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she went into
Reinaldo's bedroom and the boys trooped in one by one to tell her their woes,
and those who went in bowed with care came out full of hope, that woman,
Reinaldo, where did you find her? she's a saint, she's a miracle worker, I wept
and she wept with me, I couldn't find the words and she guessed what was wrong,
she told me to try sulphured glycosides, because they're supposed to stimulate
the renal epithelium and they're a diuretic, I was told to try a course of
colon hydrotherapy, I saw her sweat blood, I saw her forehead studded with
rubies, she rocked me on her breast and sang me a lullaby and when I woke up it
was like I'd just gotten out of the sauna, La Santa understands Hermosillo's
unfortunates better than anyone, La Santa has a feeling for those who've been
hurt, for sensitive and abused children, for those who've been raped and
humiliated, for those who are the butt of jokes and laughter, everyone gets a
kind word, a bit of practical advice, the freaks feel like divas when she
speaks to them, the scatterbrained feel sensible, the fat lose weight, the AIDS
patients smile. So it wasn't many years before Florita Almada, beloved of all,
made her TV debut. But the first time Reinaldo asked her, she said no, she
wasn't interested, she didn't have time, if worse came to worst someone might
think to ask her how she made her money, and she wasn't about to pay taxes,
absolutely not! better to leave it for another day, she was no one. Rut months
later, when Reinaldo had stopped insisting, it was she who called and told him
she wanted to come on the show because she had a message she'd like to make
public. Reinaldo wanted to know what kind of message and she said something
about visions, the moon, pictures in the sand, the reading she did at home, in
the kitchen, sitting at the kitchen table when her visitors had gone, the
newspaper, the newspapers, the things she read, the shadows that watched her
through the window, though they weren't shadows, which meant they weren't
watching, it was the night, the night that sometimes seemed pixilated. She was
going on in such a way that Reinaldo had no idea what she meant, but since he
really did love her, he found a spot for her on his next show. The television
studios were in
Hermosillo
and sometimes the signal was strong in Santa Teresa, but other times the
broadcast was interrupted by ghostly images and fog and background noise. The
first time Florita Almada was on, the reception in Santa Teresa was terrible,
and almost no one in the city saw her, although
An Hour with Reinaldo
was one of
Sonora
's most popular shows. She was
scheduled to speak after a ventriloquist from Guaymas, an autodidact who had
made a name for himself in
Mexico City
,
Acapulco
,
Tijuana
, and
San Diego
, and who thought
his dummy was a living creature. He came right out and said so. He's alive, the
little bastard. There’ve been times he tried to escape, times he tried to kill
me. But his little hands aren't strong enough to hold a gun or a knife, let
alone strangle me. When Reinaldo, looking straight into the camera and smiling
his trademark wicked smile, said that in films about ventriloquists the same
thing always happened, in other words, the dummy rebelled against its master,
the ventriloquist from Guaymas, in the broken voice of the infinitely
misunderstood, answered that he was well aware of it, he had seen those films,
and probably many more of them than Reinaldo or anyone in the live audience had
seen, and all he could think was that the reason there were so many films was
that the rebellion was much more widespread than he had first believed, so that
by now it extended all over the world. Deep inside, all of us ventriloquists,
one way or another, know that once the bastards reach a certain level of
animation, they come to life. They suck life from the performances. They suck
it from the ventriloquist's capillaries. They suck it from the applause. And
especially from the gullibility of the audience! Isn't that right, Andresito?
Yes, sir. And are you good or are you sometimes an evil little bastard,
Andresito? Good, very good, very very good. And you've never tried to kill me,
Andresito? Never, never, never! It so happened that Florita Almada was
impressed by the wooden dummy's profession of innocence and the story of the
ventriloquist, to whom she took an immediate liking, and when it was her turn
the first thing she did was offer the man a few words of encouragement, despite
surreptitious hints from Reinaldo, who smiled and winked at her as if to say
the ventriloquist wasn't quite right in the head and she should ignore him. But
Florita didn't ignore him, she asked about his health, asked how many hours a
night he slept, how many meals a day he ate and where, and although the
ventriloquist's replies were mostly ironic, addressed to the audience in a bid
for applause or fleeting sympathy, La Santa got more than enough information to
recommend (quite vehemently, too) that he visit an acupuncturist with some
knowledge of craniopuncture, an excellent technique for treating neuropathies originating
in the central nervous system. Then she glanced at Reinaldo, who was fidgeting
in his chair, and began to talk about her latest vision. She said she had seen
dead women and dead girls. A desert. An oasis. Like in films about the French
Foreign Legion and the Arabs.
