Emmanuella slumped back in her chair. She seemed winded by what Fernando could only assume were many long years of unvoiced discontent. The worry lines in her face etched deeper with obvious distress at what she’d said. What Fernando had pressed her to say. It was like lancing into an old wound, delving into the past. He regretted causing her pain, but he’d expected that this interview would not be pleasant. Nothing about the case of Carmencita was ever pleasant to recall.
“My grandmother
Emmanuella nodded. Her eyes were soft with sympathy.
“Carmen died when you were very young.”
“Not so young as that,” Fernando said, his voice clipped and hard. “I don’t know her because she was seldom around.”
“It must have been difficult for her,” Emmanuella said gently, “caring for you on her own.”
Fernando’s mouth thinned. “She didn’t care for me. I cared for myself. Even when I was a baby, she pawned me off on others. She was always away singing at bars and carrying
When Fernando next returned to Chico’s junkyard home, he did so alone. Chico’s green roadster was not there, nor was Pedro’s truck. Banned from El Toro, their father Esteban was no doubt at Pepe’s uncle’s bar already drunk.
There were only the children and chickens about, the fixture of the old man dozing perpetually in his customary chair on the porch. The older girl Mercedes was sweeping around him when Fernando approached the step. Seeing him, she froze, clutching the broom handle
Mondragón rarely deigned to visit Cortez. But from time to time—more times than Fernando would have liked—he summoned him to one of his many choice establishments in Saguero and beyond. Choicer than The Red Room, but always with a sordid edge to them, no matter how posh of a front they seemed. Mondragón was not a trafficker per se, but he was an associate of traffickers. He lectured Fernando in his patronizing, grandiloquent way that it was vain naïveté for a rich man in this place and
Anika’s pulse kicked up a notch when the tentacles slipped under the side-strings of her bikini with what seemed like more than idle curiosity.
A few other tendrils slid up along the side of her body, coiling finger-like around her throat. Anika’s adrenaline spiked. As his tentacles began to pry at her snorkeling gear, she fought to keep her paranoia in check.
There was nothing ambiguous about that. He wanted the apparatus off, clearly. He wanted her face to be bared.
Anika hesitated.
The new establishment was called El Toro, and it was part pool hall and gambling den. Backed by Mondragón’s full support, Fernando saw the place finished out in record time.
El Toro appealed without pretense to all of Cortez’s most deeply cherished vices. Because of this, it was eagerly anticipated and well-received—not only by the locals, but by the rural region at large. Drinks and women were served on the side. Underground fights held there were advertised by word of mouth. No less
The creature’s tentacle withdrew from Anika’s grasp. He swam back from her a little, then paused, hovering like a ghost. His silvery look was watchful, expectant.
Anika smiled and swam after him. He leaned back as she did. Sleek and horizontal, he propelled himself through the water like a languid torpedo. About a foot above him, Anika glided along in parallel, close to the surface of the waves.
They swam about like this for a while, retreating to and from the shallows of the cove. The
Fernando smiled. “Anyone who ransoms me is bound to be disappointed. My father’s wife holds the purse strings, and she despises me. She would consider my disappearance a blessing. Maybe she even half-hoped for it in sending me here.”
Of course, Juan Francisco’s pride would never suffer such a slight as to have his favored son kidnapped by backcountry lowlifes. The senator might not be a cartel man, but like any man of means in this country he had his dealings. This small-time mafioso would