by Carmen Amato
“Over there,” Carla said.
They went across the street. Emilia pulled a candy bar out of her bag and used it as a pointer. “Which direction did she go? Towards the Parador or away from it?”
Carla’s eyes flickered away from the candy toward the next street. The quality of the neighborhood diminished the further east a person went. Working the next corner over might earn Carla 20 or 30 pesos for a hand job, slightly more if she got on her knees behind a building and opened her mouth. She probably didn’t get much other business these days.
The blue tube top had a burrito sauce stain. Carla licked her thumb and rubbed at it before going on. “She asked Pica Pica how to get to Julieta Rubia’s place.” She looked up at Emilia. “You know Pica Pica? She works for Oscar Abrazo.”
“Sure,” Emilia said. She would agree with everything Carla said if it kept her old friend talking. “Pica Pica. Is she around tonight?”
“No.” Carla sighed. “She got beat up real bad two nights ago. Haven’t seen her since.”
“What’s her real name?”
“Pica Pica?” Carla shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Okay.” Emilia made a mental note to see what she could find out about the unfortunate Pica Pica. “Julieta Rubia’s place. You’re sure that’s where the girl wanted to go?”
“Pica Pica told her how to find it and the girl kept going. Guess she was after a job.”
Until a few weeks ago, Julieta Rubia had been the most powerful fixer in this part of Acapulco, running a lucrative string of girls and paying off enough of official Acapulco to operate undisturbed. It had been a shock when Julieta was arrested a few weeks ago for offering a 13-year-old girl to a visiting Canadian mayor in town for a conference with Carlota. Julieta had walked the girl into the hotel herself, apparently knocked on the wrong door, and smilingly told the Canadian in English that he would have to pay up front for a night of fantasy with his “model.”
Carlota had been furious. Julieta’s bail was set impossibly high, and she was in prison awaiting a trial that had yet to be scheduled and probably wouldn’t be for some time. Under Mexican law, timing wasn’t prescribed and trials were rarely swift. Trials were closed as well, a paperwork exercise between lawyers and the judge.
Emilia gave the candy bar to Carla and pulled up the zipper of her hoodie. Carla seemed oblivious to the cool night air as she unwrapped the candy bar, but her bare skin was pimpled with gooseflesh.
“So who’s in charge now that Julieta’s in jail?” Emilia asked.
“I hear it’s Olga,” Carla said “Olga la Fea. You know her?”
“No.” Olga the Ugly One. Emilia would have remembered that.
“She’s a real puta,” Carla observed.
Emilia didn’t point out the irony of calling the woman a whore. “Did you ever see the girl again?” she asked instead. “Heard anybody talk about a girl named Lila?”
Carla bit into the candy bar. “I can’t remember every crap piece of gossip on this street,” she said around the mouthful.
“Think, Carla,” Emilia pleaded. “This is important.”
“Emilia, don’t be so pushy.”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
A car slowed and Carla took a step forward. Emilia moved in front of her and snapped her fingers at the car to keep moving. It continued down the street.
“You’re pushy, Emilia,” Carla complained again. She held the candy in one hand and wrestled a cigarette out of her bag with the other. She jammed the cigarette into her mouth, flicked a lighter, and sucked in smoke around the bite of chocolate.
“Just a couple more questions, Carla,” Emilia said, trying to be patient. “Did you see the girl again? Say in the last two weeks.”
“No.” Carla alternated between the candy and the cigarette as they walked back to her original place on the street. “I’d remember. She was pretty enough to be an inside girl.”
Inside girls never worked the streets, but drifted through the bars and clubs of the most upscale locations on Hotel Row, either working with a well-placed fixer or paying off key hotel staff such as the concierge to look the other way. Dressed in designer clothes and subtle makeup, an inside girl could command 5000 or even 6000 pesos a night. Inside girls always had the best clientele, too: nothing weird, no anal, no violence.
“Did Julieta have any inside girls?” Emilia asked.
