‘The poor need to be encouraged, don’t you think?’ Snow slipped on the necklace. ‘And don’t tell me that I can’t give them all money. That’s a rationalization you use for not giving money to any of them. Besides, I was angry and I knew it would piss you off.’
‘You’re angry? Why’s that? Because I’m trying to keep you from getting into trouble?’
‘You’re not keeping me out of trouble. All I’m doing is asking questions of people I trust. And that’s basically you. I won’t take it any further.’
‘You’re a liar! Do you think I don’t hear things? People come up to me all the time and say, “That gringo friend of yours was in last night asking questions.” It’s a wonder you haven’t been picked up.’
‘Well, that’s my business, isn’t it?’
Guillermo shrugged, as if to imply that Snow’s survival was of no importance to him. He had plainly taken offense at Snow’s characterization of him as an uncaring sort. True or not, he liked to think of himself as egalitarian and not class conscious in the least.
‘Look, I apologize,’ said Snow. ‘I told you I was angry.’
Guillermo pretended to be interested in the goings-on at another table.
‘Stop this shit, man!’
‘What shit?’ Guillermo dug out his cell and checked for messages.
Already bright, the sunlight brightened further, bespeaking a break in some thin pall of pollution.
‘Okay,’ Snow said. ‘How about next time we come out I’ll buy you a necklace? Will that put the roses back in your cheeks?’
Guillermo’s struggled to maintain his indifferent pose, but the façade crumbled and he smiled. ‘Joselito will be so jealous!’
Snow touched the black twine about his neck. ‘Maybe I should just give you this.’
‘Oh, no!’ said Guillermo. ‘It’ll have to be something much more fashion forward. I’ll help you pick something out.’ He shifted in his chair and sighed. ‘It’s such a glorious day I can’t stay angry. I think I’ll have a glass of wine. Do you want one?’
‘I’ll take another coffee.’
‘Days like this I feel I could fall in love with everyone.’ Guillermo laughed and patted Snow’s forearm. ‘Even you.’ He signaled a waiter and then looked soberly at Snow and said, ‘You do know I love you, don’t you?’
His machismo enlisted, put off by this expression of sentiment, Snow said in a sardonic tone, ‘Oh yeah, sure.’
Guilllermo shook his head sadly. ‘What an asshole you are! I thought you’d grown up, but I’ll bet you still think about love as something that makes you dizzy.’
Two Sundays later when Snow dropped by Club Sexy to meet Guillermo, the place was empty except for a pair of solitary drinkers. Even the old keyboard player was absent. Snow asked Canelo, the black bartender with freckles and reddish hair, where everyone was and Canelo said, ‘Haven’t you heard?’ And when Snow said he had heard nothing, Canelo, who had recently grown a Van Dyke that, along with his piercings, his red skullcap of hair, and downcast manner, gave him the look of a sorrowful devil, told him that Guillermo and Joselito had been found dead in a barranca outside the city. Both had been tortured. He went on to say what a shock it had been to everyone and the club had been closed for three days out of respect, but now business was picking up again, especially at night, and some of the ladies had started coming back in. He might have said more, but Snow ran from the club, burst through the front door, and stood in the entranceway, letting the city’s polluted roar explode over him, a wetness in his eyes blurring the light, turning passersby into colored shadows. Canelo followed him out and told him to come back inside and have a drink.
‘Who killed them?’ asked Snow.
Taken aback by the question, Canelo said he didn’t know.
‘It was the PVO, wasn’t it?’ Snow came a step toward him.
‘In this life, the sort of life Guillermo lived, a man makes a great many enemies.’
‘What are you fucking saying?’
Canelo spread his hands to demonstrate his helplessness. ‘I wasn’t there. How can I know who killed them? It might have been a jealous ex-lover, a madman. The cops said the bodies were horribly mutilated. Their cocks were in each other’s mouths.’
‘Guillermo was terrified of the PVO. He said they hated gays.’
‘That proves nothing. Hating gays is all the fashion down here.’
Frustration overrode Snow’s sense of loss. His emotions crested, overflowing their confines, and he shoved Canelo in the chest, knocking him back against the wall. ‘You know damn well it was political! If it wasn’t why are people staying away from the club?’
‘Calm down, man! Okay?’ Canelo inspected the rear of his jeans for stucco dust. ‘Let’s go inside. I’ll tell you what I know.’
He held the door open and Snow, his temper cooling, went through. The instant the door swung shut behind them, he heard a complicated snick and Canelo slung him face-first into the wall. Something cold and sharp pricked his throat. Canelo pressed his mouth to Snow’s ear, his funky breath overpowering the smell of his cologne, and said, ‘Don’t you ever put your hands on me again!’
Snow held perfectly still. ‘Yeah. Okay.’
