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  Indio let go of my face and turned around. His back was entirely covered with black ink: a naked woman, a devil with a smile on his face, a few guns, and a lot of random images I couldn’t make out. Indio took two steps forward, reached the chair, and grabbed Nestor’s hair. He yanked his head to the left and placed the bloody knife on his neck and looked back at me. His eyes looked dirty, wrong, like the ink on his face had somehow invaded his capillaries. He looked back at Nestor and started sawing at his neck like it was nothing.

  Nestor tensed, hummed a high-pitched noise somewhere between a scream and a machine about to give out. Instead of spurts, Nestor’s blood came out like a small, fast tide. It soon covered his left side with shiny darkness. Indio started talking gibberish.

  “Ogún oko dara obaniché aguanile ichegún iré.”

  With each word, my core temperature dropped a few degrees. Nestor, thankfully, relaxed. He was gone. Indio kept cutting. When he hit the spinal cord, he let go of Nestor’s hair and used that hand to smack the head. There was a loud crack. I closed my eyes, but still heard a few seconds of cutting and then the head hitting the ground.

  “Abre los ojos, marica,” said Indio. I obeyed.

  Indio was pointing at me with the knife. He smiled and dropped the bloody blade on the floor.

  “You go and talk to you boss. If I have to bring you here again, te voy a cortar la cabeza. I don’t think you want to end up like your friend here, so make sure my message reaches el gordo.”

  Many bad experiences in Mexico had given me the ability to be in a moment but hover above it so that everything looked like it was happening to someone else. I was barely pulling that shit off this time around. My prayers became a jumble of words that trampled each other in the haste to get out and protect me.

  Santa Muerte, protégeme.

  That was all I could think about, the only prayer, an improvised mantra.

  Santa Muerte, protégeme.

  Santa Muerte, protégeme.

  I kept repeating as if the words themselves could carry me away from that place, as if they could fly in like avenging angels, lift me by the arms, and fly me to a safe place.

  Santa Muerte, protégeme. Por favor, te lo ruego.

  One of the goons pulled me by the arm, mumbled something. Vámonos era una de las palabras. It sounded like the best idea anyone had ever had. This culero was no angel, but he was as good as one if he was taking me out of there. I turned without looking at Nestor again.

  I shambled down the hall and out of the house.

  They pushed me into the car and I kind of wished they’d stuffed me in the trunk again so I could pray in peace, say thank you, cry. Instead, I was squeezed between two guys, their body heat pressing against me like a solid object. The one on the left pulled out a red bandana from his pocket, tied it sloppily around my head. I kept my mouth shut. So did they. I did my best to hide in that silence.

  The ride seemed to go on forever. When they removed the bandanna, we were parked behind my car. The guy on my right opened his door, slid out. I waited, fearing they’d shoot me in the back the second I stepped out.

  “Pa’ fuera, marica,” he said.

  Somehow those words gave me the strength to get out. The guy outside threw my keys and my phone near my car, lifted a finger, looked ready to say something. He said nothing. I got the message. He got back in the car and they drove away. I stood there, scared, thankful.

  Nestor’s ghost was gonna be hard to shake.

  I walked up to my car, picked up the keys with a hand that shook like a palm tree in a hurricane. Then, a welcome touch of anger. Los hijos de puta nunca me devolvieron mi pistola y mi iPod.

  2

  La frontera

  Death in a bathroom – Amigos

  Bones in the desert – El Coyote

  Estados Desunidos

  Sleeping pills

  What happens when someone makes you look at the business end of a gun is that it stirs up everything you think you know. It breaks things, shifts ideas around that you’d previously considered unmovable.

  Todo deja de ser roca para convertirse en agua. Everything flows. Everything acquires the consistency of shadows seen in dreams.

  When someone shows you the perfectly round, pupil-less black eye of oblivion, you start thinking about what got you there. You start digging around your past looking for the decisions and mistakes that led to that point. Es lo mismo cuando te intentan romper el craneo. And what happens then, what happens when you get a lump the size of an egg on the back of your skull, whether you want it to or not, is that you start seeing these highlights in your head, something like a short movie of the most relevant moments of your immediate past. If you’re the kind of person who ends up with a gun in your face, chances are that movie sucks and you look like a fucking pendejo in it. All bloopers, no highlights.

