Disappeared Page 6

  Mr. Reyes makes a sign with his hands that Emiliano does not understand, but apparently the man in the corner does. The man takes a penknife from his pocket, opens it, and hands it to Mr. Reyes. Mr. Reyes stabs the center of a star-shaped piñata with the knife. Emiliano tries not to gasp. What is he doing?

  Mr. Reyes proceeds to cut a square-shaped hole in the piñata. When he finishes, he sticks his finger inside the star and pulls out a deflated blue balloon. Then he covers the hole with the piece he just cut out and again examines the piñata. He gives the piñata to the man in the corner, who removes the cut piece and also sticks his finger inside.

  Emiliano watches the man shake his head. Somehow, the inside of the piñata is not good enough. Good enough for what? He does not want to believe what is slowly becoming obvious to him.

  Mr. Reyes sits back down in his chair and waits for Emiliano to do the same before he speaks.

  “We are not a big operation here. On the other hand, we are allowed to operate because we’re not a threat to the major players, and we pay our dues … and our respect. Your business would be so small it’s not worth our while. But Armando trusts you. Otherwise he wouldn’t have sent you here. And Armando is the son of my good friend Enrique, and, frankly, I like you—the star midfielder who won the state championship and brought honor to our city. You have a good head for business, I can tell. I want to work with young people like you. So, Emiliano, if you want to do business together, we will do business together.”

  There’s something about the quiet way that Mr. Reyes talks to him that makes Emiliano feel like he’s respected, an equal. There’s also a queasy feeling inside him that reminds him of the moment just before he was caught stealing, but the feeling is not strong enough to overcome his curiosity about what Mr. Reyes is offering.

  “How would it work?” Emiliano asks.

  “We give you a loan to buy the first batch of product. With the profits you make, you pay back the loan and buy more product. I suggest you do a dozen or so piñatas and other papier-mâché animals a week. No more. Instead of this Lalo Torres shipping to his usual shops, he’ll ship to our stores. He will have to agree to do that, but it shouldn’t be a problem. Our stores will give him a better price. But you should keep working with Lalo, since he is known and has been checked out by customs already.” Mr. Reyes smiles a kind, reassuring smile. “A dozen piñatas like those”—he points to the star on the table—“will net you maybe thirty thousand pesos.”

  “Thirty thousand pesos,” Emiliano repeats, stunned. “A week?”

  Mr. Reyes smiles again. “It’s a very small operation. I recommend you keep it small. Under everyone’s radar. You keep going to school. Keep winning state championships for us.” He nods. “Why don’t you take a few days to think about it? One thing: The piñatas need to be loaded by the people who make them. It won’t work if you have to cut a hole to insert the product after the piñatas are made. The opening could be detected.”

  Emiliano lowers his head. He would have to get Javier to stuff the piñatas with … “Loaded with what? What is the product?” he blurts.

  Mr. Reyes lifts an eyebrow. “We can talk about that later. Once we’re partners. There are options. Now, I’m afraid I have to make a business call. Oscar will help you with your box.”

  Emiliano and Mr. Reyes stand at the same time, and they shake hands. “It’s good to meet you, Emiliano. I hope to hear from you soon.”

  “Thank you,” Emiliano says. “It was good to meet you too.”

  When the box is in the trunk, Oscar motions for Emiliano to wait. Emiliano watches him walk into the building with the garage doors. A few moments later, he comes out carrying a white box with holes on the side for handles, the kind used to file documents. The box is sealed with black electrical tape. Oscar puts the box in the open trunk.

  “Give this to Armando when you return the car,” Oscar says, closing the trunk. “And one more thing. Please don’t mention this location to anyone.” He waits long enough for fear to make its way to Emiliano’s face, and then he turns around and walks away.

