*

  Alonso Carvajal, thirty-eight years old, received the news in shorts and a T-shirt at his home in the Culiacán neighbourhood known as Las Vegas. Sleepy. His wife at work, his children in school. Poor girl, she was our star. Mayra Cabral de Melo, was she Brazilian? Zelda Toledo, her tone hard. Mendieta looked on, the grieving widower. That’s what she said. You doubt it? The girls are smart and they’re from all over, if they lie it’s none of our business. Of course, as long as they know how to wiggle their asses that’s enough for you. Lefty looked at her. It’s a job like any other. You don’t say, anyhow, we won’t talk about that now; how long has Mayra been dancing at the Alexa? Four months, more or less, as a matter of fact, she didn’t turn up the past three nights. What do you do if they miss a day? We look into it, but we couldn’t locate Mayra or her housemate, who didn’t show up to work either, no sign of her until yesterday. What’s the housemate’s name? Yolanda Estrada, she dances as Yhajaira, they lived together. Where? Zaragoza 2516-B, near Casino de la Cultura. Lefty called Headquarters: Robles, find Terminator, send him and the Camel, and he read out the name and the address. Tell them to stay with the babe until we get there and keep me informed. Mayra liked to call herself Roxana. How many girls dance in your strip club? It depends, right now a dozen. Who besides you has a direct relationship with them? Elisa Calderón, my assistant, she makes sure they come in on time and if they go off with somebody she takes note, and she coordinates when they’re all supposed to be on the catwalk; and there’s Óscar Olivas, the bartender, who we call the Phantom, and the waiters, too, especially José Escamilla, who’s in charge of renting out the private rooms. Alonso Carvajal told them he had been on the job for fourteen months, that at first he did not like it, but now he was used to the way things were done. It was the first time someone was murdered. How did you hire Mayra? She came with a group of them from Veracruz, there’s a circuit the girls follow from city to city, they move every three or four months. In other words, she was about to leave. She wanted to stay, she had good clients and, like I say, she was the main attraction; I think she was about to have it her way. What do you mean? Well . . . he hesitated. One of her clients is a partner. And his name is? Luis Ángel Meraz. Zelda gave Lefty a sidelong glance. The politician? No less; if it isn’t too much to ask, when you go see him don’t mention my name. I want a list of her clients right this minute. That’s something we can’t do. He could say no more because Lefty had jumped him and put him in a headlock. The list, asshole, are you deaf? we want it now and add in the rest of the partners. Alright. Lefty eased off: like you wouldn’t break a dish and all your dishes are broken. Zelda looked at him alarmed. So? At first she went out with a dozen guys, more or less; in the end we knew she was going with two or three. Who? That’s going to cost me my job. If I stick you in the can it’s going to cost you your virginity, asshole; bit by bit the widower was turning into the villain. Miguel de Cervantes. Lefty leapt at him like a wild animal, pulled the guy up to standing, though he was heavyset and normal height, and gave him a sharp knee to the groin. Ugh. You don’t want to see what we’re really like, you dickhead, that’s the name of a writer. I swear that’s what he told me his name was, he’s an engineer who installs greenhouses, he lives in La Primavera and he’s Spanish. The one who wrote Don Quixote. Lefty threw him down on the easy chair. Please, you don’t need to use those methods with me, I’m cooperating, I’m telling you what I know, and I know about Cervantes, in high school we had to read his story “The Glass Graduate”. What about the others? Attorney Meraz who I already mentioned, who used to be president of the P.R.I. and a congressman, and Richie Bernal, who you people ought to know better than I do. Zelda wrote it all down. I don’t know their addresses. What about the ones from the very beginning? Those names I can’t remember, it was when I first started; I’ll ask Elisa to call you and give them to you. We need her address and telephone, she’ll have to make a statement. She lives in Las Quintas, near Sinaloa Boulevard. Zelda noted down the information. Those men, did they go to the club to pick Mayra up? No, they’d call and we’d send her, it’s part of Elisa’s job. Where? Usually to hotels, private homes, to the beach; for Cervantes it was always to his house, that’s how we know where he lives. What about the rest? For Attorney Meraz it was to houses he would indicate ahead of time, and Bernal would pick her up at the club or we’d send her to some private party; the parties were a good deal for Mayra, she even had clients in Mazatlán; if I remember correctly she was supposed to go there on the weekend. The blood drained from Mendieta’s face again, but no-one noticed. Did Elisa Calderón also coordinate that? That’s right, lately she’s been complaining that Mayra would set up her own appointments and take days off without permission. Who are the clients in Mazatlán? Only Elisa would know that. And the partners? Besides Meraz, Bernardo Almada who lives in the States, and Attorney Rodrigo Cabrera, who you must know. Of course, the former district attorney. Othoniel Ramírez is the legal representative for the partnership and he runs the business. Besides Meraz, did the others have a client relationship with the girls? I’ve never seen Almada, Cabrera a few times, but not with Roxana; the one who comes in regularly is Ramírez. Did he go with Mayra? Never, she was Meraz’s turf. You said she missed three days’ work, do you have any idea where she went? No, last night Elisa didn’t know either and she was mad as hell; Yhajaira told us yesterday she’d come home for a few hours in the morning to rest.

