The Dead Women of Juarez

THE BANK WAS THE KIND BUILT when such places were meant to be palaces, fortresses of money or cathedrals of a sort, where petitioners came with offerings of a few hundred pesos to lay the foundation of a dream. Sevilla could remember when he was twenty-two years old and had saved enough to open his account. The bank had not changed much at all.

Brass-fitted bars still enclosed the tellers, but behind this was a thick layer of bulletproof glass to protect against modern bandits. Desks where suit-wearing men rendered judgment on loans and accounts were laden with computers instead of typewriters and at some point in the intervening decades air conditioning had been installed to cool the whole edifice.

Sevilla felt sick to his stomach, and from time to time as he waited in the pre-lunch crowd of customers he thought of reconsidering and fleeing, but he didn’t. When at last it was his turn, the teller raised both eyebrows at the amount on the green withdrawal slip. “Are you sure of this, senor?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Sevilla said, though he was not.

“Do you want this amount as a cashier’s check?”

“I want it in cash. Large bills.”

“Would you like to speak with a manager?”

“No.”

Sevilla put the money in a briefcase and for a moment he felt like one of his narcos, packing thousands into neat bundles and then bricking them together until there were just rows and rows of brand-new five-hundred-peso notes.

He went to a place he found in the telephone directory, careful to put his pistol in the glove compartment of his car and lock it because this was no time for awkward questions.

Inside the shop there were dummies wearing suits, some completed and others still in a state of construction. Bolts of rich fabric nestled in hardwood cubbies and there was the smell of hot wire and cigars in the air. The tailor was a gray-bearded man a head shorter than Sevilla. He had pins stuck into a band around his left arm and wore a green visor that reminded Sevilla of the bank he’d just left.

“Good day, senor,” the tailor said.

“Buenas tardes. I need a suit.”

The tailor motioned with his hand to encompass the cloth, the dummies and the storefront. Behind him was a broad table with measuring sticks built into its surface. An open door to the back room revealed two sewing machines and still more fragments of suits uncompleted. “I will do my best,” he said.

“The thing is,” Sevilla said, “I need more than one. And I need them quickly. Within three days. The first I will need tomorrow.”

“This I can do, but a rush order is more expensive.” The tailor looked at Sevilla’s suit, the deep wrinkles and the dulled color of what had once been nearly perfect white. He did not sniff, but Sevilla saw his contempt. “Is this the first time senor has had a suit tailored?”

“Is it so obvious?” Sevilla joked.

“Yes, senor, but no matter. Every man has a first time in a suit fitted to him. For some that time comes early and others not.”

Sevilla stood with his hands out at his sides. “What do we do?”

“First senor makes a deposit for his suits.”

FOUR

ONCE AN HOUR AND SOMETIMES more, Garcia called Enrique’s phone. Each time Enrique silenced it. After a while he turned off the ringer altogether. He didn’t expect a call from Sevilla and if one came he would be able to return it quickly enough. If worst came to worst, Enrique could leave a message at the Hotel Lucerna under the name Villalobos.

In poker they called this all in, a term Enrique learned from watching games played in Las Vegas, USA, for more money than he would ever earn in a lifetime of work. The men and sometimes women were so assured in their movements, pressing stacks of chips worth thousands of US dollars into play as if their value was nothing more than that of the clay of which they were made. He knew there must be fear behind those blank expressions, those poker faces, but they might as well have been ordering lunch.

At first Enrique argued with Sevilla, but the longer they argued the more it made sense. In the end they were alone because the case they pursued was already closed. The men who did it were confessed, all but convicted and, in the case of Esteban Salazar, dead. No judge need hear the case, nor jury be convened. One might come to call for Kelly Courter, but then only if he returned to the world of the living. He was suspended as everything else was suspended. This way was the only way out.

The black pick-up truck moved through traffic ahead of him and Enrique followed. Ortiz was like a policeman working a beat, patrolling endlessly and never staying in any one place too long. He visited casinos and brothels and gymnasiums and, shark-like, moved on. Before long Enrique had his rhythm, understood the pattern of quarry and pursuer, and his hands relaxed on the wheel. He was able to think.

His phone vibrated on the seat beside him. He didn’t bother to look down. Up ahead the truck made a left- hand turn. Enrique barely managed to squeak through the light.

Again the truck slowed. It was the large, shiny fitness club again. Enrique cruised gently to the curb and stilled the engine. He put down the window and let the light, heat and smells of the street come in.

FIVE

THE SUIT DIDN’T FEEL RIGHT BECAUSE it fit so well. Sevilla was used to the idiosyncrasies of his own clothes, the way they cinched and pulled where they shouldn’t and where they hung comfortably loose. Without years of washing and wearing behind them, the suit also lacked the smell of well-worn clothes. He felt trussed up and foolish, but when he approached the maitre d’ at the Mision Guadalupe without a reservation he wasn’t shooed away and that was how he knew the suit was as it should be.

“I would have called before,” Sevilla told the maitre d’. “But I’ve been so busy.”

“Of course, senor,” the maitre d’ replied. “We have a table we can make available for you. It will be just a few minutes. Would you care for something from the bar while you wait?”

Sevilla licked his lips unconsciously and then covered for it with a cough. “No,” he said. “No, thank you. I can wait.”

“Very good.”

The restaurant was traditionally Mexican in its cuisine, though taken through the filter of fine dining. Light- colored walls, blond wood and marble bespoke elegance and the menu announced dishes Sevilla had eaten all his life but with variations he didn’t recognize. The leather chairs in the waiting area were angular and modern looking and not welcoming when he sat down. It was as he suspected; all for show and not for use.

In the dining room three massive alabaster plinths dominated the space. Sevilla saw the bar, backlighted like some valuable statue, its expanse carved of the same stone. He was given a table near the back of the restaurant, set for one. He passed Madrigal’s table along the way.

Rafa Madrigal held court at a large, round table with four other men. Three were his age, leonine faces set off by deep tans and whitening hair. The fourth was much younger, only in his twenties, but no stranger to his surroundings. The forest of crystal and silver surrounded them. The comida corrida was not for men like these a succession of peasant foods, but dish after dish of handcrafted excellence. As Sevilla took his seat he saw one set of plates whisked away and another laid in their place by a coterie of waiters in black pants and tight, matching T-shirts.

He was not close enough to hear what they were saying, though the conversation was continuous. Sevilla made an effort not to look too often in their direction. He forced himself to examine the menu.

When ordering he felt a fool, an ape-man pretending to be a gentleman, but his server seemed to pay no mind to his hesitation or his awkwardness. An appetizer of quesadillas with huitlacoche came to his table within minutes, and though Sevilla expected he would be