18. weird, world.

[i_sing_anyway]

“You know, all things considered, this is pretty nice,” Annie said.

“How so?” Alberto asked, eyes roving through the colorful crowd. They were sitting at a wrought iron table in front of a small restaurant, the street beside them teeming with shoppers and pedestrians. Voices shouted over the din of honking horns. The air was hot, heavy, and full of smoke from exhaust pipes and the pungent cigars of the old men sitting at the next table.

“Well, I’ve always wanted to see Mexico. The city’s so interesting-all the colors and people and music. The food’s been delicious, and this lemonade thingy is super tasty-”

“That’d be the tequila.”

“And I’m spending time with you, and Charlie and Rob-it’s just nice. I can almost believe we’re just on vacation.” She slurped through her straw. “You should really have one of these. I think I could drink this all day.”

“You’d wind up with a nasty headache,” he warned with a half-smile. “You’re still pretty new to booze-might want to build up more of a tolerance for the stuff before you go crazy.”

“Is your uncle really such bad news?”

“He’s probably even worse than the stories make him out to be,” he replied. “I’m sure things go down in the gangs that never see the light of day.” He glanced down at his watch. “He’s supposed to be here in thirty minutes, so you should probably head back to the hotel.”

“Or I could just stay,” she countered. “I don’t want you to face him alone, if he’s that terrible.”

“Annie, it would really be better if I handled this by myself. I know where he stands on family, but not when it comes to pretty young ladies far from home-it’d just be safer for you to head back.”

“Okay, okay,” she grumbled, standing and slinging the strap of her purse over her neck and shoulder. “And thanks for the compliment. Call if you need anything.”

She turned, only to find a man suddenly standing at her elbow. He was wearing a beige suit with a red rose at his buttonhole, dark hair slicked back with an overly generous amount of gel. He smiled, a gold tooth flashing above a sharp goatee, and nodded politely. “Where are you off to, gorgeous girl?” he asked in rapid Spanish, outstretched arm blocking her path of escape.

“Um, Al?”

Alberto pushed back his chair and stood, flicking up the brim of his baseball hat. “She’s a friend,” he replied. “Just a friend. And she was leaving.”

“Ah, but she can’t leave just yet-Señor Navarro would very much like to speak with you both. He would like to offer you dessert in his garden. Right now, if you please.”

“He said he’d meet me here at one-thirty.”

“Plans change and we must be adaptable. Be grateful he is making such an effort to see you today, Señor Fontana. If you would follow me.”

“So who even is this dude?” Annie hissed as they set off down the street.

“One of my uncle’s lieutenants,” Alberto said in an undertone. “In this city, you see a man or woman wearing a red rose, you know they work for El Pastor-The Shepherd.”

And it was like her eyes had suddenly opened. As they wove through the crowd, the abundance of red roses at buttonholes and tucked behind ears and into braids and buns became more apparent. “Oh my God,” Annie said slowly. “You weren’t joking about him being the Godfather of Mexico.” She moved closer to him, unease coiling in her stomach. When her arm bumped his, he took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

It’ll be fine, Annie told herself. There’s no reason for this mobster to hurt me, and Al’s with me. It’ll be fine. It’ll be just fine.

But her traitorous mind was spinning too fast for such reassurances to stick. Mexico City was a huge place, practically a small country in its own right, a living behemoth like New York City or San Francisco. And this man essentially owned it. What he said was as good as law, and Alberto had made it clear that he had a temper, that he wouldn’t hesitate to use violence to solve a problem. That his business included drugs, prostitution, corruption-such a man would be frightening regardless of the circumstances.

But then, Annie thought, if her career plans went smoothly, she’d have to meet people like this El Pastor regularly. She’d have to learn how to face down cruelty and privileged criminality if she was ever going to challenge it. In life, there would always be monsters and intimidating figures; she couldn’t just pretend they didn’t exist and keep her eyes closed.

