The Dead Women of Juarez

“That’s being cruel.”

They fell silent. Kelly dried the dishes and put them away. He didn’t look at Sevilla, but he felt the man at his back, eyes always searching.

“How is Paloma?” Sevilla asked at last.

“She’s good.”

“Have I told you I respect her?” Sevilla asked. “She does good work with that group of hers. Many families are touched by the tragedy. Some of them would surprise you.”

“I’ll bet.”

“You’re eating with her and Esteban today?”

Kelly turned back to Sevilla. The policeman’s face was the same: heavy and sad looking, with a touch of flinty purpose behind the eyes. His body seemed relaxed, but somehow Kelly knew Sevilla was never at rest. “Yes,” Kelly said. “I always eat with them on Sunday. And I know you know.”

“Then do me a favor, Kelly: just ask Esteban the question. If he answers, you pass it on to me. When we know where he gets his heroin, we’ll leave you be. It’s like painting your door with lamb’s blood; we’ll pass by in the night and you won’t be touched.”

“What about Esteban?”

“If he wants to sell weed to the turistas, that’s his business and no concern of mine. Like you say, I’m a state policeman. If the locals want to go out of their way, they can.” Sevilla paused. “Well?”

“If I hear something about it, then I’ll tell you,” Kelly said at last.

“That’s not agreement.”

“It’s what you get.”

Sevilla nodded shortly. He rose from the couch and only then did Kelly venture out of the kitchenette into the larger room. They met at the door. Sevilla opened it. “I knew there was a reason I didn’t throw you back to the police in the States,” he said. “Some people think fighters are stupid, getting hit in the head all the time and not complaining, but we know better.”

“I’ll call you,” Kelly said.

“Of course you will,” Sevilla said, and Kelly knew they both understood it was all a lie; Kelly would never call and Sevilla would not deport him. This was part of a game only Sevilla seemed to understand completely. Kelly wanted him out.

When Sevilla was gone, Kelly paced the apartment. He waited twenty minutes before putting on sweats and running shoes. He would burn the agitation away.

He locked the door and was halfway down the steps to the street when he spotted Sevilla. The policeman lingered by the pink telephone pole, his back to Kelly, absorbed in the flyers. As Kelly watched, Sevilla passed his hand across the flyers as if reading them with his fingertips. He did it twice more before finally walking on. He crossed the road, got into an unremarkable blue sedan, and drove away.

TWELVE

ESTEBAN AND PALOMA LIVED IN A small house that once belonged to their parents. Kelly found it old but comfortable, smelling of age and many fresh-cooked meals. He watched futbol on the little television with Esteban while Paloma prepared the meal. When the food was ready, they gathered around the modest dining-room table. Paloma led them in a prayer and then they ate.

The character of their talk was different on Sundays. Paloma did not allow Esteban’s business into the house, and definitely not around the table. Instead they talked about sports and turistas and local news and even the weather. Paloma and Esteban discussed extended family Kelly had never met, but kind of knew from many Sundays before.

Paloma’s meals were never fancy, but always hot and filling. They ate green chile stew and hand-pressed tortillas, black beans and rice and eggs. When they were full, Esteban went out back to roll a joker. Normally Kelly would go with him, but today he helped Paloma clean up.

“Don’t you want to get stoned?” Paloma asked him.

“Not today,” Kelly replied.

They gathered dishes and scraped them into a plastic bucket. Later on Paloma would put the bucket outside and a trio of local dogs, lifetime strays, would gorge themselves on scraps.

“You look nice today,” Kelly said after a while. He told the truth; Paloma always seemed lovelier on Sundays, even when she dressed down for work in the kitchen.

The kitchen was small, but Paloma knew the space well. She cleaned without wasting any effort. “You look good, too,” she told Kelly. “How’s your nose?”

“Better. I’ve been running, too. Getting a workout in. I figure I could lose ten, fifteen pounds easy.”

“What for?” Paloma asked.

“To get my walking around weight down. You know.”

Paloma glanced at him, and Kelly felt her instant appraisal. “For fighting?” she asked.

“Yeah. But real fighting, not the kind of stuff I’ve been doing. I’ve lived here long enough and I know some people. Maybe I could get licensed again.”

The dishes and pans were clean, dried and put away. Paloma wiped her hands with a threadbare towel. She wore no polish on her fingernails on Sundays, and the change made her hands look different, more honest somehow.

“I thought you wanted to stop someday,” Paloma said. “We talked about it.”

“I know. But what else am I going to do?”

“There are things out there.”

Paloma looked at Kelly and he looked back. He didn’t sense disapproval from her, but he couldn’t figure out the mind behind the face. Kelly lowered his head and pressed on. “I don’t know what else I could do better than this. Yeah, I’m thirty, but that’s not so bad; in my weight class, some decent training… I could win some fights.”

She was silent for a while, and then finally Paloma nodded. “All right,” she said.

They embraced in the kitchen. The smell of marijuana smoke drifted through the tiny window from the backyard and mingled with the pleasant odor of cooking and Paloma’s skin. “I think I’ve got it figured out,” Kelly said. “I’m trying.”

“I believe you,” Paloma said. She kissed his forehead. Kelly put his hand on her ass. Paloma pushed it away. “Not on Sunday.”

“Okay.”

She said the same thing every week.

THIRTEEN

HE WENT TO THE FIGHTS THOUGH he wasn’t going into the ring.

Vidal worked the corner of a poor young fighter from one of the colonias outside Juarez who couldn’t be making much more than the bus fare that brought him there. Kelly raised his hand to get the old man’s attention before he sat down. Vidal nodded, which was as much as he ever offered.

The card wasn’t much – six fights with no one weighing in heavier than welter – but the matches were sanctioned. The atmosphere was better in the athletic hall than at the smokers: Kelly saw women and even a few kids. The crowd was bigger and there were more smiles, fewer scowls. If there was blood, then there would be blood, but it was not what brought the spectators here.

Kelly bought a warm packet of tamales and a bottle of tamarind-flavored Jarritos. Rickety pullout bleachers lined two sides of the hall and shuddered with the moving weight of Mexicans standing up, sitting down or wandering around to talk with friends. A few eyes passed over him with questions behind them, but no one crossed Kelly’s path or objected when he found a good spot. Down by the ring there were folding chairs three deep, but those were assigned and the tickets cost more.