Dalila
My papá is a lawyer who might represent people who don’t follow the laws one hundred percent, but he isn’t involved in cartel business. He can’t be.
Last night we heard gunshots coming from inside the club as we stood outside figuring out how to get home. And as the club cleared out, I heard El Fuego’s name thrown around more than once in the crowd. He’s the leader of Los Reyes del Norte. Rico found me and quickly ushered me and my friends into a car, telling us Los Reyes del Norte was responsible for the shooting. El Fuego’s men.
It all confuses me.
Ryan told me the only reason he’s in Mexico is to train with the great Juan Camacho. I don’t know anyone who would change their life and move to another country on the slight chance of meeting someone who hardly shows his face anymore. It seems so suspect and I need to get him to open up to me.
When Ryan vowed to owe someone a big favor if they got Camacho to train him, a lightbulb went off in my head.
What Ryan doesn’t know is that my father knows Juan Camacho. Papá worked with him many years ago. I remember the first time I saw The Great Camacho. He was sitting in the courtyard talking to my father when I walked in on their conversation. At the time I was frozen and couldn’t talk. Juan Camacho is a boxing legend. I was just a little girl and Juan talked to me like I was an important person, not just his lawyer’s daughter. Every time he came over, he’d tell me a story about his life. I was mesmerized by his life and his success. I haven’t seen him in years, but I know he’d still remember me.
When my father comes home, I pull him aside.
“What’s wrong, mija?”
“Nothing, Papá. I just . . .” I don’t know how to bring it up, but I figure I might as well just blurt it out. “I was wondering if you still talk to Juan Camacho.”
He raises a brow. “Why?”
“Um . . . I have a friend who wants an autograph.”
Suddenly my face gets hot. Even though I’ve done it on occasion, I don’t like lying to my parents. I also hate the feeling that Papá is hiding something important from me. He’s a strong man and I look up to him so much. I don’t want him disappointed in me or pushing me away when all I want is for him to look at me with respect and pride.
“Tell your friend he doesn’t give autographs. Not anymore.” He crosses his arms. “Does this have anything to do with the fight you attended last night? I heard there was a shooting. I don’t want you to go there again.”
“I won’t. I promise.” I look at him curiously. “You’d never be involved in anything illegal, would you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I heard Don Cruz ask you for information the other night. You argued with him.”
He sighs, then walks up to me with a concerned look on his face. “Dalila, focus on getting into medical school and stop worrying so much about what me and the rest of the world are doing.”
It’s my nature to be curious. Ryan thought I went to the gym trying to get information out of him. He was right. I was trying to find out what he knows about the connection between his stepfather and Santiago Vega.
What if I got Juan Camacho to meet with him? Would Ryan open up and tell me what he knows about his stepfather and his connection to the cartels or Vega?
I wait until nighttime after everyone is asleep before I tiptoe into my father’s office. Finding Juan Camacho won’t be easy, but my father must have a way to get in touch with his old friend.
Papá’s files are locked. I know he’s got secret compartments around the house where he keeps confidential information. His office is dark, and I whack my toe on one of his office chairs. Ouch! I didn’t want to turn on the light from my cell phone, but I have no choice. His office is like a maze.
I sit in his big leather chair and pray he forgot to lock his file drawers. I try each one with no luck. The cabinets behind his desk are also locked.
As I reach under his desk for a hidden key, I hear footsteps in the hallway. I freeze.
If someone catches me I’m in trouble. Shutting off my cell phone light, I quickly duck under the desk and hope nobody sees me. But who’s in the hallway?
The stories of our neighbors’ homes being robbed cross my mind. I know I’m being paranoid. At least I hope I am.
The footsteps come closer.
And closer.
I can tell someone is right outside the office door. If my family is in danger, I know where our guns are. I wouldn’t hesitate to hurt someone if they were threatening my family.
And yet, the thought makes my hands shake uncontrollably. I think of myself as tough, but right now panic stabs at my insides. My heart is beating fast as I hold my breath and wait for more footsteps. Then I hear Lola’s unmistakable cough outside the door. I let out a thankful breath as her footsteps get faint.
I’m safe and alone, locked in Papá’s office. I turn my cell phone light on and catch a glimpse of an envelope with my grandmother’s name on the return address sticking out of the little garbage can under his desk. I pick it up and find a ripped-up check made out to my grandmother and a letter inside.
Tears come to my eyes as my abuelita tries to convince my father to remember where he came from. In the letter she pleads for him to fight for the good people. Until then, she’ll refuse to come to La Joya de Sandoval.
Does she know if he’s working with a cartel?
In the letter she writes that she’s getting old and desperately wants to see her grandchildren but won’t do it under the circumstances. I tuck the letter and ripped check back into the envelope and shove it in my pocket with a vow to see my abuelita soon to get the answers I need.
Keeping my movements slow and careful, I continue my search for the hidden key to my dad’s files. Time is ticking and I keep looking, but I can’t find a key.
I let out a frustrated sigh as I sit back in my father’s big leather office chair. Where would my dad’s client information be? I stare blankly at the computer on his desk.
Papá is always on his computer typing up briefs, preparing testimony, and sending out emails. Careful not to make noise, I turn on his computer. The cursor blinks, waiting for me to type in the password.
It takes me a couple of tries before I get it. It’s his nickname for my mother. Sirenita, little mermaid.
And I’m in.
As I scan his files, I recognize names of his clients as famous celebrities and businessmen. No information on Santiago Vega.
I keep scrolling down to find Juan Camacho’s contact information.
Finally I find Juan’s name on a list of clients. It has an address and phone number. I quickly scribble the numbers down and feel a sense of relief.
As I tiptoe back to my room, I’m grateful that the house is completely quiet. In the morning I’m going to contact Juan Camacho.
And get information out of Mr. America, who might just have one of the puzzle pieces I need.