Rafael wasn't so sure he wanted it.
When Rafael was young, his father would say things like, "this will all be yours someday," as he pointed out a window overlooking hundreds of acres of property. But what parent doesn't say something like this to their children? Dreams of parents hold universal truths. But what father kills a mother and then asks his son to wear the crown? What kind of son would Raphael be if he accepted it?
"We will never speak of the other day with your mother. She will always be remembered for the life she lived, and not for her betrayal of me. But before we put it to bed forever, I want you to understand this, blood of my blood, my Rafa," Hector paused to kiss Rafael's forehead after calling him by his childhood nickname. Hector locked eyes with Rafael before continuing, "Betray me, and your blood will run down the back of Red's throat."