“You look like shit. You’re left-handed, no? They fucked your stupid arm. I’ll drive.”
“Someone stuck a knife in your fucking leg.”
The Russian shrugged. “I’ll bandage it in the car.”
“What car?”
“My car. Unless you have a first aid kit in yours.”
“Fine. Fuck it,” Elvis muttered. What did he care if the whole KGB was tagging along. He had a damn bullet in his arm and the Antelope was dead. Maybe Elvis would be dead too, and he supposed going out at the hand of a Russian agent was more interesting than getting killed by those pricks from the DFS or being knifed in Tepito, which was the way he originally thought he’d go.
The Russian’s car was a piece of shit Volkswagen—it needed a paint job and to be washed sometime this century—which he’d left around the corner. It also reeked of pot and cheap booze. The Russian drove a few blocks from Asterisk and parked the car. He took a sip from a silver flask. Then he turned around and pulled a box from the back seat and handed it to Elvis. Inside Elvis found the promised bandages and gauze. He tried winding them around his arm and failed, so the Russian gave him a hand and a sip from the flask. It contained mezcal, of all things. He’d expected vodka.
When Elvis’s bandage was in place, the Russian slapped several layers of gauze on his leg, tied it all up, and took another swig of mezcal. Then he opened the glove compartment and reached for a gun, which was tucked under a map of the city.
“Smith and Wesson,” Elvis said and scoffed. “You own a Smith and Wesson.”
“Model sixty. You got a problem with that?”
“No, no problem,” Elvis said, wanting to break out in laughter. Another one of his teammates was dead, and he was in a beat-up car with a Russian who didn’t even own a Soviet weapon. “You gonna shoot me?”
“If I wanted you dead I’d have killed you back at Asterisk. Don’t get paranoid. I figure it might come in handy since I’m not sure where the fuck you’re taking me. So. Where to?”
Elvis gave him the first set of directions. He wasn’t going to blurt out the address. If the Russian wanted to murder him, he’d have to wait until they arrived at their destination.
28
SHE ALMOST BROKEdown when they arrived at Emilio’s house. She had been able to keep herself in one piece until then, but the moment they walked into his living room she took a deep breath and then another, and she started shivering, her eyes brimming with tears.
Emilio didn’t look too thrilled about this. He quickly poured whiskey into a little glass and shoved it in her hands.
“It’ll steady your nerves,” he said.
“We shouldn’t have left. They’re probably dead.”
“We’d be dead if we hadn’t left.”
“But someone should call an ambulance!”
“I’m sure the cops are there. Someone must have heard the gunshots.”
“We shouldn’t have left,” Maite repeated. “We have to get the pictures to the papers, like Rubén wanted.”
“I would if I knew where they are.”
“I have them,” Maite said, and she spilled a little of her drink as she tried to open her handbag. Her hands were trembling. “I’ve had them all this time.”
“All this time?”
She looked up at Emilio, who was frowning. Clumsily she sat down on an acrylic bubble chair and put her drink on the floor. She opened her bag and took out the film canisters, showing them to him before quickly stuffing them back in her purse. “I didn’t know. I swear. I…she put them inside this little statuette…I swear I didn’t know. Shouldn’t you develop them? You have a darkroom.”
“I’m not sure I should touch the film rolls.”
“But we need to see what’s inside.”
Emilio grabbed the bottle of whiskey and filled a glass for himself, topping her off in the process. “It depends. The newspaper might want to do it, to make sure we don’t tamper with anything. I know an editor who might be willing to publish them.”
“Really?”
