The Dead Women of Juarez

“And I’m telling you I don’t got nothing like that for you. I got something better.”

“I’m not fighting nobody bare-knuckles,” Kelly said. “A real fight, okay?”

“What do you think I’m saying, Kelly? I’m talking about real fighting without all those gloves and all that huevadas. You don’t need to get some paper from some burocrata behind a desk.”

Kelly thought about taking another drink, but the taste for it was gone. “No, I’m telling you that’s not my thing. I’m not that kind of fighter. I want to box. It’s not like I don’t appreciate what all you’ve done. I mean… that’s why I’m talkin’ to you now. I know you can get me in the ring legit.”

The bar area was almost empty now. The bartender took Kelly’s bottle away. Ortiz was quiet for a long time. Another cockfight started and the spectators cheered.

“I want to get back up there,” Kelly said finally.

Ortiz shook his head slowly. He half-smiled, took a swig and then laughed out loud. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Kelly. You look all right; did you get hit in the head? Maybe that’s it.”

“I’m just saying—”

Ortiz waved Kelly silent. “I hear what you’re saying.”

“So—”

“Don’t you get it? Nobody wants to see some washed-up bolillo in the ring with decent fighters. You get paid to bleed. You ain’t any kind of contender. This is it, okay? Nobody in Juarez would touch a fucking junkie gringo but me.”

“I’m not a junkie.”

“Whatever you say, Kelly. You think I don’t know those marks on you? Huh?”

Kelly crossed his arms unconsciously. He was short of breath. Kelly forced himself to inhale and exhale.

Ortiz went on: “I always gave you what you could get. This is what you get.”

“I can do better than that,” Kelly returned.

“Who says? Is it that fucking Urvano feeding you this shit? That puto doesn’t know nothing I don’t know, Kelly. Where was he when you wanted to fight back when? Huh? Huh? You tell me!”

Kelly wanted to be angry. Ortiz advanced on him with his hands waving. He spilled his beer. The few men left near the bar moved away fast. Kelly backed off. “I’m clean and I’m not playing,” Kelly said. “I know you done right by me before. We have respect.”

“‘Respect’? When you got respect for me then you do me a favor after all the favors I’ve done for you, naco. Where do you think I get the money to pay you? You think I’m some kind of asshole you can take for a ride, like those fucking turistas you and that zurramato Esteban peddle dope to?”

“That’s got nothin’ to do with nothin’,” Kelly protested.

Ortiz ignored Kelly as if he hadn’t said a word. “You stupid fuck. Talk about respect to me? This is my country, pendejo, this is my city. You want to talk your white bullshit to me? Is that it?”

“I get it,” Kelly said. “All right? Fuck it. I don’t need anything from you.”

He left the bar. Ortiz kept close behind. “Don’t you turn your back on me, cabron! You don’t got nothing in Juarez without me. You think Urvano can get you into real fights? They’ll find out all about where you been, what you done.”

“You don’t know what I did.”

“Fucking bolillo!”

Kelly saw the way out and picked up the pace. One of the big men from the truck stepped in his way. The man still wore his Gargoyles. He was tall and wide and hard as cement beneath his black T-shirt. A tattoo of La Virgen de Guadalupe stood out in blue and red on his forearm. “Out of the way,” Kelly told him.

The big man didn’t move. Ortiz caught up. “Let him out,” he told the man. “He can walk back to his fucking hole in the wall. I should have Lalo run your white ass over.”

Enough. Kelly whirled on Ortiz and the smaller man took a step back. He still held his bottle, but by the neck like a weapon. “Goddammit, you little son of a bitch,” Kelly said. “You want to fight with me? I don’t give a shit how many guys you got with you, I’ll tear you a new asshole!”

Kelly felt Lalo move behind him. Ortiz put his hand up. “No,” he said.

“You find somebody else to bleed for you,” Kelly told Ortiz. “I’m out.”

He left the arena and exited into the hot, clean sunlight. He skirted around the big pick-up and headed up the dust-heavy street. Ortiz didn’t follow, nor Lalo or any of the other men from the truck. Kelly was alone.

PART TWO

Sospechoso

ONE

ON THE DAY AFTER HE SLEPT late instead of getting up for roadwork. He ate a healthy breakfast, but his heart wasn’t in it and he went to a taqueria for something greasy. There he ate until his stomach started to feel all wrong and before he walked half a mile he puked his guts out against the side of a building. He wandered after that, not sure where to go or what to do. He didn’t like what he was feeling, which was angry and sad and lost all at once.

It occurred to him to call on Paloma, but he didn’t. Nor did he make the trip to Urvano’s gym. A part of him felt like he should work out harder than before and prove something, but another part urged Kelly to simply be. He bought a liter-sized bottle of cheap beer and sat on the edge of an overpass watching buses go by. When he finished the bottle, he dropped it over the side into a concrete-lined ditch and smiled at the sound of shattering glass.

He misspent the time until well after noon. When he got back to his apartment he was suddenly tired and took a nap for nearly three hours. He was aware of raised voices outside, a man and a woman squabbling and plainly audible through the open window, but they didn’t wake him; instead he dreamed about arguing with Paloma until she turned her back on him and disappeared.

Kelly woke up sweating and smelling like beer. He showered and put on fresh clothes, but then he just sat on the couch in his living room staring at the blank television. “Fuck you,” he said to no one, though maybe he was talking to Ortiz. He gave the TV a middle finger.

The walk back from the palenque was long, even with a bus hop along the way, and Kelly was aware now of how his feet hurt. He foraged aspirin from the bathroom, chewed two and waited half an hour for them to kick in. A half-hour after that Kelly still felt the ache. He forced himself to be still for another hour because he knew he shouldn’t go out the door to do what was on his mind.

He went back to a little norteno bar and found the woman with perfect white dentures again, tucked away in her little corner under the Christmas lights. Aside from the bartender, they were alone; shift change was still an hour away. The woman looked at Kelly suspiciously when he sat down across from her; she didn’t remember him, or maybe she just didn’t recognize Kelly when his face was healed.

“What do you got?” Kelly asked her.

“No se de lo que usted esta hablando,” the woman said, and she made to get up.

Kelly reached across the table. He put his hand on her forearm. “Hey,” he said. “I thought you said you liked