The bank statements arrived, and Libardo discovered that Fernanda had been disobeying his order not to go to the casino by herself. She tried to cover her gambling with cash, but if she lost a bundle, she’d use the credit card. What Libardo didn’t know was how she was getting out without the bodyguards noticing. One night she didn’t come home at the usual time, and he decided to go ask the head bodyguard, a former police captain known as Dengue, where she was.
“We dropped her off at Margarita’s house at 3:30 this afternoon, just like we do every day, and we wait for her there until she comes out,” Dengue told Libardo.
“And she doesn’t move from there? She doesn’t leave?”
“No, boss,” Dengue said. “The only one who leaves is Margarita, but she’s always alone.”
“What?” Libardo asked, perplexed.
Dengue repeated himself, and Libardo raised his hands to his head.
“You’re a bunch of morons,” Libardo said. “If Fernanda’s going to visit Margarita, how come Margarita leaves on her own? So who’s Fernanda visiting, then?”
Visibly upset, Libardo told Julio and me that he was going to look for Fernanda and asked us to go to bed. But when he left, we sat on the stairs to wait.
When Libardo and Dengue arrived at Margarita’s house, they parked across the way, crossed the street, and rang the bell. A maid answered, and he asked for Margarita and was told she’d gone out. When he asked for Fernanda, the maid started crying.
Libardo and Dengue went back to the car.
“What do we do, boss?”
“Wait,” Libardo snorted.
They sat for a long time in silence, Dengue fidgeting in his seat. Finally Libardo asked, “Have you worked out what’s going on yet?”
“Yes, boss,” Dengue replied. “We’re waiting.”
“Right, waiting,” Libardo said.
The lights of another car shone on them. It was Margarita coming back home alone. Libardo leaped out of the car and got in front of her before she could put the car in the garage. She gripped the steering wheel as Libardo slowly approached.
“Oh, Libardo,” said Margarita.
He stopped by the rear door. Through the window he saw a shape on the floor of the car, covered by a blanket. Libardo knocked on the window and Fernanda’s head poked out from under the blanket. Her hair was tousled, and she was grinning from ear to ear.
At around eleven at night, Libardo burst through the front door of the house and dragged Fernanda inside. The living room was dark, and my brother and I were still sitting halfway up the stairs, just as we’d been when he left to look for her. She was barefoot, carrying her high heels. She tried to get free, but Libardo grabbed her forcefully and tossed her onto the sofa. Libardo hadn’t seen us, though she caught our eyes before he pushed her.
“Don’t you move,” Libardo warned her, and as soon as he took two steps to leave, she sat forward. He grabbed her by the shoulders and threw her back on the sofa. “Don’t move, damn it,” he said again.
“I want a cigarette,” Fernanda said.
She was drunk. She was slurring her words. Though she seemed lost, she kept turning around to look at us whenever she could. I was afraid of Libardo’s rage, afraid he might hit her, but he left her lying there and went to the study. Fernanda was breathless, and since she’d closed her eyes, I thought she’d passed out from the alcohol. Libardo came back to the living room. He was carrying something shiny in his hands. I was convinced it was a gun. Fernanda opened her eyes when she heard him return. He showed her what he was carrying, and she burst out laughing. It was a pair of handcuffs. Libardo grabbed her by one arm to lift her up, forced her to turn around, and cuffed her hands behind her. She kept laughing. He pushed her onto the sofa again, harder now, and she grimaced with pain.
“I don’t like you sneaking around doing these things,” Libardo hissed at her.
She sat up defiantly. “I’m not doing anything wrong.”
“And how do I know that?” he asked.
“Oh,” she said, “you think I’m like that skank you’re seeing?”
He grabbed her face hard. With his other hand he started unbuckling his belt. Fernanda looked at us out of the corner of her eye.
“Are you going to hit me?” she demanded.
“No, better—or worse,” he said, and unzipped his fly, still gripping her.
“No,” Fernanda said, and turned to look at us. Then Libardo saw us.
“You little shits,” he said, and Julio and I sprang up like we’d been hit by lightning and bolted for our rooms.
The strongest image of that night that’s stayed with me is Fernanda in handcuffs. I still don’t know whether it was part of a sexual game or the start of some sort of torture. Libardo was capable of anything. And it pained me to see Fernanda with her hands bound, as if she were the criminal.