Gringa - In the Clutches of a Ruthless Drug Lord (35 page)

             
It must have taken hours in front of the mirror to achieve this look – hours being groomed and fitted and I know he must have hated every minute of it. Hell the man doesn’t even own a mirror.

The villagers are so wrong about him – he’s neither half-man-half-beast, nor is he a devil and stripped off all his camouflages and disguises, the hair on his face, the eyebrow rings – he’s just a shy, simple, ordinary guy. A vulnerable man with a past so horrific, he’s unable to sleep at night.  

   
             
From the corner of my eye I notice people staring at Diablo and whispering. I guess they suspect it’s him but they’re unsure. I feel a tinge of dismay when I see the fear in people’s eyes. Diablo sees it too. He stiffens and glares at them.

             
‘Hey Diablo,’ I whisper, ‘stop looking around at all the pretty ladies.’

    
             
He smiles and shifts in his seat.

             
The waiters gush and proffer and Diablo starts fidgeting with his collar.

             
Some of the patrons are quietly sneaking out, I see. Seems like nobody wants to be in the same room with Diablo. Nobody dares, I suppose. I force myself not to let it bother me and focus on the wine list.

             
‘What wine would you like, Diablo?’ I’ve never seen him drink wine before.

             
‘Eh, wine?’

             
‘Yeah wine?’

             
He fumbles in his pocket and sneaks out a piece of paper which he holds under the table. He scans the paper, scratches the back of his neck, flicks his chin and quickly stuffs it back into his pocket. In a resigned voice he says, ‘You order.’ 

             
I smile at his nervousness and order some sparkling white wine. Within minutes we’re sipping the wine. Well, I’m sipping and he’s nervously gulping his and screwing up his face.

             
From time-to-time I catch him studying the piece of paper in his pocket under the table.

             
‘So ... like, this is a …um … a date, then?’ 

             
He looks to the side, the ceiling, to the side again, then smiles at me and shrugs.

    
             
‘Well, I’ll take that as a “Yes” and I like it.’

    
             
He’s smile widens.

             
To put him at ease, I try to make conversation. ‘Soooo … tell me about yourse ….’

             
‘You tell me ’bout
yourself.
’

             
‘Um, okay, how ’bout – um …how ’bout a question-for-a-question? You ask one and I ask one, huh?’

             
‘
Si
. You first.’

             
‘’kay ... lemmesee …what’s your real name?’ 

    
             
He hesitates.

             
‘You gotta answer all questions and you gotta answer truthfully,’ I warn, circling the rim of my wineglass with my middle finger. ‘Rules of the game.’

             
‘Okay, Okay. ‘Diago,’ he says in a soft voice,
‘Diago Cruz.’

    
             
‘Diaaaago,’ I mull.
‘That’s a nice name.’

             
‘My turn,’ he says, sitting forward. ‘Who is Him to you? He your boyfriend before he marry your sista?’

             
‘“Him”?
Austin
?’ Not the kind of question I’m expecting. ‘No, come on! That’s ... ’

             
‘You have to answer tru’fully - rules of the game.’ He’s got me there.

             
‘Okay, but … I mean,
that
question?’

             
‘Answer ... answer.’

             
I sigh. ‘Okay. Yes, he
was
my boyfriend
before
he married my sister - step-sister.’

             
He narrows his eyes. ‘You have feelings for ...?’

             
I take my time before I answer. ‘Well, sort off, yeah. Hey! My turn – are you a cannibal?’

             
‘What?’

             
‘Cannibal – means you eat ... ’

             
‘I know what that is. Noooo. I not a cannibal. Where you hear that?’

             
‘Eh ... um ...  Facebook ...?’

             
He frowns. ‘What book?’

             
‘Your turn.’

             
‘
Si
. You go to university?’

             
‘Yeah.’  Thank God he’s off the “Him” topic.

             
‘What you study?’

             
‘Behavioral sciences.’

             
‘Mmm. What you going to do when ... you ... you grow up?’

