Esteban sat across from him. His stomach growled at the sight of the man’s dinner. Red enchiladas stuffed with cheese and topped with cream. The waiter brought him warm corn tortillas, a bowl of green jalape?os and agua fresca. Esteban forced himself to eat slowly, stretching it out until his dinner arrived—two large pieces of veal that look like elephant ears.
They ate in silence at the formica-topped table, listening to the rain and music, while murals of Pedro Infante and Maria Felix, stars from the golden age of Mexican cinema, watched them from a bullet-riddled wall. Casa Paloma had sheltered Esteban from the reality that lay beyond its iron gates, but now he was thrust into a different world. Not only did he have to look after himself, he also had to find a way to get MaMaLu out.
Cantina Man finished his enchiladas and opened up the newspaper. He scanned the headlines, and chuckled at something. “Hey, Juan Pablo.” He pointed to an article when the waiter came to clear his plate. “KABOOM!” he said, his hands imitating an explosion. Both men laughed.
The rain had tapered to a fine drizzle by the time Esteban finished his dinner. It felt awkward to just get up and leave, and saying ‘thank you’ for Cantina Man’s random act of kindness did not seem enough, so Esteban lingered. He was in no hurry to go home and deal with his uncle Fernando.
“Rough day?” asked the man.
Esteban didn’t answer. The swelling over his eye had grown twice the size.
“Camila,” the man called a short, round woman from the kitchen. She was wearing an apron streaked with red sauce and pico de gallo. “Bring the boy some ice.”
“Thank you,” said Esteban, when she handed him a small bundle of ice, wrapped in a dishtowel. He tried not to wince as he held it to his eye.
“Would you like to make some money, boy?” asked Cantina Man. He didn’t have to wait for an answer. Esteban’s face said it all. “Fifteen pesos,” he continued. “Leave this newspaper in the urn by the statue of San Miguel Arcangel. You know where that is?”
Esteban nodded. He watched the man slip a clear plastic bag filled with white powder into the newspaper. He folded it twice before handing it to Esteban. “Meet me here tomorrow night and I’ll pay you. Tú entiendes?”
“Si.” Esteban knew he was doing something he shouldn’t, but fifteen pesos. It was a long way from the three hundred and fifty pesos he needed to see MaMaLu, but it was a start.
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.