“Hold on. Okay, I’m looking at it now. It’s kind of hard to see his face. I’ll send it to my guys. There’s a ring on his finger that might help. That e-mail address is clearly an alias. We’ll see if we can trace it. What are you thinking? Is the girl in the picture a Desaparecida?”
“I’m about to check the files now. She looks familiar for some reason. But the e-mail was definitely sent by my friend Linda.” Sara swallows. “You know, the one I talk about all the time.”
“You positive?”
“Puchi was a special code word we used. Ernesto, this is really serious and … urgent,” she says. “The bad people know the e-mail was sent. They had someone in here delete it. So Linda and the other girl—”
“I know,” he interrupts. “I know what that means. I’ll get on it.”
Ernesto hangs up, and Sara takes one deep breath and then another. Electricity zips through her veins. She needs to find a way to slow down. She needs to do something. There is an evil place where attractive girls are kept for the pleasure of men like the drunk in the picture, and Linda is there. She looks at the picture again. This club is a place of fake luxury with garish booths and expensive Scotch. The men who go there are likely men of wealth and power. The man’s left hand lies limply on the table, and Sara can see a thick, platinum, expensive watch peeking from the edge of his sleeve. His giant gold ring with four small diamonds is ostentatiously rich. If the Jaqueros can discover the identity of the man, and she can discover who the girl is, she may find Linda. Because Linda is alive.
Alive.
In spite of the danger, Sara can’t help but smile.
Emiliano sits on a white leather sofa in front of a giant-screen television, waiting for Mr. Cortázar’s car. As Armando predicted, an inspection revealed that the brake pads were ninety percent worn out, and it will take a couple more hours to get the parts and install them. Emiliano is bored out of his mind. Earning good money by doing nothing is not what it’s cracked up to be. The only things saving his sanity are the English soccer games on an obscure cable channel and texting with Perla Rubi.
He’s also solved the problem of Mrs. Esmeralda’s birthday present. A commercial for a chocolate candy reminded him that Mami makes the best coffee liqueur chocolate cake anyone has ever tasted. A call to her at the bakery, a little begging, a little sweet-talking, and Mami agreed to bake a cake for Mrs. Esmeralda. It’s a perfect gift. Personal. And he doesn’t have to spend any money on it.
A friendly man wearing a wide purple tie comes in to inform him that they need to replace one of the calipers as well.
“How long will that take?” Emiliano asks. He doesn’t know what a caliper is but it sounds serious.
The man smiles as if he’s used to that being the first question out of people’s mouths. “I’ll have the car ready for you in an hour. I promise.”
He leaves. The man’s smile and the sincere way he said I promise remind Emiliano of a conversation with his father the week before he left for the United States. His father had taken him to the construction site where he was working. Emiliano’s job was to pick up debris in a wheelbarrow, take it to the front of the site, then load it into the dump truck when it came. They sat together under a skinny tree eating the lunch Mami had prepared for them. When they finished eating, Emiliano began to peel the blisters from his hands.
“Tough job, huh?” his father said.
“It’s not so bad.” But it was bad. His brain was fried from working in the ninety-degree heat. And there were still four more hours of the same.
“It’s no way to make a living,” his father said. Emiliano knew how much his father disliked construction work.
“But it’s a living.”
“That’s what your mother says. She says I’m lucky to have a job.”
“She’s right.” In the never-ending discussion of whether his father should go to the United States or stay and be happy with what they had, Emiliano was on his mother’s side.
“I have a brain,” his father said. “Not much of one, but one that can do more than spread stucco. If we have brains, we should try to use them, don’t you think? To try to do better.”
“You can try to do better here in Mexico.”
“I’ve tried, son. I’ve tried. The only way I could find to do better here is the illegal drug business. I’m not going to do that. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to America and getting enough money that when I come back, we can do something together. Open up a business. Our own place. We’ll call it Zapata and Son.”
“What kind of business?” Emiliano asked.
“I don’t know. Over in El Paso they have these food trucks that go to construction sites. We could buy one of those. Take the truck to the factories and to the sites. Then after that, who knows? It’s more about being our own boss. Finding different ways to make money and going for it. Making our own decisions. When I get back, you’ll be done with high school, and we’ll have the money to start our own business.”
Emiliano chuckled. He liked talking to his father about the future. His father was strict in many ways, but when he talked about what they would do together in years to come, he was more of a friend. It was like when he and Paco sat around talking about the kind of car they would buy if they were rich. There were no limits to what they dreamed up. It was fun to be with someone that way. But the reality was that, if his father went to America, he would not be around for a long while.
His father must have noticed the sad look on his face, because he said, “I’ll be back. I promise you. And when I come back we’ll work together on something we both like.” He shook Emiliano’s arm affectionately. “You got to take care of your mother and sister while I’m gone.”
“Why four years? That’s a long time.”
“I’m not going to find a good-paying job right away. It’s going to take time to save up what we’ll need. And I’ll be sending your mother a lot of what I make. So if I’m going to go, I might as well go once and do it right. And when I come back, we’ll …”
“Buy a food truck.”
“Maybe something else. Anything. If I can learn to be an electrician or pick up a trade while I’m over there, I’ll do it. I’m not going to waste my time. You can be sure of that.”
Emiliano nodded, not very enthusiastically.
“Listen, I need you to believe in me. I need you to see that this kind of thing”—his father gestured at a pile of bricks—“would eventually kill me or drive me back to drinking. I think your mother and Sara are beginning to understand why I need to leave, but I need you to understand as well. I need your support. You of all people have to know that I am doing it for you. For all of you, but for you most of all. So you and me can be a team someday and do stuff we enjoy. Okay? I will return, Emiliano. I promise.”
I promise, Emiliano repeats to himself and shakes his head. Words are cheap. But it doesn’t matter. All that his father promised they would do together, he will do on his own. He will be a better provider than his father could ever be. And, unlike his father, he will keep the promises he makes.