The Dead Women of Juarez by Sam Hawken Page A

turn your back on me,
cabrón!
You don’t got nothing in Juárez without me. You think Urvano can get you into real fights? They’ll find out all about where you been, what you done.”
    “You don’t know what I did.”
    “Fucking
bolillo!
”
    Kelly saw the way out and picked up the pace. One of the big men from the truck stepped in his way. The man still wore his Gargoyles. He was tall and wide and hard as cement beneath his black T-shirt. A tattoo of
La Virgen de Guadalupe
stood out in blue and red on his forearm. “Out of the way,” Kelly told him.
    The big man didn’t move. Ortíz caught up. “Let him out,” he told the man. “He can
walk
back to his fucking hole in the wall. I should have Lalo run your white ass over.”
    Enough
. Kelly whirled on Ortíz and the smaller man took a step back. He still held his bottle, but by the neck like a weapon. “Goddammit, you little son of a bitch,” Kelly said. “You want to fight with me? I don’t give a shit how many guys you got with you, I’ll tear you a new asshole!”
    Kelly felt Lalo move behind him. Ortíz put his hand up. “No,” he said.
    “You find somebody else to bleed for you,” Kelly told Ortíz. “I’m out.”
    He left the arena and exited into the hot, clean sunlight. He skirted around the big pick-up and headed up the dust-heavy street. Ortíz didn’t follow, nor Lalo or any of the other men from the truck. Kelly was alone.

PART TWO

Sospechoso

ONE
    O N THE DAY AFTER HE SLEPT late instead of getting up for roadwork. He ate a healthy breakfast, but his heart wasn’t in it and he went to a
taquería
for something greasy. There he ate until his stomach started to feel all wrong and before he walked half a mile he puked his guts out against the side of a building. He wandered after that, not sure where to go or what to do. He didn’t like what he was feeling, which was angry and sad and lost all at once.
    It occurred to him to call on Paloma, but he didn’t. Nor did he make the trip to Urvano’s gym. A part of him felt like he should work out harder than before and prove something, but another part urged Kelly to simply be. He bought a liter-sized bottle of cheap beer and sat on the edge of an overpass watching buses go by. When he finished the bottle, he dropped it over the side into a concrete-lined ditch and smiled at the sound of shattering glass.
    He misspent the time until well after noon. When he got back to his apartment he was suddenly tired and took a nap for nearly three hours. He was aware of raised voices outside, a man and a woman squabbling and plainly audible through the open window, but they didn’t wake him; instead he dreamed about arguing with Paloma until she turned her back on him and disappeared.
    Kelly woke up sweating and smelling like beer. He showered and put on fresh clothes, but then he just sat on the couch in his living room staring at the blank television. “Fuck you,” he said tono one, though maybe he was talking to Ortíz. He gave the TV a middle finger.
    The walk back from the
palenque
was long, even with a bus hop along the way, and Kelly was aware now of how his feet hurt. He foraged aspirin from the bathroom, chewed two and waited half an hour for them to kick in. A half-hour after that Kelly still felt the ache. He forced himself to be still for another hour because he knew he shouldn’t go out the door to do what was on his mind.
    He went back to a little
norteño
bar and found the woman with perfect white dentures again, tucked away in her little corner under the Christmas lights. Aside from the bartender, they were alone; shift change was still an hour away. The woman looked at Kelly suspiciously when he sat down across from her; she didn’t remember him, or maybe she just didn’t recognize Kelly when his face was healed.
    “What do you got?” Kelly asked her.
    “
No sé de lo que usted está hablando
,” the woman said, and she made to get up.
    Kelly reached across the table. He put his