Hard Bite (14 page)

"They say me and Mateo shouldn't be around either." Maria meets her eyes and gives a slight nod.

"Luis," she calls. "Tell them it's just Maria and me. We'll only stay a couple of days."

Maria surveys the small mountain of bags. She selects two carry-on cases with rolling wheels and dumps them out to start fresh. This means traveling light.

***

A black Town Car picks them up at 6
A.M
. Two grey-haired ladies bound for Tijuana International Airport. Orella is buttoned up in a shapeless dress with a grey wig similar to Maria's natural hair. No one cares about people entering Mexico from the American side, especially two older ladies with clean ID from Baja. Orella waves a sealed letter at the driver. "Stop at a mailbox, por favor?"

Two hours later, the crossing point yawns across six lanes of light traffic. Right across the street from the fence separating the United States from Mexico is Aeropuerto Internacional de Tijuana. Their driver navigates it with finesse, smooth as a shot of Patrón Tequila.

***

A few hours later they touch down in Culiacan. Stepping onto the tarmac is like walking into a sauna. The city is semi-tropical and this is July, high 90s and humid. Ignoring the baggage claim, Orella and Maria walk straight out to the sidewalk. A taxi shoots out of line to pick them up and they relaunch into airport traffic as horns wail behind them. On the front seat, the tip of a WASR-10 peeks from under the driver's newspaper. The gun is a cheap knock-off of an AK-47 made in Romania. Culiacan is flooded with them. The driver's eyes meet Orella's in the rearview mirror and she nods.

Convoys of armored vehicles and masked soldiers pass by, but no one makes them stop. Lights of the airport recede. Orella lowers her head and the grey hair slips off, into her purse. Suddenly, the driver curses. A Dodge Nitro with the black and white lettering of
policia
bears down on them from behind, lights flashing.

They pull over and stare straight ahead as the officer approaches. The sound of his shoes on the road triggers a wave of perspiration under Orella's dress. Alongside, he looks in the car and asks the driver in Spanish to step out. Orella thrusts her hand across the seat with three American hundreds in it. The officer looks welcoming, but her driver misses the look. His hand moves, the newspaper rustles. Orella screams as the officer takes a WASR blast in the face. THUMPTHUMPTHUMP the shots shake the taxi to its frame. Orella and Maria throw themselves across the back seat, cracking heads. Maria moans.

The driver floors it, pulling sharply into traffic. Horns blare but no one stops or gives chase. They speed past luxury car dealerships, shopping centers and glittering gambling casinos. A hard turn takes them into a casino parking lot, carooming over speed bumps, showering sparks from the undercarriage. On the other side of the lot a 4x4 waits. Armed men jump out and race to the cab, hauling them out. Orella calls one of them by name as they rush for the 4x4. The men push them inside and the vehicle peels toward the
centro
of the city. The women rub their sore heads.

In a while the new driver slows down but still runs red lights—this is everyday driving in Cuilacan. Orella and Maria exhale in unison, still clutching the door handles as the 4x4 whipsaws between lanes. As they draw nearer the
centro,
an end of town with art museums and cafés, young people are out on the streets, laughing and walking. Their relaxed spirits contrast the tension inside the vehicle. Orella had been one of these youngsters once—a high-breasted, long legged beauty, fresh from the country. Now, it feels like a million years ago.

The 4x4 pulls over again, a few blocks from the Hotel Ocho Palmeras, and they transfer to a Mercedes with a uniformed driver and two bodyguards. Nerves still jumping, the women disembark. Fixing their hair and clothing is a failure—disarray clings to them outside as well as in. The new driver goes to check them in, and they head straight through the lobby. Adrenaline still charging through her body, Orella hears the soft sounds of a Spanish guitar. The music transports her for a moment, away from the smell of gunpowder and sharp sweat. The playing is skillful and sweet, soothing as a mother's touch. It's coming from inside the café where she glimpses a young man just about the same age as Ambrose, strumming an acoustic instrument—it's the dinner hour, 8 P.M., only one hour later than Los Angeles time but a whole world away.

Maria touches her arm to keep moving. Behind them, the bodyguards jingle room keys.

The casita isn't 4-star according to American standards, but the air-conditioning works well and it's sparkling clean. Her party has taken two side-by-side casitas for maximum privacy—guesthouses away from the main hotel.

Maria and Orella are in no mood to enjoy it, but a flamboyant bouquet of dahlia pinneas sits on the table and a small fridge has been brought in, filled with delicacies, champagne and wine. In one of the bedrooms off the living room Orella strips off her rumpled dress before getting into a cool shower. Under the spray, with gunfire still throbbing in her ears, she thinks about the guitarist. She could hire him to play at the Malverde shrine as a tribute. Classical music, not the corrida-narco music, but something sweet and plaintive, more in line with making sure Ambrose has a safe journey to heaven.

There's just one thing. What if the guitarist says no?

The sweet notes come back, the smooth gliding scales, and resonant low notes. She shivers and decides to make sure he says yes.

***

Twenty minutes later, she stares at her naked self in the bathroom mirror. Usually, when she stares it's at her body in clothing because now that Alejandro's gone that's all that really matters—how she looks in clothes. But now that she has decided to offer something in return for a favor, it seems important. Her breasts are still large and firm, rounder perhaps and a little lower, but not unpleasing. Her waist is trim, hips and thighs lush but still good. These days younger men seem to have a fascination with older women anyway—so they take the age with experience. What's the old saying? "Plenty of good tunes in an old guitar."

