El Güero was getting ready to kick the man in the head. “Hey, wait,” Elvis said. “We’re supposed to talk to him.”
“Fuck it, this prick tried to cut me,” El Güero complained.
“Drag him back to the bedroom.”
El Güero grumbled something about pricks and marshmallows. Elvis bent down and picked up the razor and followed both of them into the bedroom.
“I don’t have any money,” the priest said as El Güero shoved him in the direction of the bed.
“Sit down,” Elvis told Villareal. “Antelope, check the room.”
The Antelope nodded and began opening drawers. El Güero stood at the doorway, arms crossed, blocking any exit. The priest sat on the bed, clutching the covers with one hand. In a corner, a picture of an eagle looked down at Elvis, serving as the only decoration. The apartment seemed simple, but the television was new, and by the bed Elvis spotted a pair of good leather shoes. Maybe the priest didn’t have cash lying around, but he had enough bills to purchase certain fancy goods. Perhaps he’d passed the contribution plate around his congregation.
“Father, where’s the camera?”
“I don’t know anything about a camera,” Villareal said, and he began rubbing his head and wincing, like it hurt real bad. Theatrical bastard. El Güero hadn’t roughed him upthatmuch, not really.
“You know something about a girl, no? Leonora? Where is she?”
The priest stared at Elvis as if Elvis had said a dirty word. “I have no idea.”
“I thought you guys were friends. You going to deny you know her?”
“I know her.”
“Then where’s she at?”
“It doesn’t mean I keep track of her every movement.”
“Easy, Father. No need to get riled up. We’redialogating,” Elvis said, trying to sound the way El Mago sounded.
“Dialogating,” the priest said, practically sneering at Elvis.
Elvis didn’t like this fucker’s face, nor the way he was looking at Elvis. Respect. That’s what El Mago said you had to instill. Not fear, respect. Though fear could be an easy shortcut to respect. Elvis didn’t have all night to be talking to the priest; he couldn’t hold his hand and warmly beg him to talk a bit. Not only because El Mago was waiting to hear from them, but because El Güero was standing at the doorway, smirking at Elvis.
Elvis knew that if he did anything wrong that blond dickhead was going to tell El Mago every little detail. He didn’t want to give El Güero the satisfaction. Besides, Villareal had that smug look of a man who has never had the shit properly beaten out of him, and Elvis felt the sudden need to teach him what was what, man of the cloth or not.
Elvis slammed his fist against the priest’s face, hard enough that the priest fell back on the bed with a sharp groan.
“When’s the last time you saw her?” Elvis asked coolly.
The priest groaned, and Elvis repeated the question, curling his fingers into a fist again.
“Tuesday morning,” Villareal said, sitting up again, a hand pressed against his bleeding nose, his eyes glued on Elvis’s fist.
“Go on,” Elvis said.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Everything. What time she was here, how long she stayed, what the hell she was wearing.”
The Antelope had opened a drawer and found a Bible in it, which he was flipping through. The priest looked at him sharply. “Don’t touch that,” he said. “There’s nothing there.”
“Hey,” Elvis said snapping his fingers. The priest turned to him again. “You’re talking to me, not him.”
“My nose is bleeding,” the priest complained.
“Let’s cut him in the belly,” El Güero suggested. “That’ll teach him about bleeding.”
