The Dead Women of Juarez by Sam Hawken Read Free Book Online Page B

his side. Kelly opened up and Sevilla walked in without further invitation.
    His full name was Rafael Sevilla and he was, to the best of Kelly’s estimation, closing in on sixty or just past it. His hair used to be black, but now was mostly white, though the whiskers of his little beard were still hanging on. He tended to short as many Mexican men did, but he made up for it with an upright bearing and presence.
    “Good morning, Kelly,” Sevilla said in English. He always spoke English to Kelly, even though his accent was heavy.
    “Señor Sevilla.”
    Sevilla investigated the kitchenette, the empty pans and dishes. He had a large nose and dark eyes and a heavy, melancholy face. He joked he was part hound. Kelly stood by the open door. He glanced outside. Sevilla was alone.
    “I hear you went to the clubs with Estéban last night,” Sevilla said. “All night long, club after club. You know, I wonder what the two of you are up to when you do that.”
    Kelly finally closed the door. Sevilla wandered to Kelly’s couch and sat down. He had an old man’s belly, but he wasn’t fat. He always rested so his gun was available, never pinned beneath or beside him.
    “Are you two selling drugs to the Americans again?” Sevilla asked.
    “Wouldn’t the city police want to know?” Kelly returned. He went to the kitchenette and busied himself cleaning. It was easier to keep his voice steady when his hands were busy under warm, soapy water. “Not state police.”
    “We’re all on the same side,” Sevilla said. “Besides, you know what drugs mean these days. Did you know they found six bodies without their heads outside the city limits last week? Who knows where the heads are.”
    “Estéban isn’t cutting off anybody’s head.”
    “Maybe I see a bigger picture. Maybe I’d like to know where Estéban gets his product.”
    Kelly rinsed and dried his pan. “No one cares about a little weed.”
    “Marijuana? Not really. Who hasn’t had a little
hierba
? But drugs are on everyone’s mind now. We have more federal police in the city than we have flies.”
    “So, what, then?” Kelly asked.
    “
Chinaloa
,” Sevilla said, and he looked over his shoulder at Kellywith his dark eyes. Kelly couldn’t figure their color; maybe they were brown, or maybe green. He didn’t like to look too long, because it was the intensity behind them that made him uncomfortable more than the mystery of their color. Kelly watched his hands instead.
    “I don’t handle that stuff.”
    “Never?”
    “Never. You should know that by now.”
    “But Estéban deals it,” Sevilla said.
    “You know that, too. Goddammit,” Kelly said, and he cracked two plates together in the sink. “Don’t you get tired of coming around here? I got nothing for you. Okay? Nothing.”
    Sevilla made a gesture with his hands as if he were tossing an invisible ball back and forth. He half-smiled and turned away. “Maybe I just like to talk to you, Kelly. Nobody wants to talk English with me.”
    “Talk to the
turistas
,” Kelly said.
    “Even
turistas
hate cops. They think we’re all taking money or looking to bust them for having a good time. Why do they think that, Kelly?”
    Kelly shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s you they don’t like.”
    “That’s being cruel.”
    They fell silent. Kelly dried the dishes and put them away. He didn’t look at Sevilla, but he felt the man at his back, eyes always searching.
    “How is Paloma?” Sevilla asked at last.
    “She’s good.”
    “Have I told you I respect her?” Sevilla asked. “She does good work with that group of hers. Many families are touched by the tragedy. Some of them would surprise you.”
    “I’ll bet.”
    “You’re eating with her and Estéban today?”
    Kelly turned back to Sevilla. The policeman’s face was the same: heavy and sad looking, with a touch of flinty purpose behind the eyes. His body seemed relaxed, but somehow Kelly knew Sevilla wasnever at rest. “Yes,” Kelly