“Do you have any next of kin I could call?” he said.

“No. My parents are dead. I had a brother, but he’s dead, too.”

“Husband? Boyfriend?”

Her lip quivered again. “I’m not married. And my boyfriend — my boyfriend got shot last night.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She went quiet again. She stared out into the corridor and blinked, like she was about to cry. Like she was ready for it all to come out. Milton found that he was holding his breath. He didn’t know what he would do if she started to cry. He wasn’t particularly good with things like that.

“I spoke to Lieutenant Plato,” he said.

“Does he think I killed her?”

“Who?”

“Delores — the girl — it’s my fault she’s dead.”

“How could it be your fault?”

“She was safe as long as she kept out of the way.”

“Of course it isn’t your fault.”

“I persuaded her to come and talk to me. I went on and on and on at her. Because of that, now she’s dead.”

Milton didn’t know what to say to that. He started to mumble something that he hoped might be reassuring but she cut him off.

“Why are you here?”

“Because you’re not safe, Caterina.”

“I can look after myself,” she said, her eyes shining fiercely.

“They came back this morning. A man pretending to be a doctor. I saw him off, but it’ll get worse as soon as they discharge you.”

“Then I’ll hide,” she said angrily. “I’ve managed until now.”

“I’m sure you have.”

He watched her. She was pretty, and her fieriness made her even more attractive.

“Caterina — I want to help.”

“You’re wasting your time. I don’t have any money and, even if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you.”

“I don’t want money.”

“Then what?”

“I help people who need it.”

“Like some sort of charity?”

“I wouldn’t put it like that.”

“And I do? Need help?”

“The odds are against you. I can even the odds. That’s what I do.”

“You know what the cartel is capable of. You saw it. Last night was just them being playful. If they really want to come after me there won’t be anything that anyone can do about it. I’m sorry, Señor Smith, it’s not that I don’t appreciate the offer and I don’t want to be rude, but, at the end of the day, you work in a kitchen.”

He let that settle for a moment. And then he said, staring at her evenly, “I did other things before that.”

25

Beau’s snakeskin cowboy boots clipped and clopped as he stepped out of the red Jeep Cherokee and walked across the pavement and into the hospital. There was a florist in the reception — a pathetic display of flowers, most of them half-dead and fading away in the broil of the early morning sun — but he found a halfway decent bunch of Bougainvillea, then went to the shop and supplemented it with a bag of withered and juiceless grapes. He went to the desk and, putting on his friendliest smile, said he was looking for the girl who had survived the shooting at the restaurant last night, said he was her brother. The nurse looked down to the bouquet, bright colours against the blue of the suit, looked up at the warm smile, bought the story all the way and told him that he could find her on the sixth floor, towards the back of the building, and that he hoped he had a nice day. Beau thanked her most kindly and made his way to the elevator.

He got in and pressed the button for the sixth floor. The doors closed and the elevator ascended. He stood with his back to the wall, looked down at the toe of his boot, lifted his leg and passed the toe against the back of his jeans to clean it off. The lights for each passing floor glowed on the display until the elevator reached the sixth. The doors opened. He reached inside his jacket, his fingers brushing against the inlaid handle of the revolver that was holstered to his belt, and stepped out.

The place smelt of hospitals: detergent, and, beneath that, rot. The girl was in a room at the end of a corridor. Beau walked easily down towards it, his heels striking the floor noisily. As he approached, a man who had been leaning against the door jamb, just out of sight, peeled off the wall and stepped out into the corridor. He took a step forwards and blocked the way.

“Who are you?” the man said.

“Beau Baxter. Who are you?”

“Smith.”

Beau grinned. “Mr. Smith —?”

The man smiled, or, at least, his taut, thin lips rose a little at the edges. “John Smith. What do you do, Mr. Baxter?”

Beau looked him over. Not much to him, really, at least on the surface: a little taller than average, a little slimmer than average for someone his size, running two hundred, maybe two ten. Caucasian, a nasty scar on his face. Salt and pepper hair. Heavy, untidy beard. Around forty, maybe. The kind of man who’d be swallowed up by the crowd. He knew that sort. He was anonymous, at least until you looked a little harder. His eyes were different; they were cold and dark, enough to give a man a moment of reflection, a chance to think about things.

Beau shrugged. “I’m thinking you know what I do. Me and you, I’m guessing we’re in the same line of work.”

“I doubt that. Let me put it a different way: what are you doing here?”

He held up the wilting bouquet. “I brought the girl some flowers.”

“She doesn’t want them.”

“I want to speak to her.”

“I don’t think so. Not while I’m here.”

They both looked through the dirty window into the room. Caterina was sitting up in bed as a doctor examined the wound on her shoulder.

“You’re the cook, right? I heard what you did.”

“And how would you know about that?”

“My line of business, it pays me to know people who know things.”

“Police?”

“Sure — among others.”

“What do you want?”

“She had any visitors? Unexpected ones?”

Milton looked at him. He didn’t answer.

“Let me describe him for you, tell me how close I am: he’s in his forties, his hair is perfectly black, plain skin, smiles a lot but there’s something going on beneath the smile that you don’t feel too comfortable about. How am I doing?”

“Close enough.”

“Thought so — can we talk about him?”

“Talk, then.”

“When was it?”

“Half an hour ago.”

“And what happened?”

“I scared him off.”

“I doubt that. He’s a bad man.”

“There are a lot of bad men.”

“Not like him. He’s one of a kind.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“I can get him out of the way.”

“You think I can’t do that myself?”

“I doubt it. You don’t know what you’re up against.”

“And you don’t know who I am.”

“I know you ain’t no cook.” He smiled at him. “Okay. What do you know about him?”

The man didn’t answer.

“You speak Spanish?”

“Enough.”

“They call him Santa Muerte. Know what that means?”

“Saint Death.”

“That’s right: Saint Death. Bit grandiose, I’ll give you that, but, believe me, this dude, my word, he backs it up. This is not a man you want to know. Those people he takes a personal interest in, they tend not to be around for long after he’s introduced himself, you know what I mean?”

“I’ve met people like that before. I’m still here.”

He held Beau’s gaze without flinching. It was rare to meet a man like this. It didn’t look as if he had an ounce of fright in him. He was either brave or he had no idea what he was dealing with. “You’re a long way from home, bro. That accent — English, right?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, then, old partner. Let me just lay it out for you. Imagine living in a place where you can kill anyone you want and nothing happens except they drop down dead. You won’t get arrested. Your name won’t get in the papers. You can just carry on with things like nothing has happened. You can kill again, too, just keep on going, and nothing will be different. Look at your friend in there — you can take a woman, anyone you want, and you can rape her for days and nothing will happen. And, once you’re done with her, you can kill her, too. Nothing will happen. That kind of place? You’re in it. That’s Juárez, through and through.”