Traitor, The by Jo Robertson Page A

make his personal opinions available for perusal.
    He was not afraid of Diego Vargas. In truth, he feared
nothing and no man. His strength had been forged in pain and his reputation in fire.
There were few enterprises Santos refused to engage in, few men or women he
would not kill when necessary, few appetites he would not satisfy.
    But some lines should not be crossed.
    Santos did not remember his father. Miguel Gabriel Santos
had been killed in the plaza when Santos was a small boy. He well remembered
the square, the burnt adobe stones of the surrounding buildings, the deep stone
well that stood at the end of the street. But he did not remember his father's actual
death.
    To this day in the village where he was born, stories of
that event were widely repeated. Of how Miguel stood up to the oficiales
federales. Of how he died slowly in the village plaza of Real de
Cantorce after hours in the baking sun. Of how he choked on his own testículos.
    The small boy Gabriel Santos did not recall the event of his
father's death.
    He did remember his mother, however, and this trafficking
with the girls – Santos knew his madre would not approve of a man who
made his life's work out of the flesh of innocents. Santos did not fear the fuego
del infierno or death's end, and he did not believe many true innocents
walked the face of this earth. But the few there were should not be sacrificed.
    Drugs, fine, una opción. The users made their own
choices.
    Killing, una necesidad. Often very necessary.
    But the girls, absolutamente no.
    Santos knew the day would arrive when he would draw his boot
across the sand and tell El Vaquero that he could not cross that line.
That would be a very bad time for all of them, and Santos was not eager for
that day to arrive. But, nonetheless, it would come.
    The tavern owner pinched the scrawny backside of the last
girl as she climbed into the back of the battered van.
    Sí, the day would come.
    #
    Bella didn't leave the bathroom until she heard the door
shut firmly when Rafe left the apartment. Even then she waited what she guessed
was five minutes more before entering the bedroom. After searching, she found
her dress hanging from the shower curtain rod in the second bathroom. He'd apparently
tried to clean it for wet spots dampened the bodice and hem.
    That hadn't worked. The dry cleaners might be able to get
the stains out, but Bella guessed she'd owe Anita the price of an expensive new
dress. The panties and bra were soaking in the kitchen sink and her shoes
rested on the counter on a piece of newspaper. The evidence of her wild night
brought fierce color to her cheeks.
    She felt like snarling. Rafe must've been awfully sure she'd
stay. And who would've guessed he'd be so ... tidy. She imagined him touching
her underwear, but more embarrassing was him thinking she'd be here waiting
when he returned, like a favored lapdog. At the back of her mind she knew she
was more furious with herself than him, but she enjoyed her moment of pique a
little longer.
    She washed out her panties and blotted them on a towel. As
uncomfortable as it was, she dressed in the damp clothing and slipped her shoes
on. Her wisp of a purse lay where she'd dropped it in the armchair.
    Finally, she searched about for paper and pen. In one corner
of the bedroom a walnut desk rucked up against the tall windows. Rummaging
through the drawers, she found what she needed and sat down on the chair to
write a note.
    "Rafe," she wrote, "I had a great time. Call
me, Bella, 916-781-3043." She crumpled up the note and tossed it in the
waste basket. "Bella, 916-781-3043." No, she should give him her cell
number. She tore that paper up and grabbed another from the middle desk drawer.
"Bella" ... She stared out the window and tapped the pen against her
teeth.
    This wouldn't work. So she'd had a one-night stand. She wasn't
going to let her Catholic guilt rule her. Why make more out of it than it was? Because,
she answered herself, because she liked