“How long has it been?” the bartender asked.
“A lifetime,” answered Strauss.
Guillermo suddenly had a bottle of whiskey in his hand, and said it was on the house. Ordo turned around for that.
“Johnny Walker. I remember you used to drink this like water. What do you say?”
“I say no thank you,” said Strauss. “But I will take a coffee.”
Guillermo was not offended.
“I heard that about you,” he said, putting the bottle on the shelf. Guillermo pointed to his nose. Strauss shook his head as if the idea were impossible.
“Not since Juarez.”
Guillermo turned to Ordo.
“I have never in my life seen anyone do more coke than this man,” he said, pointing at Strauss.
“Him?”
“He was the craziest bastard I’ve ever met.”
“What kind of company did you keep?” Ordo asked skeptically.
Guillermo shrugged. “We were cops,” he said. For a moment, he seemed to get lost in his memories. A man at the far end of the bar was trying to get his attention, but Guillermo was in another place.
“Hey,” he said finally and with a smile on his face. “What was the name of that whore you were always mooning over? The gorgeous one. She had you wrapped around her finger. What was her name?”
“I don’t remember,” said Strauss.
“Yes, you do,” said Guillermo, seeing right through him. “I took you to that brothel. It was for high rollers. We’d leave a week’s pay there in an hour, and I had to drag you out every time. What was her name?”
Strauss stared into his coffee. There was still a smile on his face, but it seemed to have frozen there.
“Dulcinea,” said Strauss.
“Dulcinea,” said Guillermo, his smile growing. “She was something. How much of your money did she take from you?”
“Whatever it was, it was worth it,” said Strauss.
“Yeah,” said Guillermo. He had seen the thirsty man at the end of the bar by now. He just didn’t care at the moment. “Where do you suppose she is now?” Guillermo asked rhetorically.
“Arizona,” said Strauss. Guillermo had clearly not expected an answer. He looked deeply surprised.
“She cleans floors in Phoenix,” Strauss said.
“How does she look now?” he asked as he began to fetch the man’s beers, only half listening for the answer.
“You’d never know what she once was,” said Strauss quietly.
***
There was a thick, heavy, humid smell. When Curtis tried to inhale gently, he felt a tightening sensation that began behind his eyes, reached out for the muscles in his face, and grabbed. It felt like his face was about to be pulled into his head.
One of the two drunks who lay against the wall in Virgil’s cell sat up and yawned. He opened his mouth and displayed a mismatched set of rotten, scraggily brown teeth. He laid back down against the wall like it never happened.
The drunk next to him hadn’t moved. He hadn’t snored either. Curtis hadn’t seen him move since he’d been here. Curtis found himself wondering if they would leave a dead body in the cell.
The man on the cot had nestled into himself. From time to time, he adjusted, his shoulder blades shifting inside of the tan jacket, but he never stirred or yawned or stretched.
“I used to love getting drunk like that,” said Curtis aloud. He was hoping Virgil had heard him. If he had, he didn’t move. He wasn’t asleep exactly, but he was resting.
He touched his nose, and the pain stood up. He gently ran his finger along the edges, and his skin felt like it belonged to another person. It sent butterflies of pain through his belly. Pain sparked everywhere their wings touched. That had been a thumb and a forefinger. He thought doctors used a tool, some long thin pole they pushed into a nostril. He didn’t have one of those.
“It’s going to hurt,” Virgil told him. He said it in a sleepy, dreamy sort of way. It was the last thing he said before drifting off. He might not have been aware that he said it. It certainly didn’t help.
The thumb and fore finger squeezed harder this time. It felt like blood was squirting into his eyes from the inside. He let go. His nose felt wet and loose. He could feel the exact place where it was out of line and needed to return.
He thought about his sister and her huge house and perfect kids. He imagined her finding out that he’d been killed in a brothel for pedophiles. He touched his nose again. He imagined his sister hearing that and pretending he had never existed. He thought about wasting years of his life chasing the ghost of a drug dealer. He felt the blood pooling in his head, ready to burst. He thought about the life he had failed to build for himself and watching men like Eduardo Mendes repeatedly succeed. He thought about every bad decision of his miserable life and how they had all individually and microscopically contributed in their own tiny way to him being chained to a wall in the filthy jail cell in Mexico.
He squeezed hard and pulled. A volcano of pressure erupted inside his head. He saw black.
***
Eduardo saw him immediately. He leaned over the mantle, with one arm resting and his head in his palm, acknowledging no one.
He wore a thick beard that hung well past his chin. He was bald on top, and his eyes were hidden by tinted glasses. He had on a cream-colored suit with an elegant brown shirt. He was a large man and seemed to be aware of his own presence.
Eduardo had never seen this man, but knew who he was. This was the man who had married Colon’s daughter. This was the man who had inherited his business. This was the man who had provided him with the means to become rich. This was Senor Villareal.