Carla finished the candy bar and flicked both the wrapper and her cigarette butt into the gutter. “Julieta had everything. She kept everybody safe, you know?” The thin woman shivered, finally seeming to notice the cool night. “It’s not like that now.”
“You need to take better care of yourself, Carla,” Emilia said, wondering if Carla had anything contagious.
“I’m good.” Carla shook out a new cigarette and lit it. She drew in a lungful of smoke and looked critically at Emilia. “You know, with better clothes and heels, you could be an inside girl. Make enough money in one night to buy a cell phone.”
“I already have a cell phone,” Emilia said.
☼
It was very dark by the time Emilia went into Mami’s, the pool hall all the cops knew had been Julieta Rubia’s place of business. Emilia had been in too many bars like this; first as a kid with her cousins, trying to hustle jobs selling things to tourists, and later as a cop trying to find out things from people who liked to play pool, drink heavily, and hide from the law. Her success rate in both instances was low.
Olga la Fea wasn’t hard to find. In response to her question, a heavyset man behind the bar scanned her from head to toe, grinned, and jerked his head to the rear.
Emilia drifted through the place, which was packed with a local clientele that looked to be comprised of workers from the docks and mercados as well as the city’s constant construction projects. The pulse of techno music competed with the clink of beer bottles and the din of conversation. The atmosphere was fairly friendly and Emilia got a few appreciative looks. She acknowledged them with shy smiles, not wanting to risk an altercation with a drunk who felt slighted, and made her way to the rear door labeled “Office.”
A man by the door, who was a larger and more menacing version of the bartender, frisked her before letting her pass through. Grateful that she’d had the presence of mind to stash her bag, gun and badge in the Suburban, Emilia found herself in a large reception room. She could see an office through a wide doorway to the left.
The reception room looked like the waiting room over at the health clinic, except that all the patients were girls in high heels, dresses the size of bandages, and enough makeup to spackle over every beach in Acapulco. They sat on worn vinyl furniture and preened in front of hand mirrors. A few looked up as she came into the room and regarded her with expressions that ranged from boredom to dismissal. In her hoodie and jeans, Emilia obviously wasn’t competition.
The room had plain white walls and a few travel posters tacked to the cement. Emilia wondered if it was sometimes used for private parties or other events. Two long rectangular tables, the kind the church set up for weddings and quinciñera celebrations, were pushed up against one wall. Metal folding chairs were stacked next to them. The tabletops were littered with bottles of water and liquor, a tray of plastic cups, paper plates and napkins, and dirty aluminum food containers. A trash bin held dirty paper plates and empty water bottles.
“You looking for a job?”
A woman stepped to the doorway of the office and Emilia tried not to react to her appearance. Olga la Fea’s features had been rearranged by someone’s fist at some point in her past, although it might have been a baseball bat. Her hairline was made irregular by a dramatic gouge that had been taken out of her forehead over her right eye, which drooped lower than the left by at least the width of Emilia’s thumb. It wasn’t just the eye, Emilia realized; the woman’s right cheekbone had been crushed and never replaced, so that entire side of her face was flat and sagged downward. Olga apparently wasn’t one to soften the effect of her a
ppearance; she wore sparkly blue shadow that accentuated the uneven eyes, her hair was pulled back into a severe twist, and her stick-thin body was clad in black leggings and a too-youthful pink bustier.
“I’m looking for a girl,” Emilia said. “She might have come here asking about her mother.”
She reached in her pocket to find the picture of Lila and heard the unmistakable click of a gun. “It’s just a picture,” she said without turning around.
“Why do you think she came here?” Olga asked. The woman pushed herself past the office doorway, sauntered into the waiting room, and produced a snort of disgust at the mess on the tables. She had an expensive smartphone in one hand. Her fingernails were the same bright pink as the bustier. Emilia placed her age at about 40, although the disfigurement and unhealthy mottled skin made her look at least 20 years older.
“I heard she came to see Julieta.” Emilia held out Lila’s school picture.
Olga snatched it up with a guttural laugh. “Well, this is fresh bait. Come look at this.”
