The minute my anger took over, the minute I thought about what I really lost, then I would lose focus. I would become a slave to feelings and that was a very dangerous thing for a person in my position.
I wanted to talk to Diego, so when Emilio brought me dinner – filet mignon in a mushroom cabernet sauce prepared by a private chef – I asked for him to get to me as soon as possible. I wasn’t even sure if the man was alive.
They promised me they would pass the word on and after flipping through a worn copy of Moby Dick, I lay down in my bed to sleep.
But sleep wouldn’t come. Though the mattress was soft and the sheets were smooth, I kept seeing images flash behind my eyes.
They were of Luisa.
Her with Esteban. The guilt on her face. Her body as Esteban fucked her. In and out. Him with her. My woman, defiled.
Looking back, I don’t even know how I got through that. I supposed that was one of the benefits of being so angry, you go blind to everything. But now it was seeping back in, invading my addled mind. Her lips around his cock, how small and vulnerable she looked beneath him, his hands moving up and down her body like she was an afterthought, because he knew it so damn well.
As I lay there, my mind volleyed between being ashamed for making her go through with it all, to feeling righteous because she deserved it. I hated her and I still loved her. And if I dwelled on it anymore it was going to tear me apart. But maybe I needed to be torn apart, just for a minute, because I deserved shit just as much as she did.
I failed as a husband because of my own damn grief. And I failed at grief because I hated her so. And I hated her so because I loved her more than anything.
And that’s how everything was going to end. In a big fucking mess. Because we were terrible people who did terrible things to each other. We were slaves to hate because hate was strong and we sacrificed love to fuel it.
***
The next day when Emilio brought me my breakfast, I was informed that while Diego was alive and well, he was a slippery snake to get a hold of. I’d say I taught him well but sometimes I thought Diego knew far more than I did.
Needless to say, that didn’t put me at ease. And when Hiberto brought me newspaper, I cringed when I saw the headline “I’m the new boss” and a story about Esteban taking over the cartel. In fact, judging by the childish writing and his god damn spelling errors, I was pretty sure that Esteban wrote the whole article himself and passed it on to a journalist who had no choice but to publish it.
So, that didn’t help. I spent the rest of the day stewing, trying to get in contact with Morales or Borrero. No luck there. They were both dead. Finally I was able to get a message to “Bandito” Bardem, a narco in Juarez, who promised to come and fill me in on what was going on.
Three days passed by before he showed up and by then I was ready to bite his fucking head off.
I hadn’t seen Bandito in months. Short and stocky, he had a face like a piece of ham and a mustache that always seemed dipped in some kind of oil. Probably bacon grease. His shirts, though expensive, always had sweat-stains, and he was a slave to that narco look that the boys in Juarez all had, cowboy boots, lariat necklaces and giant hats. I think he looked like Speedy Gonzalez from the cartoons I watched growing up.
But despite his god awful taste in clothes and mustache wax, he was a good man. A mean man. To be mean was usually good and Bandito could be as vicious as a viper. When he wasn’t eating, of course. Which he was doing when he walked in the door, salsa verde dripping through his hands and onto the floor.
I raised my brow and breathed in deep, knowing if I blew up at him now there was nothing to stop him from walking out. I needed intel and I needed it from someone like him, who had power and who knew what he was doing, even if he looked like a piece of pork with boots attached.
“Javier,” he said through a mumble of food. “Nice outfit.”
“Same to you,” I said as I sat down at the chair, motioning for him to take the other one.
He grinned at me and took his seat, finishing off the rest of the taco and wiping his face with his hands. I shuddered but he didn’t seem to notice.
“Where is Diego?” I asked him.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s alive.”
“I know that,” I snapped. “I need him here. There is unfinished business I need to attend to with him.”
“Does this involve taking down Esteban?”
“Of course it does.”
He nodded. “Yes. Well, I can help you with that. It can’t be easy for a man like you to be made a fool of. And to know what’s happening to your own wife.”
I froze. I swallowed slowly. “What?” My voice was quiet but my heart thumped around loudly.
He frowned. “You don’t know much, do you? Don’t they keep you informed in here? Shit, this cell is nicer than my house.”
That wasn’t true, since he lived in a McMansion in El Paso, but still. “No,” I said. “Nothing to do with Luisa.”