If you catch a glimpse of it, you will be blessed with the greatest treasure, she’d said.
Esteban hadn’t believed her then, and he didn’t believe her now. It was all made up—all the magic, all her stories, all the happy endings. They were all empty and meaningless and hollow. His father had never been a great fisherman. He had never loved him or MaMaLu. MaMaLu had lied. Skye had never been his friend.
You think Se?or Sedgewick gives a fuck about you?
You think he’s going to bring MaMaLu back?
You are as expendable to these rich gringos as yesterday’s newspaper.
That was the cold, hard truth.
Esteban turned off the light and stood alone in the empty darkness. When he climbed out of Skye’s window that night, he left something behind: his childhood, his innocence, his shining, naive ideals—all scattered on the floor like limp, trodden paper dreams.
ESTEBAN SAT ON THE CONCRETE stairs of La Sombra, one of the small cantinas in Paza del Mar. Its sloping tin roof protected him from the torrential downpour. He stared at the water, collecting in rivulets down the dirt street. It reflected yellow pools of light from kerosene lamps that hung on porches of the shops that were still open. A stereo was blasting Luis Miguel’s “La Bikina”, a tune about a beautiful, scarred woman with a pain so deep, it provokes rivers of tears.
“Hey, boy!” a man called from inside the restaurant.
Esteban turned around. “Me?”
“Si. You hungry?” he asked.
Esteban had noticed the man watching him. He assumed it was because his face was swollen and heavy. It was obvious he’d been in a fight.
“Juan Pablo,” the man gestured to the waiter, “bring the boy oreja de elefante and something to drink. What’s your name?”
“Esteban.”
The man nodded and continued eating heartily, washing his food down with sips of michelada—beer with lemon and seasonings. He had a baby face, countered by eagle eyebrows, from which gray, unruly hair sprouted upwards. His hair was jet black, obviously dyed, and slicked back from his forehead. He must have been in his late forties, maybe a little older. A polished wooden walking cane rested on his table. It was glossy black, and the gold metal tip flashed like a shiny promise in the simple, run-down cantina.
Esteban sat across from him. His stomach growled at the sight of the man’s dinner. Red enchiladas stuffed with cheese and topped with cream. The waiter brought him warm corn tortillas, a bowl of green jalape?os and agua fresca. Esteban forced himself to eat slowly, stretching it out until his dinner arrived—two large pieces of veal that look like elephant ears.
They ate in silence at the formica-topped table, listening to the rain and music, while murals of Pedro Infante and Maria Felix, stars from the golden age of Mexican cinema, watched them from a bullet-riddled wall. Casa Paloma had sheltered Esteban from the reality that lay beyond its iron gates, but now he was thrust into a different world. Not only did he have to look after himself, he also had to find a way to get MaMaLu out.
Cantina Man finished his enchiladas and opened up the newspaper. He scanned the headlines, and chuckled at something. “Hey, Juan Pablo.” He pointed to an article when the waiter came to clear his plate. “KABOOM!” he said, his hands imitating an explosion. Both men laughed.
The rain had tapered to a fine drizzle by the time Esteban finished his dinner. It felt awkward to just get up and leave, and saying ‘thank you’ for Cantina Man’s random act of kindness did not seem enough, so Esteban lingered. He was in no hurry to go home and deal with his uncle Fernando.
“Rough day?” asked the man.
Esteban didn’t answer. The swelling over his eye had grown twice the size.
“Camila,” the man called a short, round woman from the kitchen. She was wearing an apron streaked with red sauce and pico de gallo. “Bring the boy some ice.”
“Thank you,” said Esteban, when she handed him a small bundle of ice, wrapped in a dishtowel. He tried not to wince as he held it to his eye.
“Would you like to make some money, boy?” asked Cantina Man. He didn’t have to wait for an answer. Esteban’s face said it all. “Fifteen pesos,” he continued. “Leave this newspaper in the urn by the statue of San Miguel Arcangel. You know where that is?”
Esteban nodded. He watched the man slip a clear plastic bag filled with white powder into the newspaper. He folded it twice before handing it to Esteban. “Meet me here tomorrow night and I’ll pay you. Tú entiendes?”
“Si.” Esteban knew he was doing something he shouldn’t, but fifteen pesos. It was a long way from the three hundred and fifty pesos he needed to see MaMaLu, but it was a start.