“I don’t know. He’s Jackie’s right-hand man these days, so I don’t think he’d go there even if he could, what with everything. But he did have a crush on her for a while. He tried reading poems to her. It was goofy.”
He nodded. And then, just as Elvis was smiling charmingly at the girl and wondering if he couldn’t squeeze a few more drops of information from her, the door to the office opened and out walked several people. Three men and a chick. One of the guys was the fucking Jesuit priest they’d beaten up a couple of days before. His head was all bandaged, and he had dark purple bruises around his eyes. Looked like hell.
Before Elvis had time to duck or hide, the eyes of the priest fixed on him, and he let out a hoarse scream.
Elvis ran. He pushed aside the people in his path and yanked the door open, rushing down the stairs like a man who had been set on fire. Before he reached the ground floor, someone slammed him against a wall. Elvis elbowed the person away, tripped, and fell the last three steps, landing at the foot of the stairs.
The street was a few paces from him, but Elvis didn’t have a chance to get up and slip out, because the same person who had slammed him against the wall now pressed a knife against his neck.
“Stay still,” a man said.
15
SHE SPUN AROUND,startled by the man’s touch. For a moment, she was afraid, thinking of what Emilio had said, that she might be in danger, and recalled Anaya. But she was greeted by a familiar face.
“Hey,” Rubén said.
Maite slid a hand down the strap of her purse. “What are you doing here?” she asked with a frown.
“You told me to come see you around lunchtime.”
She’d completely forgotten about that. She’d been too busy thinking about her meeting with Emilio, the stupid cat, and financial matters to even remember what she’d told him.
“I’m sorry,” she said, quickly changing her tone of voice. “Were you waiting for me?”
“Not too long. You already ate?” Rubén asked.
“I haven’t.”
“Then wanna go get a bite? Jackie lent me her car,” he said, pointing to a sad-looking red Chevy.
From the car’s mirror dangled two pine-shaped air fresheners and in the back Maite spotted a couple of cardboard boxes. It wasn’t a carriage, but it was something, and Maite bitterly remembered her own car, still at the mechanic. Even a student had four wheels.
“Where would you like to go?” Rubén asked.
For a moment Maite thought of all the expensive restaurants she’d read about in the newspaper. Focolare and La Cava and Jena. The one place that had really caught her imagination was the Mauna Loa, which was over on Hamburgo Street. The menu promised “Oriental” delights and the décor was supposed to be inspired by the South Seas. It was the sort of restaurant that excited her imagination. It made her think of the island inSecret Romance, the pulsating lure of drums, adventure, and romance.
But she couldn’t afford such a venue, and she doubted he could either.
“Wherever you want to go,” she muttered.
They ended up at a lonchería with plastic chairs, red plastic salt shakers, and plastic plates that offered the sort of cheap, unassuming fare you’d expect at such a place: tortas and more tortas, washed down with Coca-Cola and Sidral Mundet. She worried about dirtying her dress. She didn’t particularly like it, but it had to be dry cleaned. All she needed was to have to pay another dry cleaning bill.
“Did you talk to Emilio, then?” Rubén asked as they sat down in a corner with their drinks. There was no waitress at this joint. You paid at the cash register and someone barked your order. It was so different from Emilio’s house that she began to feel glum, deprived of what to her had been an Edenic delight.
“I just came back from seeing him,” she said, suppressing a sigh and looking at the sleeves of her dress. Under the harsh lights inside the lonchería she thought her hands looked ugly and rough.
“What did he say? Does he know where Leonora is?”
She hid her hands in her lap, clasping her purse tight. “He doesn’t know where she is. She wanted to go see a journalist last weekend, but Emilio couldn’t drive her there, and he’s not sure if she ever made it. He’s worried about her.”
“So am I,” Rubén muttered.
Maite looked around the lonchería. It wasn’t busy, and the cashier was far from them, behind the counter, looking up at the television set. They were broadcasting an old movie with Miroslava. Still, Maite leaned forward and spoke in a whisper.
“A man came to speak to me at my office yesterday. He was also looking for her, and he mentioned your name.”
“He mentioned me?” Rubén asked, frowning.
