The Dead Women of Juarez Read Online Free Page B

window, circulating warm air. The group had one secondhand computer with an internet connection and a bulky, hideous IBM Selectrictypewriter, the kind with a golfball-shaped element. Ella Arellano was the group’s typist, though she could only hunt and peck with two fingers.
    The women looked up when Kelly entered. Ella was younger by a few years than Paloma and skinnier. Her sister was one of the dead women of Juárez, gone for more than ten years. She smiled at Kelly. She spoke no English. “
Buenos días
,” Kelly told her.
    “
Buenos días
, Señor Kelly,” Ella said.
    “What are you doing here?” Paloma asked Kelly.
    “I thought maybe we could get something to eat.”
    “We’re busy right now; the president’s coming next month. We have to be ready for him.”
    The walls of the office were like the pink telephone poles, littered several layers deep with flyers demanding
justicia, justicia, justicia
. By tradition, missing women were never referred to as
dead
, but this was just a way of keeping the faith. Sometimes families kept on the charade even after the bodies were found. Some part of that annoyed Kelly, but he couldn’t say why.
    “I just want an hour,” Kelly said. He sounded more irritated than he meant to, and the swelling in his nose pitched his voice up a notch.
    Paloma frowned at him. “
¿Tú tendrá todo razón sin mí
, Ella?”
    “I will be fine.”
    “One hour,” Paloma told Kelly sternly.
    She got her purse. They left the office. Out in the sun, Kelly saw she’d put dark red highlights in her hair. She wore a bright yellow pullover that blazed against the color of her skin. Kelly realized he loved her, but he couldn’t say so; Paloma wouldn’t want him to.
    “You should call first before you come,” Paloma said.
    They walked up the block to a restaurant popular with the locals. The place and the neighborhood were too far off the beaten track to draw tourists.
    The restaurant had no menus for the big meal. The inside was too crowded, but they found a place outside in the semi-shade,sharing a picnic table and benches with a quartet of men wearing street-construction vests and hard hats. They talked to each other in rapid Spanish. Kelly and Paloma used English.
    “I wanted to surprise you,” Kelly said.
    “I know.”
    “
Sorry
,” Kelly said, though he wasn’t.
    “I know. Forget about it.”
    A short, apple-shaped woman brought them deep bowls of
pozole
. Mexicans had plenty of different ways to make the stuff, but the base was always hominy. This cook prepared
pozole
with pig’s feet, slices of avocado and raw onion and a garnish of chilis. A wedge of lime took away the heat when the spice got to be too much.
    They ate in silence for a while. The men at the table seemed to sense the tension and they left as soon as they could. No one took their place, though the restaurant bustled.
    “You look better today,” Paloma told Kelly at last.
    “Yeah?”
    “Yeah. But your nose isn’t going to heal right. I can see it now.”
    Kelly resisted the urge to touch his face. He shrugged. “It was fucked up already.”
    Paloma sighed and shook her head. Kelly didn’t have to ask what she was thinking; they had argued over it enough times.
    Empty bowls were replaced by a serving of tortilla soup. The heat and the spice of this and the
pozole
made Kelly’s nose run and he could feel his bruised sinuses opening up. Food like this was good for the belly and good for healing. Watching Paloma eat was a pleasure because she ate heartily, but still like a woman. It was the same way she made love.
    “Estéban wants to know what you’re doing tomorrow night,” Paloma said.
    “I’ll have to check my calendar.”
    “Don’t be an asshole.”
    “Okay, I’m not doing anything. What does he want to do?”
    “Get drunk. Smoke
hierba
. What else?”
    “Weed pays the bills,” Kelly said. He used his napkin to wipe his lips. A fresh throbbing started in his nose, but it was the good pain of