  Emiliano drives slowly. The last thing he wants is to be stopped for speeding. He keeps one eye on the rearview mirror to make sure no one is following him. There’s an unexpected rush, scary yet exciting, from the knowledge that Armando is involved in the drug world. Armando’s father too, probably. Mr. Reyes says Mr. Cortázar was an old friend. And if Mr. Cortázar is also a narco, then what about his lawyer, Perla Rubi’s father? Emiliano’s mind spins with connections, possibilities …

  Back when Emiliano shoplifted, his first theft was a cheap watch he didn’t even want. It happened a few days after his mother received the divorce papers from his father, who had gone to the United States two years earlier. His father had spent so much time preaching to Emiliano about what was right and wrong that the shoplifting felt like revenge. He wore the watch for a week, like a trophy. Then the stealing became more systematic. He’s always been a good planner. He checked out the store, noticing where the surveillance cameras were located. He had a knife and pliers in his pocket to disconnect items from the sensors that would trigger alarms. He found a man who would buy what he stole. The money he got went to pay the family’s bills, because the money his father continued to send was not enough. He always felt the same mixture of excitement and fear when he entered a store, like he stood on the edge of a deep canyon.

  Then he was caught. A stupid mistake, not to have suspected a hidden surveillance camera in an electronics store. This proposal of Mr. Reyes’s is different—not stupid. It represents big money and the risk is small. The need to pay the bills, to make his life and his family’s life safer and more comfortable, is still there. Why not, if he’s careful? He can proceed slowly. Not twelve piñatas, even. Six. Even one half of the thirty thousand pesos Mr. Reyes mentioned would bring happiness to his family, and make it easier for him to be with Perla Rubi.

  He sighs and pushes the thought away. He forces himself to remember the three days he spent with Brother Patricio in the Sierra Tarahumara after he was caught stealing. They didn’t have any food or water other than what they found, and Emiliano was full of anger, swearing and fighting. The desert taught him that unchanneled anger would destroy him, that anger needed to be converted into courage and determination to overcome the obstacles in his life. Success takes hard, slow, persistent work, Brother Patricio said. There are no shortcuts to getting what he wants. He must remember that. No shortcuts. He’ll make money, but he’ll work for it.

  And Armando and Mr. Reyes? The main thing is that he can say no. No one is forcing him to do anything. He listened to Mr. Reyes, but tomorrow he’ll tell Armando thanks but no thanks. Maybe he’ll wait until Monday. It doesn’t hurt to think about it over the weekend.

  One thing’s for sure: He’s not going to lug that box full of whatever to Perla Rubi’s house. If Emiliano gets stopped or someone steals the car with the box, that would be the end of him. What he needs to do is drive straight to Taurus right now and dump the car and the box. He looks at the clock on the dashboard. It’ll be five thirty by the time he gets to Taurus. By the time he bicycles back home, showers, and then gets to Perla Rubi’s house, it will be close to midnight. Perla Rubi wanted him to come at six. All right: He’ll hide the box in a safe place and then drive to Perla Rubi’s in the Mercedes. In the morning, he’ll take the car and box to Armando. But what about tonight, after the party? He slows down and pulls into the gravel area on the side of the road, then takes out his phone.

  Please, Paco. Please pick up.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh, man. I’m so glad you’re home,” Emiliano says. “Listen, I need to park a car in the back of your house for one night.”

  “What car?”

  “It’s a long story. The grandmother of one of the Jipari kids works at this club, and the owner paid me to take the car to the repair shop. It got too late and I have to keep it overnight. It’s a Mercedes. I don’t want to leave it in front of
my house.”

  “A Mercedes? What are you up to?”

  “Just let me park it in back of your house.”

  “Does this have something to do with that birthday party? Are you doing things to try to impress Perla Rubi’s family?”

  Emiliano closes his eyes. “I’ll give you a hundred if you let me park in back of your house.”

  “How much did you get?”

  “For what?”

  “For taking the car to the repair shop.”

  Emiliano knows exactly where Paco is headed. Best friends think alike, unfortunately. “Five hundred.”

  “I’ll let you do it for two hundred.”

  “Okay, okay. Two hundred. But you have to lend me your black loafers. I need them for this party.”

  “How are you going to get there? I thought you were parking the car in my backyard.”

