—

Magda finds Adán alone in a bedroom, changing clothes to leave for his honeymoon.

“How convenient,” she says.

“How so?”

“Well,” Magda says, kneeling in front of him, “we wouldn’t want you to disappoint your new bride, letting that tight virgin chocha make you come too quickly. The poor thing expecting a night of breathless passion and youthful endurance.”

“Magda…”

“Don’t be so selfish,” Magda says as she unzips him. “I’m only thinking of her.”

“You’re very considerate.”

“Besides,” Magda says, “when she’s all fat, splotchy, and bitchy, you’ll remember that you have this to come to. Just don’t get anything on my dress, do you hear, there are appearances to keep up.”

Magda brings him to the point of climax and then stops.

“On second thought,” she says, getting up, “disappoint her.”

“Magda!”

“Oh, come here. Do you think I’d really leave you like this?”

She finishes him, then feels melancholy.

It could have been me, Magda thinks. It might have been nice, maybe, settling into a life of domesticity with him, allowing myself a few extra pounds around the hips and watching my babies scuttle around at my feet.

Be happy with what you have, she tells herself.

It wasn’t that long ago you were thrilled with a blanket.

And now you’re rich, and soon you’ll be richer, independent of any man, including Adán. You can have other men, and fuck him when he comes around, and have your own house and make your own money.

You’re a narca, a chingona.

Your own woman.

Magda knows that they’re already calling Adán’s bride “Queen Eva I.” The more culturally aware have dubbed her “Evita” (Don’t cry for me, Sinaloa). She also knows what they’re calling her.

La Reina Amante.

The Queen Mistress.

There are worse things.

—

The meal was fantastic—chicken and pork dishes, potatoes and rice, tres leches and almond cakes, champagne, wine, and beer—and now the wedding party gathers to see the bride and groom off on their honeymoon.

Diego comes up to Eddie. “We’ll be leaving soon.”

“You headed back to Monterrey?”

“No,” Diego says, “we’re going to spend the night in the Badiraguato house. Come over if you want.”

“I’m going to stay for la tona borda,” Eddie says. “Too much pussy here to bail out now when they’re all drunk.”

He’s had his eye on one of the bridesmaids, and then there’s La Reina Amante. Christ, sitting next to her…

“Be careful what and who you do,” Diego says. “You’re in the country now. These old hillbillies will shoot your ass. And not El Patrón’s woman, either.”

“He just got married, for Chrissakes.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Diego warns him.

Adán and Eva come out and walk to the helicopter waiting to take them to their honeymoon at an undisclosed location. They walk through the line of guests, shaking hands and kissing cheeks.

Adán comes up to Diego.

“Thank you, primo,” Adán says, kissing him on the cheek. “Thank you for everything.”

“You’re welcome, primo.”

It makes Diego feel better.

That Adán appreciates him.

—

They honeymoon at a house Adán owns in Cabo.

Adán had thought about Europe, but there are Interpol warrants in almost every country.

Mexico is his prison.

That’s all right; everything he wants is here.

When they arrive at the house overlooking the Pacific, Eva excuses herself and goes into the bathroom. She comes out half an hour later in a blue negligee that sets off her eyes.

It’s far more revealing than he thought it would be. Her hair hangs long and loose over her bare shoulders. Lovely, she presents herself to him but looks down at the polished parquet floor.

Adán walks over and lifts her chin.

“I want to make you happy,” Eva says.

“You will,” Adán says. “You do.”

They’re both shy in bed; she from youth, he from age. He spends a long time touching her, stroking her, kissing her cheeks, her neck, her breasts, her stomach. Her eighteen-year-old body responds easily despite her nerves, and when he feels she’s ready he takes her, silently thanking Magda for her earlier ministrations as Eva bucks upward beneath him. Her energy can’t trump Magda’s experience, but he’s grateful for it.

She’s springtime to his autumn.

—

This is some weird shit, Eddie thinks as he watches Diego kneel in front of the statue of a skeleton in a purple robe, with human hair braided into her skull. She holds a globe in one hand and a scythe in the other.

Santa Muerte.

The Saint of Death.

The lady has a lot of names: La Flaquita—“the Skinny One”; La Niña Blanca—“the White Girl”; La Dama Poderosa—“the Powerful Lady.” She sure as shit looks powerful now, Eddie thinks as Diego rubs goat blood (Jesus, Eddie hopes it’s goat’s blood) onto the statue’s face.

They’re in a back room of Diego’s safe house in Badiraguato, and Eddie has just come back from the after-wedding party. He’s fucked out, sleepy, but hungry as he watches Diego take a deep drag on a blunt and then blow the smoke into the Skinny Lady’s face. He’s already placed gifts at the little altar he had built in the house, like he has in all his houses now—candy, cigarettes, flowers, fresh fruit, incense, a fifth of single-malt scotch, cocaine, and cash.

This skinny bitch, Eddie thinks, makes out better than Diego’s actual segunderas.

Now Diego lights a gold candle.

“For wealth,” Diego explains.

Yeah, well, that’s working, anyway, Eddie thinks. Diego has more money than God. The rumor is that he has more money than Adán Barrera, which can’t make AB happy. And Diego’s picked up a new aporto in certain circles—El Jefe de Jefes—the Boss of Bosses, which won’t sit well in La Tuna either.

Diego lights another candle.

Black.

Like you buy at Party City for Halloween, Eddie thinks.

If you’re a dweeb.

But he listens as Diego places the black candle on the altar and prays to Santa Muerte for revenge against his enemies and to protect his drug shipments. Maybe he should get more than one candle, Eddie thinks. He’s hoping they’re done, but Diego picks up a white candle.

“Protection,” he says.

“Yeah, great.”

Diego could use some protection, because he looks like pounded shit. El Jefe’s doing blow, no question about it. Diego mumbles another prayer, then gets up and they walk into the living room.

“Adán called earlier,” Diego says.

“What for?”

“Let me know he got into Cabo all right.”

This gets Eddie’s radar going. Barrera’s usually all business, not your “shoot the shit” kind of guy. He’s one of those geeks, when he calls you, you think he’s reading from a four-by-six file card with an agenda on it.

He don’t like that AB supposedly gets on the horn to chat like some housewife with a half hour to kill before her yoga class. And he don’t like that Diego Tapia, who used to be so freaking sharp, seems indifferent and bored.

Diego used to have all the answers. Now he don’t even know the questions. La Dama Poderosa, my ass.

“Hey, Diego?” Eddie says. “Let’s get out of here.”

“What for?”

“I dunno, man,” Eddie says. “Get some air, some grub. I could use me some breakfast burrito action.”

“It’s two in the morning.”

“So?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I am,” Eddie says. “Come on.”

—

Alberto Tapia is coming home from his segundara’s condo. Thought he’d use the occasion of the wedding to hook up.

His Navigator is full.

A driver and two other security guys. You want security when you’re driving around at two in the morning carrying two suitcases with $950,000 in U.S. cash, and another case with a hundred grand worth of luxury watches.

Alberto likes his Rolexes and Pateks.