She straightened her back and lifted her chin, walking with firmer purpose. Alberto glanced over at her and smiled.

Their guide turned down a side alley away from the main traffic. Even here there were small carts and booths squeezed against the plaster walls, vendors hawking bouquets of flowers and fresh churros and kitschy tourist gimcrack in garish colors. Eyes were politely averted as the lieutenant passed; they remained averted after the briefest of glances at Alberto. In this heat, he refused to indulge in his usual armor against the world, mottled arms bared and face clearly visible save for the shade from the brim of his baseball cap. One woman made the sign of the cross to ward off evil as he passed, which made Annie bristle beside him in silent indignation.

“It’s okay,” he whispered as they continued on.

The buildings became older and more dignified, in better upkeep than the highly trafficked restaurants, bars, and curio shops. The cracks in the stucco walls were professionally patched, the terracotta roofs pristine, the iron bars over windows and doorways more elaborate in design. They were entering a neighborhood of private residences, where the tall walls and fences were just short enough to give tantalizing glimpses of grass, landscaped bushes, and curving palms. A richly-colored mural covered a wall they passed, depicting a sun god and moon goddess embracing against the star-strewn sky. Distant music drifted through the alley; incongruously, it was a dance song by Lady Gaga.

This city was the place his parents had once called home. This was where they were born and grew up, met and fell in love. This was where his family’s roots were. A part of him thought he should feel more of a connection to it. But it would always be strange and unfamiliar to him, regardless of those ties and no matter how many times he came to visit cousins and aunts and uncles. No, the carnival would always be home: the small trailers and collapsible rides that locked into their cages, the neon lights and pervasive smells of sweat and grease and animals and fried food.

Rika had once taken him aside, not long after a two week visit to cousins, and asked him if he’d rather stay in Mexico longer. She worried that she and Ernie were being selfish in keeping him away from his birth family and culture; that he would one day resent them for making him grow up in the U.S. away from all of that-even when he assured her that wouldn’t be the case, she had been doubtful.

“You’re my parents, my family,” he had insisted. “Family isn’t always blood. Sometimes the family you choose is even more important. And here I feel safe. I feel wanted. Visits to cousins are fun, but they’re always awkward, too. It’s difficult to go out and have fun when you look…”

They passed a church just as the bell in the steeple tolled the half hour. Melted red and white candles covered the front steps; there were wilted flowers leaning against the wall beside a crumpled photograph. “There was a shooting four days ago,” their guide said, catching Annie’s curious glance at the makeshift shrine. “A good boy from a good family in the neighborhood was caught in the crossfire. Such a tragedy. Your uncle sent the family a very nice sympathy package. He’s always so good about watching out for the community.”

Alberto held his tongue.

Ah yes, the civic-minded Ovidio Navarro. A king on a bloody throne, more like. He’d run with a small gang as a teenager, gotten a taste for violence-based power, gone to college for business, and had come back to the streets with a cutthroat success model in one hand and a gun in the other. For a few years he played a smart con, presenting the face of a mere businessman to the daylight world whilst ordering hits and collecting money under the cover of darkness. And when he’d accumulated enough money, enough lackeys to seize full control, he’d made his move. Paid off the officials he could, ran out or murdered the ones he couldn’t, buried the remaining challengers to his empire and stepped fully into the light with a smile on his bloodied face.

Alberto had known some of this since he was a child-he remembered getting birthday and Christmas cards full of money from an Uncle Ovidio until he was seven, when Ernie started to intercept them. When he’d asked why Uncle didn’t send cards any more, his father had been upfront with him about it: “Your uncle isn’t a nice man, Al. In fact, he’s an outright bad man. And the less contact you have with him, the better.” Ernie sent the cards back unopened, and after two years they stopped coming. In retrospect, Alberto knew what truly bothered his father about the cards was the money in them-it was as good as blood money, and he didn’t want such poison in their lives.

