Down Among the Dead Men

48

“ You shouldn’t have provoked him,” Garcia said. “He’s as bad as Carmelita. He’ll blame me for ruining his breakfast.”

They were in Vargas’s car, driving back to the station.

“All he had to do was tell me the truth.”

Garcia laughed. “You don’t know Rojas.”

“Then educate me.”

Garcia looked at him a moment, weighing the request. Then he said, “The man is a pig. That story he told you about taking over the family business? He didn’t mention that he stabbed his brother twice to convince him to step aside.”

“So why wasn’t he arrested?”

“His brother denied it. Blamed the attack on a gang of teenagers. Three of them are still in jail.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Garcia shrugged. “Probably because I despise the man. Believe it or not, not all Mexican cops are corrupt. We’re hardworking people, trying to do good and make a living at the same time. The drug cartels are out of control down here, treating people as if they’re disposable. And trying to stop them is hard enough without pendejos like Rojas tainting the department.” He paused. “But Rojas also has a lot of friends, so if you ever repeat what I’ve just said, I’ll deny it.”

“Tell me about the girl in the photo.”

Garcia shifted his gaze to the street, which was filled with the passing hustle and bustle of downtown Juarez. “That subject is off-limits.”

“Then it’s true. She was there.”

“Did I say that?” He shook his head, then pointed at the road. “Drop me off around the corner. I want to get my hair cut for Carmelita.”

“I’ll keep your name out of it,” Vargas said. “An anonymous source.”

Garcia laughed again. “You know even less about this city than you do about Rojas. No one is anonymous here. Not for long. And it doesn’t help that I’m riding in your car.”

Vargas made a left at the next corner and pulled up alongside a shop with the word peluqueria painted on the window. Inside, a barber was busy cleaning the hair out of his electric clippers.

“It must kill you,” Vargas said.

“What?”

“Seeing a man like Rojas in power. You say he taints the department, but what he carries is more like a virus that grows and spreads, infecting everyone who comes in contact with it. You’d better watch out, or you’ll catch it, too.”

Garcia frowned at him, then opened his door and got out. Turning, he leaned in through the open passenger window.

“I don’t think you were bluffing,” he said. “You have more than a photograph to share.”

“Maybe. But there’s only one way to find out. You know my terms.”

“This book you’re writing. How many people will see it?”

“As many as it takes.”

Garcia thought about this a moment, then said, “You like dancing?”

Vargas shrugged. “Depends on what kind.”

“The kind where beautiful women show you only what their mothers and boyfriends should see.”

“One of my favorites,” Vargas said.

Garcia reached into his shirt pocket and handed a book of matches across to Vargas. “Come watch Carmelita tonight. And if you buy me enough tequila, I might forget what it means to be cautious.”

And with that, he slapped a hand on top of the car and disappeared into the barbershop.