The picture got handed around to the men by the door and two other women who came out of the office behind Olga. They were also hard older women who had seen their best days pass by, but could still make a living servicing the pool hall patrons in the alley behind the building four or five times a night.
“She came here a month ago, looking for Julieta,” Emilia said quickly, unsure how far the crude humor generated by the picture would take her. “Her name is Lila Jimenez Lata. She was looking for her mother, a hooker named Yolanda Lata.”
Olga flicked the picture to the floor at Emilia’s feet. “Never heard of her, cop girl.”
Emilia bent and picked up the picture, keeping her breathing even, forcing herself to appear unconcerned at the woman’s taunt. “I’m only interested in finding the girl. Doesn’t matter where she is or what she’s doing. Or anything else happening around here.”
Olga shrugged and looked around at her little empire. One of the older women smiled, showing a gap where a front tooth had been.
“Anybody else around when this girl talked to Julieta?” Emilia asked.
“Nobody here seen your little girl.” Olga found a straw, put it into a plastic cup, and added something from one of the bottles. She sucked on the straw. The right side of her face didn’t move at all. “If Julieta saw her, then Julieta saw her. She liked to keep things private.”
“Julieta wasn’t here alone when Lila came calling,” Emilia gambled. “I’m just looking for the girl. Anything about the girl.”
“I said Julieta kept her things private.” Olga curled her free hand into a tight fist and held it to her heart. “You know Julieta? Like this. Small and hard.”
The women in the room laughed dutifully.
“Looks like things aren’t so private now,” Emilia said. “New management?”
Olga unclenched her fist and waved her arm around. “These girls, they’re all waiting for sewing lessons.”
“Maybe I should hang around,” Emilia heard herself say. “Pick up a few tips.”
The left side of Olga’s face smiled. The right maintained its perpetual sag. Olga stepped closer and Emilia smelled the acidic bite of cheap tequila. “You forgot your needle and thread, puta,” Olga said softly.
“Next time,” Emilia said. She nodded to the ugly woman, pushed past the man with the gun, and left.
Chapter 19
Lt. Rufino was the first person Emilia ran into as she came into the police station Tuesday morning. To her surprise, he nodded at her and asked, “How’s the hand, Cruz?”
It took her two beats to realize he was asking about the now-healed burn from the El Tigre fire. She’d taken the bandage off days ago. “Fine, teniente,” she managed. “Thank you for asking.”
“Silvio said you were at the doctor again, so I’m glad to hear you’re feeling better,” he said. “You two have a lot to follow up on.”
With that, he continued down the hall towards the restrooms, and Emilia made her befuddled way into the squadroom and to her desk. She unlocked it, dropped her shoulder bag into the bottom drawer, and looked around for Silvio.
He was sitting on the edge of Sandor’s desk as the latter spoke on the phone, chair tipped back, free hand clutching his hair in exasperation. Macias leaned over his partner’s desk, also trying to listen in on the conversation. Emilia walked over to the little group and Silvio gave her his usual welcoming scowl.
“I understand that, señor,” Sandor said into the phone. “And we appreciate that the mayor is of the people and very interested in the success of Acapulco businesses.” He started to go on, but squawks from the receiver cut him off. Sandor rolled his eyes in frustration before he was able to continue his end of the conversation.
“I fully understand what you are saying. The mayor had planned to visit the Luna Loca club last Saturday night. But the fire happened before she arrived.”
More squawking indicated the caller’s relief that Sandor had finally understood the point of the conversation.
“So who had access to the mayor’s plans?” Sandor listened as the squawking grew earnest. “Just her personal staff, you say?”
He rolled his eyes at the group gathered around his desk. “So one of them would have to be involved, don’t you think? I mean, you’ve just said no one else knew she planned to go there.” He stopped talking.
Silvio snorted and Emilia had to grin, although it was sad to think how easily Sandor had caught Carlota’s staff in a lie.
