“No, I’m pretty sure this time.”
Atl gave him a noncommittal look and snorted. Guns were difficult to come by legally in Mexico City; there were only a couple of authorized stores in the whole city and you required a letter from the local police department attesting you didn’t have a criminal record. Plus, you needed your ID papers. Atl had neither, so she must find an illegal supplier. Easy, if you knew someone, and Domingo said he did. Harder, when Domingo couldn’t remember where the supplier lived.
Atl had never had a burning desire to own guns. Her sister had given her a switchblade knife, which Atl kept tucked in her jacket, and a gun, which she’d left behind. But she hadn’t had much of a chance to use either. The gun had been gold-plated and custom engraved, with flourishes and hummingbirds. She remembered the weight of the weapon and how it felt the first time she raised it, pointing at a pile of bottles they’d arranged for this purpose. Atl’s aim was terrible and Izel had a good laugh at her expense, but after the first few appalling misses, she started to get the hang of it. Although Atl could never handle a firearm as well as Izel, she had managed to become a fairly decent shot.
“Ah, here,” Domingo said, and crossed the street. “This is the place.”
They stood before the entrance to a vecindad. The heavy wooden door was not locked, and Domingo pushed it and they walked into a narrow hallway.
It was not a nice vecindad, not one of those palaces that had been repurposed and repainted, made to look like a palatable pad for yuppies and artsy types after the rental freeze ended in the ’90s. The walls of the vecindad were bare, old stone, cracked here and there. There were cables running above their heads and along the walls.
Stealing electricity, she guessed.
The hallway soon opened onto a large patio with many stone sinks and lines set for drying clothes. There were doors leading into apartments every few meters and a big staircase at the other end of the patio. A group of girls walked by them when they reached the foot of the staircase, dressed in their nightclub finery, their skirts short and the perfume heady. They giggled when they saw Domingo, whispering a few words, but when their eyes settled on Atl they did not laugh, apparently intimidated by the sight of her dog. The girls scattered away. Domingo and Atl went up.
Mid-staircase they came face-to-face with a large shrine to the Virgin of Guadalupe. Domingo paused to pay his respects, making the sign of the cross. Atl merely stared at the face of the religious icon. Her family had been priests of the God of War and though they no longer worshipped in the same fashion, she had no desire to follow the customs imported by the Europeans. Saints and virgins and angels.
They veered on the second floor to the left and stood before a door. Domingo bit his lip.
“What?” Atl asked.
“It’s just I don’t like being here. This guy is friends with the Jackal.”
“Can he get me a gun?”
“Yes, I’m pretty sure he can.”
“I don’t care if he’s friends with the devil. Let’s do this, unless you have another weapons dealer.”
“Can’t say I do,” Domingo mumbled.
Domingo knocked on the door, creating an echo that bounced down the hallway.
The door opened and a woman, her hair dyed an absurd shade of cherry red, which was almost a requirement for young women, stood in the doorway in a fluffy bathrobe, frowning. “It’s late,” she said. “What do you want?”
“I’m here to see Mario,” Domingo said. “I’m Quinto’s friend. He brought me here one time, with Belén and other people.”
“Mario! It’s one of the street kids that hangs out with Quinto!” the woman yelled.
“Let him in,” came the reply.
The woman stepped aside and let Domingo in, but then she made a face at Atl and pointed at Cualli. “You can’t come in here with your animal.”
“My animal goes where I go,” Atl said.
“Your animal—”
“What’s the deal?” asked a male voice, and Atl saw a burly, pale man standing behind the woman.
“She’s got a dog. I don’t want it in here,” the woman explained.
“Let her and the damn dog in; they’re here for business.”
The woman rolled her eyes and flicked her hair behind her shoulders. Atl walked into the small apartment, the man motioned toward a table, and they sat down. The man sat across from them. Behind him she saw a poster of Rambo II on the wall. A large TV and a couch occupied a good portion of the living room/dining room area. The rest of the space was taken up with boxes.
“You’ve got to forgive the girl; she ain’t got no manners. I’m Mario. What can I help you with?”
“Guns,” Atl said.
The man gave a snort of laughter. “That’s a different one. Kids like you, they usually want pot.”
He probably thought them a couple of fools who were headed out to dance to cumbias and ruidosón. In the North the hot thing was to gather and dance at a slaughterhouse, the décor the carcasses of cows.
“You have them?” she asked.