             
I smile. ‘Hey, you’re speaking sentences. I’m like, impressed. Back to your question: Catch bad guys - like you.’

             
‘Like me?’

             
‘
Exactly
like you. Maybe even
you
.’

             
He slaps his wrists together and shoves them towards me.

             
I chuckle. ‘Don’t tempt me.’

             
‘I make it easy for you.’ 
             

    
             
‘Yeah?’ I take a napkin and bind his hands together with it. ‘You asked for it. Without the possibility of parole, too.’

             
We dissolve into fits of giggles as he breaks free of the napkin.

             
‘My turn – who is Senor Vito?’

             
He looks away, runs his hand over his mouth several times before he finally answers. ‘How you say it ...? He my ... eh ... coach, no?’

             
‘Coach? Like football ...?’

             
‘Football, no. Coach like, he teach me stuff  ... how to English  ... well, better ... ’

             
‘Oh, you mean like an etiquette coach? Teaching you manners ...?’

             
He nods several times. ‘Be a gentleman. How to ...’ he drops is voice, ‘how to treat women riiiight.’

             
‘Ah, that kind of coach. So, he gave you the notes you’ve been referring to all evening?’

             
A look of panic on his face. He takes a deep breath and hangs his head. Then he looks up at me and grins.

             
‘You’re busted, Senor.’

             
He smiles and brings the notes up to the table and crumples it in full view of me. ‘Too hard,’ he confesses and we laugh.

             
‘An etiquette coach, a makeover, notes to refer to - why? I mean, why now ... when  ...?’

             
He sits forwards on his chair. ‘You teach me how to be good
here
,’ He slaps his chest, ‘and Senor Vito teach me how to be gentleman. Then I be ... perfect and you want me so much; you chase me all over Mexico, take me to dinner, beg me to stay with you forever.’

             
I burst out laughing. ‘You aim high. Really high.’

             
His eyes crinkle. ‘Why not?’

             
I’m having so much fun right now. More fun than I’ve had in months and I’m laughing out loud.

             
But yet, I still see the facial mutilations, the barbaric ways, the little lost six year old boy who has just witnessed both parents being killed and who’s suffering terrible abuse in the hands of his guardian. I see pain, torment, anguish and helplessness etched all over his face. All the things I myself suffered after my father brought home a new mother for me. But unlike him, I didn’t suffer any physical abuse, just mental.

We’re similar – both damaged goods. I’ve always tried to act tough, angry, bad in order to survive. He did too. Although his act was radical, extreme and deadly. It was all about the terrain – his was more sinister.

             
But the pain was the same. I remember wanting to die some days because I hurt so much. But Diablo – he probably didn’t have the luxury of that thought since he was responsible for
Troy
. He was must have been desperate to survive and live so that he could keep
Troy
safe.

             
He’s my abuser, my tormentor, my rapist, yet I feel the hatred inside me subsiding.

             
‘What? Why you sad now?’

             
‘I’m not …’ I clear the bubble in my throat, ‘I’m not sad. I’m just …thinking.’

             
‘Then think loud, Payton.’

             
‘Okay, I’m thinking – that sure was a lot of exfoliation you had.’

‘Exfol …’

‘But you look nice tonight. Very handsome. I wouldn’t have recognised you if I saw you on the street.’

     
             
He sits back and scratches his ear. 

    
             
‘I would have looked twice at you and thought you were fly, but I wouldn’t have recognised you. Had it not been for ...’ I point to his forehead, ‘those lines …’ 

             
He gingerly touches the lines.

             
We sit in silence for a while, taking turns to sneak glances at each other. But every time I look up, I catch him staring. I remember my mission, but tonight I’m a little tongue tied and frankly in awe of the handsome gentleman in front of me, even though he’s nervous and unsure of himself. But strangely, seeing him this nervous makes me a little protective over him and I wish I was not wearing my necklace with the listening device. But I can’t help thinking that he didn’t compliment me once, yet I too took great pains when dressing.    

     
             
He downs another glass of wine, sits back and drums on the table.