The Dead Women of Juarez

step.

Over five years, even with regular bouts in the ring, he’d let his form go. He didn’t have to think about the perfect hook or the right toe-step when he was only meant to be hit. Going slow he could watch himself and every sloppy error leaped off the mirror. Control like this sapped energy, and Kelly’s shirt soaked through with perspiration.

He didn’t notice anyone moving behind him, or the sudden hush. Trainers stopped calling punches and the gym fell quiet except for scratchy music on the radio.

“Hey, Kelly,” Ortiz said. “?Como te va?”

Even in wraps, Kelly’s hands were heavy. His shoulders smarted. Ortiz was dressed casually, but still in a neat jacket and slacks. He seemed wrong for the gym, where even the occasional promoter came in looking like a street laborer. Here the older men were like Urvano: simple, dedicated and poor. Ortiz wore a gold watch.

Ortiz stepped up and mimed a body punch. “Looking good, Kelly. You lost some weight. About one sixty, huh?”

Kelly nodded. Beyond Ortiz he was aware of Urvano watching. “Less,” he said.

“That’s good. Real good. Nice to see you working so hard.”

“Yeah, well, I—”

“Listen, Kelly, I heard you were looking for me. I got somewhere to be, but if you have some time…?”

“Now?”

Ortiz tapped his gold watch. “Ahora.”

Around the gym a few fighters went back to the workouts. Trainers turned their backs on Ortiz. Kelly knew they were shutting him out, too.

“All right,” Kelly said. “Give me a minute to clean up.”

“Don’t take too long.”

Kelly used the shower, cold even though the day was hot, changed into clean sweats and met Ortiz outside. He passed Urvano without saying anything. When he came back there would be plenty to say.

He found Ortiz outside beside an idling pick-up. The bed was loaded with plastic cat crates lashed down with bright green and red bungee cords. In each crate was a resting cock, bright feathered and healthy.

“All right,” Ortiz said. “Let’s get going. There’s no room up front. Ride in the back.”

The pick-up was big, shiny and black with a double-long cab for a back seat and reversed double-doors. When Ortiz opened one, Kelly saw big men in tight-fitting black T-shirts inside, all of them heavy with muscle. One looked at Kelly from behind wraparound Gargoyles. Freezer-cold air conditioning spilled from the open door.

“Kelly, you coming, man?”

“Yeah, sure.”

He tossed his gym bag in the back and used the running board to climb in. The bed of the truck was rubberized and clean. Kelly found a spot beside the cat crates and settled in. Ortiz shut himself up front and the truck pulled out.

They drove almost an hour until they reached a long, low building on the far side of Ciudad Juarez. Kelly had never been there, but he recognized what it was: a palenque where fighting cocks did battle. It was not a turista spot, and the neighborhood was rotting into the desert flats where broad sprawls of colonias held sway.

Ortiz got out and so did the men. Kelly saw one of them wore a gun open on his hip. The air smelled of dust and when the wind shifted the odor of open sewage pits carried from the south. Kelly had grit in his hair.

“All right,” Ortiz said. “Come on, Kelly. Let’s go inside, have a cerveza, all right?”

They left the men to unload the cocks in their plastic cat crates. Ortiz led the way. Inside the shift to fluorescent lighting left Kelly blind until his eyes adjusted, and then he saw the unpainted concrete walls festooned with grafitti and posters, the terraced benches around the fighting pit and, on the far side, a lively beer bar crowded with men. The terraces were almost empty, but already there were cocks fighting.

“You ever come to the palenque, Kelly?” Ortiz asked.

“No,” Kelly said.

“This is fighting,” Ortiz said. “You know I love the boxing, but there is nothing better than this. Even when los perros fight… it’s not the same.”

Kelly smelled blood, but in the bar there was too much smoke, beer and the odor of bodies and the whiff of blood vanished. Ortiz paused to talk here and there, but never for long. Kelly waited, and soon they were at the bar itself. Ortiz got two bottles of Tecate and presented one to Kelly.

“Salud, dinero, amor y tiempo para disfrutarlo todo,” Ortiz told Kelly, and it was bottoms up. This was the first beer Kelly had tasted in over a month. Ortiz wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I have six cocks fighting today. Good animals, the best money can buy.”

Kelly nodded. It was possible to see from the bar the head of the judges in the fighting pit, but not the battle itself, though occasionally a feather flew loose, or there was the sudden, visible flurry of dark wings.

“I like the pure fighting, you know?”

“That’s what you said.”

“How much fighting are you doing these days, Kelly?”

Kelly shrugged. “Not much. I’ve been training.”

“And you look muy bueno, Kelly. Better than ever. Listen, my friend, I know you like to fight and that you want to earn some money, so maybe you want to hear about this. I have some clients that like the pure fighting. Not boxing, but traditional. You know what I mean?”

“Not really.”

“Bare hands. Like they used to do it in the old days.”

The beer didn’t taste right to Kelly. A bowl of lime slices was close at hand. Kelly took one and sucked the juice. He shook his head. “There’s no sanction for fighting like that,” he said.

Ortiz spread his hands wide. Around them, men were filing out of the bar area and down to the terraces. Kelly saw one of the men from the truck down by the pit talking to one of the judges. “You think everything that happens has to have paperwork? This is a good time, Kelly. Lots of money. You can even get your dick wet; lots of girls at these things. Pretty girls. Young girls.”

“I got a girl.”

“Yeah, you got a ballbusting puta,” Ortiz said. He made a face. “Some people, they think maybe she’s the one with the cock, you know?”

Kelly pushed the limes away sharply. “Don’t talk about Paloma like that.”

“Nothing personal.”

“Okay, then let’s talk about business. I want to fight. Real fights.”

“I got nothing like that.”

“You can get something.”

“How? There’s nobody backing you, Kelly.”

“You are.”

“Sure, sure. I mean who gave you all those fights when you came to Juarez? Me. I watched out for you, kept you in the ring.”

“I know. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

“About a real fight.”

“That’s what I said.”

Ortiz finished his beer and signaled the bartender for another. “You’re reliable, Kelly. I don’t care about what happened in the past. This is now.”

Kelly took a deep breath. He felt light headed, but it couldn’t have been just the beer. “I’d like to see about getting into some sanctioned matches. I don’t have to fight under my name. We can work something out, get me in under the radar. Little fights, you know? Four-rounders to start. I don’t care who you put me up against.”

Ortiz’s beer came. He turned from Kelly and rolled the cold bottle between his hands. His expression was pensive. He glanced sidelong at Kelly. “I’m not sure what you’re asking me, Kelly.”

“We’re talking about a real fight.”