It wasn’t until he was twelve that he heard more of the story, from his cousin Marisol. Marisol was the closest to him in age, only two months his senior, and so she had taken him under her wing more readily than the older or younger cousins-the littlest ones had still been frightened of him, dashing away and hiding when he entered a room. Marisol’s parents had moved out of Mexico City proper not long after Ovidio took control of it, and now lived in a small suburb an hour outside of town. But it was close enough for them to hear the stories, and Marisol was very good at eavesdropping at her parents’ door late at night when they discussed “the family’s shame”.

“There was a lawyer who was trying to pass laws about the drugs in the city,” she told the wide-eyed Alberto late one night when the other cousins had fallen asleep, exhausted and sunburned from swimming in Aunt Inez’s pool all afternoon. “And Uncle had him shot in front of a courthouse. In front of his kids. Isn’t that awful? Papa says Uncle is a man-shaped demon. That he doesn’t have a soul any more, because he sold it to Satan for all of his money.”

And Alberto, who had grown up with strange nightmares about a monster without skin, who in confessing his dreams to his parents had learned the truth about his birth parents and knew that demons existed, began to truly fear his shadowy uncle. What if the stories were true and Ovidio had sold his soul to Satan for earthly power? Being around darkness like that could only tarnish your own soul.

Then, five years ago, there had been a family reunion. Everyone had come together for a full week, at a fancy hotel Ovidio owned. There was a distinct undercurrent of unease-everyone knew they were there out of fear more than a sense of familial togetherness. Nothing had to be said aloud; everyone said as much with their pained expressions when the host strode through the front doors with a hearty smile and much jovial back-slapping and hand-kissing. Ovidio in his white suit, red rose at his lapel, the picture of rich, sophisticated assurance. Alberto had tried to avoid him, only to be particularly sought out.

“Alberto, my boy!” he had shouted, rushing across the room to sweep him into a crushing hug. “It’s so good to see you finally in the flesh! You’ve become quite the man-still traveling with that circus?”

He was so warm, so friendly, so downright fatherly in his manner. His tie-pin was a gold cross and he had smile-lines around his dark eyes. It was difficult to reconcile this man with the ghoulish image he’d had in his head for most of his life. But then, evil came in many forms, and sometimes the fairest face could conceal the blackest heart. He had held firm in the face of such generous affection, and had limited his interactions with his powerful uncle, distancing himself every time Ovidio tried to pull him closer.

And now, years later, he was willingly walking into the man’s domain with an outstretched hand and a request for help on his lips. It made his skin crawl. It made him nauseous. But when compared to the alternatives, moral disgust would be a small price to pay…

“Through here, please,” the man in the beige suit said, holding open a heavy black gate. Alberto stepped through first, Annie close at his heels, and had to pause to blink. It was like walking into a tropical, primordial rainforest. Spray misters hissed at their feet, coating the lush ferns and grass in cool droplets. Trees curved overhead, their leafy branches blocking out the worst of the sun and creating a dim tunnel framed in red and white flowers. There was a path made of interlocking rock, polished smooth and glossy, beckoning them forward.

“Straight through to the patio,” the man said firmly, pointing.

El Pastor was sitting at an antique mosaic table, peeling an orange with a small ivory-handled knife. He was wearing his signature white suit, a pair of reading glasses perched on the very end of his sharp nose. He looked up from his fruit and smiled broadly.

“Alberto! Good afternoon! Please, come and sit down. And who is this gorgeous lady you’ve brought with you? A girlfriend, perhaps?” He spoke in English, deep voice heavily accented.

“Hello, Uncle. This is Annie. She’s just a friend.” He pulled out a chair for Annie before settling in the one across from Ovidio. “I was expecting you at the restaurant.”

