“Would you like me to feed you?” she said.
“Leave me alone,” said Matt. He ate morosely, noting the lack of flavor. El Patrón’s blood pressure hadn’t allowed him to eat salt, chili peppers, or spices.
Heavy curtains had been pulled back from the room’s tall windows to let in fresh air, and someone was using a lawn mower not far away. It was a manual lawn mower, because El Patrón hadn’t liked modern machinery.
The girl stood silently next to Matt’s chair. “For heaven’s sake, sit down!” he cried. To his surprise she did, and he studied her more carefully. She was young, possibly his own age. She had silky blond hair and a pale, sweet face that would have been beautiful if her eyes hadn’t been so empty. “Do you have a name?” he asked.
“I am called Waitress.”
Matt laughed. “That’s a job, not a name. What were you called before?” He regretted saying this, because he didn’t want to think about what she’d been before, when she was a normal girl with a home and family.
“I am called Waitress.” She stared at him blankly.
“From now on you’re Mirasol,” Matt decided. It was a name he’d always liked, and for a moment he thought he saw a flicker of emotion. She paused before answering.
“I am called Waitress,” she repeated.
“We’ll work on it later.” Matt turned to the watery eggs. They had cooled off and were even less appetizing than before. “Can’t you get me quesadillas or something that doesn’t look like it was barfed up by a coyote?”
Waitress sprang to attention and hurried from the room. Matt was startled. Waitress—Mirasol—was showing surprising individuality. Apparently not all eejits were alike. He remembered there had been a huge difference between Teacher, who had long ago tried to teach him numbers, and the mindless zombies who tended the fields.
I’ve got to find a way to free them, he thought. He’d only returned to Opium yesterday and was still stunned by the change in his fortunes. It was very well to say he was going to end the drug empire, but where was he to begin? The whole thing rested on a vast distribution network that involved thousands of people. They wouldn’t like to see their livelihood taken away.
He wished Tam Lin were there to advise him. Tears formed in Matt’s eyes at the memory of the man who’d been as close as a father to him, and he hovered between grief and anger. How stupid of Tam Lin to kill himself. How selfish.
Mirasol returned with a tray heaped with steaming quesadillas, and Matt fell upon them ravenously. He hadn’t had such food for months. All they ate at the plankton factory was plankton burgers, and in the hospital in San Luis, he’d been given dry toast and Jell-O.
He looked up to see Mirasol watching him and realized that she, too, might be hungry. “I forgot about you,” he said. “Please sit down and eat.” She obeyed, stuffing quesadillas into her mouth as though she hadn’t eaten for a month. He remembered that eejits didn’t know when to stop and took the tray away from her.
“The doctors who did this to you are dead,” he told her, although he knew she couldn’t really understand. “They drank poisoned wine at El Patrón’s funeral. Does that make you feel better? No, of course it doesn’t, but there must be other doctors around who can cure you.”
Talking to an eejit was almost like talking to himself, Matt thought. He wiped her mouth with a napkin, and she patiently endured it. “I wish I’d known you before,” he said. “I wonder what forced you to cross the border and what kind of family you left behind.” He brushed back the silky hair that had fallen across her face. Then, suddenly embarrassed, he took his hand away. “Thank you for the breakfast, Mirasol. I’m going to find Celia now.”
“I am called Waitress,” she replied.
He left her to do whatever she was programmed to do.
4
CIENFUEGOS
Celia was sitting at the kitchen table with a man Matt had never seen before. He was thin to the point of emaciation, and his skin was the same color as a coyote. His eyes were pale brown and watchful. He was cleaning a stun gun of the kind used to subdue Illegals, or sometimes to kill them.
“Matt!” cried Celia, springing up, but she stopped herself before she hugged him. “Oh, dear, I can’t call you Matt anymore. It isn’t dignified.”
“You need a title,” said the strange man, sighting along the stun gun. “This place is like a time bomb. The sooner we establish you as the master, the better.”
“He needs a name suitable for a drug lord,” said Celia.
“How about El Tigre Oscuro, the Hidden Tiger? Or El Vengador, the Avenger?”
“I don’t want a new name,” said Matt.
“You’re going to have enough trouble controlling El Patrón’s empire,” the man explained. “You need a title that inspires fear, and you need to back it up with random acts of violence. I can help you there.”
“Who are you?” Matt asked, instinctively on his guard.
“Oh! I forgot you’d never met,” Celia apologized. “This is Cienfuegos, the jefe of the Farm Patrol. He’s responsible for law and order. You haven’t seen him before because he spends most of his time in the fields or at the other house.”
“Other house?” said Matt. The Farm Patrol was responsible for trapping Illegals so they could be turned into eejits. They were vicious and dangerous, and Matt wondered why Celia, who had every reason to hate them, tolerated this one.
“The hacienda in the Chiricahua Mountains,” said Cienfuegos. “It’s where El Patrón went on vacation. It’s a very fine place. I’m surprised you never went there.”
“Until recently my job was to wait around until he needed a heart,” Matt said coldly. “Heart donors don’t get vacations.”
Celia caught her breath, but Cienfuegos smiled. It made him look even more like a hungry coyote. “Muy bravo, chico. I hope you have what it takes to step into El Patrón’s shoes.”
Matt remembered one of El Patrón’s most important rules: Always establish your authority before anyone has a chance to question it. “No one is better qualified to run Opium than I,” he told the jefe. “I kept my eyes and ears open when El Patrón discussed the business with his heirs. I know the trade routes, the distribution points, who to bribe, and who to threaten. El Patrón himself taught me how to intimidate enemies and how to recruit bodyguards from distant countries because they wouldn’t be as likely to betray you.”
“¡Hijole! You looked just like the old vampire when you said that,” exclaimed Cienfuegos. “Maybe we aren’t screwed after all. Celia, get us some pulque. We need to drink to the new ruler of Opium.”
“Matt doesn’t drink alcohol,” Celia said.
“But I do,” said Cienfuegos. He leaned back in his chair and put his boots up on the kitchen table. Matt was shocked. If anyone else had tried that, Celia would have thrown him out the door. But Cienfuegos looked perfectly comfortable, as if he’d been doing it all his life.
Presently, Celia returned with orange juice for herself and Matt, and a bottle of pulque for the head of the Farm Patrol. Cienfuegos took a long drink, and the acrid smell of fermented cactus juice wafted across the table. “Now, I don’t want to be disrespectful, young master,” he said, “but I’m certain El Patrón didn’t tell you everything about the trade. He had more secrets than a coyote has fleas. Tell me what you want to do with this country you’ve inherited.”