“Armando tells me you have a business. Tell me about it.”
Emiliano should be nervous but he isn’t. He feels the same confidence that comes to him on the soccer field when he knows he can outrun the player in front of him. “I belong to this explorers’ club called the Jiparis,” he begins. “One time, when we couldn’t hike because of the weather, we made papier-mâché animals. Some of the kids were good at it, and I thought I might be able to sell the things they made. So that’s what I do. I sell them to shops by the bridge to El Paso, shops that sell mostly to Americans. The kids—the Jiparis and their families—make different folk art objects. My job is to get the best price for them. I take a ten percent commission. I have some objects in the back of the car.”
Mr. Reyes nods. The man in the blue blazer moves next to Emiliano and stretches out his hand. Emiliano hands him the car keys and the man walks out. Mr. Reyes drinks from the cup and wipes the foam on his upper lip with a crimson linen napkin. He raises his eyes and fixes them on Emiliano.
“How often do you sell these folk art objects?”
“Every week. There are always new things to sell. The families of the kids who make them need the money.”
“But there must be lots of competition for these objects, no? So many places make them.”
“The ones that my kids make are the best. I don’t take any pieces that aren’t well made. You can tell they’re different, they’re quality. The shop owners like them. They can’t get enough of them. One of them, Lalo Torres, he sells them to stores at airports in the United States.”
Mr. Reyes smiles for the first time, and so does Emiliano, although he’s not sure why. The man with the blue blazer enters the room with a cardboard box in his arms. He places it on the table and then goes back to the same corner where he stood before. Mr. Reyes pushes himself slowly away from the table and stands. Emiliano does as well.
Mr. Reyes lifts the package with Doña Pepa’s purse out of the box and unwraps it. He examines the colorful design. Doña Pepa used thousands of tiny beads to make a red-and-silver rooster crowing at a golden sun. Emiliano watches the man for signs of approval, but there is no change in his expression. Then Mr. Reyes picks up one of Javier’s piñatas. Now a tiny grin appears on his wrinkled face, as if he’s remembering something from his childhood.
“How are these made?” Mr. Reyes asks, dangling a small purple burro by the string on his back.
“Usually, you blow up a balloon and glue pieces of paper around it until you get your base shape. When it dries, you pop the balloon and construct the rest.”
“But the balloon could be filled with something solid.”
Emiliano is not sure what Mr. Reyes is getting at or whether he is even asking a question. “It doesn’t matter so much with these small piñatas, because they’re just used for decoration. But in a bigger piñata, you want the inside hollow so you can fill it with candy.”
Mr. Reyes makes a sign with his hands that Emiliano does not understand, but apparently the man in the corner does. The man takes a penknife from his pocket, opens it, and hands it to Mr. Reyes. Mr. Reyes stabs the center of a star-shaped piñata with the knife. Emiliano tries not to gasp. What is he doing?
Mr. Reyes proceeds to cut a square-shaped hole in the piñata. When he finishes, he sticks his finger inside the star and pulls out a deflated blue balloon. Then he covers the hole with the piece he just cut out and again examines the piñata. He gives the piñata to the man in the corner, who removes the cut piece and also sticks his finger inside.
Emiliano watches the man shake his head. Somehow, the inside of the piñata is not good enough. Good enough for what? He does not want to believe what is slowly becoming obvious to him.
Mr. Reyes sits back down in his chair and waits for Emiliano to do the same before he speaks.
“We are not a big operation here. On the other hand, we are allowed to operate because we’re not a threat to the major players, and we pay our dues … and our respect. Your business would be so small it’s not worth our while. But Armando trusts you. Otherwise he wouldn’t have sent you here. And Armando is the son of my good friend Enrique, and, frankly, I like you—the star midfielder who won the state championship and brought honor to our city. You have a good head for business, I can tell. I want to work with young people like you. So, Emiliano, if you want to do business together, we will do business together.”
There’s something about the quiet way that Mr. Reyes talks to him that makes Emiliano feel like he’s respected, an equal. There’s also a queasy feeling inside him that reminds him of the moment just before he was caught stealing, but the feeling is not strong enough to overcome his curiosity about what Mr. Reyes is offering.
“How would it work?” Emiliano asks.
“We give you a loan to buy the first batch of product. With the profits you make, you pay back the loan and buy more product. I suggest you do a dozen or so piñatas and other papier-mâché animals a week. No more. Instead of this Lalo Torres shipping to his usual shops, he’ll ship to our stores. He will have to agree to do that, but it shouldn’t be a problem. Our stores will give him a better price. But you should keep working with Lalo, since he is known and has been checked out by customs already.” Mr. Reyes smiles a kind, reassuring smile. “A dozen piñatas like those”—he points to the star on the table—“will net you maybe thirty thousand pesos.”
“Thirty thousand pesos,” Emiliano repeats, stunned. “A week?”
Mr. Reyes smiles again. “It’s a very small operation. I recommend you keep it small. Under everyone’s radar. You keep going to school. Keep winning state championships for us.” He nods. “Why don’t you take a few days to think about it? One thing: The piñatas need to be loaded by the people who make them. It won’t work if you have to cut a hole to insert the product after the piñatas are made. The opening could be detected.”
Emiliano lowers his head. He would have to get Javier to stuff the piñatas with … “Loaded with what? What is the product?” he blurts.
Mr. Reyes lifts an eyebrow. “We can talk about that later. Once we’re partners. There are options. Now, I’m afraid I have to make a business call. Oscar will help you with your box.”
Emiliano and Mr. Reyes stand at the same time, and they shake hands. “It’s good to meet you, Emiliano. I hope to hear from you soon.”
“Thank you,” Emiliano says. “It was good to meet you too.”
When the box is in the trunk, Oscar motions for Emiliano to wait. Emiliano watches him walk into the building with the garage doors. A few moments later, he comes out carrying a white box with holes on the side for handles, the kind used to file documents. The box is sealed with black electrical tape. Oscar puts the box in the open trunk.
“Give this to Armando when you return the car,” Oscar says, closing the trunk. “And one more thing. Please don’t mention this location to anyone.” He waits long enough for fear to make its way to Emiliano’s face, and then he turns around and walks away.
Emiliano drives slowly. The last thing he wants is to be stopped for speeding. He keeps one eye on the rearview mirror to make sure no one is following him. There’s an unexpected rush, scary yet exciting, from the knowledge that Armando is involved in the drug world. Armando’s father too, probably. Mr. Reyes says Mr. Cortázar was an old friend. And if Mr. Cortázar is also a narco, then what about his lawyer, Perla Rubi’s father? Emiliano’s mind spins with connections, possibilities …