The hotel is equipped with every comfort, including a travel kit of toiletries and beauty tools. Impulsively she grabs a pair of small scissors and a razor. She trims her pubic hair away until it's very short over the pubis. The razor renders it similar to pictures of women she's seen that Luis and Mateo think they are hiding on their computers. A knock comes on the door.

"Orella
, qué pasa
?

There are no secrets from Maria. Orella opens the door without trying to hide her nakedness and holds up the razor. "I'm going to get the guitarist to play for Malverde," she says simply.

Maria purses her lips. "I'll have the hotel deliver some clothes." Neither mentions the luggage lost with the abandoned taxicab. If what's lost can be replaced with money, it's not worth mentioning.

Laid on her bed is a selection from the hotel shop. Next door, the
camaradas
are resting. The hotel has sent a sleeveless dress of soft silk that skims the lines of her body. Her hair is long and loose. Seated on
el sofá
Maria watches her leave.

"I'm just going as far as the café," Orella says, and slips outside heading across the grounds to the main hotel. Her new sandals tap the Mexican tile of the breezeway lined with
hierba luisa
growing in generous terra cotta pots. The clean, lemon scent is a reminder she's back in Mexico. Vibrant, inviting Mexico.
As long as you have money
she reminds herself.

She pulls back the glass door into the hotel and cool air bathes her face. Shimmering notes spill from the café into the lobby. She follows the sound, and seats herself, pretending no interest in the player. After the events so far, a cocktail is welcome. The menu is surprisingly cosmopolitan. She orders a Mexican
mojito
, based on the Cuban recipe with lemon, lime and crushed mint. Instead of rum, it calls for tequila and a splash of agave. One sip and there's no going back to margaritas.

The guitarist stops playing and when she looks up, he's almost at the table. "Good evening, welcome to the Ochos Palmeras. I'm Arturo."

She tilts her head attractively. "Thank you."

"You're a guest here?"

"Yes. Thought I'd have a late dinner.

He's looking at the curve of her breast. She pretends not to notice. "You play so well and this is such a little café. I'm surprised."

"I'm on loan from the University. I play here over the dinner hour."

"How late do you play?'" Slightly flirtatious but non-committal.

"Until you leave, señorita."

Señorita. How long had it been since someone called her señorita?

The next hour passes, sharing smiles and glances. He dedicates
Besame Mucho
to her.

Another break and as she sips another fresh mojito he comes back to the table. "Señorita, have you been to the
Jardines Botanico
? The outdoor artwork is superb, I hear."

She
had
heard. The garden was other worldly compared to the streets of Culiacan—fresh and verdant, where pathways meandered under canopies of vine and stately palms stood at attention. "It's supposed to be one of the wonders of the world, " she answers.

"There is a sculpture called
Madre Naturaleza,
the head of a beautiful woman, reclining
.
She looks like you."

***

At the door of her casita they share a deep kiss, and fumble inside. She knows Maria must be listening from behind the closed bedroom door. As she lets down the top of her dress, she estimates the time and effort needed to extract what she wants. He exposes her breasts, which seems to please him a lot. Unbuttoning his shirt she whispers, "Tomorrow afternoon I need a favor. With your guitar."

"For you, my guitar will do anything." He strokes her bare skin.
Buena
, he likes her body, enjoying its curves with his tongue.

In an hour, they pause for some champagne out of the little frig. She pours some in his navel and licks it out.

"Does it taste better that way?" he asks.

"
Definitivemente
."

They leave the living room and tear the covers off the bed, sheets too. They knock over a chair and tip the lamp from the desk. The rug burns their skin and they don't mind, don't stop.

From behind, she feels his erection move to the forbidden place—flinches but doesn't stop him. Only Alejandro did this. But handsome young musicians are used to women spoiling them… and this will be the tariff. She presses her body back against him.

"Wait," he says.

He searches his pants on the floor and brings out a little bottle of something—a clear liquid. Holds it up, shakes it a little.

"You came prepared."

"What kind of man would I be?

She laughs and lets him slather some on both of them.

A few hours later she hears him slipping clothes on in the dark.

"Don't leave," she murmurs.

"I have to." He comes over and caresses her nakedness.

"Don't forget my favor," she murmurs.

"What is it?"

"Play at the shrine of Malverde this afternoon. Your beautiful music."

"Darling,
querido
, I don't play the
corrida
."

"Not the corrida. I want the classical Spanish guitar."

"The shrine of Malverde? You can't be serious. What would the university think?" He laughs." I couldn't show my face after—"

SMACK. The other bedroom door flies back—a door he'd paid no attention to before now—and Arturo looks into the icy, glittering eyes of Maria Stamos. Holding a gun.

"What—" he starts.

"Maria, call the camarades next door." Orella smiles reassuringly. "Don't worry, they'll treat you well until you play for us this afternoon."

"Who
are
you?" His expression is outraged. Surprised as only a law-abiding man can be.

"My name is Orella Malalinda." The blood drains out of his face, as expected.

***

A short while later, she's smuggled into the back of the mortuary. Footsteps echo on the stone stairs and bounce off the close, cement walls. The place has a dry, crumbling smell. Many souls have passed through.

Ambrose has his own cold chamber, registering a temperature of two degrees Celsius. The attendant unlocks the door, expertly opens the coffin and lifts the lid. The sight of him takes her breath away. His clothes are still crisp and fresh. The suit still fits beautifully and the fine material has an expensive sheen to it that makes him seem to glow. He looks like an angel. "Mijo," she says, stroking his hand. "I'm having a special tribute to Malverde, just for you. Tonight, you'll go to be with Papá in his house." She bends for a kiss, but remembers her lipstick and pats his hand instead. "I love you.
Mañana
."