A city. She said
that in this city they killed little girls. As she talked, trying to recall her
vision as exactly as possible, she realized she was about to go into a trance
and she was mortified, since sometimes, not often, her trances could be violent
and end with the medium crawling on the ground, which she didn't want to happen
since it was her first time on television. But the trance, the possession, was
progressing, she felt it in her chest and in the blood coursing through her, and
there was no way to stop it no matter how much she fought and sweated and
smiled at Reinaldo, who asked her if she felt all right, Florita, if she wanted
the assistants to bring her a glass of water, if the glare and the spotlights
and the heat were bothering her. She was afraid to speak, because sometimes the
first thing to be seized was her tongue. And even though she wanted to, because
it would have been a great relief, she was afraid to close her eyes, since it
was precisely when they were closed that she saw what the spirit possessing her
saw, so Florita kept her eyes open and her mouth shut (though curved in a
pleasant and enigmatic smile), watching the ventriloquist, who looked back and
forth between her and his dummy, as if he had no idea what was going on but he
could smell danger, the moment of revelation, unsolicited and afterward
uncomprehended, the kind of revelation that flashes past and leaves us with
only the certainty of a void, a void that very quickly escapes even the word
that contains it. And the ventriloquist knew this was dangerous. Dangerous
especially for people like him, hypersensitive, of artistic temperament, their
wounds still open. And Florita glanced at Reinaldo too when she got tired of
looking at the ventriloquist, and he said to her: don't be afraid, Florita,
don't be shy, think of this show as your home away from home. And she also
glanced, though less often, at the audience, where several friends of hers were
seated, waiting to hear what she had to say. Poor things, she thought, they
must be feeling so sorry for me. And then she couldn't help it and she went
into a trance. She closed her eyes. She opened her mouth. Her tongue began to
work. She repeated what she had already said: a big desert, a big city, in the
north of the state, girls killed, women killed. What city is it? she asked
herself. Come now, what city is it? I must know the name of this infernal city.
She concentrated for a few seconds. It's on the tip of my tongue. I don't
censor myself, ladies, especially not at times like this. It's Santa Teresa!
It's Santa Teresa! I see it clearly now. Women are being killed there. They're
killing my daughters. My daughters! My daughters! she screamed as she threw an
imaginary shawl over her head and Reinaldo felt a shiver descend his spine like
an elevator, or maybe rise, or both at once. The police do nothing, she said
after a few seconds, in a different voice, deeper and more masculine, the
fucking police do nothing, they just watch, but what are they watching? what
are they watching? At this point Reinaldo tried to call her to order and get
her to stop talking, but he couldn't. Away from me, you bootlicker, said
Florita. The state governor must be informed, she said in a hoarse voice. This
is no joke. Jose Andres Briceno must hear about this, he must know what's being
done to the women and girls of beautiful Santa Teresa. Beautiful and
hardworking too. The silence must be broken, friends. Jose Andres Briceno is a
good man and a wise man and he won't let so many killers go unpunished. Such
terrible apathy and such terrible darkness. Then, in a little girl's voice, she
said: some are driven away in black cars, but they kill them anywhere. Then she
said, in a normal voice: can't they at least leave the virgins in peace? A moment
later, she leaped from her chair, perfectly captured by the cameras of Sonora
TV's Studio 1, and dropped to the floor as if felled by a bullet. Reinaldo and
the ventriloquist hurried to her aid, but when they tried to help her up, each
taking an arm, Florita roared (never in his life had Reinaldo seen her like
this, a real fury): don't touch me, you cold-hearted wretches! Don't worry
about me! Haven't you understood what I've said? Then she got up, turned toward
the audience, went to Reinaldo and asked him what had happened, and a moment
later she apologized, gazing straight into the camera.

Around
this time, Lalo Cura found some books at the precinct, books no one read that
seemed destined to be rat food, on top of shelves of forgotten reports and
files. He took them home. There were eight books, and at first, so as not to
make trouble, he took three:
Techniques
for Police Instructors
by John C. Klotter,
The Informer in Law Enforcement
by Malachi L. Harney and John C.