  “I’m parking it in your backyard after I come home from the party.”

  “So you are doing this to impress Perla Rubi’s parents. You think driving a fancy car is going to do it? Why don’t you find a nice girl who likes your poor ass for what it is?”

  “Are you going to lend me the shoes or not?”

  “Fine. If you’re determined to make a fool of yourself, you might as well do it with nice shoes. Don’t step in any crap at your fancy birthday party.”

  “I’ll be there in about half an hour.”

  “Oh, man, we’re on our way out to dinner. I’ll leave the key to the gate under the Virgen in my mother’s garden. Careful with the flowers. If we’re asleep when you get back, make sure you lock the gate after you park the car.”

  “And the shoes?”

  “I’ll leave them on a chair on the back porch.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  “Hey, Emiliano. You’re not doing anything illegal, are you?”

  “Bye, Paco.”

  Oh, thank God. Someone is watching out for him. He’s not religious, but at moments like this, it’s hard not to believe in the guardian angel his mother claims is always by his side. He was wondering how he was going to explain the Mercedes to Sara and his mother.

  It’s ten after five when he pulls up in front of his house. He looks around to make sure no one is on the street or looking out their windows. He pops open the trunk, lifts out the box with the black tape, and takes it to the toolshed in the back. He moves the shovels and picks and rakes and places the box in the farthest corner of the shed. Then he covers it with a canvas splotched with paint. The boxes with the folk art he takes inside the house. He showers, dresses, and is out the door carrying the beautiful chocolate cake Mami left for him on the kitchen table, next to a note from Sara:

  We’re on our way to Guillermo’s daughter’s quinceañera. Mami wants to go to the Mass first. Behave at the party. How did you ever get Mami to bake you a cake? You owe her big! Be good.

  He texts Perla Rubi.

  I’m on my way. Running a little late.

  He drives the two blocks to Paco’s house and finds the loafers. Paco even shined them for him. Paco may say that Emiliano and Perla Rubi are not long term, but deep down, Emiliano knows, Paco is rooting for him to succeed. If he makes it permanently into Perla Rubi’s world, there’s hope for everyone. Paco is also a thief, given that Emiliano has to pay him two hundred pesos for one night’s parking and the use of the loafers. Still, the peace of mind he gets from not leaving the expensive car out on the street is worth it. He locks the gate and places the key under the statue of the Virgen de Guadalupe. He pats the Virgen’s head for good luck.

  In the last remaining box of the newspaper’s archives of material on the missing girls, Sara finds a picture of the girl in the e-mail. She’s younger and happier looking and doesn’t appear worn out yet. The words Erica Rentería are written in pencil on the back. Sara looks for the letter from the mother or father that always accompanies pictures of the missing girls, but there’s no message or envelope or anything else she can use to contact the family.

  She studies the picture. Erica is standing in front of some kind of monument made of white marble. She has a white blouse buttoned all the way to her neck and a pleated black skirt. Her shoes are old but clean. And white socks? What teenager wears white socks these days? It looks almost like she’s wearing a school uniform, or dressed for a very conservative church. Her smile is the opposite of her clothing, though—open, generous, excited. Her expression reminds Sara of Linda, so much so that she has to close her eyes. If she finds Erica, she’ll find Linda. The next step: talking to Erica’s family.

  As Sara walks up the flight of stairs from the file room to her cubicle, she suddenly feels very tired. She can look in the phone book for the Renterías, but most poor people don’t own landlines. Even if they do, there must be hundreds of Renterías in Juárez. She’ll have to call them one by one. And when she finds the family, they won’t know where Erica is. In the meantime, God only knows what is happening to the girls.

  It’s after five. All of this will have to wait until tomorrow. Tonight is the quinceañera.

  Back at her cubicle, Sara is getting ready to leave when the phone rings. It’s Ernesto.

  “We’re still trying to find out who atlas444@gmail.com belongs to, but I think we got our man anyway. That ring on his finger and the bald head? His name is Leopoldo Hinojosa. He’s the head of the Public Security and Crime Prevention Unit of the State Police.”