  Thirty-five minutes later they received a call from Terminator. What’s up, my man Termi? Nothing, Lefty my man, we have the information you asked for, we’re at the scene and there is a young woman here with a bullet in her heart. Oh-oh. Someone does not like the fact that women are in the majority, Lefty my pal, what do you make of it? First clue, Termi: the bastard knows statistics.

  Five

  McGiver turned off the television, took a shower, ordered breakfast, and started making calls: Hey, Twain, Green Arrow here. Middle name? Danilo; how’s our timing? Clocks in the night, how did everything go? Number Two; alright, all it takes is punctuality. We’ll do our part. Number One wants publicity, photos in the media, and statements; and well, we’re facing some strong turbulence. That’s for you to take care of, did they hand over the down payment? Only Number Two; take a look, they’ll make the deposit today; I expect Number One to call any minute, and regarding the turbulence I’m in a pinch, how is my proposal coming for the new guy? We’ll be ready in a few days. Click. It was his contact for smuggling weapons and he wanted to make sure the man had everything straight: what he had been celebrating the previous night was the closing of a deal that would leave him millions of dollars richer, and he had another one in sight.

  He dialled the next number. Hello, a sensual voice. Good morning, any news? They want it all up front. How mistrustful can you get? That’s their style, you know what Mexico City people are like, when it comes to business they don’t even believe the Virgin of Guadalupe. Tomorrow night we’ll give them eighty per cent, we need a margin in case the work is a fake. They won’t agree; besides, it is the original. Tell them it’s our style. Let’s not play with them, get it into your head once and for all: they won’t lift a finger until they’re satisfied they have the money. Set it up, I’ll call you tomorrow. Are you still in Yucatán? No, I’ve never been there, however in Saltillo they still make a delicious pan de pulque. He hung up. Although he would never go to bed with her, he found Dulce Arredondo enchanting.

  Señor Olmedo, please. He’s not in, would you like to leave a message? You may not remember me, I’m Leo McGiver, we’ve spoken before. Oh, yes, I gave him your message, he said he would see you at his house tonight at ten. Perfect, although I’d still like to speak with him, do you think that would be possible? Hmm . . . no, I don’t think so, he called me from Altata and when he calls from there we usually don’t see him all day. You understand him, don’t you. In twelve years a woman gets to know her boss. Well, congratulate him for me, a good secretary is half a successful business. You tell him, maybe he’ll give me a raise. I will, and if he doesn’t you can come work for me. I’d rather have the raise. They said goodbye.

  He opened the door and the smell of breakfast invaded the room. How long had it been since he had had eggs with chorizo for breakfast? The moment the waiter left he uncovered the plate and tasted a mouthful. If I hadn’t gone away when I did, today I’d be a 130-kilo pig; how could anyone not eat this delight? He punched in Olmedo’s cell number, but no-one answered.

  He continued eating. My mother, may she rest in peace, made wonderful chorizo. Back then, being a mother also meant being a good cook. Now women bring children into the world and feed them nothing but ham sandwiches with mayonnaise and French fries with Coca-Cola. What garbage. What times those were. And when it was cold they never sent you to school without first having oatmeal or hot chocolate. Maybe that’s why the world has changed: food isn’t as healthy and nobody cooks the way they used to. Ring. Nobody ever called McGiver. Ring ring. He felt his heart tighten. He did not use a cell phone and usually no-one knew where he stayed. Ring ring ring. He picked up the receiver. Why don’t you answer, asshole, what, are you taking a shit? With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking? With your father, jerk-off. Now his stomach full of chorizo and eggs tightened too. Yesterday you didn’t want to listen to my message, idiot, so in five minutes two people I sent will be in your room and you’d better behave yourself. But who are you? Your father, I already told you. Click. What was that about? McGiver was not a delicate man, no smuggler is, but he loved formalities and he did not like this intrusion one bit. All that about him being my father, what did that mean? Naturally, it did not sit well; he decided to make himself scarce, but as soon as he was on his feet there was a knock at the door. Shit, he muttered. Open up, the voice meant business. McGiver, in his shirtsleeves, slipped on his jacket, took the safety off his Smith & Wesson, and stuck it in his belt. May it be as God wills. Who is it? They just made an appointment for us, dickhead, now open this fucking door or we’ll knock it down.

