He took the newspaper. He had nowhere to hide it. He was still in the clothes he’d worn to bed the night they came for MaMaLu—an apple green t-shirt sporting a cheeky monkey with neon yellow shades. ‘Master of Disaster’, it said in a smiley curve underneath. The shorts were a matching green, in banana print.
The path to the village plaza was deserted. People were in their homes, watching their nightly TV novelas. The rain had turned the streets muddy and Esteban was thankful for the cool squelch of wet earth under his tired, worn feet.
The church of Archangel Michael anchored the village of Paza del Mar. Its whitewashed building was set in gardens of citrus, palms, and trickling fountains. A cemetery sat in the back, with tombstones that stood like sentinels in the dark. MaMaLu had brought him here every Sunday when they lived with Fernando. Esteban remembered flickering votives, wooden saints and the smell of old incense, but most of all, he remembered how tightly MaMaLu held his hand in hers as they sat in the pews, under high ceilings.
The gleaming white statue of Archangel Michael stood over the entrance. The locals said it spit on the heads of all sinners who entered the church. MaMaLu always took him through the side entrance.
Esteban looked for the urn that Cantina Man had told him about. It was about three-feet high, made of heavy marble and brimming with a profusion of ferns and flowers. He dropped the newspaper in the narrow gap between the pot that held the flowers and the urn. Then he turned around and went home.
The next night, when Esteban went back to La Sombra to collect his fifteen pesos, Cantina man gave him another package to deliver. Soon, Esteban was making regular drops. Sometimes it was to strangers who drove sedans with tinted windows; other times it was to beautiful women who invited him into loud, smoky establishments. Sometimes he made more money, sometimes less, but he never asked Cantina Man any questions and he always said ‘thank you’.
Every night, Esteban counted his money.
Fifteen pesos.
Fifty pesos.
One hundred and thirty pesos.
Cantina Man didn’t show up every night. Sometimes he was gone for weeks. Those nights, the waiter and the cook, Juan Pablo and Camila, would slip him a bowl of chicken in green sauce, or meatballs and bread, or whatever they had left over. Esteban repaid their kindness by washing dishes, cleaning tables, and sweeping the verandah at the end of the night. The other cantinas were always busier, even though Esteban thought Camila’s cooking was far superior. When he watched her scurrying around the kitchen, wiping her hands on her stained apron, Esteban felt a sense of longing for his mother—so deep that he had to drop whatever he was doing and leave. He would stand in the dark alley between La Sombra and the fish shop beside it, taking deep breaths until it passed.
Every day, he went back to Valdemoros and sat in the shaded area across the street, where vendors sold fried churros, sweet empanadas, and strips of grilled beef stuffed into handmade tortillas. Esteban was careful with his money. He stuck to roasted peanuts and when the sun was hot, he allowed himself an ice cold bottle of Coca-Cola. He bought a pair of shoes, a few t-shirts and new shorts. He had a story prepared in case Fernando asked him where they’d come from, but his uncle never noticed, and Esteban was careful to hide his loot.
One afternoon as he sat outside the prison, Esteban thought he heard MaMaLu singing from beyond the cold, gray walls. Her voice piped over the blare of the boom box that played all day. “Mexico Lindo y Querido”, she sang.
Even though it was a song of yearning, for home, and everything dear and familiar, it comforted Esteban. It had been a little over three weeks since he had last seen MaMaLu, but as long as he could hear her sing, he knew she was all right.
Esteban continued working for Cantina Man. He started learning the trade. The green, leafy bags sold for less than the clear crystals that looked like pieces of glass. He took on errands that became progressively more dangerous. There were times when he came face to face with the glinting edge of a knife, times when he had to run for his life. Cantina Man was not happy when he lost the product, and he docked Esteban’s pay. At times, Esteban owed more than he earned, and he found himself tangled up in a web he could not get out of. Weeks turned to months, but the thought of seeing MaMaLu kept him going. Three hundred and fifty pesos took much longer to save up than he had bargained for, but one day Esteban had enough. Almost. He needed to make just one more drop.
When he got back that night, Esteban was ecstatic. Tomorrow he would get to see MaMaLu. His heart soared as he pried out the loose brick in the backyard that he’d been hiding his loot behind, but there was nothing there.
All his money was gone.
Esteban’s fingers scraped rough, empty space.
“Esteban, come join me.” Fernando swayed by the door, waving an empty bottle of tequila.