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Jorge Alvarez is the CEO of Grupo Real. I did some light background. He’s already married—though I haven’t checked anything personal on him in a while. Maybe he got divorced?

“The wedding, of course,” I say. “Thank you so much.”

“Have a good day,” she chirps and hangs up.

I immediately Google Alvarez wedding Grupo Real. The first article that pops up is from a couple of months ago, in the society pages of Quién.

Diego Alvarez to wed in splashy affair in Mexico City

The photo is of a good-looking Chilango dude with his arm around a beautiful Latina woman. There’s no date for the wedding, just the general month of October. Which would technically give me enough time to meet Neil’s deadline of mid-November. But I bet this wedding is going to have incredibly tight security, so there’s no way I’ll be able to sneak in or pretend to be a guest in order to talk to Ricardo.

I head back out onto the street, my mind churning. The only way I can get a quote from Ricardo is if I get an actual invite to this wedding. My heart sinks. I may as well be asking for a trip to the moon.

No, I think the moon would be easier.

3Agustín

I’m still lost in thought as I head to the subway.

I love the New York subway system. Yes, sometimes it stinks, and it’s crowded, and unreliable on weekends, and there’s usually someone asking you for money or urinating on the platform, but there’s this sense of community on the train. We’re all in this together. Even though no one ever looks at each other and when someone starts shouting about Jesus, everybody just pretends it’s not happening. I love the sense of time travel the subway gives you—going underground and emerging in a totally different part of the city. There’s a feeling of endless movement, of connectivity, of neighborhoods sprouting up like mushrooms. The subway is the connective tissue of New York, its nervous system, pulsing with energy and electricity.

I get off at Borough Hall and head toward the small cocktail bar on Henry Street that my friend Eva has apparently been dying to try. Nicolas and Eva Garcia are brother and sister—they live in Bushwick (like me) and they’re Chilangos from Mexico City (like me). That’s about where our similarities end. I met them at a local dive bar in our neighborhood back in February, and we started hanging out. I could never tell what they did for a living, and then I realized: nothing. They do nothing. Their father runs a huge real estate company in CDMX, and they’ve been living in New York for three years, just throwing parties and going on vacations and generally existing, as far as I can tell.

Apparently, this is a thing in Bushwick: kids from rich families living in a scruffier neighborhood and pretending they are “of the common man.”

My scalp prickles as it occurs to me that they are exactly the kind of people who would run in Diego Alvarez’s circle.

The cocktail bar is on a corner, with big windows revealing circular booths inside. I catch sight of my reflection as I enter—my thick black hair can most charitably be described as “unruly” and the wind off the water back in FiDi did not do me any favors. I run my fingers through it and pull open the door. It’s five thirty, so there are only a handful of other patrons inside. Nico and Eva sit in one of the booths facing the windows, and Eva leaps up to greet me.

“Oh my god, look at you!” she cries in Spanish, kissing my cheek. “Qué guapo.” She runs her fingers along my blue button-down shirt, which is, to be fair, the nicest one I own. I’m generally a tee and hoodie type of guy.

“Qué tal, wey,” Nicolas says, getting up to give me his usual quick, two-pat bro hug.

“How was the interview?” Eva gushes, as Nico waves the waitress over.

“Good,” I say, switching to English to order a negroni, then back to Spanish. “They’re giving me a chance.”

“No mames!” Eva gasps. Eva is always gasping. She’s one of the most excitable people I’ve ever met. She styles herself a bit like Amy Winehouse, with big hair and cat-eye makeup and red lips.

“That’s great, bro,” Nico says, sipping his old-fashioned. Nico, in contrast to Eva, always looks like he just rolled out of bed and threw on whatever clothes were within reach.

“So what did they say? When can I buy my copy? This is so cool,” Eva says breathlessly. “The New Yorker!”

I shift on the faux leather, and it creaks. All Eva and Nico really know about the article is that it’s about an activist from Mexico. They had no idea who El Rasca was when I mentioned his name. Besides, they aren’t the sort of immigrants Abuelo was fighting on behalf of. I don’t begrudge them their money; they just don’t get what it’s like for people like me.

“I still have some work left to do,” I tell her. “Actually, I could use your help.”

Eva sits up, her dark eyes sparkling.

“Any chance you guys know a Diego Alvarez? His father runs Grupo R—”

Eva shrieks so loud I jump.

“Know him?” she says, then starts laughing. Even Nico gives a chuckle as he downs the rest of his drink. “Obviously! Nico used to play golf with Diego at Club de Golf Chapultepec. Our mom has lunch with his mom all the time at Hoyo 20.”

“Yeah, he has a killer backswing,” Nico grumbles.

My pulse trips in my veins. Surely I can’t get this lucky twice in one day. “Seriously?”