The Dead Women of Juarez (8 page)

“I’m telling you, Kelly, Ortíz knows all the
wrong
people.”

“Will you cut it out? All I need to do is make it in. That’s the hard part.”

Paloma nodded as if to herself. She put her empty glass aside. “You can do it,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She leaned in to kiss him and everything else fell away. Kelly found wells of that sweet smell behind Paloma’s ears and at the base of her neck and she breathed deeply when he kissed them. In the bedroom he lay her back and went between her legs with lips and tongue, tasting salt and wetness and feeling the heat of her. She was still trembling when he moved on top of her and pushed his way inside.

After they lay on the bed facing each other. Kelly traced the curve of her hip with his fingers again and again, the flesh pliant beneath the skin. Paloma put her hand against his chest over his heart.

“I love you,” Kelly said.

“Shut up.”

“You always say that.”

“And you never shut up.”

“That’s because—”

“Hush,” Paloma said. She urged him onto his back, straddled him and made a face when he entered her from below. They moved together, her breasts brushing his face. Kelly kissed and sucked her nipples. The urge overcame him. Paloma pushed her hips down hard when he came into her.

Now Kelly was quiet and they heard the sound of traffic, not so distant and never still. Kelly drifted to sleep. When he awoke, Paloma breathed deep and even in the crook of his body. He pulled the sheet over their hips. He listened and watched until she stirred.

“I love you,” Kelly said.

“Fuck you,” Paloma said.

“Why can’t I tell you I love you?”

“Because I don’t like it,” Paloma said.

She started to rise. Kelly held her back. “That’s bullshit,” he said. “You don’t want to hear because—”

“Because why, Kelly?” Paloma sat up and pulled the sheet around her completely. Her hair was mussed, but it didn’t make her unlovely. Kelly didn’t like it when she looked angry and she did now. “Why?”

“Because I’m white?”

Paloma’s expression curdled. “
¡Pinche cabrón!
”

She left the bed and gathered her clothes. Kelly didn’t move; he knew he should stop her, but he couldn’t and didn’t. He heard her in the front room putting her shoes on. He was sweating again.

Kelly expected to hear the door slam. Paloma reappeared. She was flushed. When she pointed her finger at him, it trembled. “You are a goddamned
baboso
, Kelly! Is that what you think of me? Are you my fucking white-boy stud? Why are you such an idiot?” Paloma demanded.

“What the hell did
I
do?”

“What did you do? What did you
do?
” Paloma ripped the sheet from the bed and threw it at Kelly. He knocked it away. He saw Paloma’s eyes tearing. “I cook you food every week, Kelly. I fuck you. I bring you money. I don’t say nothing when you want to get your face bashed in over and over… why isn’t that enough for you? I’m not
ready
, Kelly!
¿Tú no entiende?
I’m
not ready for that!
”

Tears came. Paloma battered them with her knuckles.

“I just want you to say you love me,” Kelly said. He hated the sound of helplessness in his voice.

“Of
course
I love you,
retresado!
Why do you got to make me say it?”

Kelly got up. He felt strange, naked in front of Paloma fully dressed, and he embraced her awkwardly. She hit his arms with her fists, but the blows were soft and he barely felt them. She cried against his chest until her whole body heaved.

“Don’t say it,” Kelly whispered to her. “You don’t have to say it. Don’t say it.”

Paloma held him tighter and they said nothing after that.

T
HE
S
UNDAY WAS LIKE THE OTHERS
: the same prayers, the same church, and the same conversations. Paloma didn’t see the black pick-up this time, but she imagined it had been there while she was at mass, or just around the corner.

Their group had a new member and Paloma walked beside her to the Sunday gathering. The woman, Señora Muñoz, was the youngest of all the mothers, though still older than Paloma. A black veil framed her face. The visible strain of hard work and sorrow would turn her into an artifact like the others, a monument to loss and pain.

Señora Muñoz’s daughter cleaned and vacuumed floors in the offices of a
maquiladora
called Electrocomponentes de Mexico. The Muñoz family lived in a home made of cinder blocks with no water or power. Belita Muñoz Castillo was thirteen years old, pretended to be older, and took a company bus to work at three o’clock in the morning alone.

