smelled of sweat and alcohol and clearly wasn’t someone who could be reasoned with.
“Stop! Ow!” Jaime curled up in a ball and tried to make himself heard between blows. “She’s lying! Will you listen to me, you idiot? Ow!”
“I can’t stand jerks who take advantage of women!” The man alternated words and punches. One blow hit Jaime on the shoulder, causing him to wince in pain; another to his cheek almost knocked him senseless.
“You damn fool! Don’t you see she’s . . .” Jaime paused as something caught his eye. “She’s stealing your bike!”
The big man kept throwing punches until a familiar roar made him stop. Turning toward the road he saw the woman he was trying to protect speeding away on his motorcycle. “Hey!” he cried. “That’s my bike!”
Sandra’s only response was to wave as her silhouette, backlit by the rising sun, disappeared over a bump in the road. The biker turned back around with his mouth open, trying to find answers in Jaime’s bruised face.
Jaime smiled through split lips dripping with strings of blood. “You just can’t trust some people.”
7
The café at Hotel Virrey Palafox bore no resemblance to Casa Genaro’s rustic dining room.
A polished wooden bar, paneled ceiling, and chairs that had been expertly carved to fit the human backside gave it a sophisticated, stately appearance. At least, that was how it seemed to Roberto Barrero as he sat his large body at a low table in the back. As he tried for what felt like the millionth time to reach Jaime by cell phone, Roberto dipped a bit of croissant in his café con leche and stared without interest at the muted television mounted above the café’s entrance.
He yawned. He’d left Madrid at six that morning, after he’d finished his shift at the CHR. The receptionist at the Hotel Virrey Palafox told him there was no Jaime Azcárate staying there, so he’d made the rounds at the nearby hotels and guesthouses. At one, the desk clerk remembered a rangy-looking journalist who’d tried to rent a room and said she’d recommended he try Casa Genaro.
There, he learned that a Jaime Azcárate had indeed checked in, but no one had seen him since the previous evening, and nobody answered when Roberto called Jaime’s room. Finally he’d decided to return to the Virrey Palafox and get a decent breakfast after his night shift and long drive in the van.
What’re you doing here, fatso? You should be at home sleeping, he thought in a bad temper. Or playing Lego Batman.
Laura’s call had unsettled him. He knew she was prone to exaggeration and worried too much about Jaime, but Roberto had been more than willing to do as she asked. He’d been a security guard for too long—first at a jewelry store in a shopping mall, and now at the Center for Historical Research—and despite the considerable size of his backside, he remained as restless as he’d been during his years as a photojournalist or when he stole relics to make ends meet.
It was during the last of his clandestine missions that he’d met his crazy friend Jaime Azcárate. Roberto’s first impression of Jaime was that he’d been born without a common sense gene. Although the art historian–cum-journalist could be easygoing and reasonable, he didn’t seem to consider the consequences of his often reckless actions. After Roberto had lost his job at the shopping mall, Jaime had persuaded Laura Rodríguez to give him a job as a photographer for the magazine. The job hadn’t lasted long, but he still felt indebted to Jaime, and at least he’d managed to find work as a security guard at the CHR. And Laura, from time to time, still managed to sneak one of Roberto’s photos into the publication.
He looked at his watch. For ten full minutes he’d been dipping his croissant in his coffee, which was now no warmer than the River Ucero. He gulped down what was left and, wiping his goatee with the back of his hand, pulled out his wallet to pay. He had a
“Stop! Ow!” Jaime curled up in a ball and tried to make himself heard between blows. “She’s lying! Will you listen to me, you idiot? Ow!”
“I can’t stand jerks who take advantage of women!” The man alternated words and punches. One blow hit Jaime on the shoulder, causing him to wince in pain; another to his cheek almost knocked him senseless.
“You damn fool! Don’t you see she’s . . .” Jaime paused as something caught his eye. “She’s stealing your bike!”
The big man kept throwing punches until a familiar roar made him stop. Turning toward the road he saw the woman he was trying to protect speeding away on his motorcycle. “Hey!” he cried. “That’s my bike!”
Sandra’s only response was to wave as her silhouette, backlit by the rising sun, disappeared over a bump in the road. The biker turned back around with his mouth open, trying to find answers in Jaime’s bruised face.
Jaime smiled through split lips dripping with strings of blood. “You just can’t trust some people.”
7
The café at Hotel Virrey Palafox bore no resemblance to Casa Genaro’s rustic dining room.
A polished wooden bar, paneled ceiling, and chairs that had been expertly carved to fit the human backside gave it a sophisticated, stately appearance. At least, that was how it seemed to Roberto Barrero as he sat his large body at a low table in the back. As he tried for what felt like the millionth time to reach Jaime by cell phone, Roberto dipped a bit of croissant in his café con leche and stared without interest at the muted television mounted above the café’s entrance.
He yawned. He’d left Madrid at six that morning, after he’d finished his shift at the CHR. The receptionist at the Hotel Virrey Palafox told him there was no Jaime Azcárate staying there, so he’d made the rounds at the nearby hotels and guesthouses. At one, the desk clerk remembered a rangy-looking journalist who’d tried to rent a room and said she’d recommended he try Casa Genaro.
There, he learned that a Jaime Azcárate had indeed checked in, but no one had seen him since the previous evening, and nobody answered when Roberto called Jaime’s room. Finally he’d decided to return to the Virrey Palafox and get a decent breakfast after his night shift and long drive in the van.
What’re you doing here, fatso? You should be at home sleeping, he thought in a bad temper. Or playing Lego Batman.
Laura’s call had unsettled him. He knew she was prone to exaggeration and worried too much about Jaime, but Roberto had been more than willing to do as she asked. He’d been a security guard for too long—first at a jewelry store in a shopping mall, and now at the Center for Historical Research—and despite the considerable size of his backside, he remained as restless as he’d been during his years as a photojournalist or when he stole relics to make ends meet.
It was during the last of his clandestine missions that he’d met his crazy friend Jaime Azcárate. Roberto’s first impression of Jaime was that he’d been born without a common sense gene. Although the art historian–cum-journalist could be easygoing and reasonable, he didn’t seem to consider the consequences of his often reckless actions. After Roberto had lost his job at the shopping mall, Jaime had persuaded Laura Rodríguez to give him a job as a photographer for the magazine. The job hadn’t lasted long, but he still felt indebted to Jaime, and at least he’d managed to find work as a security guard at the CHR. And Laura, from time to time, still managed to sneak one of Roberto’s photos into the publication.
He looked at his watch. For ten full minutes he’d been dipping his croissant in his coffee, which was now no warmer than the River Ucero. He gulped down what was left and, wiping his goatee with the back of his hand, pulled out his wallet to pay. He had a
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