He was still in good shape. The other day he’d run seven miles with a thirty-pound pack at almost an eight-minute pace. That was impressive. And if Lisette needed someone to run seven miles with a thirty-pound pack at an almost-but-not-quite eight-minute pace, it would come in handy.
Later that evening he texted her on WhatsApp to say that the hotel she booked for herself was popular with sex tourists. The owner brought in prostitutes to spend all day in the hotel’s gym, which was where the clients could observe them in their tight spandex. “Maybe there’s some journalisty reason you chose it,” he typed, hit send, then typed, “But if you want a nicer place, I’ve got an extra bedroom at my finca.” This didn’t seem sufficient, so he added, “close to airport, close to Medellín.” He stared at the messages, wondering what subtext she’d read into them, then added, “It’s got a private entrance so you don’t need to see me if you don’t want to.” That seemed too standoffish, but he’d already sent it, so he started typing, “And I’d love to spend some time with you,” but that was too much. He deleted it without sending, scrolled through his photos for a good shot of the view, and sent that. He texted, “Don’t waste money if you don’t have to.”
• • •
Traffic jams were good for Abel. The little store he’d constructed on the side of the road leading into La Vigia got decent business—he’d planned the placement well, with little competition beyond the men carrying wares on their back—and since the new construction had blocked off all but one lane and created backlogs of trucks and cars and motorcycles, it seemed like every third car would pull into the parking lot he’d shoveled flat and paved himself. His shop wasn’t like any other peasant shop, with dirty shelves and old goods. He’d slowly built it up to look more and more like a real professional store. It had a sign with lights. It had a glass front door. It had a little section under a heat lamp with cooked goods he got from a bakery run by demobilized guerrillas—one of the projects of the Fundación de Justicia y Fe. One day, he thought, he would raise enough money to sell gasoline. That was expensive, and required tanks and machinery and construction he couldn’t do himself. But one day, he’d have a proper gas station. He was a business owner. He paid taxes. He paid the Urabeños. He paid the guerrilla. Some days, it seemed all he did was bleed money to parasites. But when there were traffic jams, and the cars poured in, drivers eager to kill some time, stretch their legs, and buy some chicharrónes or cool drinks or aguardiente, those parasites felt like nothing more than tiny little mosquitoes, young baby mosquitoes with skinny legs and long rifles but bellies so small they couldn’t ever dream of taking in enough of his blood to even weaken him. Let them feed off me, he’d think. They know no better way to live.
He wasn’t like them anymore. He was back in the land of the living. He had friends. Neighbors. It’d been hard, as an old paramilitary. But he’d kept his head down, and lived honestly, and slowly, over time, proved himself. He’d received help here and there, especially from the Fundación de Justicia y Fe, but mostly it’d been a hard, lonely struggle, building his business brick by brick, the way his father had built the home he’d grown up in. There were days when he could even imagine his father looking down from heaven, seeing his store, recognizing his son, and feeling proud.
So he was feeling good the day Jefferson walked back into his life. Construction about a mile south of him had backed up his road, and led to a steady stream of customers seeking a small break from the frustrations of driving. And then, as the sun dipped, a pack of motorcycles weaved through the cars and turned as one into his little lot. One man, short, blocky, with a helmet that obscured his face, got off his moto. The rest stayed put, staking out positions in a military manner Abel knew well. Indeed, everything about the group, down to the walk of their leader as he made his way toward Abel’s glass door, seemed familiar. These men were not customers, he knew that. But neither were they strangers.
Abel left his position behind the counter and walked to open the front door. He knew the importance of respect. And then the leader took off his helmet and the face, older and even more worn and pitted than it’d been the last time he’d seen it, was the face of Jefferson.
“Abel,” Jefferson said. Then he smiled, looking around. Abel knew how his store must seem to a man like Jefferson, with its pathetic goods and its reek of diligent poverty. “What the fuck is this?”
“Sir,” he said. What else was there to say? Jefferson was no mosquito. Jefferson could bleed him dry. He thought of the rumors he’d heard, that Javier had switched allegiances to a Venezuelan narco. He thought of the new faces he’d seen in town, the increased traffic on the road, the increased business in his store, which he’d only thought of as a good thing.
“Come. Close up. You’re finished for the day.”
There was a customer browsing the shelves but a look was sufficient to make him put the bottle of Postobón back and head out the door. Abel turned off the lights, pulled the cash out of the register, closed the door, and pulled down the