Paloma preferred to talk about other things with new women in black, but the subject could never be changed, as the first question was always
have you heard anything
?

“We have new flyers with Belita’s picture on them,” Paloma told Señora Muñoz. “We’ll put them all over the city. All around the
maquiladora
.”

Señora Muñoz nodded. “Thank you,” she said.

“Someone will recognize her.”

In the beginning Paloma always said more, but she learned differently and now it was best to let simplicity be her guide. She
could not say whether Belita would be found, or whether she would be alive. Sometimes a disappearance was just a disappearance. Sometimes girls found a boyfriend and vanished over the border and if
la migra
didn’t catch them, they might never return. Sometimes girls found a place in the bordellos where the money was better, but the shame too much.

Señora Muñoz’s mouth was so tight that speaking seemed to cause her pain. “Have you lost someone?” she asked.

“No,” Paloma said.

“God bless you anyway,” Señora Muñoz replied.

They walked along in silence, though the other women in black talked among themselves. Being together would not bring the dead or missing back, but sometimes even a little friendship was better than days and nights alone without cease.

“My husband,” Señora Muñoz said, “he died when Belita was only six. My oldest, Manuel, he said we should come to the city for the work. He was the man for our family.”

“Where is he now?”

“Dead,” Señora Muñoz said, and offered no explanation.

“Someone will recognize Belita,” Paloma said.

“She is dead, too,” Señora Muñoz said.

The other women in black perked up.
No, no, no
, they said.
She’s still out there. Don’t give up hope
. Paloma let them mother Señora Muñoz in the way only they could.

The lines on Señora Muñoz’s face grew deeper and deeper. She shook her head violently. They stopped in the street under the leaning face of an abandoned house, the spine of its roof broken and the ceiling collapsed. Weeds shot up through the cracked foundation. “I had a dream that she was dead,” Señora Muñoz declared. “They took her from the bus… they violated her and strangled her to death. She could not even cry for her mama!”

The women in black closed around Señora Muñoz. She pushed them back. Paloma stood away from them, helpless.
No, no, no. Never say that
.

“They raped
mi hija!
They are animals! Butchers!”

Señora Muñoz grabbed at her clothes and the women in black took hold of her arms. Paloma felt something on her cheek. She touched her face and her fingers came away wet. She shivered all over.

“
Why did God take my children?
I say confession! I leave money for the offering! Where is my Belita’s body?
What did they do with her body?!?
”

Hysterical tears stained Señora Muñoz’s face. She collapsed in the middle of the women in black, vanishing into a sea of lined faces and dark cloth. Words became wails and wails became lung-heavy noises filled with anguish. Paloma felt weak in the legs and steadied herself against the rough stone face of the dead house.

“Give her air,” Señora Guzman said. “She’ll faint.”

The women parted. Señora Muñoz lay crumpled in the street with white dust soiling her Sunday clothes. Señora Guzman was the eldest. She cradled Señora Muñoz like the Pietà. Instead of blood there were tears, and all the women in black cried.

“What did you say to her?” Señora Guzman asked Paloma.

Paloma shook her head dumbly.

“It’s not her,” Señora Delgado said. “Paloma is a good girl.”

Señora Muñoz looked asleep, her face wrought by tears, but her body still jerked, also twisted within. Paloma sobbed for her.

“Hush,” Señora Guzman told Señora Muñoz. She touched the woman’s forehead, but the wrinkles refused to vanish. “We can’t carry you; you must walk on your own. Hush now.”

The women in black urged Señora Muñoz to her feet little by little. She swayed when she stood, but they were there for her. Paloma ventured closer and put her hand on Señora Muñoz’s arm. The woman didn’t shrink away.

“Every woman must walk on her own,” Señora Guzman said.

They went on. Paloma looked back one time. She still didn’t see the black truck.

K
ELLY STRETCHED OUT, JUMPED
rope until his calves burned and then shadowboxed in the corner of Urvano’s gym. Other fighters were there – some Kelly knew by name now, and more that didn’t have any words for the white boy – sparring or tossing the medicine ball or pummeling bags. Urvano stayed on his stool most of the time; though occasionally he stepped down to offer a few words of instruction to this fighter or that fighter on something he spotted.

