The Paper Swan(44)

“I didn’t know they had any children.”

“They kept him away from the cantina.”

For my parents, Rafael had said.

Damian nodded. “So the funeral was for . . .”

“Someone from Los Zetas, a rival cartel—the man who shot Rafael’s parents, the man who tried to kill me.”

The man I killed instead, thought Damian.

El Charro had dumped Alfredo Ruben Zamora’s decapitated body outside his home, and had his head delivered during his funeral. In one move, El Charro had brought Rafael into the world of crime and violence, and ensured that Damian witnessed the funeral of the man he’d killed, recognized the consequences of his actions. There was no turning back for the two boys now. They were like flies trapped in El Charro’s web.

“You see this?” El Charro uncapped the gold tip from his walking cane. On the bottom was a retractable blade in the shape of the letter ‘C’. “This is how I like to send a message. Mess with me and your dead body shows up with my mark, the mark of El Charro—the horseman. I wasn’t always capo, you know. I started off as a horse rancher. I branded animals then, and I brand animals now.” He screwed the tip back on. “Tomorrow we attend another church, another funeral.”



Juan Pablo and Camila were laid to rest like heroes, surrounded by flowers and candles and long lines of well-wishers who kissed Rafael on the cheeks after the ceremony. As far as they knew, Juan Pablo had saved El Charro’s life and taken a bullet in the process. Camila had died by his side.

Damian and Rafael stood by their coffins when the last footsteps echoed out of the church.

“I know it was you,” said Rafael. It was the first time Damian had heard him speak.

“What do you mean?”

“I saw the man shoot my parents. I was in the bathroom, but I was too scared to come out. I just stood there. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything.” Rafael looked at his shoes. He was wearing a coat even though it was hot inside, because he had not been able to get Alfredo Ruben Zamora’s blood out of his shirt.

“Hey.” Damian took his hand. It was cold and damp. “You did a good thing. You have nothing to be ashamed of. He would have shot you too.”

“I want to be like you,” said Rafael. “Will you teach me to be brave and shoot the bad guys?”

Damian thought of the man he’d killed, of the family he’d left bereaved. He should have shot El Charro instead. He wondered what he would have done if Juan Pablo had intervened, if Juan Pablo had not been his friend.

“It’s all f*cked up, Rafael. There are no good guys or bad guys. Everyone has a reason.”

Juan Pablo had said that to him, on the steps of La Sombra. Everyone has a reason. Damian had no idea then that he would be standing by his coffin weeks later, repeating the same words to his son.





DAMIAN AND RAFAEL WERE YOUNG, but they weren’t as young as some of the other kids the cartel used to serve its purposes—kids who smuggled heroin and cocaine across the border, who served as disposable diversions or inconspicuous messengers. Some of them did it willingly, seduced by the lure of money and power. Others were forced into it. Their parents had been killed or kidnapped, or they were destitute and desperate. They gave each other nicknames that gave them a sense of belonging, of being strong and invincible in a big, bad world: Slim Luis, Teflon Marco, Eddie the Lamb, Two Scars.

The first time they called Damian ‘One Eye Damie’, because he slept with one eye open, he gave them a look so chilling that they backed off. Damian was fierce, a lone wolf that no one dared to cross or disturb. There was no downtime for Damian. While the rest of them sang along to boastful lyrics over oomph-oomph narco music, Damian lined up pop cans and target-practiced with a slingshot. If the comandante made them do a dozen pull-ups at the training camp, Damian came home and did three dozen more.

The only one who wasn’t afraid of Damian’s dark, relentless intensity was Rafael. He trailed Damian around, content to watch, accepting the silences. He didn’t ask Damian about the cigarette box that Damian held on to every night, or the newspaper clipping he pulled out to read when he thought no one was looking.

Every day, new recruits came. The girls and women were taken to the third storey, the rough, hardened men occupied the ground floor, and the second floor was assigned to boys and young males. Every day, some left and never made it back. The ones who had been personally recruited by El Charro had one thing in common. They had all been screwed over by someone: family, friends, their boss, their boyfriend, society or someone more powerful than them. They lacked opportunity. They were angry and uneducated, with no prospect of a job or a future. They were the ones who were most pissed off at everyone.