The Paper Swan(39)

One afternoon as he sat outside the prison, Esteban thought he heard MaMaLu singing from beyond the cold, gray walls. Her voice piped over the blare of the boom box that played all day. “Mexico Lindo y Querido”, she sang.

Even though it was a song of yearning, for home, and everything dear and familiar, it comforted Esteban. It had been a little over three weeks since he had last seen MaMaLu, but as long as he could hear her sing, he knew she was all right.

Esteban continued working for Cantina Man. He started learning the trade. The green, leafy bags sold for less than the clear crystals that looked like pieces of glass. He took on errands that became progressively more dangerous. There were times when he came face to face with the glinting edge of a knife, times when he had to run for his life. Cantina Man was not happy when he lost the product, and he docked Esteban’s pay. At times, Esteban owed more than he earned, and he found himself tangled up in a web he could not get out of. Weeks turned to months, but the thought of seeing MaMaLu kept him going. Three hundred and fifty pesos took much longer to save up than he had bargained for, but one day Esteban had enough. Almost. He needed to make just one more drop.

When he got back that night, Esteban was ecstatic. Tomorrow he would get to see MaMaLu. His heart soared as he pried out the loose brick in the backyard that he’d been hiding his loot behind, but there was nothing there.

All his money was gone.

Esteban’s fingers scraped rough, empty space.

“Esteban, come join me.” Fernando swayed by the door, waving an empty bottle of tequila.

Esteban clenched his fists to keep from reacting. He knew it was pointless to accuse Fernando of stealing his money; he knew it was pointless to confront him. His uncle remembered nothing, cared for nothing, except his next round of booze.

Esteban stuffed the money he’d made that night into his pocket. His eyes stung with tears he refused to shed. He was right back where he’d started. He wanted to hit something, kick someone, grab Fernando by the neck and choke him until his glazed eyes popped out. He would stomp on them and they would feel like soft, wet grapes.

Fernando weaved back inside and crashed on the sofa. The empty bottle of tequila rolled from his hands. Esteban walked past him and went to his room.

He had to find a way to earn more money. He would talk to Cantina Man, next time he was in town. Before he went to sleep, Esteban took the money out of his pocket and strapped it around his chest. If Fernando wanted his money, he would have to come and get it.



Esteban took on more duties for Cantina Man. He reported back on what he saw outside the prison—described the guards and prisoners that entered and left the facility, the times when armored cars made their rounds, and when the guards in the towers changed. He jotted down the officials who visited and the license plates of the cars they drove. Esteban didn’t know it, but he was now part of the halcones—falcons—low level cartel members who functioned as the eyes and ears of the organization. All Esteban knew was that his logbook earned him more money, and more money meant he would get to see MaMaLu sooner. In the evenings, he continued doing whatever odd jobs Cantina Man had for him.

“Do you know what you’re getting into, chico?” Juan Pablo, the waiter at La Sombra, asked Esteban one night.

They were sitting on the stairs. Juan Pablo was smoking Marlboro Reds. He and Camila had grown fond of Esteban. He was a good kid, wrapped up in bad business.

“Do you know why no one brings their family or girlfriends or kids to the cantina?” asked Juan Pablo. He let his apron fall to the side and Esteban saw a gun holstered in his waistband. “The man you work for owns La Sombra. He doesn’t just pay me to serve food. He pays me to protect him. It’s a place of business. Meetings, deals. You understand?”

Esteban nodded. Even though he had developed a bond with Juan Pablo and Camila, he had suspected as much. But he was almost there. He couldn’t stop now.

“Everyone has a reason.” Juan Pablo flicked his cigarette away. A reason to get involved, to get their hands dirty. “What’s yours?”

“My mother. She’s in jail, but she’s innocent.”

“Around here, everyone is guilty until proven innocent. You go to jail and wait for a trial. And if someone has greased a few palms to keep her in there—a jealous boyfriend, a business partner—it could take forever. You can’t trust anyone, Esteban. Not the police or the judges or the guards. They all want a piece of the pie.”

Don’t get your hopes up, Juan Pablo was advising him.