At his side was an angry looking woman. She wasn’t beautiful by any means, and while her black dress was simple, it was expensive. Her fingernails were freshly painted, and her toes, laid bare by sandals, were as well. Her legs were crossed, and one foot tapped the air impatiently. Eduardo had never met her either, but he knew this was Senora Colon, the old man’s daughter.
The driver directed him to have a seat. The room was new, but old-fashioned. It could not have been farther removed from the sleek, ultra-modern box where he’d last met with her father. The couch on which he sat rested on tall, delicate, hand-carved legs. This room was bold, formal, and filled with classic Mexican charm. Eduardo hated it.
Unlike Senora Colon, the woman sitting next to him on the couch was beautiful, but she had been crying. Her eyes were red and worried, and mascara covered her cheeks in smudges and smears. She sat up obediently.
There was a little old man in another armchair, and he too sat straight and quietly. He was dressed in drab work clothes, old pants with touches of paint cut into shorts, and his shoes were rough and dirty. He bore scars like Eduardo had never imagined. His face had been torn apart at some point, then put back together carelessly.
These are the servants who work for Villareal, Eduardo realized, and we have all been assembled for a dressing down of some sort. Eduardo realized to his horror that he had been lumped in with them.
Villareal spoke to his wife, and she spoke back to him. It was Spanish, but it was a Spanish so quiet and fast that no one else would have understood it. It was Spanish but just for them.
“Service,” said Senora Colon impatiently. She said it to the woman seated next to Eduardo, but she said it without looking at her. The woman jumped to her feet and rushed out of the room.
Villareal and his wide frame brooded. His bulk exuded impatience. His head was buried in his hand between the two glowing sconces. His hair and beard were reddish. Even the two drivers, who Eduardo recognized less as drivers and more as professional bodyguards, appeared to show him deference with their distance.
The woman appeared in the doorway. She held a tray like an untrained waitress. On it was a bottle of wine and a bottle of scotch, each with the appropriate glass. Villareal looked to her and impatiently took the scotch, setting it on the mantle. The woman handed the bottle of wine to
Senora Colon, but when she attempted to pass the stemmed glassware, Senora Colon snatched it from her before she could touch it. The senora quickly examined the glass, looked at the woman with certain disgust, and issued a wave that could only have meant her dismissal. The woman left the room quickly. A driver closed the door behind her.
When it was closed, there were only four of them in the room: Villareal, his wife, Eduardo, and the old man. Villareal held his head up expectantly. He looked to his wife. She looked back, and Villareal nodded. He took the scotch by the neck, ignored the glass, and soundlessly left the room through the opposite door, closing it shut behind him.
Senora Colon had a small elegant black purse on her lap. From it, she retrieved a long cigarette and pressed it between her lips. Then she held a small gold lighter and ignited it. It was a cigar lighter, Eduardo noted. The room was quiet. After she lit the cigarette, she inhaled and let it out. Then she spoke.
“I understand you knew my father, Mister Mendes. Personally,” she said.
“Yes. I did,” he answered.
“Then you understand who I am,” she said.
“You are Senora Colon.”
She nodded as if it were of no interest to her.
“What did you think of my father?” she asked.
“He was a great man.”
“He sold drugs, Eduardo. There is no reason to romanticize it.”
For once, Eduardo had sense enough not to answer.
“What did you think of him as a man? I ask for your honesty. Please remember that there are things that you want from me.”
“He was generous with his knowledge,” started Eduardo. He watched as Senora Colon raised an impatient eyebrow.
“And a hypocrite.”
The shape her mouth formed was as close to a smile as he would see.
“You knew him in his extravagant phase, didn’t you? Did you visit any of his glass houses? Did he invite you to one of his mansions for a lecture on the dangers of excessive living? Was he wearing a hand-made suit while telling you to dress like a farmer? It doesn’t matter. He was having fun with you. He was having fun with the whole world.”
Senora Colon poured for herself. She filled the glass up to the rim with red wine. She did not offer any to Eduardo.
“Would you like to hear a story about the great man my father was?” she asked. Eduardo said that he would.
“When I was nineteen years old, I was in love with a boy I met at school. At the time I thought he was a man, but I understand now that he was just a boy. He believed that we were a family with some property outside of Monterrey, and that was all he knew. This was the first boy I had ever brought home to meet my family. Are you familiar with my mother?” she asked.
“No,” said Eduardo. It had never occurred to him that this woman existed.
“She’s dead,” stated Senora Colon without sentiment. “She was a troubled woman. I’m sure you know the story or a story of how my father rose from poverty to being murdered in a Mercedes Benz, but I’ll tell you regardless, because this version is the truth. As a girl, my mother took seizures, and she was not mentally well. This was not a secret. One day, my mother had a seizure while swimming. She would have drowned if she had not been saved by a boy on the farm. After that, my grandfather took an interest in the boy, realized he was intelligent and capable, and granted him increasing responsibility. As you no doubt have realized, this boy was my father.
“As time passed, my mother’s mental health worsened. My father’s responsibilities increased. He expressed interest in my mother, and my grandfather allowed it. He allowed it because she was a mentally ill woman who had seizures. No one else wanted her. They were married, and she gave birth to me. My father’s place was now secure. Once my grandfather died, the business and the property belonged to him. Not bad for a penniless boy from the farm.
