He did think El Mago was darn cool, what with his excellent suits and fancy shoes and this very put-together image. He wanted to be like that one day. Only when El Mago looked like this, he wasn’t cool anymore, and Elvis tried to recall what the fuck he was doing hanging out with him.
“You talked to me about loyalty, Elvis; well, this is what loyalty means. Do not make me think I am wrong about you,” El Mago said, his voice low.
The voice of a gentleman, which was what he was.
A dangerous one.
He was Elvis’s god, but a dark god. The god of the Old Testament, that, as a good Catholic boy, he’d learned to fear.
“You’re not.” Elvis glanced down, fixing his eyes on the ashtray. “I’ll talk to him, don’t you worry.”
“Good. I want this done quick, you understand me?”
“Sure I do.”
“You do not need to type reports. I will call you.”
El Mago wiped his lips with his napkin, then tossed it on the table and stood up.
“Oh, and Elvis?” El Mago said, giving his cigarette one last drag before dumping it into the ashtray. “El Gazpacho is out of the unit.”
“What do you mean out?”
“Out. Gone. He did not have what it takes,” El Mago opened his wallet and tossed a couple of bills on the table. “Finish your cake and get your crew working.”
7
MAITE STOPPED BYthe printer’s shop the next day right after work. She went because she was still holding on to the faint hope that she might get in touch with Leonora and obtain her money. If this proved to be the case, then she could hold off on asking her mother for a loan.
She couldn’t take the bus anymore. It was a cesspool of depraved monsters. When Maite chanced to get a seat, then she was safe. But if she had to stand, it was an invitation for every pervert in the city to rub himself against her or try to touch her ass. Every female from the age of twelve to sixty-five had to endure the same treatment, and there was no recourse, but Maite at least had the possibility of escape. She had her car. And it was stuck with the mechanic because Maite couldn’t pay her bill.
Maite had told herself that she would wait and in a month or so she would settle her account with the mechanic, but she was tired of waiting, and she couldn’t be taking taxis to work. It was very simple: she needed to pay.
Either her mother or Leonora would help her accomplish that. But her mother nagged her about everything, and the mere thought of having to phone the woman upset Maite’s stomach, threatening to give her an ulcer.
Maite pushed open the door of the printer’s shop and walked in. She had expected to find Rubén alone, like last time, but there was an older man at the register and a teenager. Rubén was stacking boxes on an old, red dolly. He was wearing his overalls and humming a tune.
“Hi,” she said, waving at the young man. “Hello.”
Rubén stared at her. He put his box down and came from behind the counter. “Hello,” he said. “You’re back.”
“Sorry to bother you like this, but I haven’t been able to get a hold of Leonora. I was wondering if you had any other contact information for her. Do you know any other friends who I might talk to?”
“You mean she hasn’t returned?” Rubén asked, grabbing a handkerchief that dangled from his pocket and wiping his hands with it.
“No.”
“What about her sister, what did she say?”
“She said Leonora wanted money and she wouldn’t give it to her, and that’s the last she heard from her. Look, I wouldn’t be bothering you if—”
“Rubén, I don’t pay you to be meeting with your girlfriends during your shift. Get those boxes ready. Mr. Pimentel is coming in fifteen minutes,” the older man said, resting both hands firmly on the counter and giving the young man a stern look.
“Yeah, one second,” Rubén replied, raising a hand without looking at the shop owner. His eyes were fixed on Maite. He seemed worried. “How long has she been gone?”
“She left Friday night.”
“It’s Wednesday. That’s six days today.”