  What happens if you’re me is that your little pelicula is a perfect mix of clichés and bad luck. You remember a lot, but none of it is worth remembering.

  Yeah, if you’re me, everything that has to do with being en los Estados Desunidos starts in a club in DF. El Colmillo. Seedy joint, but only if you go in deep and know the back of it. You know, like a girl with a pretty face y el culo sucio. Well, olvida eso because it actually starts elsewhere, a little earlier, at a house party on a night so hot the air feels and smells like a panting dog’s breath after a long run on the beach. You’re drunk and horny and craving tamales and high as a fucking seagull trying to get away from a storm. Your cell phone rings. It’s your sister. She’s in a club, as always. She’s your only sibling and you can’t help but love her, but she’s a slutty junkie who brings you more trouble than smiles. Al carajo eso de los picnics familiares.

  So, anyway, what happens is that your phone rings. You see ISA on the screen in blocky white letters. Short for Isabel. You pick up. She’s screaming something about a man grabbing her ass. It’s an old story. Her words bring back images of snot running down her face, ruined mascara, and blood on your hands. Many men have grabbed her ass, but this particular one, just like a few other pinches cabrones in the past who have regretted it, did so without her permission. That makes her angry and her anger makes you angry. It’s tu mamá in your head. Proteje a tu hermana, she says, her voice coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. A las chicas hay que cuidarlas, she repeats for the zillionth time. Familia es familia. You’re wired to react, to protect, to lash out and punish al atrevido. The horniness and highness fuel the anger. You tell Javi and Luis to come with you. It’s time to teach una lección a un pendejo. You jump in Javi’s car and get to the club before the rage in your chest and head has had a chance to burn out, to dissipate like the morning fog.

  The gorilla working the door at El Colmillo is mellow as fuck when he sees three dudes with awful intentions approaching. He’s used to gringos and chilangos with day jobs looking for a good time, overpriced drinks, and maybe a sweaty encounter in a filthy bathroom stall. He knows the three of you are as far from that demographic as Haiti is from Beverly Hills. No one has to flash un poco de metal to make him step aside and open the door. Dude isn’t getting paid enough to take a bullet for this gig.

  Your sister is near the bar, standing there with a friend, looking pissed. She points the guy out. You tell her to disappear. You walk over to the asshole, grab him by the shirt, stick your piece into his ribs, tell him to shut the fuck up and walk. You push him toward the bathroom. He threatens you all the way there, says you better let him go or else.

  Algunos idiotas no saben seguir instrucciones.

  You open the door with his body. The bathroom is packed with sweaty men. Javi and Luis wave their metal around and clear the place in five seconds. No one complains or tries to finish their business. It’s the chilango way: when shit goes south, run away and forget what you saw.

  The first time you bring the butt of the gun down on the dude’s mouth coincides with the bathroom door opening.

  Two teeth crack.

  One punch
flies.

  The ass-grabber goes down. So does Javi. You turn to find Luis aiming at three guys. Javi’s kneeling, hands cradling his face. Shit’s gone sour quick. Who the hell are these guys? The guy you’re holding keeps saying you have no idea who you’re fucking with. He’s right.

  Everyone plays tough, but no one wants to die, so the ass-grabber reaching for his piece surprises you. It almost surprises you more than your finger tightening on the trigger.

  Boom.

  The bathroom fills up with the sound. Suddenly all you hear is a howling wind that’s not really there, like a lobo in the desert that’s too close for comfort. The smell of cordite covers the stench of ammonia. Bloody Mouth goes down, doesn’t even twitch once. Luis reacts, pops two guys fast. The sound of the shots reaches your ears through a few feet of cotton and wet towels. The third guy nails Luis in the gut, bending him over and making him scream like an angry tiger. Javi gets the shooter in the chest while still kneeling. You watch the asshole go down hard. Luis is not moving. Javi yanks you out of there and you’re gone through the back door before the bathroom door closes.