“Ah, I didn’t feel like going down into town today,” he said lightly, dropping a piece of orange peel onto the empty plate before him. “Care for some fruit?” he offered, gesturing to the overflowing bowl at the side of the table. “My chef, Max, is making a delicious chocolate mousse-it’s a perfect compliment to a fresh orange.”

“I’m rather full from lunch,” Alberto said calmly.

“Me, too,” Annie said quickly, hands clasped in her lap.

Ovidio smiled at her. “How about a drink, then? Max does a very lovely smoothie, in any flavor you could wish for. Or some wine?”

“I think we’re both good, Uncle.”

“Hmm, I see. You want this to be purely business.”

“I would prefer that.” Stay firm and calm and polite. Get this over with quickly, with the minimum of fuss or emotion. Walk away and don’t look back.

Ovidio was silent as he finished peeling his orange and broke apart the wedges. Laid them out neatly on his plate beside the discarded rind and wiped his hands fastidiously on the linen napkin spread across his lap. “…I hope Bruno wasn’t too forthright with you.” He nodded at the man in the beige suit, who was now standing at a discreet distance, hands in his pockets. The way his jacket hung made the holster under his shoulder very obvious.

“He was a bit firm.”

“You can’t get anywhere in this world without being firm,” Ovidio said. “Else everyone will walk all over you.”

Alberto doubted anyone had ever tried to walk over his uncle; certainly no one had tried it more than once.

“So, Alberto-shall we continue in English? I know it is the tongue you are most comfortable in.”

“If you would prefer Spanish, I have no objection,” Alberto said, switching languages smoothly. “My mother and father may be American, but they’re both fluent. I learned just as easily at their knees as I would have at my birth parents’.”

“I’m glad to hear it-it’s important to hold onto your roots. Rosita would have wanted you to have both worlds.” Ovidio sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair. “It grieves me so much, that you never had the chance to know her. She was such a lovely woman. Beautiful and clever and sharp as a needle. When she left with your father, I was heartbroken. She’d always been the angel on my shoulder-I was quite lost without her. And then to lose her a second time… When she passed, I had half a mind to bring you home and raise you as my own. I even flew to the States and spoke with your adoptive parents. But they were very firm about keeping you.” He picked up the peeling knife and deftly skewered a slice of orange. “It rather impressed me,” he added nonchalantly. “Their determination. It was perhaps one of the only times I have ever capitulated on a point of interest. I could have easily ignored their wishes, but it was clear that they loved you dearly. And your Aunt Estela was expecting Jorge at the time, so I decided our hands would be full enough as it was.”

Alberto kept his face carefully blank as a shiver worked its way down his spine. Rika and Ernie had to have been aware of what they were dealing with-Ovidio had just staged his dramatic coup, and no doubt Rosita would have mentioned her dangerous brother at some point during their friendship. And they had loved him enough to stand up to a man who was as good as a dictator, carnival folk against someone with the power to make them disappear. To think that he could have grown up looking at Ovidio as a father, never knowing Rika or Ernie or their nomadic life-how fucked up would his moral compass have been?

“I apologize, Uncle,” he said when he was sure his voice would be steady. “But I’m not here to talk about family history. My friends and I need some help, of the sort we hope you can provide.”

“So you said over the phone. I confess to being very curious. I had a peek at your records last night, and found nothing alarming-your student loan debt is hardly overwhelming, and things seem to be going well for your adoptive parents. Is it to do with your girlfriend? You haven’t gotten into trouble-”

“No,” Alberto said, louder and sharper than he had intended. “She’s a friend, nothing more, and it’s nothing like that.”

“I’m glad to hear it. A good Catholic boy should always marry before-”

“Do you know anything about a group calling themselves the Order of the Dragon?”

Ovidio stilled. After a long pause, he took off his glasses and folded them carefully before slipping them into an inner pocket of his jacket. “Bruno. Bring David out, please.”

The man in the beige suit nodded, turned sharply, and disappeared into the looming house.

