Elvis didn’t know what El Mago expected him to say. It seemed to him that when you’ve been sharing meals and assignments with a dude for months on end that you owe it to the guy to at least try and get him some help and not let him die like a dog in the street.
El Gazpacho called Elvis “brother,” and sure, maybe it was a quick endearment, but it also meant a little something. Bro, you know.
My bro.
Comrades in arms and all that, except that sounded maybe a bit commie, and El Mago didn’t like no commies. So he frowned, thinking hard as they walked slowly, rounding the corner.
“You gotta have some loyalty in this world,” Elvis said at last. He was looking straight ahead so he couldn’t see El Mago’s expression when he spoke; he didn’t want to see it lest he spot something nasty behind his eyes. Elvis was trying to stay cool, but he felt nervous.
“Loyalty.”
“Seems to me.”
El Mago was quiet. “You never quite cease surprising me, Elvis,” he said. “Loyalty. A valuable commodity. It seems in short supply these days.”
Elvis raised his head at that, despite his nerves, and glanced at the older man. He thought there was something melancholic about El Mago right then. He’d only seen him like this a couple of times. He kept his secrets, El Mago. He had to, Elvis supposed. You couldn’t go around spilling everything, showing each and every emotion.
They had stopped next to a newspaper stand. El Mago turned toward the magazines and papers, staring at the photos and the headlines.
“The operation got out of hand the other day. Your unit did not, in fact, muck up too much. But other units and their leaders lost control. In a day or two the president is going to order a public investigation into what happened.”
“What’ll happen?”
“Some people will have to go. The chief of police and the mayor will not last beyond next week, I am sure of it. Public relations, you know? There might be some reorganizing of the units. Everyone is jumpy, fingers are being pointed. It is a dangerous time.”
Elvis nodded. He didn’t know where that left him, but he didn’t dare ask. Then, as if reading his mind, El Mago turned to him.
“You will stay with El Güero and the Antelope. I want you to remain at the apartment and keep a low profile, as you have been doing for the past few days.”
“El Tunas and the others…they’ll also come around?” Elvis asked, because his unit was normally bigger than just them. They cooperated with the two other little groups. The twelve of them together.
“It is just the three of you. The others are needed elsewhere. For now, if there is an assignment, you will be the leader.”
He’d dreamed of leading a unit and the perks that came with that, like the car and having your own gun. Not that he was particularly a weapons guy, but it seemed pretty cool to have a good handgun to strap to your waist—it’s not like you could get a sword and call yourself a samurai, even if he’d like that better. Plus, if you wanted to climb up, if you wanted to make anything of yourself, you had to be a unit leader.
It was the first step to becoming someone like El Mago.
However, the senior operative was El Güero, and one would have expected him to take the lead.
Elvis opened his mouth, wishing to point this out, and then quickly closed it, self-preservation wisely urging him to shut up. If El Mago had made up his mind about him, there was no point in asking for explanations, plus he was simply glad he had not been dismissed from the Hawks.
El Mago turned around, and they began walking back to the apartment. “You have a question?” El Mago said, and the smirk on his face made Elvis realize that he knew exactly what he’d been thinking.
Elvis slid his hands out of his pockets and grabbed the crumpled pack of cigarettes in the back pocket of his jeans.
“Uh…El Gazpacho, how’s he doing?” he asked, both because he genuinely wanted to know and because asking about El Güero’s seniority would have been stupid.
El Mago frowned. “He is injured.”
“Yeah, but how’s he feelin’?”
“He is in bed with a bullet in his gut, how do you think he feels?”
“Just wonderin’.”
“Well, do not,” El Mago said curtly. “Head back, boy.”
Elvis nodded. He took out a cigarette, lit it, and crossed the street toward the apartment while El Mago went in the opposite direction. He hoped he hadn’t fucked things up by inquiring about El Gazpacho. But that night El Mago phoned and officially informed El Güero and the Antelope that their new unit leader was El Elvis. Elvis celebrated quietly. With his headphones on, he listened to “Eleanor Rigby” and drank Fanta.
