“We heard you mention a darkroom, you idiot. The line was bugged,” Anaya said. “Now do you want to try and get smart with me again? All of you, empty your pockets. Everything, come on. And you, your purse.”
Anaya was stuffing his hands into Rubén’s jacket and found nothing but a pack of cigarettes. Then he turned to her. Maite stared at the man, not knowing what to do. Her lips trembled.
“The purse,” Anaya said. “Open it up, come on.”
She wanted to. She really did. She didn’t mean to be brave or stubborn. Fear had rendered her mute and made her dig her fingers into the cheap purse, feeling that it was the only thing keeping her safe. What would they do if they found the film inside? What would they do to her? Would she be hauled to jail? Tortured and branded a dissident?
“Lady, the purse.”
Her hands shook, and she fumbled with the clasp.
“Come on!”
And then the guy in the suede jacket kicked one of the men and slammed him against the ground. At the same time, Rubén jumped at Anaya. He threw himself against him, like an angry bull, no finesse in the attack. It was brute force. Jackie grabbed a green table lamp and swung it at one of the men.
“Run!” Rubén yelled.
There was a gunshot. Maite screamed. She didn’t know who shot who, because Emilio grabbed her hand and pulled her with him, and they ran to the other end of the office. By the windows, to the left, there was the door that led to the back stairs.
They made it onto the street and into Emilio’s car, which was parked behind the building. From an open window the sound of samba drifted onto the street, a plaintive saxophone bidding them goodbye.
27
ELVIS WAS STARTINGto believe his life was an unending circle, because they were back at Asterisk. The woman and the hippie had gone into the building. God knew he would have preferred it if they had driven back to the diner of the previous evening. At least there he might have ordered a coffee and picked a song from the jukebox.
Elvis readied himself for a few more boring hours of his ass stuck inside a car, watching the rain droplets slide across the windshield, when he saw a bunch of men jump out of two vehicles and head into the building. He counted seven of them. Elvis didn’t need the binoculars to know these were DFS men and that Anaya was with them.
“Son of a bitch,” the Antelope whispered. “What’s that all about?”
“The film’s inside,” Elvis said.
“What? You sure?”
“Why else would they be here, all of them at once?”
“To arrest people.”
“Same story.”
Elvis took out his gun from the messenger bag. The Antelope gave him a weary look. “What’re you doing?”
“We can’t let them grab the film,” he said. The film, yes. Though, for a second, the thought flashed in his mind: the woman was in there. The woman with the sad eyes. And these assholes had beaten El Güero. El Güero wasn’t his buddy, but he was part of his team. Maybe they had even killed El Gazpacho.
He would bet that’s what happened, yeah. It hadn’t been El Mago, it had been Anaya and his goons. They had murdered his friend. It would be their style. He was sure of it.
“There’re seven of them. We don’t know if anyone inside is armed,” the Antelope said.
“Seven means we have to kill three each and hope one of them pisses his pants and runs off.”
“Well, that’s damn easy, no? You’re crazy.”
“El Mago’s fucked—we’re all fucked—if we don’t get those pictures. Come on, are you a wimp? Do I have to do it alone?” he said, his voice a blade, thinking of all the times El Güero had called him a marshmallow and the Antelope had snickered in agreement.
But not today, no sir, and ultimately the Antelope was the kind of man who did what he was told, and Elvis was…well, he wasn’t sure what kind of man he was, but he knew he was going into that building. He wanted blood and he wanted that film because, fuck it, they’d been working at this too long to let it go and it was a night for death.
“You’re all machín when it comes to shooting imaginary motherfuckers and American gangsters, but what happens when it’s for real, huh? Did your balls shrink?”
“Fuck you,” the Antelope muttered as he took out his gun and patted the pocket where he was carrying his ammunition. “I have better aim than you, you prissy fucker. I’ll put three bullets up their ass, like I promised. I bet you can’t hit one of them, you fuck.”
