He didn’t know what to do. Head back to the apartment and pretend everything was normal? Forget that El Gazpacho was dead?
God fucking damn it, El Gazpacho was dead. El Mago had killed him. El Mago had fucking killed him. Or maybe not. No sense into leaping to conclusions.
It better not have been El Mago.
“Is there a way out the back?”
“Past the bathrooms. Remember, you owe me, so if I ever need—”
“I know how it works,” Elvis muttered.
Elvis stood up. He walked at a normal pace, like he wasn’t worried, and wound his way out the back. He darted past a couple of waiters who were having a smoke break, leaning against the wall in their black vests and starched shirts. It was dark now outside.
He walked faster, began running. He ran until he was out of breath.
Brother.
22
WHEN SHE ARRIVEDat work on the dot Monday morning, Maite told Diana that she’d gone to Cuernavaca for the weekend, but in her version of events it was with a new suitor. Diana seemed impressed when Maite said he’d be picking her up in his car. She asked if Diana could cover for her.
“Do I get to meet him?” Diana asked.
“Not today,” Maite said. “But later on, maybe.”
“What’s his name?”
“Rubén,” she said proudly.
“Is he good looking?”
“Very.”
They continued in that vein for a few more minutes, before the arrival of their co-workers made it necessary to retire to their desks. Maite smiled. Not only did the latest issue ofSecret Romanceshow Jorge Luis waking up from his coma, but the lies she’d told perked her up. Besides, she’d leave the office early and in a car, no need to ride the stinking bus this time.
That’s not to say that the morning didn’t have its hiccups. Twice the phone rang, and she nervously picked up the receiver, fearing it might be that dreadful man from the DFS. But first it was a wrong number, and then it was Maite’s mother calling to say that the mechanic had phoned her and how dare Maite give out her number and why was Maite always suffering from money trouble. Maite really hadn’t had any money trouble other than with the mechanic. The reason she’d given her mother’s number was because she needed a guarantor when she bought the car, and then the mechanic had also asked for an emergency contact. Most women put down their husband’s name, but since Maite didn’t have a husband, she was subject to this extra layer of scrutiny.
Maite told her mother she couldn’t speak because she was at work, but then her mother threatened to phone her at home that night. Maite hoped she forgot to do it and almost considered asking her sister if she wouldn’t get her mother off her case.
Around eleven a.m. Maite made up a migraine and said she needed to go home early and explained Diana had promised to finish her work. Her boss didn’t seem pleased, but he said fine, and at one o’clock she took the elevator downstairs and waited for Rubén to show up.
She smiled, thinking if Diana poked her head out the window she’d see her getting into the car.
“Good day at work?” Rubén asked.
“Fine. And you?”
“Work was all right. But worms keep coming out of the woodwork to prop up the president. Look at Octavio Paz and Carlos Fuentes, that couple of boot-lickers. And you should have seenExcélsior: they had a letter signed by José Luis Cuevas, Rufino Tamayo, Ramón Xirau, and all that lot, praising the president. Intellectuals and artists with Echeverría! Fuck them! You hear people saying it’s ‘Echeverría or fascism,’ like there’s no other choice, and you can’t trust anyone these days. Changing things from the inside! The bullshit they spout. And we…even we are not immune to this crap.”
Maite frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“Asterisk,” Rubén said, “it’s winding down.”
“It’s closing?”
“I went to see Jackie before I picked you up. She says it’s too dangerous to keep meeting like we have.”
“She’s probably right.”
