gestured wildly with their cigarettes, curtains of smoke thrashing through the air. La Araña, though, was just ignoring him. She leaned way back in her chair and sucked hard on the neck of her beer bottle, her cheeks caving under the last pinch of baby fat.
El Puño swallowed. I said he wants the symphony, he pronounced, forcing his voice louder. We havenât given it to him in a week. What should I do?
You should sit down, asshole. La Araña glanced once toward the empty chair next to her and let her gaze settle on the pot again. Itâs your deal.
But heâs going to get restless, Andres said, turning the deadbolt. We need to give him something.
The rules say if youâre leading to the first trick, and you have the three and the king of trumpsâ
Thatâs not true! El Clavo slammed his beer bottle down hard. Youâre playing with those fucking Santander rules, Matón.
So what if I am?
Maybe thatâs how you goat farmers run it, but here in the cityâ
Can we just play? La Araña leaned her head way back and pinched the bridge of her nose with two fingers. Between you two fighting and El Puño playing babysitter in there, itâll take us all night to finish the game.
What did the Patient want this time? El Clavo asked.
Andres coughed. Symphony.
Fuck him, Matón groaned. Puño, write down your lulo from the last round. Iâm not letting you forget.
The pot had seventeen pesos and an American revolver in it. Puño penciled a shaky three on the scratch pad and picked up his cards. I just worry about him going crazy in there, he said. What if he starts to think there isnât hope?
Matón laughed. So?
So what if he starts thinking thereâs nothing to lose, tries to get someoneâs attention?
Clavo flicked at the dog-eared corner of a card; it made a sound like Chinese water torture. So, fine, whatever, weâll play it for him again. Now deal.
Puño tossed a card in, sighed as he spoke: But itâs still suspicious.
Why? What?
The symphony. What if someone hears it?
So?
The same symphony twenty times in a week? Wonât they thinkâ
Trump! Matón slapped the table. He looped the pot in with both his arms and kissed the revolver, his lips gushing over the barrel. Oh. Ohhhh. Get over here, gorgeous.
Araña tossed her hand back in the middle and clenched her teeth. Andres, she says, itâs fucking classical music. No one can tell that shit apart but you.
Puño, he whispered, correcting her.
Pussy, she whispered, grabbing her beer, stomping into the bathroom and slamming the door.
Puño listened to the sound as the toilet lid closed, imagined Araña sitting down on it and raking her hair back from her face with both hands. He focused his eyes on the revolver on the table: it looked like an animal that had crawled out of an oil slick and died.
Can we play three-handed? Matón said. Puño, deal it out.
â¢Â â¢Â â¢
La Arañaâs real name was Marina.
Andres wasnât supposed to know it, just like she wasnât meant to know his real name was Andres and not El Puño. They had sex every day in the bedroom over the Patientâs cell, on their shared guard shift, on the bed or against the wall, the ammunition on her belt tocking against the wainscoting. Andres never wanted to do it there, but she said they had to. She said, the Patient needs to hear this. To know whoâs in control.
And anyway, better the Patient hear than those horny compañero assholes out there, playing round out after round of Truco in the living room, jacking off to photos of that actress from Los Ricos También Lloran in the bathroom all quiet, like no one knows why they brought the magazine in there.
That day, she put on the Bach record to cover their noise. That day, she asked him to whisper her alias, over and over, as he pressed the side of his face to her sternum.
Afterward, they lay together on the bed,
El Puño swallowed. I said he wants the symphony, he pronounced, forcing his voice louder. We havenât given it to him in a week. What should I do?
You should sit down, asshole. La Araña glanced once toward the empty chair next to her and let her gaze settle on the pot again. Itâs your deal.
But heâs going to get restless, Andres said, turning the deadbolt. We need to give him something.
The rules say if youâre leading to the first trick, and you have the three and the king of trumpsâ
Thatâs not true! El Clavo slammed his beer bottle down hard. Youâre playing with those fucking Santander rules, Matón.
So what if I am?
Maybe thatâs how you goat farmers run it, but here in the cityâ
Can we just play? La Araña leaned her head way back and pinched the bridge of her nose with two fingers. Between you two fighting and El Puño playing babysitter in there, itâll take us all night to finish the game.
What did the Patient want this time? El Clavo asked.
Andres coughed. Symphony.
Fuck him, Matón groaned. Puño, write down your lulo from the last round. Iâm not letting you forget.
The pot had seventeen pesos and an American revolver in it. Puño penciled a shaky three on the scratch pad and picked up his cards. I just worry about him going crazy in there, he said. What if he starts to think there isnât hope?
Matón laughed. So?
So what if he starts thinking thereâs nothing to lose, tries to get someoneâs attention?
Clavo flicked at the dog-eared corner of a card; it made a sound like Chinese water torture. So, fine, whatever, weâll play it for him again. Now deal.
Puño tossed a card in, sighed as he spoke: But itâs still suspicious.
Why? What?
The symphony. What if someone hears it?
So?
The same symphony twenty times in a week? Wonât they thinkâ
Trump! Matón slapped the table. He looped the pot in with both his arms and kissed the revolver, his lips gushing over the barrel. Oh. Ohhhh. Get over here, gorgeous.
Araña tossed her hand back in the middle and clenched her teeth. Andres, she says, itâs fucking classical music. No one can tell that shit apart but you.
Puño, he whispered, correcting her.
Pussy, she whispered, grabbing her beer, stomping into the bathroom and slamming the door.
Puño listened to the sound as the toilet lid closed, imagined Araña sitting down on it and raking her hair back from her face with both hands. He focused his eyes on the revolver on the table: it looked like an animal that had crawled out of an oil slick and died.
Can we play three-handed? Matón said. Puño, deal it out.
â¢Â â¢Â â¢
La Arañaâs real name was Marina.
Andres wasnât supposed to know it, just like she wasnât meant to know his real name was Andres and not El Puño. They had sex every day in the bedroom over the Patientâs cell, on their shared guard shift, on the bed or against the wall, the ammunition on her belt tocking against the wainscoting. Andres never wanted to do it there, but she said they had to. She said, the Patient needs to hear this. To know whoâs in control.
And anyway, better the Patient hear than those horny compañero assholes out there, playing round out after round of Truco in the living room, jacking off to photos of that actress from Los Ricos También Lloran in the bathroom all quiet, like no one knows why they brought the magazine in there.
That day, she put on the Bach record to cover their noise. That day, she asked him to whisper her alias, over and over, as he pressed the side of his face to her sternum.
Afterward, they lay together on the bed,
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