Cross, and
Modern Criminal Investigation
by
Harry Soderman and John J. O'Connell. One afternoon he told Epifanio what he'd
done and Epifanio said they were books sent from
Mexico
City
or
Hermosillo
,
books no one read. So he ended up bringing home the five he'd left behind. The
one he liked best (and the first one he read) was
Modern Criminal Investigation.
Despite its title, the book had been
written long ago. The first Mexican edition was dated 1965.
The copy he had was the tenth edition, published in 1992.
In fact, in the reprinted preface to the fourth edition, Harry Soderman
complained that the death of his dear friend, the late Inspector General John
O'Connell, had placed the burden of revision on his own shoulders. And later he
said: in the process of reworking [this book] I've sorely missed the
inspiration, the rich experience, and the valued collaboration of the late
Inspector O'Connell. Probably, thought Lalo Cura as he read the book in the dim
light of a single bulb at night in the tenement or by the first rays of
sunlight that filtered in the open window, Soderman himself had been dead for
some time and he would never know it. But it didn't matter. In fact, the lack
of certainty was just one more thing spurring him on to read. And he read and
sometimes he laughed at what the Swede and the gringo had to say and other
times he was dumbstruck, as if he'd been shot in the head. Around this time,
too, the speed with which the murder of Silvana Perez was solved obscured the
previous police failures and the news was on Santa Teresa TV and in the two
city papers. Some officers seemed happier than usual. In a coffee shop Lalo
Cura ran into a few young cops, nineteen or twenty years old, who were
discussing the case. How could Llanos rape her, one of them asked, if he was
her husband? The others laughed, but Lalo Cura took the question seriously. He
raped her because he forced her, because he made her do something she didn't
want to do, he said. Otherwise, it wouldn't be rape. One of the young cops
asked if he planned to go to law school. Do you want to be a lawyer, man? No,
said Lalo Cura. The others looked at him like he was some kind of idiot.
Meanwhile, in December 1994 there were no more killings of women, at least that
anyone knew of, and the year ended peacefully.

Before
the year was over, Harry Magana traveled to Chucarit and found the girl who had
been writing love letters to Miguel Monies. Her name was Maria del Mar Enciso
Monies and she was Miguel's cousin. She was sixteen and she had been in love
with him since she was twelve. She was very thin and she had chestnut hair,
bleached by the sun. She asked Harry Magana why he wanted to see her cousin,
and Harry said he was a friend and talked about some money Miguel had lent him
one night. Then the girl introduced him to her parents, who had a little
grocery store where they also sold salted fish that they went to buy themselves
from the fishermen, driving along the coast from Huatabampo to Los Medanos and
sometimes farther north, to Isla Lobos, where almost all the fishermen were
Indians and had skin cancer, which didn't seem to bother them, and when they'd
filled their pickup with fish they came back to Chucarit and then they did the
salting themselves. Harry Magana liked Maria del Mar's parents. That night he
stayed for dinner. But first he went out and drove around Chucarit with the
girl, looking for a place to buy something, a small gift for her parents, who
had shown him such hospitality. The only place he could find anything was a
bar, where he tried to buy a bottle of wine. The girl waited for him outside.
When he came out she asked if he wanted to see Miguel's house. Harry said yes.
They drove to the edge of Chucarit. In the shade of some trees stood an old
adobe house. No one lives here anymore, said Maria del Mar. Harry Magana got
out of the car and saw a pigsty, a corral with a rotting, broken wooden fence,
a henhouse where something moved, maybe a rat or a snake. Then he pushed open
the door of the house and the smell of dead animal hit him in the face. He had
a presentiment. He went back to the car, got his flashlight, and returned to
the house. This time Maria del Mar followed. In the room were many dead birds.
He shone the flashlight upward. Through beams made of branches you could see
part of the attic, where there were piles of unidentifiable objects or natural
excrescences. The first to leave was Miguel, said Maria del Mar in the
darkness. Then his mother died and his father held on for a year here alone.
One day he was gone. My mother says he killed himself. My father says he went north
to look for Miguel. Didn't they have any other children? They did, said Maria
del Mar, but they died when they were babies. Are you an only child too? asked
Harry Magana. No, it was the same in my family. All of my older brothers and
sisters got sick and died before any of them were six. I'm sorry, said Harry
Magana. The other room was even darker. But it didn't smell of death. Strange,
thought Harry. It smelled of life. Maybe life suspended, fleeting visits, cruel
laughter, but life. When they came out the girl pointed up at the Chucarit sky
full of stars. Do you hope Miguel will come back someday? Harry Magana asked
her. I hope he comes back, but I don't know if he will. Where do you think he
is now? I don't know, said Maria del Mar. In Santa Teresa? No, she said, if he
was there you wouldn't have come to Chucarit, would you? True, said Harry
Magana. Before they left, he took her hand and told her Miguel Monies didn't
deserve her. The girl
smiled. She had small
teeth. But I deserve him, she said. No, said Harry Magana, you deserve much
better. That night, after dinner at the girl's house, he headed north again.
