Esteban knew he should back off, retrace his steps and run like hell. He knew he shouldn’t crawl into the dining area, pick up Juan Pablo’s gun, and wipe the blood off so it didn’t slip from his fingers. He knew he shouldn’t aim the gun at the back of the man’s head and try to keep his hands from shaking as he took aim.
Esteban knew all of that, but the only thing he could see was the stranger putting a bullet in Juan Pablo and Camila. He saw the man turn the same gun to Cantina Man. He saw the bullet rip into Cantina Man, spewing blood and death over Esteban’s only chance of seeing MaMaLu. Esteban saw fifteen pesos about to be splattered on the walls. He saw the prison guard asking him for lunch. He saw himself sitting in the shadow of the prison, day in and out, always short, always close, eating fucking peanuts like a fucking idiot.
He squeezed the trigger. The recoil sent him crashing into one of the tables.
Esteban wasn’t sure if he’d gotten the man, who was still sitting in the chair. Then he toppled over sideways and hit the floor. A stream of blood sprang out from the back of his head.
Cantina Man and Esteban looked at each other.
Holy fuck.
Esteban let go of the gun like it had just burned his hand. His ears were ringing from the deep boom of the shot.
Cantina Man walked over to him and kissed him on both cheeks.
“I just wanted to see my mother.” Esteban was shaking. He couldn’t believe he had just killed a man. “I just wanted to see my mother.”
Cantina Man picked up the gun and wiped it down. Then he put it back in Juan Pablo’s hand. “I will take you to your mother,” he said.
He made a couple of calls. A few minutes later, a dark car pulled up to the curb.
“Where is your mother, boy?” Cantina Man asked. He ushered Esteban into the back seat.
“Valdemoros. But they won’t let anyone in at this time.”
A police car screeched to a halt outside the cantina. Two uniformed officers got out.
Cantina Man rolled down his window. “Look after it.”
As the car pulled away, Esteban saw the police men line the back seat with garbage bags and throw three dead bodies in the car.
“Juan Pablo . . . Camila . . .” Esteban’s voice no longer sounded like his. He felt like his body and soul had been snatched. His friends were dead and he had just killed a man.
Cantina Man didn’t say anything. He tapped the glass partition between him and the driver with his cane. “Valdemoros. Vámonos!”
Valdemoros was even more imposing at night. Without the noise and activity of vendors and visitors, it was like a massive ghost ship stranded in the middle of nowhere. Spotlights were trained around the perimeter and someone from the tower beamed one straight at Cantina Man’s car.
The driver got out and summoned one of the guards. “Concha!”
She walked over to the car and greeted Cantina Man.
“Escort this young man inside. He’s here to see his mother,” he said.
“Si, Se?or. Please come with me.” She banged her baton on the heavy, metal gate. It lifted with a loud thunderous rasp.
And just like that, Esteban was in. No waiting in line, no lunch money, no logging in.
“What’s your mother’s name?”
“Maria Luisa Alvarez.” Esteban’s heart was racing. He wished he had a comb. He wanted to look good for MaMaLu.
“Is my shirt clean?” he asked the guard.
Can you see any blood? Please don’t let there be any blood. I don’t want to shame my mother with the blood of the man I just killed.
“Maria Luisa Alvarez!” Concha shouted as they exited the short tunnel and stepped into an enormous outdoor compound. Various rooms surrounded the prison yard: dormitories, workshops and prison cells. Almost nobody was locked up in the cages. Women and little children, dressed in shabby street clothes, peeked out from the dormitories.
Concha conferred with a woman in dark military garb. She disappeared into an office and started rifling through the cabinets.
“You are looking for Maria Luisa Alvarez?” asked one of the prisoners.
“Si,” said Concha.
The prisoner took a long look at Esteban before calling them into her dorm.
The women had constructed their own little rooms in the giant space, using stick frames attached to blankets. Some had narrow bunk beds, some had cooking equipment and shelves for clothing, but they were all crammed on the rough cement floor like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Babies suckled on their mothers’ bosoms while others slept on makeshift mattresses. The air was stale with the odor of confinement and hair oil and piss and sweat.
“Maria Luisa Alvarez.” The lady walked over to her space and handed Esteban a rusted metal box. It was green, with a red circle in the middle that said ‘Lucky Strike’, and underneath, in gold letters: ‘Cigarettes’.
“No,” said Estaban. “I’m looking for my mother.”
“Si.” The prisoner pushed the box back into his hands. “Tu madre.”
Esteban opened the box. In it were the earrings MaMaLu had been wearing, a hair clip and a newspaper cutting. Esteban was about to shut it when he caught a glimpse of the headline. He spread out the crinkled paper and moved closer to the lantern so he could read.