The Dead Women of Juarez

“Yes.”

“Good. If you don’t close the back gate, dogs get into the yard and shit all over.”

Sevilla offered Enrique something cool to drink and they went through the motions of a normal visit. Enrique’s jacket went on a hook by the door and he sat on the couch with his back resting on the quilt Liliana made the first year she and Sevilla were married. Sevilla took the chair. His notepad was on the endtable.

“May I?” Sevilla asked, and he took the cuaderno from Enrique.

“It’s yours,” Enrique said.

They sat in silence while Sevilla checked each page against his notepad. The process was long. Sevilla felt Enrique’s eyes flicking here and there around the room, sensed his anxiety from the way he crossed and uncrossed his legs.

When he was done, Sevilla closed the notebook. He put it on the couch beside Enrique. “How long is it until you go back to work?”

“Tomorrow,” Enrique said.

“You can get the notebook back then?”

“Of course.”

“And then there’s more,” Sevilla said. He saw darkness pass Enrique’s face. “I need you to check on Esteban. He’s in the system, moving around. Even Senora Quintero doesn’t know where he is, or she pretends not to. We need him in one place where he can be checked on.”

Enrique shook his head. “I don’t have that kind of authority. If I interfere with his transport, word will get back to Captain Garcia. He’ll ask questions I can’t answer.”

“Then at least find out where they put him,” Sevilla insisted. He lapsed back in the chair and pushed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. The whisky did not quiet his nerves like it was meant to. He felt tired, but not calm enough to sleep. He had a headache. “He’s the last one who can still talk.”

“Why don’t you do something?”

“I’m not involved anymore,” Sevilla replied. “La Bestia doesn’t need me anymore. It was Kelly who knew me, Kelly who might have listened.”

Silence fell over the living room. The ticking of a clock by the window was the only sound. Even the street outside the front window, past the bars and containing wall, was quiet.

“You have a nice home,” Enrique said after a long time. “Where is Senora Sevilla?”

Sevilla uncovered his eyes. His vision was blurred. He blinked once, twice and again until it passed. The room was clean and ordered just so. The neatness of it made his heart ache. Perhaps it didn’t show on his face. “My wife passed away,” he said simply. “It’s been two years now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. This house was hers to keep, to decorate… everything here is hers. I was barely here enough to make it mine. That quilt, that clock… all hers.”

“You have children?”

The headache stabbed at Sevilla. Another drink would take the point off the dagger, but he would not drink in the house nor drink in front of Enrique. He got up instead and went to the window. Outside it was blackness. If he turned off the lights and sat in the dark, orange-white light would filter in from the street, his eyes would grow used to it and it would be like a new room revealed to him in shadows.

“My daughter is also passed away,” Sevilla replied.

“How did it happen?”

“Make a few calls,” Sevilla said too sharply. “Don’t ask after Esteban right away or you’ll make Garcia suspicious. He’s stupid, but he’s not that stupid.”

“If he does ask, I’ll say I’m making up a report for Senora Quintero,” Enrique said. “There’s one due. I don’t have to mention you at all, or anything else. He relies on me.”

Sevilla turned from the window. There was a time he would not have stood with his back to the night, but he didn’t consider such things much anymore. Talking put strength back into his voice and thinking pushed the headache back. “What do you get from him?”

“I’m sorry?”

“He relies on you. He’s stupid and he’s cruel. He needs someone like you. What do you need from him?”

Enrique looked away. Another silence descended. “They promised me a promotion,” he said finally. “Two years with him would be like five in the rotation. There’s extra pay.”

“The Devil always pays well,” Sevilla said.

He went to the kitchen and found orange juice in the refrigerator. He poured himself a tall glass. He let the drink sweat against his fingers before he drank. The juice was gone in three swallows. Cold spread through his sinuses and for a moment he felt no pain from the drink at all.

“If you had questions about me, the notebook should have answered them,” Enrique said. He stood in the doorway as if he might flee at a harsh word. Sevilla felt a sudden urge to hurl his glass at the young cop, but it was not Enrique he was angry with. “I told you about the American. I gave that to you.”

Sevilla rinsed his glass in the sink. He let hot water run over his hands and he wrung his fingers. “It’s hard to trust,” he said.

“What more can I do for you?” Enrique asked. “The American is guilty. Salazar is guilty. Anyone will tell you that. You and I are the only ones to say no. And what for? If it’s right then it’s right, but we won’t be rewarded.”

“Are you so sure about that?”

“Yes.”

Sevilla looked at Enrique again. He saw Garcia’s hardness hinted at there, the hardness of a stone worn by the wind. He didn’t expect it to show so early.

“I followed a lead today and found out someone has been looking for witnesses and telling lies at the same time. If they spread enough hearsay it will become the truth; people won’t remember if what they say is fact or fiction.”

“Then we’ll show them. Isn’t that what you intended?”

“Let’s sit down again.”

They returned to the living room. This time Enrique stood while Sevilla sat.

“There are names in Kelly’s notebook. I’ll go to them. I’ll ask the questions that need to be asked. When I need you, I’ll call on you, but go back to your life. These are… confusing times. Maybe nothing we do will make a difference. The wheels are already turning.”

“That’s not what you said before. You said this mattered.”

“Of course it matters!” Sevilla shot back. “But there’s a difference between knowing it and doing something about it. My fire, it comes and goes. In the daylight it all seems so easy, but here in the night I’m not so certain of myself.”

“Who will you talk to?” Enrique asked.

“There’s a girl who spent much time with Paloma Salazar. They’re looking for her. Not La Bestia, but someone like him. She’s a woman and she’s poor. They’ll find some way to push her that doesn’t involve truncheons. Maybe I’ll be able to push back. Maybe it’s already too late.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“I’m drunk!” Sevilla exclaimed. “I’m old and drunk and this—” he took up the red notebook and shook it angrily “— this isn’t enough! I thought it would have some breakthrough in it that I could use against what I found today, but it’s bullshit! The same bullshit it always was. Goddammit, Kelly.”

“How much do you drink?” Enrique asked.

“Too much. Not enough.”

Enrique paced. “What the hell am I doing here? Give me the notebook.”

Sevilla surrendered it without protest. His face was burning.

“You lectured me about duty and responsibility and now you can’t even keep away from a drink? What if Garcia saw me with this notebook today? What kind of excuse could I give? Or should I have just sent him to you?”

When Sevilla put his hands to his eyes again, they were wet. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Enrique agreed.