Eddie moves down to the second guy. Red T-shirt and jeans, bad ’stache, curly black hair. This guy smiles at Eddie, like he’s figured out this is some kind of joke, that they’re all friends here.

“I’m a recruiter,” he says.

“Who do you recruit?”

“You know,” the guy says, “men who need work.”

“Soldiers?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes police. Sometimes just guys.”

Just like us, Eddie thinks. He slides down to the next one. This guy isn’t wearing a shirt, just a pair of old shorts and flip-flops.

“I’m a halcón,” he says.

“What’s that?” Eddie asks.

“You know.”

“I know,” Eddie says, playing the television host, “but our audience might not.”

“A falcon is sort of a scout,” the guy says. “I keep an eye out on the street. I tell where to find people.”

“Then what?”

“We pick them up.”

“And…” Eddie cues.

“Then the boss tells me whether or not to do el guiso,” the guy says.

“What’s el guiso?” Eddie asks.

“It’s when they kidnap someone,” the guy says, “and they torture him for information, about moving drugs or money, and then they take him to a ranch or somewhere and execute him. They shoot him in the head and then they throw him in a barrel and burn him with gas or diesel or something.”

“Tell me about the Zetas,” Eddie says. “Tell me about the nasty shit you guys do.”

The guys start talking. It turns into a regular Jerry Springer Show as they start talking about murders, kidnappings, rapes. The bare-chested guy talks about killing that woman reporter.

“That radio woman?” Eddie asks.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“She took our money,” the guy says, “but then said bad things about us.”

“What about the reporter whose hands you broke?”

“That was Ochoa.”

“What did that reporter do?” Eddie asks.

“He just made Z-1 mad.”

Eddie steps over beside the fourth guy. Making sure that only the pistol is on camera, but not himself, Eddie asks, “What about you, buddy?”

The Zeta looks up at the gun barrel.

Fuck it, Eddie thinks, and pulls the trigger.

Good thing he put the plastic up.

“Get rid of the rest of these assholes,” Eddie orders. He takes the video camera and goes back downstairs.

The little girl is in the pool, wearing inflatable water wings.

Having a great time.

Eddie goes out, sits next to the wife. “What’s her name?”

“Ina.”

“Cute. What’s your name?”

“Norma,” the woman says.

She’s pretty, maybe an eight. Not an Acapulco Eight, where the ratings are inflated, but sort of a national eight.

Eddie’s phone rings.

“Eddie Ruiz?”

“How’d you get this number?” Eddie asks, getting up and walking into the kitchen.

“You think if I can get your number, I can’t get you?” Forty asks.

“Yeah, how’s that working out for you?”

“I’m warning you,” Forty says. “Don’t hurt the family.”

Eddie looks out the window to the girl swimming in the pool and her mother dangling her feet in the water.

“I’m not you,” Eddie says. “I don’t hurt women and children.”

“I’ll tell that to those girls in Matamoros.”

“That wasn’t me.”

“No, it was those jungle bunnies, right?” Forty asks.

“You running out of Rambos?” Eddie asks. “Because you sent F Troop down here.”

Forty laughs. “You gotta lay off Nickelodeon, Crazy Eddie.”

“No, I like it.”

“Let the family go.”

Eddie clicks off as Norma and her daughter come in.

“Is she hungry?” Eddie asks. He turns to one of his flunkies. “What we got? For a kid?”

“I don’t know. Cheerios, maybe. A banana?”

“Then give her Cheerios and a banana,” Eddie says. “What are you standing there for?”

The girl sits down at the table and eats hungrily. Eddie watches her. When she’s done, he reaches into his pocket and gives Norma a thousand pesos. “Bus fare. My guys will run you to the station.”

She takes the money.

“What about my husband?” Norma asks.

“He said to tell you that he loves you,” Eddie says.

Actually, he didn’t. Eddie doesn’t even know which one he was, but what the fuck, right? Make the woman feel a little better, something to tell her friends. After they leave, he slips the videocassette into an envelope, addresses it to the Dallas Morning News, and has one of his guys drop it off at FedEx.

Then he goes back to Acapulco and thinks about maybe starting a new career.

Filmmaking.

His phone rings and it’s Diego. “You have someone’s wife and kid?”

“I did.”

“Oh shit, Eddie.”

“No, not that,” Eddie says. “I put them on a bus home.”

Diego sighs with relief and then asks, “What about the men?”

Eddie says, “Let’s go to the videotape.”

Santa Marta, Colombia

This time Magda went to Benito Juárez Airport to catch a flight bound for Colombia and actually made it on board.

Which was a definite improvement and the difference between being connected, via Adán, to Nacho Esparza and not being connected. Technically still a fugitive on the Most Wanted list, she used a different passport, but no one even took a second look, even though her photo was once plastered over every front page in the country.

True, she dyed her hair blond and had sort of a Christina Aguilera, Shakira thing going on, but that wouldn’t fool anyone who didn’t want to be fooled, and she did it more as a style statement than an effort at disguise.

It was refreshing, different, and she wanted to see if men reacted to her differently as a blonde.

The reaction was actually pretty much the same, the men’s eyes went from her hair to her boobs to her legs and then made the trip back up again, but it is fun to be a blonde for a change.

In any case, she breezed through check-in and passport control and took her seat on the plane.

First class, of course.

She accepted a mimosa and settled back into the cushioned seat and started in on her stack of magazines—Spanish editions of Vogue, WWD, and Cosmo—which featured photos of clothes that she could actually afford now.

With Adán’s money.

But Magda doesn’t want Adán’s money.

She wants her own money. Like that Destiny’s Child song, right? She sings the lyrics to herself—

The shoes on my feet, I bought ’em

The clothes I’m wearing

I bought ’em.

That’s what Magda wants, because at the end of the day men are like stockings—no matter how well you take care of them, they eventually run on you.

It was a short flight into Simón Bolívar International Airport in Santa Marta, and as Magda “deplaned,” as they say, she vaguely recalled from high school history classes that Bolívar was born here or died here, one of the two.

Jorge used to take her here a lot, to this, the oldest city in Colombia, with its beautiful beaches on the Caribbean and its fine hotels. They would come for a week or just a weekend and lie on the sand, and then get a little drunk at some bar on the beach, and then go back to the cabana and make love. Then they’d have dinner and go out to one of the clubs on the Parque de Los Novios and dance until the sun came up.

It was nice.

—

Jorge is surprised to see her, to say the least, when she appears at the terrace of the hotel bar overlooking the sea.

He always liked to have lunch here, so Magda had no trouble finding him. And he’s still handsome—the hair a trifle thinner—and still stylish in a sky-blue shirt tucked into white jeans. Hasn’t gained a pound, has Jorge, his stomach is tight, his tan rich, his eyes match the color of his shirt as he takes off designer shades to make sure he’s seeing what he thinks he’s seeing.