Dirty Angels

  “Well, Mama, it’s your birthday and I have,” I said, brushing back her hair. I looked over at my father who was watching us with a wry smile on his face, a few crumbs caught in his greying beard.

  “You’re a good woman, Luisa,” Papa said. I gestured to his beard and he wiped the crumbs off. He continued, “But you shouldn’t be spending so much on your mother and I.”

  “Are you jealous, Papa?” I asked wryly, getting up and pouring them both another cup of coffee. “I’m sure she will let you use it when she’s not.” He quickly put his warm hand over mine and looked at me with gentle eyes, the kind of look that made my heart bleed when I realized how close I was to losing this man.

  “I always like it when you read to me,” he said. “I am happy with that. When you were younger you used to make up stories. Crazy little stories about trolls and goblins and princesses with swords. Do you remember that?”

  I couldn’t recall any particular stories, but when I was younger and we didn’t have enough money for toys, I would make up stories instead. I always liked the darker ones, the scarier ones, the ones with the villains and the ugliest creatures—those were the most like real life. Fairytales and happily-ever-afters were for people in other countries.

  I kissed him on his forehead. “I remember you telling me to stop telling them, that I was scaring you.”

  Suddenly the Kobo started speaking and my mother jumped in her seat, letting out a nervous laugh. “Woo, this scared me.”

  I went over to her, picked it up, and pressed pause. Though the Baja state was often behind in the times, the local library did have an e-reader program where you could borrow e-books and audiobooks for free. Now that my library fees were all settled, I had borrowed a range of crime thrillers for her to listen to.

  I left the house later feeling relatively happy. I hated the fact that I had to go back to work and face Bruno again, but knowing that my parents were full from lunch, my mom was listening to her books for the first time, and my father seemed stronger than normal, it was enough to get me by. Sometimes, when I took the car onto the highway that led me to Cabo San Lucas and the sea air came through the open windows just right, it was enough to bring a smile to my face. In those moments I always lived outside of my reality, outside my head, and was just a child of the earth, an element like the sun and water.

  When I finally got to work—traffic being especially heavy today—I was relieved to find the bar half-empty and Bruno nowhere in sight.

  “Where is everyone?” I asked Camila at the till before I headed to the washroom to change from my sundress to the dreaded uniform.

  She shrugged, her long earrings rattling lightly. “Just one of those days. Bruno went out and I don’t think he’s coming back. Anita should be coming on the floor any minute. Dylan and Augustin are in the kitchen.”

  Thank god. I didn’t want to see Bruno and remember his eyes on my body, his grimy hands on my breasts. I got changed and started my shift feeling a million times lighter.

  For the first hour I only had two tables—one was an older gentleman with a bowtie who was more than content to sit alone in the corner and nurse his martini, while the other was three giggling girls. They looked to be around my age, maybe younger, but had the newest fashions and those carefree smiles that only belonged to girls who never knew what struggle was, who had the world at their fingertips and the appetite to make it work for them. Part of me hated them, my insides writhing with jealousy, even though I knew it was very wrong. I tried to be a good person, to do right, but sometimes it was hard not to feel how hopeless it all was.

  But I was nice to the girls, and they tipped me quite well, and I made a note not to be so judgemental. I was filling up a bottle of hot sauce behind the bar when I heard someone clear their throat.

  I turned to see a man staring at me. At least he looked like he was staring at me—he was wearing sunglasses inside.

  “Can I help you?” I asked, remembering to smile.

  The man didn’t return the smile. With a deathly pale face and an all-black suit on his skinny, tall frame, he looked like an agent of death. “I’m here with a friend of mine,” he said, voice completely monotone. “We would like you to be our server.”

  I looked over his shoulder to see a table nearest the patio occupied by a large man, his back to me. Camila was walking past him, giving me an I-don’t-know look. “That’s usually Camila’s area…” I started.

  “We don’t care. My friend would like you to be our server. We will make sure you are treated justly and tipped generously.”

  I swallowed uneasily. Why was this guy wearing shades now anyway?

  “All right,” I said carefully. “I’ll be with you in a minute. Will you be having food?”

  The man nodded and then went back to the table. I quickly waved Camila over while their backs were turned to me.

  “Who are they?” I whispered, pulling her close.

  “I don’t know. They just sat down and said they wanted you to serve them. I said they’d have to ask you.”

  “He’s weird. He’s wearing shades inside. And it’s nighttime.”

  “The other guy is too,” she said. “In fact, the other guy looks familiar and not in a good way.”

  The skin at the back of my neck prickled. “Familiar like he comes in here sometimes?”

  Camila looked me dead in the eyes. “Familiar like I’ve seen his face on the news. But with the glasses, it’s hard to tell.”

  I straightened up and looked back at them. The man who had spoken to me was watching me with an impassive look on his face, his hands folded in front of him like he’d been waiting awhile. The other man, the one that Camila said looked familiar, was sitting there rigidly, but I still couldn’t see his face.