“Were you witness to any of my father’s perversions, Mister Mendes?”
“No,” said Eduardo, stunned.
“Of course not. You are a business associate. Perversions are for your loved ones. When I was a girl, my father delighted in tormenting my mother. One of his tricks was laughably simple. He would watch her set a place at the table, but when she turned her back, he would silently grab the silverware and hide it. My mother would come back to the table and just stare in disbelief. At times, she would simply get more silverware. Other times, she would crumple into a ball on the floor and weep for hours. Until she was medicated, which, as time went on, and by her own request, was more and more often.
“So, I was nineteen and hopelessly in love, and despite my father’s efforts and what you see before you today, I was a sweet and loving person. I was happy, and I loved my mother. I had asked my father to meet us in the city for dinner, just the three of us, but he refused. He said a young man should come to the home of the man whose daughter he is courting. He used those very words. Courting. Pretending to be genteel and traditional was part of his great act.
“My father greeted my boyfriend graciously, toured the property with him, and even opened a rare whiskey he’d been given as a gift. When it was time for dinner, my mother came to the table. She was in a wheelchair at this point. It was obvious to anyone that she was an extremely fragile personality, and she didn’t engage in conversation much. Despite how much I loved her, I was aware that my mother’s appearance could be striking. Still, I loved her, and she was a part of me, but I was in love and naïve and thought love was all that mattered.
“We sit down to dinner, and my father, the gracious host, launches into a speech about love. I remember it vividly. He said love is eternal. The bonds you form in this life never dissolve, he said. They follow you forever, and they are unbreakable. Then, he got to the heart of his speech. He told my boyfriend, who was only twenty, to remember one thing: no matter how they may appear different, no matter if they argue or disagree or if one is blonde and the other brunette, ultimately, and without exception, every girl one day turns into her mother. He smiled at my mother and said, “Isn’t that right, my love?”
“I don’t suppose you have a place in your heart for tragic love stories, do you, Mister Mendes? No, I thought not. You are an intelligent man, so you can see for yourself where this story is going. The boy never came to the house again, and soon, he called less often, and wasn’t as gentle, and then, abruptly, for me at least, he was gone. He was the love of my life, and for that, I have to thank my father.”
Senora Colon lit another cigarette.
“You should have him killed,” said Eduardo with a smile.
“Who?” asked Senora Colon. “The boy? What would that prove?”
“Just the indulgence of a wealthy woman,” suggested Eduardo playfully.
“He did nothing wrong. No normal human being would knowingly betroth himself to a house full of sickness and madness. No, that was the last time I was happy, and that was what my father was after. Do you realize where you are? What you are sitting in right now?”
“No,” said Eduardo truthfully.
“This house was built to very particular specifications. It was decorated in the same manner. You see, this house is a replica of the large house on the property where my father lived as a boy. This is the house as it was and as it looked, to the best of his memory, when he was poor, when he worked on the farm, and when he saved my mother’s life. According to him, a man who made millions upon millions of dollars selling drugs, that was the time when he was happiest. When he had nothing. What do you think of that, Mister Mendes?”
“Not much,” said Eduardo.
“And why is that?”
“I’ve had nothing, and I have no desire to relive it.”
“What if I told you that this perverse fantasy grew worse? What if I told you that my father had this house constructed with no intention of ever living in it himself, and that his true intention was to live in a filthy shack in the fields? Just as he did as a boy, the last time in his life that he was truly happy?”
“I
’d say your father was a madman.”
“Well, today is your lucky day, Mister Mendes.”
“Why?” asked Eduardo, now growing uneasy with the direction of the conversation.
“Because now you can tell him yourself.”
She said it plainly and without showmanship, but she waved her empty hand toward the other armchair. The old man with the gnarled face still sat there, still upright. Eduardo had forgotten he was in the room. Eduardo recoiled as he saw the light in his eyes.
The old man was laughing.
***
The car raced past Juan Two Saints and missed him by only a foot. It was a small dark hatchback and it sped off with the horn blaring. Juan hadn’t looked before he jumped out of his car, and he hadn’t looked when he stepped into the street. He didn’t bother looking at the hatchback as it drove into the night.
He wore uniform pants and a t-shirt. He stepped up to the phone booth and dropped three coins into the slot. There was a number in his pocket, taken down hours ago when the idea had been only a seed. The number was fresh in his mind.
It rang four times before he heard a voice. It could have rung twenty. He wasn’t hanging up the phone.
The voice was bored.
“Policia,” it said.
“Listen to me. Men are coming to the station right now. They are going to kill the Americans, and they are going to kill any officers who are in the station when they get there, whether they try to stop them or not. Do you understand me?”
There was silence. Then:
“Who is this?” demanded the voice.
“This is someone who is going to be alive tomorrow. Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes, but“
“What did I say?”
“Men are coming.”
South of Evil Page 16