“How have you gotten mixed up with them?” Ovidio asked, hands interlocked on the table before him.

“A friend found something they want,” Alberto said vaguely. “We need to know more about them if we’re to avoid them.”

“They are butchers,” Ovidio said baldly. “Blasphemous butchers. Once upon a time, I did business with them. They needed guns, technology. We had a brisk business arrangement. And then I discovered that they were stealing holy relics from shrines, lifting them from their sacred altars. I decided to put an end to that. And in return, before they left my city, they paid a visit to one of my dearest and oldest friends.”

A persistent squeak of rattling wheels preceded Bruno’s return. He wasn’t alone. Pushed before him in the wheelchair was a man swaddled in blankets despite the heat. He was in his late middle-age, face unlined and closely cropped black hair only lightly touched with gray. The right lens of the thick glasses pushed up flush to his face was blackened out. He was so thin as to be skeletal, his red shirt hanging off gaunt shoulders. Bruno pushed his chair up to the table beside Ovidio’s, rearranged the white blanket over the man’s lap, and stepped away without a word.

“David,” Ovidio said loudly, reaching over and patting the bony arm on the armrest. Alberto, eyes following the movement, gulped-the strange man’s fingertips were mangled, fingernails missing and skin slick with burn scars. “I would like you to meet my guests. This is my nephew, Alberto. And that pretty girl is Annie.”

“Strange looking boy,” the man said in a surprisingly hearty voice. With that withered body, only a hoarse croak would be appropriate. “You say he’s a relative?”

“Yes, he’s Rosita’s son-do you remember Rosita?”

“I remember when she was a little thing, knees scabbed and hair in pigtails. Has it really been that long?”

“Sadly, yes. How are you feeling this afternoon, David?”

“Eh, same old, same old. Can’t complain too much. The weed helps.”

“David has terminal cancer,” Ovidio said, explaining the man’s emaciated state. “The doctors prescribe marijuana for the pain.”

“Not that I need an excuse,” the man laughed. “So, what did you need, Navarro? If you need me to track someone, I’ll do my best, but I’m pretty tired after that lunch Max whipped up.”

“Alberto needs to know about the Order of the Dragon.”

The man’s face darkened immediately, as if a shade had been pulled down. “Those sons of bitches? Labeled me unclean-Touched, they called it-and tried to beat the blessing out of me. Took my eye, my fingernails,” he said, lifting his hands as proof. “Navarro pulled me out of there before they could finish the job.”

“David is my… tracker, for want of a better term,” Ovidio said.

“Human magnet, more like,” David added.

“Yes. He can find anyone if he puts his mind to it-in the city, in the country. Perhaps even the whole world. He has been blessed with an unerring sense of where people are, especially when they’re somewhere they shouldn’t be. He has been invaluable to me. A most loyal friend. When the Order discovered his ability, they took it upon themselves to ‘purify’ him. He’s already told you the methods they employed.”

“I have a good grasp on how dangerous they are,” Alberto said. “They killed my friend’s father. We need to know names. How widespread they are. Anything that will help us avoid them.”

“I can give you some names. I may even have pictures or security footage packed away-I’m very meticulous with my paperwork. I will give you what I have on the Order.”

“Thank you. And… We’ll need new passports, too.”

“For the pair of you?”

“Us, and three others.”

“…Wait here. I’ll be back shortly.” Without another word, Ovidio stood and strode into the house.

“Bruno,” David called. “Help me back inside. It’s too damn bright out here.” As the man in the beige suit hurried over, the sickly man fixed his one eye on Alberto. “God and the Virgin keep you, boy,” he said solemnly, making the sign of the cross. “You will need every blessing you can get.”

“God,” Annie said in the stillness that followed. “If someone as bad as your uncle thinks the Order’s barbaric…”

“You followed all of that?” Alberto said, turning to face her squarely.

“Pretty much. Six years of Spanish, I better be able to understand it.”

