Esteban clenched his fists to keep from reacting. He knew it was pointless to accuse Fernando of stealing his money; he knew it was pointless to confront him. His uncle remembered nothing, cared for nothing, except his next round of booze.
Esteban stuffed the money he’d made that night into his pocket. His eyes stung with tears he refused to shed. He was right back where he’d started. He wanted to hit something, kick someone, grab Fernando by the neck and choke him until his glazed eyes popped out. He would stomp on them and they would feel like soft, wet grapes.
Fernando weaved back inside and crashed on the sofa. The empty bottle of tequila rolled from his hands. Esteban walked past him and went to his room.
He had to find a way to earn more money. He would talk to Cantina Man, next time he was in town. Before he went to sleep, Esteban took the money out of his pocket and strapped it around his chest. If Fernando wanted his money, he would have to come and get it.
Esteban took on more duties for Cantina Man. He reported back on what he saw outside the prison—described the guards and prisoners that entered and left the facility, the times when armored cars made their rounds, and when the guards in the towers changed. He jotted down the officials who visited and the license plates of the cars they drove. Esteban didn’t know it, but he was now part of the halcones—falcons—low level cartel members who functioned as the eyes and ears of the organization. All Esteban knew was that his logbook earned him more money, and more money meant he would get to see MaMaLu sooner. In the evenings, he continued doing whatever odd jobs Cantina Man had for him.
“Do you know what you’re getting into, chico?” Juan Pablo, the waiter at La Sombra, asked Esteban one night.
They were sitting on the stairs. Juan Pablo was smoking Marlboro Reds. He and Camila had grown fond of Esteban. He was a good kid, wrapped up in bad business.
“Do you know why no one brings their family or girlfriends or kids to the cantina?” asked Juan Pablo. He let his apron fall to the side and Esteban saw a gun holstered in his waistband. “The man you work for owns La Sombra. He doesn’t just pay me to serve food. He pays me to protect him. It’s a place of business. Meetings, deals. You understand?”
Esteban nodded. Even though he had developed a bond with Juan Pablo and Camila, he had suspected as much. But he was almost there. He couldn’t stop now.
“Everyone has a reason.” Juan Pablo flicked his cigarette away. A reason to get involved, to get their hands dirty. “What’s yours?”
“My mother. She’s in jail, but she’s innocent.”
“Around here, everyone is guilty until proven innocent. You go to jail and wait for a trial. And if someone has greased a few palms to keep her in there—a jealous boyfriend, a business partner—it could take forever. You can’t trust anyone, Esteban. Not the police or the judges or the guards. They all want a piece of the pie.”
Don’t get your hopes up, Juan Pablo was advising him.
Esteban pushed the hair away from his forehead. Hope was the only thing he had going, and if money was going to unlock the door to MaMaLu’s cell, he was going to make lots of it.
There was another man at La Sombra, sitting at the table with Cantina Man. They were talking in low tones. Well, the man was talking. Cantina Man was listening. Esteban skirted around the front and walked into the kitchen. Something had boiled over on the stove, and the pot was now charred.
Esteban shut off the burner and walked over to the service window through which Camila passed the dishes to Juan Pablo. He helped himself to some corn chips as he waited for the visitor to leave. Cantina Man had a lot of meetings when he was in town—different people, different times.
Esteban popped his head through the window, hoping to catch Juan Pablo or Camila. He didn’t see them, but someone had splattered ketchup all over the walls and tables. Esteban followed the trail and froze. Not ketchup. Blood.
Camila was lying on the floor, next to Juan Pablo. They had both been shot in the head. Juan Pablo’s face was contorted. His eyes were still open. His gun was half way out, lying by his side.
The stranger Esteban had seen earlier had a gun pointed straight at Cantina Man. He was resting it on the table, so it looked like the two men were having dinner, but his finger was on the trigger. Cantina Man’s knuckles were white as he clenched his walking stick.