The city was more polluted and poverty-stricken than Snow remembered, though he wondered whether he had been too self-absorbed to notice how bad things were ten years before. Perhaps it had always been a smoky, slum-ridden slice of Mordor, Detroit with less industry, brighter colors, and hills crawling with the poor, the anonymous-as-roaches poor, some carrying their shelters on their backs. Beggars rushed at him in platoon-strength, displaying deformities, amputations, and open sores. Child prostitutes, some as young as eight or nine, called to him from alley mouths and doorways, and in piping, playground voices offered to perform the most deviant of perversions. Widows in black dresses and shawls sat on the curbs along Avenida Seis, their heads down, mere inches away from the stream of traffic, as if they had given up hope and were waiting for a car to swerve and put an end to their misery. Many of Snow’s old connections were dead or otherwise defunct. Ex had lost her taste for revolution and married the proprietor of a department store who called her his little Commie and delighted in pinching her now substantial ass – she was pregnant with their fourth child and was reluctant to speak with Snow. The offices of Aurora House had been taken over by a travel agency, Pepe Salido had been murdered in a gambling dispute, and Snow’s colleagues in the charity had drifted away to parts unknown. Club Sexy hadn’t changed that much. They had put in track lighting above the bar and added a karaoke machine. Miraculously, the old man still played his rickety Beatle tunes against the same chintzy backdrop of silver glitter, moonglow, and palms. Expensively attired women thronged the tables – Snow failed to recognize any of them, yet they were of a type similar to those he did recall, and the fabulous Guillermo was still pouring drinks. Aside from the start of a double chin and a questionable goatee, he looked none the worse for wear. On seeing Snow he rushed out from behind the bar to embrace him.
‘You look wonderful! Fantastic!’ said Guillermo, pulling back. ‘How do you do it?’
‘You look pretty good yourself,’ said Snow.
‘Me? I’m an absolute disaster! But it doesn’t matter anymore. I have a husband now, I can let myself go to seed.’
He steered Snow to a corner table and told the other barman, Canelo – a young black man with a light, freckly complexion, close-cropped reddish hair, and diamond piercings in his cheeks – to bring a bottle of tequila. Snow realized that he had forgotten to employ gayspeak and began to shade his inflections, subtly (he thought) re-acquiring his verbal disguise. Guillermo laid his hand atop Snow’s and said, ‘Please! There’s no need for that.’
Baffled, Snow asked what he meant.
‘Your act.’ Guillermo poured him a shot of tequila. ‘It never fooled anyone, you know. Some of us were angry – we thought you were mocking us. But when we realized you were using us to get close to the ladies, we understood and we laughed about it. Since you were a nice guy, we played along.’
‘I wasn’t a nice guy,’ said Snow. ‘I was a total asshole.’
‘Well, you looked nice, anyway. And you acted nice. That’s what counted most back then.’
They drank and reminisced for a while and then Snow asked about Yara.
Guillermo lowered his voice. ‘Did you hear about what happened to her?’
‘Only a little. I just read about it last week. I’m hoping to learn more. That’s why I came down.’
‘You must be careful who you talk to about this. Very careful.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘The PVO.’ Guillermo refilled their glasses. ‘The Party of Organized Violence.’ He knocked back his shot. ‘They showed up about fifteen years ago, but they didn’t make much of a splash and no one took them seriously until the elections last year when they gained a plurality in Congress. They’re thugs. Scary right-wing thugs. Extremely scary. If they win a majority in the next election, and everyone says they will . . .’ He affected a shudder. ‘They don’t like gays. Joselito, my husband . . . he thinks we should relocate to Costa Rica.’
‘What’s this have to do with Yara?’
‘After she vanished a reporter got into Chajul. You know, the village out near the skull? This one guy got in, but soon the PVO sealed off access to that area of the jungle with their militia.’
‘They have their own soldiers?’
