Page 92 of Hit Man
“Margarita.”
My heart skips a beat. Of all names . . . Margarita . . . my best friend’s name. A pang of remorse hits me. Remorse for my loss. Remorse that I failed to accomplish what I set out to do here in Mexico City.
“I don’t mind if we stop,” I tell him, returning the photo to him.
“The bellboy is her cousin, Fredo. My nephew,” he offers before falling silent.
I sit back in my seat.
A few blocks later, we stop in front of a church. No sooner does he pull to a halt than a little girl comes bursting out of the arched doorway. He opens the back door for her and she slips into the seat next to me.
In a blink, she’s grinning broadly as her hand slides over mine.
“Margarita is a beautiful name,” I tell her.
“What is your name?” she asks in perfect English.
“Aubrey.”
“Aubrey is a beautiful name too,” she tells me with a broad, gap-toothless grin, and taking my hand firmly into her own, holds it tightly.
As do I with her little hand—actually I never want to let go. I feel an immediate affinity to this child. Perhaps it’s her warm smile or perhaps it’s simply her name and how she reminds me of my best friend.
“I will drop her home first. Okay?” her father asks.
“Yes. Of course,” I respond with slight hesitation.
A short while later as the taxi breaks free of the high-rise jungle, the scenery abruptly changes. The bright blue sky overhead is deceiving because what it looks down upon is nothing short of dismal.
Homes with brick facades turn into shacks with scrap-metal siding. The paved street ends giving way to a labyrinth of winding dirt streets that are laid out with no rhyme or reason. The pungent smell of sewage mixed with the rotting garbage has me closing the small crack I’d left in the back window.
“Where are we?” I murmur.
“Neza Chalco.”
My eyes go wide.
When I conducted my research on the largest slum in the world, I kept coming across the termabject poverty.Abjectmeans “the lowest extreme possible” andpovertyis a word familiar to everyone, old and young. Yet I was so caught up in my work and like most people who never truly struggled in life, I stored this term away without truly understanding the depths of meaning behind it.
Desperation.
Neglect.
Almost beyond hope.
Deep inside, I feel my resolve grow stronger. I might be leaving Mexico City as soon as feasibly possible but I’m not going to abandon my dream of helping those in need.
I won’t disappoint Margarita. I can’t bear the thought of doing so.
“I’m sorry,” the driver tells me.
“Don’t be. You do what you can to survive in this world. I understand that, I really do.”
My words seem to sadden him, so I stop talking.
We turn down a side street. Crammed full of children playing, woman gossiping within tightly knit circles, men with brown-bagged bottles lining the roadways, and street vendors. Six vendors dominating one small area. He parks in front of a larger scrap-metal structure.
“Will you come inside for a Fresca?” he offers.