  “Oh, God.” A sense of powerlessness comes over Sara. How many times has she gone to the State Police to ask about Linda?

  “Have you told anyone? About the deleted e-mails? About the picture?” Ernesto demands.

  “No.”

  “Well, don’t tell anyone. I mean anyone, Sara. Not Juana. Not Felipe. Don’t even tell your family. We’re safe now because people think the e-mail with the picture was deleted before anyone saw it. But this is big, Sara. Big. This guy will kill to protect his identity. It’s not just him, it’s the organization he’s associated with.”

  Ernesto is saying out loud what she knew immediately. She forces herself to speak. “Okay.”

  “Go home. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “Guillermo’s quinceañera …”

  Sara has never heard Ernesto swear until that moment. “I’ll see you there. Might as well act normal in case someone is watching us.”

  “Like who?”

  “Like whoever deleted the e-mails from Juana’s computer.”

  Sara goes out the back door to the building and walks four blocks so she can catch her bus at a different stop. She finds a seat in the way back, squashed between two men, and ignores their thighs pressing against her. There are only so many battles she can fight.

  She takes out her notepad and tries to write down everything that happened that day. Usually, writing helps her think, calms and consoles her. Today, it doesn’t work. She pushes away the head of one of the men pretending to “accidentally” fall asleep on her shoulder and closes her eyes. Felipe ordering her to stop writing about the Desaparecidas seems a million years ago.

  That e-mail threat about Linda. So much about it was strange. Most of the threats reporters and editors receive at El Sol come by regular mail. Why send an e-mail, which can possibly be traced? Sara remembers what Ernesto said: The threat came via e-mail because whoever sent it wanted them to know about his power. That much is clear.

  But why mention Linda specifically? Hinojosa and his people had to know that the e-mail with the picture had been deleted from the El Sol hotline, so there was no need to threaten Sara. She’s received death threats before, and they typically start after she talks to family members or the missing person’s friends, or she’s known to be digging around in the public records. People who are afraid of publicity find out quickly when El Sol is on the scent. But no one at the paper has done anything on Linda since Sara wrote about her. The last time she went to see Mrs. Fuentes was over two weeks ago, and it was just a friendly visit; they didn’t go see the State Police. Why the need for a further thr
eat?

  Unless … Sara opens her eyes. Unless there was something else that they thought Sara had, or was about to get. Something incriminating that they were afraid she’d see—so incriminating that they had to threaten her family. But what? She needs to dig into that possibility tomorrow.

  Should she tell Linda’s mother and father that Linda might be alive? It’s such a hard thing to decide, whether to give someone a hope that may turn out to be false. Is the hurt worse for having hoped? But this hope is real. Puchi: Linda wrote that a little more than a day ago. One more day, Sara decides. She’ll wait one more day, doing all the research she can, before she speaks to Mrs. Fuentes. Maybe by the end of the day tomorrow she can give Linda’s family something a little more solid. There has to be something out there, anything that will connect Hinojosa to the place where Linda is being kept.

  I’m going to find you, Linda. I promise.

  Emiliano drives the car down the Esmeraldas’ long driveway. The boy who will take the car and park it in an empty lot down the street is only a year or two older than he is. “I’ll take good care of it for you,” he says, but Emiliano still hesitates a moment before handing him the keys. He will have to give the boy a tip on the way out, and all he has are the five hundred-peso bills that Armando gave him. One hundred pesos is too big a tip. Maybe he can get change from Perla Rubi. No, that’s ridiculous. He can’t ask Perla Rubi if she has change for a hundred pesos. He’ll work it out inside.

  He walks to the front door of the Esmeralda residence, holding the platter with his mother’s cake in both hands. A man in a shiny brown suit and skinny black tie opens the door for him. “I can take that for you, sir,” he says, gesturing to the cake.

  Sir? “Thanks,” Emiliano says. “I can do it.”

  “Certainly, sir. Your name, please?”