  In came Vanessa, his companion from the night before, and Muerto, who couldn’t be more than nineteen years old, pointing a Herstal Five-seven, better known as a cop-killer, right at him. Well, fuck me, the smuggler shook his head, the only reason I’m not any stupider is I’m not any older.

  No prick keeps me waiting, snarled Muerto, pistol in hand, giving the door behind him a shove. But McGiver was paying more attention to Vanessa, dressed in tight jeans and a red blouse. Will you look at this beauty, he thought. So you had a message for me. You shut up, now I’m the one who’ll do the talking, do you know which of my girlfriends invented the A.K.-47? What would he know, the hitman said, he can’t even open a fucking door. The smuggler smiled. Keep your trap shut, the girl threatened him again, she was prettier in the daytime than at night. McGiver gave an amused shrug to indicate he wouldn’t say a thing. In case no-one’s told you yet, she said, you are insufferable. Say the word and I’ll put a bullet in the son of his bitch of a mother; the guy was getting excited and wanted to impress the brown-skinned girl with the shining eyes. Vanessa turned slightly towards him and the gunman gave her an eager smile. She was like ice. But the smuggler took advantage of the distraction to put two slugs in the man and then cover the girl. Muerto, surprised, wanting to recount what he was seeing on his way to the great beyond, fell slowly without dropping his pistol. McGiver slid the cop-killer inside his belt and turned to face a pale Vanessa. No way around it, Vanessa with two s’s, we are condemned to be alone; the one who called, is he your boss? She nodded. Is he a businessman? Yes. Why does he want to see me? He’ll tell you, but it has to do with weapons. Fear made the girl stutter, her face blanched, lips dry. You’ve got wheels? She squeaked out a yes. You can talk, we aren’t in one of those awful dives where you can’t hear a thing. McGiver spread some lotion on his hands and worked it in, then quickly packed his clothes, including a pair of blue overalls, put the pistol and his friend’s treasure in the suitcase, and they left the room.

  On the way he recognised Hidalgo Bridge and Colonia Tierra Blanca, the legendary neighbourhood of 1960s glue-sniffers from whose cobblestoned streets he had hightailed it out more than once. Then he took a good look at Vanessa. She was lovely, strong, soft skin, black hair to her shoulders; he knew that more and more women were part of criminal enterprises, so he would not ask her any questions; and not for a moment did he doubt that since he could not remain at that hotel something had shifted; he would understand where things lay soon enough.

  The girl pushed a button and a gate rolled silently open. They entered an immense yard where four Cheyennes and a B.M.W. sat waiting. Two men, weapons at the ready, came over. Where is Señor de la Vega? In his office and he’s boiling harder than water for chocolate. Why? Don’t know. Vanessa signalled for McGiver to follow. A few neglected plants on either side. On the porch they frisked him, took his Smith & Wesson and the cop-killer. We’ll hold them for you here, little buddy. Then he followed the girl inside. They crossed a living room with black leather easy chairs, decorations everywhere, family photographs covering the walls; the smuggler thought he should hang a couple of works of art over there next to the pictures of grandma and his children’s first communion. They looked so like the walls of his childhood home; the morning light filtered in through sheer curtains and beyond you could see the stadium where Dorados play. In front of a white door, they stopped. Come in, said a voice after Vanessa asked if they could.

  Regular office layout: computer, furnishings, coffeemaker, boardroom. Leaning back in his leather executive chair, Dioni de la Vega watched them enter. A curious case. He was upper class, his reasons for becoming a narco a matter of myth. Several versions circulated, all of which made him smile. He must have been thirty-five, thin, with a beard clipped short. So you are Leo McGiver. Your home is delightful, Señor de la Vega, a couple of details and it could be a palace. Stop talking bullshit and sit down, he pointed to another big chair. Imelda, bring this jerk something, what’ll you have? A Turkish coffee. Hey, you aren’t in Paris, thank the saints we have Nescafé. Then a Diet 7 Up, please. Man, do you ever play the fucking loco. For you? Water no ice, and send your buddy out to the Miró for the coffee in case we take a while. He’s dead. De la Vega turned to McGiver, who looked straight back at him. You’re a fucking bastard, fucking McGiver, a real bastard, that kid was a rising star. I don’t doubt it, but he was more interested in Imelda than in me. Dioni de la Vega made a gesture of regret. Well, I’ve brought you here because I need weapons, the president has declared war on us and I don’t feel like getting caught with my pants down; I know you closed a deal with the Valdés family and whatever they ordered I want the same, what do you say? Yes, I thought you were a businessman and I was not mistaken. Take it easy, take it easy, I hate it when people butter me up, just tell me the next step. Transfer seven million dollars to this account in Lithuania and three million euros to this other account in Switzerland. The smuggler handed him two cards, in exchange you will have a hundred and twenty-five A.K.-47 automatic rifles, twenty-five 50-calibre Barretts, eight hundred hand grenades, sixty-six Beretta 92FSs, twenty-five Smith & Wessons, forty-seven Herstal submachine guns 5.7x28mm, five long-range bazookas and twenty thousand live bullets. De la Vega listened all smiles. Delivery will be twelve days after receiving the deposit, between Yameto and Nuevo Altata; it will arrive by air and land on the water at dawn; you’ll make the local arrangements for it to arrive happily in your people’s hands. It’s a deal. They shook hands. What about my drink? There isn’t any, this is a warehouse, McGiver, didn’t you notice? there’s no television and a home without a television is no home at all. McGiver smiled, I won’t forget that; there is something I would like to take up with you. What’s that? About your business, I want in. De la Vega studied him. We’re going to revolutionise this shit, McGiver, you’ll see, and yes, you could be useful to us; but we won’t talk about it right now, I can’t, there’s an assembly at my kids’ school and all three of them are going to sing, if I don’t show up they’ll kill me.