Early in the morning he got to
Tijuana
.
All he knew was that Miguel Montes's friend in
Tijuana
was called Chucho. He thought about
searching the bars and clubs for a waiter or bartender by that name, but he
didn't have time. Nor did he know anyone in the city who could help him. At
noon he called an old acquaintance from
California
.
It's me, Harry Magana, he said. The man said he didn't know any Harry Magana.
Five years ago we took a course together in
Santa Barbara
, said Harry Magana, do you
remember? Fuck, of course, it's the sheriff from
Huntsville
,
Arizona
.
Are you still sheriff? Yes, said Harry Magana. Then they asked about each
other's wives. The cop from
East L.A.
said his
was fine, getting fatter every day. Harry said his had died four years ago, a
few months after he'd finished the course in
Santa Barbara
. I'm sorry, said the other man.
It's all right, said Harry Magana, and there was an uncomfortable silence until
the cop asked how she had died. Cancer, said Harry, it was quick. Are you in
Los Angeles
, Harry? the
other man wanted to know. No, no, I'm nearby, in
Tijuana
. So what are you doing in
Tijuana
? Are you on
vacation? No, no, said Harry Magana. I'm looking for somebody. I'm looking in
an unofficial capacity, if you know what I mean. But I only have a name. Do you
need help? asked the cop. It wouldn't hurt, said Harry. Where are you calling
from? I'm at a phone booth. Put in more coins and wait a couple of minutes,
said the policeman. As he waited, Harry didn't think about his wife. Instead,
he thought about Lucy Anne Sander and then he stopped thinking about Lucy Anne
and he watched the people on the street, some in cardboard sombreros painted
black or purple or orange, all with big bags and smiles, and the idea passed
through his head (but so fleetingly it didn't even register) of going back to
Huntsville and forgetting the whole thing. Then he heard the voice of the cop
from
East L.A.
giving him a name: Raul Ramirez
Cerezo, and an address: 401 Calle Oro. Do you speak Spanish, Harry? asked the
voice from
California
.
Less and less, answered Harry Magana. At three in the afternoon, under a
blazing sun, he rang the bell at 401 Calle Oro. A ten-year-old girl in a school
uniform opened the door. I'm looking for Mr. Raul Ramirez Cerezo, said Harry.
The girl smiled, left the door open, and disappeared into the darkness. At
first Harry wasn't sure whether to go in or wait outside. Maybe it was the sun
that propelled him inside. It smelled of water and plants that had just been
watered and hot, wet clay pots. Two hallways led from the room. At the end of
one of them was a gray-tiled patio and a vine-covered wall. The other hallway
was even darker than the entranceway or whatever this room was called. What do
you want? asked a man's voice. I'm looking for Mr. Ramirez, said Harry Magana.
And who are you? asked the voice. A friend of Don Richardson, of the LAPD.
Well, now, said the voice, isn't that interesting. And how can Mr. Ramirez help
you? I'm looking for a man, said Harry. You and everybody else, said the voice,
sounding equal parts melancholy and tired. That afternoon Harry Magana went
with Raul Ramirez Cerezo to a police station in downtown
Tijuana
, where the Mexican left him alone
with more than one thousand files. Check these out, he said. After two hours
Harry Magana found one that seemed a perfect match. This guy's a small-time
crook, Ramirez said when he came back and took a look at the file. Occasionally
works as a pimp. We can find him tonight at Wow, a club where he hangs out, but
first let's get some dinner, said Ramirez. As they ate at an outdoor
restaurant, the Mexican cop told his life story. I don't come from money, he
said, and for the first twenty-five years of my life it was one obstacle after
another. Harry Magana didn't feel much like listening. He would rather have
been talking to Chucho, but he pretended to pay attention. Spanish could slide
off his skin when he wanted it to and not leave a trace. It wasn't the same
with English, although he'd tried that too. He gathered vaguely that Ramirez's
life had not, in fact, been easy. Operations, surgeons, an unhappy mother
accustomed to misfortune. The bad rap policemen got, sometimes deserved,
sometimes not, the cross we all have to bear. A cross, thought Harry Magana.