Managers and trainers cruised through the gym at odd intervals. Some stopped to watch Kelly and he did his best to put them out of his mind. He wasn’t a prospect anymore, not an up-and-comer; he was too old, too slow and just too damned
white
to make an impact anywhere south of the border. Still, just the sensation of being considered made him feel ten years younger, like he was in back in the gym on Zarzamora in San Antonio, still a white boy among the brown kids, but with fast hands and quick feet.

Urvano’s only had one mirror, cracked at the corners and fogging with age. Kelly shifted his workout to a battered, duct-taped mat before this stretch of silvered glass and watched his body move. For this he didn’t rely on speed or power; instead, he shadowboxed like an old Chinese man doing t’ai chi, deliberating every punch and every step.

Over five years, even with regular bouts in the ring, he’d let his form go. He didn’t have to think about the perfect hook or the
right toe-step when he was only meant to be hit. Going slow he could watch himself and every sloppy error leaped off the mirror. Control like this sapped energy, and Kelly’s shirt soaked through with perspiration.

He didn’t notice anyone moving behind him, or the sudden hush. Trainers stopped calling punches and the gym fell quiet except for scratchy music on the radio.

“Hey, Kelly,” Ortíz said. “
¿Cómo te va?
”

Even in wraps, Kelly’s hands were heavy. His shoulders smarted. Ortíz was dressed casually, but still in a neat jacket and slacks. He seemed wrong for the gym, where even the occasional promoter came in looking like a street laborer. Here the older men were like Urvano: simple, dedicated and poor. Ortíz wore a gold watch.

Ortíz stepped up and mimed a body punch. “Looking good, Kelly. You lost some weight. About one sixty, huh?”

Kelly nodded. Beyond Ortíz he was aware of Urvano watching. “Less,” he said.

“That’s good. Real good. Nice to see you working so hard.”

“Yeah, well, I—”

“Listen, Kelly, I heard you were looking for me. I got somewhere to be, but if you have some time…?”

“Now?”

Ortíz tapped his gold watch. “
Ahora
.”

Around the gym a few fighters went back to the workouts. Trainers turned their backs on Ortíz. Kelly knew they were shutting him out, too.

“All right,” Kelly said. “Give me a minute to clean up.”

“Don’t take too long.”

Kelly used the shower, cold even though the day was hot, changed into clean sweats and met Ortíz outside. He passed Urvano without saying anything. When he came back there would be plenty to say.

He found Ortíz outside beside an idling pick-up. The bed was loaded with plastic cat crates lashed down with bright green and
red bungee cords. In each crate was a resting cock, bright feathered and healthy.

“All right,” Ortíz said. “Let’s get going. There’s no room up front. Ride in the back.”

The pick-up was big, shiny and black with a double-long cab for a back seat and reversed double-doors. When Ortíz opened one, Kelly saw big men in tight-fitting black T-shirts inside, all of them heavy with muscle. One looked at Kelly from behind wraparound Gargoyles. Freezer-cold air conditioning spilled from the open door.

“Kelly, you coming, man?”

“Yeah, sure.”

He tossed his gym bag in the back and used the running board to climb in. The bed of the truck was rubberized and clean. Kelly found a spot beside the cat crates and settled in. Ortíz shut himself up front and the truck pulled out.

They drove almost an hour until they reached a long, low building on the far side of Ciudad Juárez. Kelly had never been there, but he recognized what it was: a
palenque
where fighting cocks did battle. It was not a
turista
spot, and the neighborhood was rotting into the desert flats where broad sprawls of
colonias
held sway.

Ortíz got out and so did the men. Kelly saw one of them wore a gun open on his hip. The air smelled of dust and when the wind shifted the odor of open sewage pits carried from the south. Kelly had grit in his hair.

“All right,” Ortíz said. “Come on, Kelly. Let’s go inside, have a
cerveza
, all right?”

They left the men to unload the cocks in their plastic cat crates. Ortíz led the way. Inside the shift to fluorescent lighting left Kelly blind until his eyes adjusted, and then he saw the unpainted concrete walls festooned with grafitti and posters, the terraced benches around the fighting pit and, on the far side, a lively beer bar crowded with men. The terraces were almost empty, but already there were cocks fighting.