  I grabbed the menus and Camila squeezed my hand for good luck. I walked carefully over to them, reminding myself that these men probably just wanted a hot waitress to attend to them, that they didn’t have to want anything else, and that I would be tipped for my efforts.

  I stopped in front of the table and smiled. “Hello, my name is Luisa. I’ll be your server tonight.”

  The other man looked up at me and my breath caught in my throat. Camila was right. He did look familiar. Though his wide aviator sunglasses covered up his eyes, there was no mistaking the overly thick mustache peppered with grey or the mullet-like swoop of hair on his head. His face was scarred in places, with both scratches and pockmarks, and had that slightly bloated look that middle-aged men got. Though his clothes were simple—faded blue jeans and a western shirt over his beer paunch—they didn’t hide the immense power and notoriety this man had.

  He was none other than Salvador Reyes, one of the most feared and well-documented cartel leaders in the country. And he was sitting in my bar, asking me to serve him.

  I kept the smile plastered on my face while invisible fingers trailed ice down my back. This could not be a good thing. This wasn’t even his area; he controlled most of Sinaloa. Aside from Tijuana, most of the Baja Peninsula was relatively untouched by the cartels and the impending drug violence.

  Untouched until now.

  I was vaguely aware that both men were staring at me through their sunglasses, their faces grave and unmoving. I quickly placed the menus down on the table like they were hot to touch and launched into my specials. “Nachos are half price as are the buckets of Tecate,” I said, nervously tripping over the words.

  The man I thought was Salvador picked up the menu and glanced at it briefly. The other man didn’t even look.

  Finally Salvador smiled. It was nothing if not creepy. “Top shelf tequila, two shots. And the nachos. Please, Luisa.”

  I nodded and quickly trotted back to the kitchen to place my order with Dylan. I felt something at my back and whirled around to see Camila staring at me expectantly.

  “Well? Do you know what I mean?”

  I nodded, trying to stay calm. “He does look familiar. But I don’t know how. They seem harmless.”


  The funny thing was that I felt like if I told Camila it was Salvador, the infamous drug lord, things would take a turn for the worse. Right now he was in the bar, with his friend, probably his right hand man—the one who lives with the jackal—and no one seemed to notice him or care. This was good. This man had the power to murder everyone in here if he wanted to and completely get away with it. To him and to many others, he had a right to rape me in the back room and I could never press charges, or he could rape me in front of everyone, and no one—not even Camila—would ever dare say anything. This man was above the law, as so many men in Mexico were, and the less attention that was brought to that fact, the better.

  For my sake and the sake of everyone around me, I had to pretend that I didn’t know who this man was.

  I went over to the bar and poured a special edition of Patron that we only had for high rollers, my hands shaking so badly that the tequila spilled over the edges and I had to mop it up with a washcloth, then took the shots over to the table. I thanked Jesus that I had worn my ballet flats to work today instead of the ridiculous heels that Bruno often made us wear.

  The men were conversing with each other, voices low, and I stood back for a few moments to let them finish before I placed the shots in front of them.

  “Here is a special edition of Patron.” For the patron, I finished in my head.

  “You didn’t get one for yourself,” Salvador said, smiling again. He did have very white teeth, probably all fake. Even though I had seen his picture on the news and in the paper on occasion, I’d always imagined his teeth would be gold.

  “I can’t drink at work,” I told him, forcing confidence into my voice and trying out that smile again.

  “That is nonsense. What do you think this is, America? Of course you can drink at work,” he said. “I don’t see your boss anywhere and I promise I won’t tell.” There was a teasing quality to his voice, the kind that people used when they were flirting, but the concept of Salvador flirting was a hard thing to swallow. I was reminded about how wrong this situation was.

  “I’ll go have a shot for you after work,” I said.

  “And when is that?” he asked. He still hadn’t had the drink yet. “When do you get off work?”

  Damn it.

  “When the bar closes, at three a.m.” I tried to sound nonchalant, adding an extra hour.

  “Then we shall wait here until you are done with your shift. And we will have the shot then. Isn’t that right, friend?” he said, looking across the table. The pale man nodded but didn’t say anything.

  “I don’t think that sounds like a lot of fun,” I said, the words coming out of my mouth before I could stop them. Salvador stared at me, his thick greying brows knitted together but I still continued. “I mean, there are better bars here in Cabo. This one is pretty boring—I should know, I work here.” I attempted a smile again. I felt like I was slipping. “Are you two just here on business or…?”

  Salvador stared at me for a few long moments—moments that had me cursing in my head—before running his stubby fingers over his mustache, his gold rings glinting. “We are not here on business. We are here to relax. Have a little fun. Enjoy the beach.” He picked up the glass of Patron. “And we’re here to get drunk. And I don’t think you have any right to tell us where we can do that. If we want to get drunk here, if we want to wait until three in the morning for you to get off your shift, we can do that. And we will do that.”

  At that, both he and the other man slammed back their shots.

