“Domingo.”
Domingo turned around. Atl was standing near the exit, in the shadows. She stepped forward with that liquid way of moving she possessed, terribly elegant, her face coming into the light.
“I’m leaving,” she said, hands in her pockets.
“This is my friend Quinto,” Domingo said. “This is … um … my cousin.”
“Hey,” Quinto said, smiling broadly, showing his teeth. “How you doing? Quinto Navarro. And you are?”
“His cousin,” Atl replied, her face serious.
Quinto chuckled. “You’re funny! I dig that. Totally dig that.”
Quinto grinned at her. Domingo recognized that smile. Quinto never missed an opportunity to pick up girls. He worked at a pharmacy and could easily score a variety of pills, which meant he was pretty popular around his neighborhood. He’d also gone to veterinary school for two years and operated on the Jackal’s dogs when they got injured, which gave an extra luster. The Jackal made most of his money by collecting “fees” from the street kids who washed windows at certain intersections. You worked for him and you paid your dues. If you didn’t pay your fee, the Jackal would beat you to a bloody pulp—and since he was a big gorilla of a guy, often with three or four gorillas on the side, it could get real bloody. So you paid. But the Jackal, priding himself on his business sense and his ability to diversify, had happily expanded into the world of dog fighting, ’cause he was such a big fan of that crap.
“You’ve got some eyes,” Quinto told Atl, and Domingo felt as though he were slowly blending into the shadows, disappearing as Quinto focused utterly and completely on Atl.
“Why, thanks,” she said, but her voice was indifferent.
Atl leaned against the wall and Quinto leaned a bit toward her. He was trying to look suave, making eyes at her, the kind of stuff that worked with the girls they knew. Domingo had asked Quinto how he did it and Quinto had told him it was natural charm, at which point Domingo gave up on the idea of hotties pining for him.
Atl shifted away, her expression turning from cool to flat-out frosty.
“Domingo, are we heading out?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Domingo said.
“Just let me borrow him for two seconds,” Quinto said, winking at Atl and pulling Domingo away before he could protest.
“We’re in a bit of a hurry,” Domingo explained.
“You didn’t say you were busy busy. Who’s the chick? Oh, and don’t try to give me that bullshit about a cousin. I know she ain’t related to you.”
“She’s a friend, all right?” Domingo said, pulling his hands into his pockets and finding a piece of bubble gum, which he unwrapped.
“She’s a babe.”
Domingo grumbled a soft sound that was entirely noncommittal and wished Quinto would stop staring at Atl like she was a cut of choice meat. It made him feel very embarrassed. She was going to think humans in Mexico City were members of a race of troglodytes—which was a really fancy way of saying “caveman” that he’d picked up from a graphic novel. Domingo didn’t want to be a troglodyte. It just sounded nasty.
“How’d you meet her?”
“Just … walking around downtown,” Domingo said, popping the gum into his mouth and chewing loudly.
“Well, you should most definitely go to my next party, okay? Bring her along. I’m dying to get into her pants.”
“I don’t think you’re her type,” Domingo muttered. “See ya around.”
He walked toward Atl and they exited the café together. Outside an organillero was playing his musical instrument, turning a crank and making a metal cylinder spew an old melody.
“Sorry about that,” Domingo said. “I wasn’t planning on bumping into him.”
“He’s annoying,” Atl said.
Domingo chewed his bubble gum and gave her a sideways glance. “He’s all right. Most of the time. He’s lent me money when I needed it once, before I moved into the garbage business.”
She made a face, as though she’d just stepped on something nasty. He’d never felt ashamed of his work. Things were what they were and that was it. But the look on Atl’s face made him feel … small.
Domingo found an empty soda can and began kicking it down the street.
“How’d your family get into dealing drugs?” he asked.
“They started in the ’40s, cultivating opium. The Americans wanted it and Sinaloans harvested it. Then in the ’60s it was pot. Everyone in the hills was harvesting it. It was small stuff, though. It was the ’70s when it got real. Cocaine was hot. People were making a lot of money, trading their huaraches for fancy shoes. In the beginning it was mostly humans dealing cocaine, but families like mine got into it. Vampires control the drug trade now. I think the government tried to clean up Sinaloa in the ’70s, but then we figured out a way to survive, as we always do.”
Atl smirked, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear with her gloved hands.