  The four minutes that follow play around with the fabric of time. The high is long gone, the anger replaced by fear.

  Lights.

  Clumsy speed.

  Your heart thrumming in your throat.

  Panic squeezing your ribcage.

  Santa Muerte, si salgo de esta, te compro una botella de ron.

  Santa Muerte, protégeme ahora como me has protegido siempre.

  Santa Muerte, a ti me encomiendo.

  Santa Muerte, bendita Santa Muerte, protégeme.

  As always, la Santa Muerte gets you home in one peace. You owe her much more than a bottle of rum. You owe her everything. Again.

  Then comes the silence, pregnant with bad possibilities, and the nerves. You spend long hours pacing, thinking, regretting. You wait. The doubts invade your blood and pull las pesadillas al lado de los despiertos. You stay inside, talk to no one, send Javi a text telling him to do the same. Time goes by too damn slowly or too damn fast, but it never feels right.

  Two days later Luis dies in the hospital. Your sister calls to tell you. She’s in Monterey with a friend, but knows a guy who works at Hospital General de Balbuena. She tells you Luis was unconscious when he arrived and stayed that way. That’s good because unconscious people don’t talk to the cops. The rest is bad. Fucking terrible. You cry. You cry because he’s dead and you loved him. You cry because you asked him to go with you. You cry because you left him there, gutshot on a fucking dirty bathroom floor.

  You stay inside, wondering, torn between the conflicting theories in your head.

  The guy was no one.

  The guy had to be someone.

  You’re fine, you can leave the house, show your face around.

  If you leave the house, estás muerto…

  Two more days go by. Sleep deprivation has you jumping at the sound of the toilet flushing. You’re sure the cat’s neighbor is a demon who screams your whereabouts into the dark night so it’ll carry in the wind and reach the ears of those who might be looking for you. There’s a black hole in the center of your stomach that aches all the time, doesn’t let you eat, doesn’t let you think. Javi calls, says the whole thing probably died with Luis. He’s slurring his words, his drunken mouth too damn close to the phone. He invites you to go drown your sorrows with him at a titty bar. You tell him to stay inside. You say this with one hand holding the phone and the other holding your gun. He chuckles into your ear. The sound is out of place and ugly, like a glass shattering against a wall in the middle of the night. You can tell his laugh is full of nerves and things unsaid. You hang up. He goes alone. He drinks for a while at the same place everything went down because that’s what a real macho does. Then he gets up to take a piss. Someone introduces his neck to a broken beer bottle nine or ten times. He bleeds to death in a quarter inch of stale piss.

  Two friends dead, both of them in a filthy bathroom of DF. Welcome to Mexico, cabrones. The certainty that this will also happen to you fills you with the kind of dread that invades every thought, every breath, every beat of your racing heart.

  One of the bartenders at El Colmillo, Israel, was from your barrio, a few years older than you. He used to play with your primos near your house, used to know your abuelos. He knows you used to run around with Javi, so he calls you with the news as soon as he walks into the bathroom and sees the man on the floor, his neck a too-red mess. He also saw the guy who walked into the bathroom after Javi. He puts two and two together. Te rayaste, cabrón, he says. Then he drops some info on you.

  The ass-grabber was wasting some fresh money in DF and setting up some deals para el Cartel de Sinaloa. El hijo de puta andaba en territorio de la Federación. You want to reach up and ask for help, ask someone in la Federación to take care of this for you, to protect you, but you’re too low on the food chain and no one is going to start whacking Sinaloa people just to keep your worthless ass safe.

  The choices are clear: o te vas o te mueres.

  Your tio Silvio, your mother’s older brother, knows a good coyote, one of the very few who doesn’t just drive around Mexico before dropping folks in the back of a building, broke, scared, and blindfolded. Silvio also has a friend in Austin, Texas, who owes him a few favores. Tio Silvio was part of la vieja guardia, he knows things and he’s still alive, so when he tells you the best thing to do is disappear before someone comes for you, you do what he says. He tells you where to meet the coyote and you swallow a dozen questions because he sounds angry, so you jot down the address he gives you and thank him quickly before hanging up.