  I gulped and squeaked out a “sorry” and then turned to leave.

  “Oh, Luisa,” Salvador called, stopping me in mid-step. “Do come back here. We aren’t finished with you.”

  I closed my eyes, trying to find my inner strength, willing myself to stay calm, before I went back to him.

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “I have a few questions for you. If you answer them truthfully, I will not wait for you until you are done with your shift. I will leave now and leave you a lovely tip for your cooperation. If you lie to me, I will not tip you. I will instead wait for you. And then hopefully you will learn to be honest with me—at three in the morning. You understand?”

  “Yes,” I said, barely audible. My knees started to shake.

  “Good,” he said. He rubbed again at his mustache, seemingly in thought, then asked, “Where do you live?”

  “In San Jose del Cabo.”

  Please, please, please don’t ask for my address, I thought.

  “Ah. And who do you live with?”

  “M-my mother and father.”

  “No husband.”

  “No.”

  “Children?”

  I shook my head.

  “Boyfriend?”

  “No, just my mother and father. I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  I knew that’s what he wanted to hear. His smile became very sly.

  “Good girl. Boyfriends are useless. You need a husband—a man, not a boy.”

  I didn’t say anything to that. My mouth was drying up.

  He went on, looking around, “Is this your only job?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long have you been working here?”

  “Three years.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “Are you happy?”

  I frowned at him, taken off-guard. “What?”

  “I asked if you were happy. Are you happy?”

  “Are you happy?” I retorted.

  He raised his brows. “Yes. Of course. I have everything I could ever want … almost.”

  He wanted me to comment on the almost part, I could tell. But I steeled myself against curiosity.

  “How nice. Well, I am poor and I work this job to take care of my parents, who are sick. I have always been poor and I have always worked hard. I am not happy.” I was slightly amazed at the honesty that was coming out of my mouth, things I didn’t even admit to myself.

  “Do you ever get in trouble for talking back?” he asked, and for a moment I thought I was in big trouble. Then he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, you can be trained out of that. So you’re not happy. But you’re so beautiful, Luisa. Beautiful enough to bring me in here, to make me want to talk to you, to make me want to know more about you.”

  “Beauty means nothing,” I said.

  “Ah, but you’ve won pageants before, prizes that have given you money.”

  My heart jump-started. “How did you know that?”

  “I know many things,” he went on, “and I want many things. Final question: are you a virgin?”

  My cheeks immediately grew hot. “That is none of your business.”

  He grinned like a crocodile. “I’m afraid it is my business. Whether you like it or not, you are my business now. You can tell me the truth or I can wait until three in the morning and I’ll find out for myself. Oh, and don’t act like you’re going to call the police over this. You know exactly who I am and you know exactly what I can do.”

  I felt like I was seconds away from fainting, the fear was so great. But somehow I managed to say, “Yes, I am a virgin.”

  He nodded in sleazy satisfaction. “I thought as much. Perhaps that is why you’re so unhappy.”

  He looked to the other man who brought out his wallet. He placed $500 on the table.

  My mouth dropped open at the wad of money just sitting there while Salvador and the man got out of the booth. I quickly backed out of the way.

  “You can eat the nachos,” Salvador said, hiking up his jeans and looking me over. “You look like you could use a bit more weight in those thighs. I wouldn’t want to hurt you … much.”

  Then Salvador and the man left the bar. One moment they were here and I was caught in the most frightening conversation of my life, the next minute they were gone. I stood there for a long time, trying to wrap my head around what had happened. Then I realized that they had gone, for real, and there was a huge amount of money on the table wai
ting for me.

  I quickly scooped it up and stuffed it down my shirt before anyone could see. Then I tried to go back to work, but every hour I was looking over my shoulder in fear that the drug lord would come back.

  He didn’t come back that night. Not even when I finished my shift.

  But he did come back the next day.

  And the next.

  And the next.

  And the next.

  Until I learned not to fear him as much.

  Until he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Luisa you’ve barely touched your food,” my mother said. I looked up from my plate to her blank stare, always wondering how she could sense such things. It must have been motherly instinct.

  “I’m just not very hungry,” I admitted, pushing the chicken around on my plate, my head and heart heavy as if someone had opened my mouth and poured sand inside me.

  She slowly placed her fork down and sighed. “You haven’t been yourself for the last few weeks. Is there something you need to talk about? Is it work?”

  I glanced at my father. He was eating away, apparently content. I knew he wasn’t really here right now—when my father was one hundred per cent himself, he was very intuitive and a straight shooter. I could rarely keep things from him either.

  “It’s not work,” I said slowly, knowing that I was going to have tell them. I just didn’t know how. They wouldn’t see it the way I saw it. I wondered how much I could hide from them.

  “Mama, papa,” I said. I cleared my throat and straightened up in my chair. Even though my mother couldn’t see me, I felt her looking. Only my dad remained lost in lost thoughts, and for once I was okay that he would have no reaction. “I met a man.”