?Carlos not for groups. Carlos is a one conchita man.? He put his arms around her, but they continued to watch. Small, rhythmic waves lapped at the edge of the pool.
?It looks sexy,? he said.
She put her hand on his crotch and felt it was hard. Time to earn her pay.
?First Carlos drinks,? he said, and went to fetch a bottle.
She didn?t know whether to blame the drink, but Carlos was different in bed?desperate, urgent, as if he wanted to prove himself.
?I want you to hurt me,? she said.
Maybe he did not hear. Maybe he did not want to. He just went on.
When he had finished and lay wet with his own perspiration beside her, head between her breasts, he asked: ?Carlos was good for you??
?You were great.?
?Yes. Carlos is a great lover,? he said in all seriousness. Then he was quiet, for so long that she wondered if he was asleep.
Suddenly he rose to his feet, crossed to where he had dropped his trousers on the floor and took out a packet of cigarettes. He lit two and passed one to her before sitting down beside her, with his feet folded under him. His eyes were bloodshot.
?These people . . .? he said with venom and a deep furrow of distaste on his forehead. She knew him well enough to know he was not sober.
She drew on the cigarette.
?They did not even thank Carlos for the party. They come, they drink and snort and eat and fuck and then they leave, no goodbye, no ?thank you, Carlos, for your hospitality.? ?
?It was a good party, Carlos.?
?
conchita. Cost a lot of money, famous chef, best
best
But they have no respect for Carlos.?
?Carlos is nothing,? the man in his bedroom had said.
?You know who they are, conchita? You know? They are
They are shit. They make money with drugs. Mexicans!? He spat out the word. ?They are nothing. They are
for the Yankees. Cubans. What are they? And the Afghans. Peasants, I tell you.?
?Afghans??
?
Those arses holes in the dresses.
?
So the Arabs were Afghans. ?Oh.?
?And the China and the Thai, and the Vietnam, what are they? They are
Carlos tell you, they have nothing but chickens and bananas and heroin. They fuck their mothers. But they come to Carlos, to this beautiful house and they have no manners. You know who they are, conchita? They are drugs. The Afghans and the Vietnam and the Thai, they bring heroin. They bring here, because here is safe, no police here. They take cocaine back. Then Sangrenegra brothers take heroin to America and to Europe. And the South Americans, they help supply, but little, because Sangrenegra brothers control supply. That is Carlos and Javier. My big brother is Javier. He is biggest man in drugs. Everybody know him. We take heroin, we give cocaine, we give money, we . . . we
We take to whole world. Carlos will tell Javier about the disrespect. They think Carlos is little brother, Javier is not here, so they can shit on me. They cannot shit on me, conchita. I will shit on
? He squashed the cigarette disdainfully in the ashtray.
?Come, conchita, Carlos show you something.? He took her arm and drew her along. He picked up his trousers, took out a bunch of keys, took her hand and led her down the passage, down the stairs, through the kitchen, down more stairs to a pantry. The house was completely deserted by now. He opened a half-concealed door at the back of the pantry. There were three locks, each with its own key.
?Carlos show you. Sangrenegra is not small time.? He pressed a light switch. Another door. A small electronic number pad on the wall. He typed in a number. ?Oh, eight, two, four, four, nine, you know that number, conchita??
?Yes.? They were the first six numbers of her cell phone number.
?That is how much Carlos love you.?
It was a steel door that opened automatically. A fluorescent light flickered on inside. He pulled her inside. A space as large as a double garage. Shelves up to the ceiling. Plastic bags on the racks, from one end to the other, all filled with white powder.
Then she saw the money.