“You never mentioned to me-”

“Well, I can follow it a lot better than I can speak it. I stumble over my tongue and- I just, I dunno, never wanted to embarrass myself with you.”

“And that time you drunkenly sang “I’ll Make a Man Out of You” to me during a game of truth or dare wasn’t embarrassing?”

“Peach schnapps was involved. That automatically negates embarrassment.”

“Well, you can’t retain a language if you never speak it. If you want to practice your Spanish with me, I promise I won’t tease you when you make mistakes.”

“Alright. …This seems to be going well, yeah?”

“I’ll be glad when we’re out of here and back at the hotel. Hell, I’ll be glad when we’re out of this city.”

The door creaked open, and they both turned expecting Ovidio. Instead, a small girl stared back at them, one hand hanging onto the doorknob and the thumb of the other jammed firmly in her mouth. Alberto had only seen photos of Ovidio’s children-by all reports, the two youngest rarely left the secured confines of the house. Private tutors were driven in, and when they did leave it was under armed escort. A man like Ovidio Navarro, surely there were people out there who thought the surest way to hurt him was through his family. Alberto knew that his cousin Jorge, who was almost 24 now, was attending a boarding school in Italy, one that royalty and diplomats sent their children to. Guadalupe must be seventeen by now, so this had to be little Paloma, nine years old with hair so long it had probably never been cut. It was pulled back behind her pierced ears, half of it wound into a tight bun while the rest hung down her back in a silky curtain. Her long green dress had white butterflies printed down the pleated skirt.

“Hello,” Annie said with a smile.

The girl was silent, eyes fixed on Alberto. There was a muffled shouting in the house behind her, and a much harried older woman in a gray uniform appeared, grabbing hold of her hand. “What have I said about listening to me, señorita? You must always listen to me, especially when your father is home. Come back and finish your reading.” Clucking her tongue in disapproval, she herded her inside, closing the door firmly again.

“He has kids?”

“Yes. Three. That was Paloma, the youngest.”

“God… Imagine having a dad that…” She bit her lip and fiddled with the silver cross on her bracelet. “And he’s still married?”

“Yes.”

“How can you stay with someone when you know-she has to know, doesn’t she?”

“He can be very charming. Very affectionate. And I think fear has a lot to do with it. He has resources; men he could send; that David man said he could find anyone… Would you be brave enough to divorce a man like him?”

“If I had kids to protect, absolutely,” Annie said firmly. “I’d run as far as I could to get them away from a situation like this.”

“We all like to think we’d have the courage to do the right thing,” Alberto said softly. “But truly, if fortunes were reversed… And sometimes staying can be just as difficult. I can’t pass judgment on my aunt. She probably does the best she can.”

The door opened again and Ovidio stepped out with a manila envelope in hand. He reclaimed his chair and put on his reading glasses, unwinding the cord from the package and pulling out several glossy photo sheets. “There are three names I can give you. This man here I knew as Kovalenko-Alyosha Kovalenko.” The man in the picture was in his mid- to late-thirties, with short dark hair and a solemn face. “Eastern European judging by his accent, probably Russian. Dour and humorless man; I only met him twice, but I got the sense that he was a man all others deferred to. This one simply called himself Tibu; a South African who rarely spoke, he was my regular go-between.” Tibu was darkly tanned, with a polished shaved head and black eyes, a heavy brow and long nose. He was approximately the same age as the first man. “And this boy is Diego Fernandez, Tibu’s ‘partner’, for lack of a better term. Or perhaps apprentice would be more apt. Or assistant. Always very nervous. More a child than a man. I doubt he had been with the Order for long; I would be surprised if he was still with them-didn’t seem to have the stomach for the work.”

