“I’m a drunk who lives by himself in the desert,” Sr. Ortíz says. “Nobody in that bar is going to think I’m doing anything. That would require them to think about me to begin with—and they don’t.”
Behind him, the sun has dipped into the earth, lobbing its serene glow above the horizon, catching drifts of sand and clouds that burst like fireworks frozen in the sky. From where I sit, the sunset looks as if it emerges from Sr. Ortíz’s silhouette, like a radiant spring.
We have been here for a day. An agonizing day of nothing to do but think about what happened. I’ve asked Sr. Ortíz for chores—something, anything to help keep my thoughts at bay. But he seems to feel bad putting me, or us, to work. So his respect for what we’ve been through sentences me to a full day inside my head.
What’s worse, we know little more than we did when we left. Most people I know don’t have Internet in their house—Sr. Ortíz is no exception. He’s not even on the electric grid, so no TV either. None of us owns a cell phone, and even if we wanted to call someone, I doubt there would be any service out here. And the radio in the truck stopped working years ago.
But none of this really matters anyway. They don’t report much here about the narcos. To dig inside their world is to put yourself at risk. Journalists have seen firsthand what these thugs are capable of. These truths are only whispered. It’s for this reason that Sr. Ortíz volunteers to leave us, to head out into the night to listen to those whispers.
“Where is this bar?” Marcos asks.
“Nowhere you would know… People there talk.” He stretches out the space between the sentences. He does this often, as if the right words, no matter how simple or complex, are always just out of reach.
“What kind of people?”
“The kind of people who drink too much and talk too much.”
“Have you been there before?”
“Not in a while. I stay out here.”
“You can’t say anything about us. Anything.”
“I won’t need to. I’m just going to listen. Almost forty people died… They’ll be talking about it.”
“And you don’t think that your showing up will make anybody suspicious?”
“No. Why would it?”
“Are you sure you’re okay going?” I ask. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Look, I know you’re nervous. Nothing is going to happen. I’m an old borracho at the bar. A drunk. They don’t even see me. Why do you think I stopped going?”
For the first time since our arrival, I look beyond myself and see a different kind of sadness—his. I think of the chores he wouldn’t let us do today, and it occurs to me that this is a job he wants to take on. It’s a chance to break free from whatever keeps him out here.
“Okay. Thanks for going,” I say.
Minutes later, he unchains a rusty motorbike, which is leaned up against an equally weathered barrel. He climbs on and snaps his foot down on the kick-starter. Blue smoke peppers the air, popping in an irregular sputter. He waves and zips down the road, bouncing beneath a rising trail of dust.
“We’re really lucky we found him,” Gladys says.
Lucky.
It’s a strange word to use. I wonder if this is how it happens. If this is how you go on. If you simply decide that, in some small way, you got a break. That in spite of nearly everything that could have gone wrong, that did go wrong, a few of the cosmic dice have rolled in your favor. Enough to get by. Enough to leave you with a splinter of hope. And you build from there.
I don’t want to agree. I want to hold on to self-pity and loathing. They comfort me, warming me with the tearful memories of what was.
Still, I nod, like the others, and wonder if they’re thinking the same thing.
• • •
I’m nearly asleep when I hear a soft sputter in the distance. We all hurry outside and watch as the lone, dim headlight comes toward us, zigging and zagging more than is necessary to avoid the shallow trenches in the rutted road.
As Sr. Ortíz pulls into the yard, his bike slows down and begins to wobble. He puts both legs out to brace himself, but teeters too far to his right and tumbles into the dirt. We race over to him.
“It’s not good,” he slurs.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine. But it’s not good.”
Marcos pulls the bike off him and puts him on his feet, which are stable enough for him to stay upright in a continual sway.
“What’s not good?” Marcos asks.
“All the rumors. There are a lot of rumors.”
“What are they saying?”
“We need to go inside. I need to sit down.”
“No, tell us now,” Marcos insists.
“How long do you think I’m going to stay standing?” His words are drawn out, but they lack his normal hesitation. He speaks fluidly, as if the tequila has removed his filter.
We help him back into the house, then carefully guide him around the coffee table to the couch. We sit in the same places where we sat this morning, silent, fearing the worst. And Sr. Ortíz delivers it.
“The gang that did it was La Frontera…” he says, holding on to the slur at the end of the sentence, indicating there’s more. But this is enough bad news to process.
La Frontera. The Border. Among the cartels, they have a reputation for being the most violent and aggressive. They don’t just kill—they maim, they mutilate, they disrespect every aspect of their victims’ lives. And they don’t hide it. They flaunt it. They want the attention, the respect. Even their name is arrogant, as if they own and control everything in this unfortunate stretch of land we call home.
“And they’re looking for you,” Sr. Ortíz continues.
“Are you sure? How do you know?” Marcos asks.
“Because there’s a reward.”
“For us?” Arbo asks.
“Dead or alive.”
“How do they know who we are? There are four of us. Do they know all of us?” Arbo asks.
Sr. Ortíz reaches into his pocket and unfolds a page torn from a newspaper.
“It’s from the front page,” he says.
He holds it out for us to see. It features a picture of each of us below the headline DESAPARECIDOS. The edges are jagged where the paper was ripped, as if it had been tacked onto the wall in some narco den. Which it surely is somewhere. Not only do the narcos know our names, but they now have thousands of papers across Mexico helping them search for us. The headline might as well read WANTED instead of MISSING.
Maybe our photos were published in a genuine effort to find us, but it’s much more likely that the narcos run the newspaper or that they have influence over those who do.
The photos are our school pictures. I look at mine with envious eyes. I was a different person then, with a different life I desperately wish I still had.
None of us speak. A quiet whimper from Gladys is the only sound. Then Marcos grabs the sheet.
“Where is the article that goes with it?” Marcos asks.
“I just tore off the picture,” Sr. Ortíz answers.
“Why did they do it?”
“Because they’re narcos.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that nobody knows.”
“Somebody knows.”
“I’m sure they had some senseless reason, like wanting to show how tough they are. They’re narcos. They’re not like you and me. They don’t have morals. They don’t think, they just do, and they don’t care who they hurt.”
“Are you sure about the reward?” Arbo asks.
“I asked a few people, and they all said the same thing.”
“You asked?” barks Marcos. “You were only supposed to listen.”
Sr. Ortíz shrugs. “I asked a few people I know.”
“I thought you didn’t know anybody,” Marcos says.
“I used to. They’re old frien…people I used to know.”
“And you don’t think that coming out of your hut in the desert to ask them questions about what happened looks a little odd?” Marcos’s tone grows angrier.
“Here’s what you’re not getting—it’s what everybody is talking about. If I hadn’t asked, it would have been strange.” He flops his head back onto the pillow behind him.
“And what if you’re wrong?” Marcos asks.
Sr. Ortíz tries to stand, but a misplaced hand on the armrest lands him back in his seat. Unfazed, the kind wrinkles vanish from his face and he glares at Marcos.
“Look, you little pinche pendejo, this is my house. Not yours. You think you’re the only one in trouble here? If they come to get you, what do you think they’re going to do to me? I’m not a drunk idiot. I’m just a drunk. And I got you answers. So if you want help, then here’s what you should say: ‘Thank you.’ Then shut up.”
Marcos turns and walks out of the house.
Sr. Ortíz drops his head back onto the pillow again and that’s the end of it. Or nearly the end. One question remains.
“How much is the reward?” I whisper.
He doesn’t open his eyes to answer.
“Twenty-five hundred…dollars,” he says. “Per person.”
The reward for the four of us is more than some people make in an entire year.
I don’t sleep that night.