The squawks eventually resumed, but they were brief. Sandor said, “I’ll be waiting for your call,” and hung up. He let his chair bang down on all four legs. “Fuck this. They’re so desperate to make this all about Carlota, they called and insisted that she had planned to go to that club.”
Silvio shook his head. “It’s clean slate day. Let’s forget Carlota, get some interviews done, and meet back here this afternoon.”
Macias and Sandor both stood up and hauled on jackets.
“What about the morning meeting?” Emilia asked.
“Cancelled.” Silvio went back to their desks and grabbed his leather jacket from the back of his chair. “Rufino’s got to go over to the state attorney general’s office and report on the El Pharaoh investigation. We’ve got an appointment to talk to the owner of the Luna Loca.”
Emilia glanced at the desks occupied by Gomez and Castro. Neither detective was there. She had a bad feeling about what had happened to the El Pharaoh investigation and an even worse feeling about Lt. Rufino. Her hand trailed over Rico’s desk as she left. Just a touch. For luck.
☼
Ted Conway was the norteamericano owner of Luna Loca. He wore designer jeans and a designer V-neck tee shirt with a pin-striped designer blazer. He was younger than Emilia, a playboy surfer type with a shock of sun-streaked hair and a jittery manner that could be the result of too many energy drinks, stress from losing his business, or the death of two employees. Or a recent and healthy dose of cocaine.
Conway was flanked by his lawyer, Oscar Zeledón Rivera, and a man who’d been introduced as Agent Clark from Seguridad Plata Asociados. Clark was the ostensible host, given that the meeting was being held in an SPA conference room.
Emilia had been given business cards for both Zeledón and Clark. Zeledón was a well-known lawyer to the rich and famous. She didn’t recognize Clark personally, but knew that SPA was one of the biggest private security companies in Mexico, providing everything from bodyguards for visiting movie stars to uniformed guards for shopping centers. As if to proclaim the company’s impressive reach, a large crystal globe in the center of the long table sat on a broad wooden base emblazoned with a gold SPA logo.
Clark slid a small plastic zip-lock bag across the table to Emilia and Silvio. “This was passed to an employee of the Luna Loca approximately three weeks ago.”
Inside the clear bag was half a piece of printer paper, a copy of a copy that had been printed crookedly. The word ATTENTION was repeated three
times across the top. Underneath, slanted text announced an army protective tax of 5000 pesos, payable to the army collection team. There was no mention of how the tax was to be paid, or how often.
There was no direct threat, no notice that if the recipient didn’t pay, their business would be the victim of a grenade attack.
“Passed?” Silvio frowned. “What do you mean, passed?”
Clark folded his hands together on the tabletop. As big as Silvio, he had the weathered look of a man who’d learned how to stay calm in bad parts of the world. His suit jacket strained to contain his biceps, and Emilia decided he was bald from choice rather than genetics. “One of Mr. Conway’s employees was handed the paper by a man who came into the restaurant shortly before it opened one day. The employee gave it to Mr. Conway, who assumed it was a joke and put it in his pocket. Now, however, he feels it may be relevant to the fire at the Luna Loca.”
“Can Mr. Conway tell us about the man who came into the restaurant?” Emilia asked.
Conway’s leg started to jingle hard enough to vibrate the table. Clark cleared his throat. “He didn’t see the man. The only person who did was the bartender.”
“Why aren’t we talking to him?” Silvio growled.
“The Luna Loca bartender was a victim of the fire,” Clark said.
“He’d only worked for me for a couple of weeks,” Conway blurted. For a gringo, his Spanish wasn’t bad, although it wasn’t as good as Kurt’s. He put a trembling hand to his head and Emilia saw that his hand was bandaged the same way hers had been. “I poached him from the Polo Club. He had style and I really pushed hard to get him to come work for me. If I hadn’t, he’d still be alive.”
Emilia slid her eyes to Silvio. He’d made the connection, same as she had.
“Between the time the message was passed to your bartender and the night of the fire,” Emilia asked gently, “did anyone make an effort to collect this so-called tax?”