Page 93 of Liar
“I vaguely remember what he looks like. Tall, skinny kid, right? Can you send me a picture of him?” I exhale a sigh of relief when I hear the excitement in Diego’s tone.
“Yes, on both accounts. And I’ll send you several.” I bite my lip, still full of questions. “Do you truly believe the Bastard doesn’t suspect a tunnel is being dug?”
“He told me to monitor the Sureños and report back when something comes up. No mention of a tunnel. But you’re right, he probably knows and is waiting to spring the information on me when he thinks the time is right.” Diego grows quiet then whistles again. “Do you see what he’s done? We’re in position to financially ruin Ignacio, aren’t we? There’s a reason he had me working with motherfucking explosives, isn’t there?”
“Yes.” I see it all too clearly.
“He’s a badass, Boss is. A master manipulator.” Instead of anger, there’s admiration in Diego’s tone. But my outrage is enough for both of us.
“Just be careful, Diego. The Sureños might recognize you—Eduardo might as well.”
“Never mind being recognized—the dynamite might kill me when I blow up the tunnel.” He chuckles, and I’m swaying on my feet. If Ignacio is a sly cabrón, what does that make the Bastard?
A dangerous, deceptive liar.
He trained Diego in explosives months ago.
He assigned him to Tijuana weeks ago.
If there’s anyone positioning himself to rule Loreto, it’s him.
“I’m always careful, sis.”
My brother’s eager excitement and flippant regard for death aren’t what worries me.
When the Bastard plays his final hand, at whose expense will it be?
28
Discovering the tunnel is a step toward financially ruining Ignacio. Yet it’s a step backward because I won’t be seeing my brother anytime soon. The Bastard plays ignorant, humoring Ignacio by conceding to his demands without a fight. Giving him the east end of town, liquor distribution concessions, and kickbacks from the banks. Ignacio asks for the world and Hayden gives it to him, much to Diego’s frustration.
In the meantime, life goes back to how things were before the war. Shops are open, streets are busy, everything is as it should be.
Even for me.
The visit from Ignacio was a one-time deal. No bricks have been tossed in retaliation through the Lavandería’s window. No Sureños at my door demanding I submit to their boss’s charms. Even Javier has commented on it and confirmed a few minutes earlier what I suspected—some other unfortunate soul has earned Ignacio’s admiration.
Life is quiet and boring, just as it has been for a few weeks.
It’s why I eagerly agreed to help the González sisters serve refreshments at the Fall Festival. Town officials are hosting the traditional event—it’s been years since town folk have assembled in Loreto’s main zócalo. I remember feeling excited as a child to be attending. The music. The dancing. The happy laughter. That same feeling has taken hold of me in the weeks leading up to today.
Everyone is in attendance.
I’m wearing a short, red dress and high heels. Very adult. Very risqué for a semi-conservative girl like me. Blame it on the González sisters, who insisted on the dress, the shoes, and on brushing then curling my black hair until it shined like dragon glass and settled across my back in illustrious waves.
If Diego saw me, he’d lock me up and crush the key with a sledgehammer.
“Will Diego be back in time for the dancing?” one of the sisters asks. They might fuss over me, but they adore my brother. I’ve answered this question a few times but with a gentle smile, do so again. “No. He’s on vacation with his girlfriend.”
They begin to titter, loving my response and the exaggerated way I say “girlfriend.” So precious, these two señoras.
The mariachi band begins to play, and the dance floor becomes a flurry of activity.
“Luciana. What are you waiting for? Show everyone how it’s done.”
It’s tempting, beyond tempting. But I refrain, erring on the side of caution. When I say everyone is assembled, that includes the Sureños.
I search the crowd for Ignacio and his young companion until I’m certain they’ve disappeared into the masses.