Then Ramirez talked about women. Women with their legs spread. Spread wide.
What do you see when a woman spreads her legs? What do you see? For Christ's
sake, this wasn't dinner conversation. A goddamn hole. A goddamn hole. A
goddamn gash, like the crack in the earth's crust they've got in
California
, the
San
Bernardino
fault, I think it's called. Is there
something like that in
California
?
First I've heard, but I live in
Arizona
,
said Harry. Far from here, yes, sir, said Ramirez. No, right around the corner,
tomorrow I'm going home, said Harry. Then came a long story about children.
Have you ever listened carefully to a child cry, Harry? No, he said, I don't
have children. True, said Ramirez, forgive me, I'm sorry. Why is he
apologizing? wondered Harry. A decent woman, a good woman. A woman you treat
badly, without meaning to. Out of habit. We become
blind (or at least partly blind) out of habit, Harry, until
suddenly, when there's no turning back, this woman falls ill in our arms. A
woman who took care of everyone, except herself, and she begins to fade away in
our arms. And even then we don't realize, said Ramirez. Did I tell him my
story? wondered Harry Magana. Have I sunk that low? Things aren't the way they
seem, whispered Ramirez. Do you think things are the way they seem, as simple
as that, no complicating factors, no questions asked? No, said Harry Magana,
it's always important to ask questions. Correct, said the
Tijuana
cop. It's always important to ask
questions, and it's important to ask yourself why you ask the questions you
ask. And do you know why? Because just one slip and our questions take us
places we don't want to go. Do you see what I'm getting at, Harry? Our
questions are, by definition, suspect. But we have to ask them. And that's the
most fucked-up thing of all. That's life, said Harry Magana. Then the Mexican
cop was silent and both of them watched the people walking by, feeling the
breeze on their hot cheeks. A breeze that smelled of motor oil, withered
plants, oranges, a cemetery of cyclopean proportions. Should we have another
couple of beers or should we go find our man Chucho right now? Let's have
another beer, said Harry Magana. When they got to the club he let Ramirez take
the lead. Ramirez called over one of the bouncers, a man with the build of a
weight lifter and a sweatshirt that clung to his torso like a leotard, and said
something into his ear. The bouncer listened with his eyes on the ground, then
he looked up and seemed about to say something, but Ramirez said come and he
disappeared into the lights of the club. Harry Magana followed Ramirez to the
back corridor. They went into the men's room. There were two men there, but
when they saw the cop they left in a hurry. For a while Ramirez gazed at
himself in the mirror. He washed his hands and face and then he took out a comb
and proceeded to carefully comb his hair. Harry Magana didn't do anything. He
stood leaning against the bare cement wall, until Chucho appeared in the
doorway and asked what they wanted. Come here, Chucho, said Ramirez. Harry
Magana closed the door. Ramirez asked the questions and Chucho answered all of
them. He knew Miguel Monies. He was a friend of Miguel Montes. As far as he
knew, Miguel Montes was still in Santa Teresa, where he lived with some whore.
He didn't know the whore's name, but he did know she was young and she'd worked
for a while at a club called Internal Affairs. Elsa Fuentes? asked Harry
Magana, and Chucho turned around, looked at him, and nodded. He had the
resentful gaze of the poor bastard who never gets a break. I think that's her
name, he said. So how do I know you're not lying to me, Chuchito? asked
Ramirez. Because I never lie to you, boss, said the pimp. But I have to know
for sure, Chuchito, said the Mexican cop, taking a knife out of his pocket. It
was a switchblade, with a mother-of-pearl handle and a slender six-inch blade.
