Inside, the smell of damp clothes, sweat, tobacco, and whiskey assaulted him like a slap in the face. Although the ghetto lacked almost everything else, alcohol and tobacco circulated freely. After the supply runs they made for Gulfport, several boxes regularly got “lost” before they reached the warehouse. Since Reverend Greene didn’t look kindly on “the smoke of Satan and the blood of Beelzebub,” Bluefont served as a black market for buyers on the other side of the fence.
“Hello, Gato,” the waitress greeted him affectionately. She was a stocky woman with big breasts that stretched the neckline of her dress to the limit. “Rough night, huh?”
“Tell me about it, Morena,” Mendoza replied as he brushed the rain off his clothes. Several customers greeted him and made a place at the bar. “Give me a bottle of tequila and something to eat, honey.”
The woman set out a bottle of Jose Cuervo and a plate of beans that had seen better days.
“Come on. Is that the best you can do?”
“That’s all there is, Carlitos,” said the woman, patting his hand. “I got all the liquor, women, and tobacco you could want, but that’s it for food.”
The Mexican shrugged and knocked back his first shot of tequila. Fifteen minutes later, with the beans in his stomach and a quarter bottle of tequila warming his body, he began to feel good for the first time that night.
But then his life got really complicated.
The bar door swung open and the wind and rain blew in, making the oil lamps flicker. People grumbled or shouted complaints as two figures hesitated in the doorway. The shorter of the pair finally stepped inside, pulling the other person along.
Mendoza froze in his chair, wondering if the tequila was making him hallucinate. Next to Alejandra stood Lucia, her soaked clothes stuck to her skin, her arms folded across her chest, looking like a frightened doe.
“Gato! There you are, you asshole! Got a surprise for you, dude,” Alejandra said proudly.
Mendoza slid off the stool, not taking his eyes off Lucia. “Please, have a seat, señorita.”
He turned to the waitress. “Morena! Bring my friend something hot to drink and a towel. ¡Órale!”
“I found you,” Lucia muttered, slowly drying her face with the towel. She could feel all eyes in the bar staring at her back. Most looked astonished, but a few glared at her. She was painfully aware that she was the whitest person in the room.
“I’m glad you decided to pay me a visit,” Mendoza said, flashing his best smile.
“This isn’t a social call. At least, not the kind you think.”
The Mexican sipped his drink and studied the girl over his glass. It was true. He’d hoped the girl had been drawn to Bluefont by the prospect of an affair with a handsome helot. Finding out that wasn’t the case wounded his macho pride.
What the hell does she want? Drugs? Booze? She doesn’t look the type.
“So tell me, what can I do for you, señorita?”
“I need you to talk to someone.”
“Talk to someone,” he repeated, as if he hadn’t heard right.
“Yes, talk to my… to someone very special to me.”
“What do you want me to say to this special person?” His ears buzzed from all the tequila.
“You have to explain how wrong all this is. That what they’re doing here in Gulfport is horrible, that Greene’s an immoral pig and—”
Mendoza burst out laughing. He tried to catch his breath, but when he saw the offended look on Lucia’s face, he laughed so hard tears filled his eyes. When he finally collected himself, he slapped the bar.
“Hear that, friends? The señorita wants me to cross the channel, sneak into Gulfport, and enlighten some poor lost soul.” He imitated Lucia’s voice. “Mr. Greene’s bad, very bad, he should treat us poor helots better…”
Lucia flushed with anger and threw the wet towel in his face. “Enough of this shit! I’ve had enough fights for one night, dammit! I’m trying to help you. The person you need to convince is in a position to help you. He’s—”
Mendoza cut her off with a slap in the face that spun her like a top. Lucia stared at him in disbelief. She put her hand on her cheek, which was starting to swell.
“No one yells at me,” Mendoza said in a velvety voice as he grabbed her by the arm. “Least of all a gachupina from across the channel who doesn’t have a clue what the hell she’s getting into.”
“Gato, wait,” Alejandra intervened. “The girl nearly drowned crossing the river. At least listen to what she has to say.”
“You, shut up,” Mendoza hissed. “She could be one of the reverend’s spies. Now that I think of it, Ale, you got a free ride in the last raid and you didn’t have any papers.”
“I’m not a spy!” Lucia cried indignantly.
“Are you calling me a traitor, you fucking pendejo?” Alejandra was spitting mad.
Carlos Mendoza raised his hands, stepping back. “One at a time, señoritas, one at a time.” A chorus of boozy laughter punctuated Mendoza’s words as the small woman balled up her fists helplessly. “Fellas, take this gachupina to the cellar while we discuss what to do with her. And you, go wash rags—that’s your job. Get a move on!”
Two men grabbed Lucia and dragged her to a trapdoor hidden under a dirty rug. As they shoved her into the cellar, she saw a couple guys rush Alejandra. The woman cursed and aimed kicks left and right, but a muscle-bound guy sent her flying out of the bar.
The trapdoor slammed over Lucia’s head and darkness enveloped her. She heard someone drag something heavy across the rug. After a while the bar settled back down amid clinking glasses, shouts, and laughter.
Lucia curled up in a ball between two stacks of boxes and cried, cursing herself for being so stupid and blindly trusting a guy she barely knew. Most of all, she was terrified.
25
The next morning, the sky over Gulfport was lead gray. In the daylight, the squalid living conditions and mountains of trash in the ghetto underscored the true nature of the place. At least there weren’t many rats. They’d been hunted down by bands of starving children or had fallen prey to the many dogs wandering among the houses, begging for a handout.
Carlos Mendoza woke up feeling like a psychopathic dwarf was inside his head, beating his brain to a pulp with a hammer. He’d fallen asleep on a table in the bar. The floor was littered with regulars snoring away or stretching as Morena, the bartender (whose hangover was as bad as his), woke them with a kick.
“What time is it?” he muttered in a raspy voice. He lit a crumpled cigarette.
Morena kicked a bearded, tattooed guy. “It’s morning, Carlitos. Not that it matters.”
Mendoza grunted and suddenly remembered the girl locked in the hidden cellar.
“Tomás, Adrian, bring me that gachupina.”
The two men pushed aside a table (and the guy sleeping on it) and opened the trapdoor. One guy started down the stairs while the other waited above. A sudden howl of pain woke up anyone who was still asleep. “Fucking bitch sliced me!”
A noisy battle raged in the hole. When the guy reappeared, he had a deep cut on his left arm, and he was dragging Lucia up the stairs, his right arm tight around her neck. Nearly unconscious for lack of oxygen, the girl still waved around a broken bottle.
“Órale, Tomás, let the girl go. You’ll kill her!” Mendoza muttered as he gargled a shot of tequila. Tomás tossed her to the floor with a menacing scowl. Looking at the girl’s pale face, he got angry all over again.
Lucia tried to crawl to the door, but someone grabbed her by the hair and yanked her to her feet. Tears of pain filled her eyes.