“Sorry if I didn’t tell you over the phone, but I was trying to follow procedure,” Elvis said, and he had been. Keep chatter to a minimum over the phone, that’s what El Mago told them.
“You were scared,” El Mago said. “You are still scared. Scuttling around in fear. Well, you cannot. This was a minor incident.”
It didn’t feel very minor to Elvis with his jaw throbbing. “Sure.”
“What did you find out about Asterisk? Aside from the fact that they seem to have a Russian friend.”
“They think Leonora is a mole. And there’re a couple of people she might have turned to for help. Emilio and, yes, I know you said not to dig there, but also a dude named Sócrates. I didn’t get much chance to ask anything else.”
El Mago walked toward where Elvis was standing, by the piano. He lifted the lid and ran his fingers over the keys, playing a simple melody. “I can give you a file on Emilio. But you need to be cautious with him. He is no dissident.”
“If he’s hiding the girl, maybe he is.”
“Doubtful.”
“You have anything on Sócrates?”
“I have something on every member of Asterisk. Wait here.”
El Mago exited the room, and Elvis leaned down, looking at the piano keys. Then he straightened up and glanced around the room, at the beautiful books, the beautiful shelves, the antiques and decorative items. What a perfect, precious place this was. If only he could live like this instead of having the crap beaten out of him in a storage room.
He’d never wanted this, the fucked-up job he had, the fucked-up people he lived with, the fucked-up assignments watching folks when he didn’t give a damn if they were red or not—Jesus, what was the big deal about that? He needed the money. Needed the gig. If he wasn’t a Hawk he’d be a damn delinquent, a thief, a nothing. He needed the hope that at the end of the tunnel there was a place like this, safe and cozy. A little apartment with a piano and beautiful furniture and pictures in silver frames.
El Mago came back with two folders and handed them to Elvis. “Should we still be watching the girl’s neighbor?”
“She was at Asterisk, which is apparently a den of KGB spies these days. She spoke to Leonora. That woman must know something she is not telling us yet. Keep tabs on her.”
That was that. El Mago told him to go back to the apartment and clean himself up. When he reached the street it had started to rain. An anemic rain, but it felt good on his face.
17
“YOU NEED TOget Lara’s address from Emilio,” Rubén told her.
“He was going to his shop when I saw him earlier.”
“I know where that is.”
Maite thought it was rude to drop by uninvited, but there was a gun in a brown paper bag sitting on the dashboard. They were past the point of pleasantries. It scared her a little, but she also enjoyed the electric frisson it conjured. It was like one of her comic books. Except Rubén didn’t look much like a comic book hero, in his t-shirt and driving that ratty car. Would his appearance improve at all in a tuxedo? Who knew.
Emilio. So she’d get to speak to him twice in one day. She opened her purse and began digging inside of it, trying to see if she’d packed her lipstick. But she hadn’t. She pulled down the side passenger mirror and smoothed back her hair, trying to at least fix that.
Her reflection showed her all the little imperfections of her skin. She closed her eyes.
Rubén let her out exactly in front of Emilio’s shop, but he told her he’d park around the corner. She stepped out of the car, grasped her purse with both hands and looked at the sign, which said “LOMELÍ ANTIQUES” in large letters. In the window display there were porcelain vases and dishes, and one could see the glint of crystal and lacquered furniture in the background.
It looked like a very nice shop, as he’d promised.
She walked in, a silver bell ringing as she opened the door. The shop was charming, but a little crammed, and she had to walk carefully by a display with porcelain dolls. A young woman was sitting behind a counter, reading a magazine, her long, pink fingernails tapping a picture. Maite wound her way through the shop and clutched her purse tighter, wondering what she should tell the girl.
When she reached the counter, Maite placed her purse upon its glass surface. “Is Mr. Lomelí in?” she asked.
The young woman looked up at Maite. “He’s doing inventory. Do you have an appointment?”
“No. But I’m a friend of his. Maite. My name is Maite.”
The employee gave her a thin, skeptical smile. “I’ll see if he’s available.”
The young woman stood up. She was wearing a miniskirt and perilously tall heels. She swept a red curtain aside with a hand, stepped behind it, and closed it again.
