The Dead Women of Juarez

Eyes were on Sevilla, the stranger in the gym. He ignored them. “You said he took fighting cocks to the palenque?”

“Si. He has a hard-on for anything that fights, man or beast. I heard he used to book fights between men and dogs. What kind of trash is that? Kelly was better than him.”

His pencil was missing. Sevilla searched his pockets until he found it. He scribbled on the back of a used page. “Do you know the name of the palenque where Ortiz’s cocks fight? It would help me.”

Urvano thought a while until a name came to him. Sevilla wrote it down. His fingers trembled and he nearly dropped the pencil. He felt as though there was a question he needed to ask, something he’d overlooked, but it didn’t come to him. “If that Ortiz is to blame for Kelly’s problem, then someone ought to cut his balls off,” Urvano said.

“This is good information to have,” Sevilla said. He moved toward the door. “Thank you for this. I need to go.”

“You cut his balls off,” Urvano insisted.

“Someone will,” Sevilla replied, and he went outside.

TWELVE

IT WASN’T UNTIL HE’D MADE THE long drive to the palenque that Sevilla called Enrique. The parking lot was a broad, dusty expanse of unpaved and tire-rutted dirt. A mural of two fighting cocks on the side of the building was once bright, but now sun-faded. A handful of trucks and cars were scattered around. The phone rang twice. A man that was not Enrique answered. “?Bueno? ”

“Si, I’m trying to reach Enrique Palencia. Do I have the right number, please?”

“This is his desk. Who the fuck is this?”

Sevilla paused. He heard the man breathing on the other end of the line. “Garcia?”

“Is this Sevilla?”

His first instinct was to hang up, but he didn’t. “This is Sevilla,” he said instead. “I tried to call your desk first, Ramon. You weren’t there.”

Garcia made a sound like a cough. “That’s because I’m here, you idiot,” he said. “Why are you calling my boy? It’s bad enough you have him looking after that rulacho, Esteban Salazar.”

Sevilla’s fingers were cold on his phone. “What do you mean?”

“I mean he’s been calling all around about him. Trying to get him settled. He’s turned into a regular guardian angel.”

“He’s part of your case. Maybe Palencia just wants to make sure you have all your witnesses.”

“We don’t need any witnesses. Someone ought to put a bullet in Salazar’s head and call it a day.”

“He confessed?”

“What do you think, Sevilla?”

Sevilla looked into his lap. His notepad was there, open to the address of the palenque. Before he had been excited, energized by the name of Ortiz and Urvano’s words. Now he felt suddenly enervated, as if he’d been too long in the sun and the juice was sapped from him. “When did he confess?”

“Yesterday. I spoke to Senora Quintero about it this morning. She’s a piece of ass.”

Fucking naco, Sevilla thought, but he said, “That’s good news.”

“He said it was the American who started it. Came up with the plan and when to do it. Salazar just helped him. Can you believe someone who would do that to his own sister? He’s like those sick bastards in the Sinaloa.”

“He confessed to all of it?”

“Si. No thanks to you or Enrique. The two of you would rather cuddle and kiss these sons of bitches than give them what they deserve.”

A retort came to mind, but Sevilla sighed instead. “Congratulations,” he said.

“Thank you. Now, you want me to have Enrique call you? You can go cry into your drinks about a few broken bones.”

“No,” Sevilla said. “No.”

“Then fuck off back to your narcos,” Garcia replied. “They’re taking over the whole goddamned city.”

The line went dead. Sevilla folded his phone and put it in his pocket. For a long time he sat still and silent.

“?Chingalo!” He pounded his fist on the steering wheel. “?Chingalo! ?Chingalo!”

The moment passed. Sevilla lapsed back into silence. Without thinking he reached beneath the seat, his hand searching for a bottle wrapped in paper, but there was nothing there. He nearly cursed again and then he thought he might cry. Two men emerged from the entrance to the palenque, got into a rust-sided old Chevrolet and drove away. They were oblivious.

Sevilla covered his face with his hands. “Esteban, you stupid bastard,” he breathed. In the same moment he knew he would have done the same thing if their places were reversed. The memory of the bat coming down on Esteban’s hand was fresh.

He found his phone again and dialed another number. No one answered and the line switched to voice mail. Sevilla took a deep breath. “This is Sevilla. When you get a chance, call me. We should meet. I know about Esteban so there’s no need to tell me. There’s still a chance to make this right.”

Afterward he held the phone in his hand, willing it to ring, but it was dead weight. He put it away. He started the car again and then turned the ignition off. The palenque squatted in the heat and dust, waiting for him. He thought of the shade and fans blowing cool air and a bar with iced beer and harder liquor. It wasn’t so late in the day that a drink would ruin it, nor so early that he would have to hide what he’d done.

The phone didn’t ring. If it rang he would not go inside and he would not drink. If it didn’t ring, he would treat himself this once. He wouldn’t drink so much that he couldn’t drive safely. Maybe he would watch the fights. Maybe he would even bet on them and let the clock turn lazily toward evening. He could afford two or three drinks then.

Sevilla was out of the car and across the lot before he decided to go. The phone did not ring and he put it away. The entrance to the palenque was shady and smelled of mixed alcohol, chicken blood and straw. When he entered no one looked his way and when he ordered a blended whisky no one spoke a word of blame.

THIRTEEN

SLEEPING IN THE BACK SEAT OF HIS car was not so bad when the sun lay low along the horizon and the windows were open to allow a little breeze. The phone buzzed in Sevilla’s pocket and then it rang. He stirred. His hand found the phone on its own.

“Sevilla,” he said.

“I called three times,” Enrique said.

“I’ve been busy,” Sevilla replied.

“You sound like you’ve been sleeping. Where are you?”

“At a cockfighting arena. I won three wagers.”

“What are you doing there?”

Sevilla struggled to sit up. His foot caught on the armrest and for a moment he felt trapped. “What difference does it make to you? Where have you been?”

“Esteban Salazar is back at El Cereso,” Enrique said. “I’ve been trying to meet with him.”

“Why? He already confessed, the stupid bastard.”

“Confessions can be recanted.”