  You’re still terrified and nervous and looking for someone to give some of your anger to, so you talk to the coyote while squeezing his balls and pushing your gun against his tonsils. Nada de pinches trucos, you tell him. No te pases de listo, huevón, o te va a salir muy caro. He gets the message.

  You pack light. A few shirts, some jeans, and your Santa Muerte statue, which is a foot tall and almost too big for your backpack. You slip out late at night and don’t tell your vieja you’re leaving. You want to be a macho about this, but you’re sad and scared and there are tears in your eyes.

  The coyote lost his van in a raid and had to borrow one from another coyote. It needs to be cleaned before you guys can get going. The coyote tells you to sit up front. He drives with the windows down and keeps his mouth shut. Los Tigres del Norte come from the speakers and numb your brain with their loud accordion.

  Two hours later you’re looking at a big hole in the ground somewhere in the Parque Estatal Tiacaque. The coyote opens the back doors and asks you to give him a hand. Stacked in the back of the van are six bodies. Three men, one woman, two kids. A trip gone wrong, he says with a shrug. The bodies are bloated from the heat, the skin on their wrists tight against zip-ties. You gag, tell the coyote to go fuck himself. He says nothing and gets to work. You sit in the car and jump a little every time you hear a body thud against the ground.

  The coyote makes one more stop to pick up a quiet old man in Ciudad Victoria and then enters the US through Matamoros with the help of two gringos dressed like they just stepped off a plane from Iraq. The coyote never talks to you while he drives and you like it that way. He never asks for more money to grease palms during the trip and doesn’t say he has to leave you in the middle of nowhere. The old man has no idea how lucky he is to be riding with you. He sleeps in the back with his head against the window for most of the trip, snoring so loud he sometimes wakes himself. He gets off almost as soon as you cross the border, says he’s meeting someone. You notice then he has no luggage and wonder about his future, but he’s out of your head the second the coyote steps on the gas.

  A day later, the coyote drops you off in front of a beige building and doesn’t say goodbye. You’re just glad to be out of the van and away from the norteño music. If you never hear a song again by Los Herederos del Norte, Ramón Ayala, o Los Tigres del Norte, it’ll be to
o damn soon.

  A fat man is waiting for you in front of the building. He calls out and waves you over. He looks pissed, in a hurry. He shakes your hand like he’s handing you a rotting sardine. Tio Silvio lied. The man owed him small favores. Nada grande. At least that’s what you’re led to believe based on the way he “sets you up.”

  You walk behind the man up some cracked stairs and then follow him into a second-floor studio apartment. It’s furnished with shit someone threw away and he tells you the shower works when it wants to. The fat man drops a key on top of the table by the door and disappears. He doesn’t tell you how to get in touch with him. You’re too tired to ask. You set up the Santa Muerte in a corner next to the old bed, say a quick prayer, ignore the sounds coming from your belly, and try to get some sleep.

  The second day an old man named Julio shows up and says he and Silvio used to run around together, says that motherfucker always knew where the bodies were hidden and then slaps you on the back while he laughs. You can’t bring yourself to join him.

  Julio has smart eyes, a white goatee, and a few strands of greasy grey hair tied in a ponytail. He gives you a cup of lukewarm coffee that tastes like dirty water and a couple of cold egg, cheese, and bacon tacos wrapped in aluminum foil. They taste like heaven. Julio tells you he got you a job at a pizza joint called The Mellow Mushroom. “Es un sitio de gringos, pero pagan bien y no hacen preguntas,” he says. Then he tells you you’ll be washing dishes and offers you a ride if you’re ready to get started. You go, hoping it’ll help take your mind off other things. He drops you there and hands you a few crumpled dollars and points at a bus stop two blocks down. “You want la número cinco. Count nine stops and then get off. You’ll be in front of your building. Same number of stops coming down.” He smiles and drives away.

  You wash dishes and the water is so hot your arms are peeling by the end of the day.

  The third day on the job, you step out back to throw two bags in the dumpster. You have a key hanging from a long piece of wood. It surprises you that the gringos put a lock on their basura, but the owner explained he doesn’t want homeless people eating what he throws out. Pinche imbécil. You dislike him immediately.