Diego Fernandez was very young-several years younger than Alberto, just a teenager-with dark curls and hangdog eyes. He wore a suit that didn’t suit him, that made him look like a boy playing dress-up in his father’s hand-me-downs, and had a very faint goatee. Alberto stared down at the photo and felt a strange pang of pity for him: he looked lost and scared, not like the other two with their grim, stoic, mature faces. He reminded him of other young boys, still just children, who found themselves caught up in violent organizations as a means of self-preservation: when your only other option was the gutter, sometimes taking a gun seemed the better choice. Perhaps Ovidio had even looked like this once, before he threw off the last remnants of childhood innocence and started looking at death as just another business matter.

“Bear in mind that these photos are almost sixteen years old-these men will be much older now, if they still live.” His uncle tapped the photos meaningfully, and Alberto decided that no, his uncle had never been as frightened or lost as Diego Fernandez-some people are born with flint in their soul and violence in their heart.

“These are the only names you know?”

“I know others, but they won’t be of any use to you.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I put bullets between their eyes and had their bodies dumped in the desert for the coyotes,” Ovidio said calmly, hands folded before him. “For what they did to David. These three are the three that got away, so to speak. And at the time I did not have the time nor the resources to pursue them. I am sorry, nephew, that I cannot be of more assistance to you on this matter-but I do know some of the channels they would use. I will keep my ear to the ground on your behalf, and should I hear any rumblings, I will notify you immediately. As to the passports, go to this address,” he pushed a slip of paper across the table. “The man at the counter will be expecting you. Within an hour he will have fresh passports made for you and your friends, free of charge.” He slid the photos back into the envelope and pushed that across the table, as well. “As I said, the Order is a barbaric bunch. I got them guns, experimental drugs, laundered money. I once heard Tibu refer to their operation here as Branch 5, if that gives you any idea as to their scope. Since 2001, they have avoided my city like the plague, but I have no doubt that they are still a presence in the country. Sadly, I cannot execute pest control on the whole of Mexico. But if you would like, I can offer you some protection-Bruno could go with you. He is a dead shot.”

“…Thank you, Uncle, but no thank you.”

“Then would you at least accept this?” He pulled a small, gleaming gun from his jacket and set it atop the manila envelope. “It has saved my life countless times. It would help me to sleep at night, if I knew you had it.”

“Again: thank you, Uncle, but no. I’m not comfortable carrying a gun.”

“Very well,” Ovidio sighed, returning it to his pocket. “You had a lucky childhood, Alberto, that you never had a need for a weapon.”

He thought of skinless monstrosities and said nothing.

“I hope you will stay in my city for a while, at least, and enjoy yourselves. While you are in its borders, the Order cannot touch you.”

The devil you knew, or the devil in the darkness? Such a difficult choice to make. But Alberto could hardly ask the others to hide under a mobster’s shadow forever. And it had to be better to keep moving, lest they find themselves trapped, surrounded on all sides. “Thank you, Uncle, for your help. We should really be getting back to our friends.”

“It was good to see you again, Alberto. As I said, should I hear anything relevant, I will be quick to pass it on.”

He managed a smile that was more a grimace and stood with a pointed look at Annie; but before he could turn his back on El Pastor she opened her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said in Spanish. “But how can you sit there so calmly talking of murder and smuggling? How can you say all of that without feeling like a monster? How can that mean nothing to you?”

Alberto stiffened, closed his eyes, and wrapped his lips around a prayer-only to startle when Ovidio began to laugh. “Because, señorita, I am a businessman. And business is blood. Metaphorical and literal blood. I would not be where I am today if I knew how to flinch. And I admire your spark-be good to this one, Alberto.”

When they had hurried out of the garden and back into the alley, they practically ran until they found a street teeming with people. “I’m sorry,” Annie gasped breathlessly. “I, I’m not sure what came over me-I just couldn’t leave without saying something.”

“Annie Palehorse, you have angels on your shoulders,” Alberto said fervently. “I don’t think anyone’s called El Pastor a monster to his face and walked out of his garden with his admiration, let alone all of their fingers and toes!”