  Six

  It was after noon by the time they made it to Zaragoza Street. Terminator and the Camel gave a garbled report that Lefty could not follow, but neither did he feel like probing. Ortega, head of the crime lab, was scrutinising the piece of lead he held in a pair of watchmaker’s pincers: You wanted work, papa, here it is; there are days when somebody decides to trim the size of the human race and nobody is going to stop him. There are days that never fully dawn, Mendieta murmured as he approached the cadaver. Dr Montaño, who had not lost hope of bedding Zelda, welcomed her: You’re glowing, Agent Toledo, you look healthier every day, what do you eat for breakfast? To hear that from a doctor is encouraging, thank you. Even more if the doctor is a forensic one, don’t you think? Montaño applying his charm. So, what have you found out, doctor? Maybe eight hours dead from a bullet to the heart, speaking of which, mine is broken over you. Zelda turned her attention to the sallow face of Yolanda Estrada, who was wearing a plain T-shirt and pink underwear, then she ran her eyes over every detail of the room. Montaño hit on her again: Do you think that together we might find a way to heal it? Dr Montaño, buzz off or I’ll beat the shit out of you. He panted excitedly. What, you think I look like a whore? Don’t get so steamed up, Agent Toledo, I merely want to make it clear how much I admire you. Zelda gave him her back. We found a torn-up picture of the Brazilian football team from the last World Cup, Ortega trying to dilute the tension in the air, they took it from over there, he pointed to a spot on the wall; we’ll dust it for prints. You do that, Lefty said. A couple of insipid landscapes occupied the spaces on either side of the protruding nail. Shall we break the rules, papa? Totally. Ortega patted him on the back. Would this murder have anything to do with the other? That was the kind of stupid question that could loosen Lefty’s tongue. Well, they were co-workers, they died the same day a few minutes apart, the forensic intern said the first died at three a.m. more or less and Montaño thinks it happened here at four; but you know how this stuff works: what’s obvious is always wrong. It’s like wearing two G-strings, right? I take one off and everybody thinks I’m naked, or when the G-strings are flesh-coloured. Judging by her clothes she probably had been asleep, Ortega said, and for sure she knew the murderer, you don’t open your door to many people when you’re in your undies. With these girls you can’t be sure, and in any case, their take on life is pretty harsh; Lefty’s hand grazed his throat. Is she all there? Yes, and Montaño doesn’t think she was raped, you know which room was Mayra’s, right? Mendieta did not hide his irritation. Look, asshole, I wasn’t her customer, get that straight. Silence. Then why are you acting like a beaten dog? She’s the girl I met in Mazatlán, remember? but I never saw her again. Got it, papa, that’s the door. Zelda was making notes. Mendieta, visibly worked up, entered her room and stopped in his tracks, dumbfounded. The walls were papered with huge nude photographs of Mayra in all her tribal beauty. From the front, the back, in profile. Titillating poses. He felt himself start to tremble and tried to focus his eyes on nothing. What good is a bonehead like me? he swallowed, a jerk who never managed to figure out his own life? The tattoo on her belly, just above the pubic hair, leapt out at him. Are you timid? I can’t believe it, a policeman accustomed to blood and guts, have you never seen a tattoo like this? Come on, you’re a superhero: my superhero, you’re the one who’ll save me from the bad guys. Ashes in his mouth. Beauty is a good reason for living, or is it? One of Ortega’s technicians was dusting for fingerprints while the other, smirking, picked up her admirers’ letters and business cards: She must have been a high-class fuck, boss, about two months ago we went over to the Alexa and we took up a collection so that at least one of us could taste her delights, do you think we got even close to her price? it was a bitch, even putting all our paycheques together wouldn’t have done it. Mendieta stood there, speechless, until his cell phone pulled him out of his stupor.