I never lie to you, boss, whined Chucho. This is important to my friend, Chuchito,
how do I know you aren't going to call Miguel Montes as soon as we're gone? I
would never do that, never, never, not if it was you asking me not to, boss,
the thought would never even cross my mind. What should we do, Harry? asked the
Mexican cop. I don't think the bastard's lying, said Harry Magana. When he
opened the door, two whores and the bouncer were just outside. The whores were
short and fleshy and they must have been the sentimental type because when they
saw Chucho safe and sound they ran to hug him, laughing and crying. Ramirez was
the last to leave the washroom. Anything wrong? he asked the bouncer. No, said
the bouncer in a thin voice. Everything okay, then? We're cool, said the
bouncer. Outside was a line of kids waiting to get into the club. At the end of
the sidewalk, Harry Magana spotted Chucho walking with his arms around his two
whores. Above him hung a full moon that reminded Harry of the ocean, an ocean
he had seen only three times. He's off to bed, said Ramirez when he came up next
to Harry Magana. When you've been that scared and on a roller coaster of
emotions all you want is a nice comfortable chair, a nice cocktail, a nice TV
show, and a nice meal cooked by your two old ladies. Really, cooking is all
they're good for, said the Mexican cop as if he'd known the whores since
school. There were some American tourists in the line, too, talking in shouts.
What do you plan to do now, Harry? asked Ramirez. I'm going to Santa Teresa,
said Harry Magana, looking at the ground. That night he followed the path of
the stars. As he crossed the Rio Colorado he saw a meteor in the sky, or a
shooting star, and he made a silent wish as his mother had taught him. He drove
the lonely road from San Luis to Los Vidrios, where he stopped and had two cups
of coffee, his mind blank, feeling the hot liquid burning his esophagus as it
went down. Then he turned onto the Los Vidrios-Sonoyta road and after that he
headed south, toward Caborca. Trying to find the exit, he drove through the
center of town and everything looked closed, except the gas station. He turned
east and passed through Altar, Pueblo Nuevo, and
Santa Ana
,
finally
ending up on the four-lane highway to
Nogales
and Santa Teresa.
It was four in the morning when he got to the city. There was no one home at
Demetrio Aguila's, so he didn't even lie down for a moment. He washed his face
and arms, scrubbed his chest and armpits with cold water, and took a clean
shirt out of his suitcase. Internal Affairs hadn't closed yet when he arrived,
and he asked to talk to the madam. The man he spoke to gave him a mocking look.
He was in a carved wooden booth, a stage designed for a single person, a master
of ceremonies or a barker, and he looked taller than he was. There's no madam
here, sir, he said. Then I'd like to talk to the manager, said Harry Magana.
There's no manager, sir. Who's in charge? asked Harry Magana. There's a
manageress,
sir. Our manageress of
public relations, sir. Miss Isela. Harry Magana tried to smile and said he
wanted to speak to Miss Isela for a moment. Go up to the club and ask for her,
the master of ceremonies said. Harry Magana went into a lounge and saw a man
with a white mustache asleep in an armchair. The walls were covered with a red
quilted fabric as if the lounge were a padded cell in a madhouse for whores. On
the stairs, the banister covered in the same red fabric, he passed a whore with
a client and grabbed her by the arm. He asked if Elsa Fuentes still worked
there. Let me go, said the whore, and she went on down the stairs. There were
quite a few people on the dance floor, although the music playing was
boleros
or sad
danzones
from the south. The couples scarcely moved in the
darkness. With difficulty he located a waiter and asked where he could find
Miss Isela. The waiter pointed to a door at the other end of the club. Miss
Isela was with a man of about fifty, dressed in a black suit and yellow tie.
When she asked Harry Magana to sit down, the man went to lean on the
windowsill. Harry Magana said he was looking for Elsa Fuentes. And why is that?
Miss Isela wanted to know. For no good reason, said Harry Magana with a smile.
Miss Isela laughed. She was thin and had a nice body, a tattoo of a blue
butterfly on her left shoulder, and she couldn't have been more than
twenty-two. The man by the window tried to laugh too but all he could manage
was a smirk that barely made his upper lip quiver. She doesn't work here
anymore, said Miss Isela. How long has it been since she left? asked Harry
Magana. About a month, said Miss Isela. And do you know where I might find her?
Miss Isela looked over at the man by the window and asked whether they could
tell him. Why not? said the man. If we don't spill the beans ourselves, he'll
find out some other way. This gringo looks stubborn. It's true, said Harry
Magana, I'm stubborn. So fuck the suspense, Iselita, tell him where Elsa
Fuentes lives, said the man. Miss Isela took a narrow, hardcover ledger out of
a drawer and flipped through it. Elsa Fuentes, as far as we know, lives at 23
Calle Santa Catarina. And where is that? asked Harry Magana. In Colonia
Carranza, said Miss Isela. If you ask around you'll find it, said the man.
Harry Magana got up and thanked them. Before he left he turned and was about to
ask them if they knew Miguel Monies or had heard the name, but he changed his
mind in time and said nothing.