“Tell me about your business.”

“I’m trying to find out what happened to Martina Osorio Ixquiac, who was in a group you led into Mexico last December.”

“Mother of God, I’m sick and tired of these questions! I did for that group what I promised to do and I know nothing of what happened after that.”

Coldmoon removed a thousand-quetzal note from his pocket. “I’m just looking for information, privately, and I’m willing to pay for it.”

Zapatero did not take the money. “What do you want to know?”

“Tell me about that group. Who they were, why they left.”

“There’s not much to tell that you can’t see with your own eyes. The country around here is dying. The fields are shriveling up, there are no jobs, there are no doctors, the government ignores us except when the army comes to steal our money and livestock and threaten our wives and daughters. This is no place for a good life. So I help people escape—anyone who wants to go and is physically capable. I am doing God’s work, Señor Lunafría, to give people the chance at a better life. I bring them north, into Mexico. The Mexican border is only twenty-five miles away, but it is through mountains and most of them have never left this town, so they need my guidance.”

“Once you get them over the border, what happens?”

“I take them to La Gloria, a village in Chiapas along Route 190. There I turn them over to a professional coyote, who takes them north to the United States.”

“Who is this coyote?”

“I know him only by his nickname, El Monito.”

“Is he Mexican?”

“I think so. He has a Mexican accent.”

“Do you have any idea what might have happened to the group with Martina?”

“Señor, I think it is very simple: they were caught and arrested at the border. This is common. They’re in detention in the U.S. and that is why no one has heard anything. It used to be they were released, but now they keep them in camps.”

“El Monito—tell me about him.”

“He’s a businessman. He’s expensive, but he does what he promises. I wouldn’t be entrusting my people to him if I thought he was a bad man. Whatever happened to them happened once they got into the U.S.”

“How can I meet El Monito?” He once again offered Zapatero the banknote and still the man ignored it.

“I think that will be difficult. He is secretive. Six months ago, we arranged for me to bring a new group of emigrants to La Gloria next month. He is supposed to be there with the vans to take them north. That’s the only way I know how to meet him.”

“If I went to La Gloria, where might I find him?”

Zapatero shrugged. “There is a café and bar there where I make contact with him, through a bartender named Corvacho. The bar is called Del Charro. On the north end of town.”

“Thank you.” Once again he offered the note, to no avail. It made Coldmoon nervous, the man not taking his money.

Zapatero looked at him. “May I ask why you’re so concerned about Martina in particular?”

“Like you, I’m a man doing a job, and that job involves finding out what happened to her. I wish I could tell you more. I work for the good guys—that’s all I can say.”

“I accept that,” he said, finally taking the banknote. He carefully folded it up and tucked it into his wallet. “Please don’t tell El Monito we spoke. He is very protective of his privacy.”

As Coldmoon got up to leave, he added, “And, señor: he is a very nervous man. A nervous man with a gun is not a good combination.”

37

FORTY-FIVE MINUTES later, there was a light rap on the door. Then Flaco slipped back in. He said nothing, but he didn’t need to: his eyes moved from Smithback to the pages, and back again. At first, he didn’t approach. He was clearly burning with curiosity, but it seemed that the break had also given him a chance to reflect on the risks of consorting with prisoners.

Smithback indicated the manuscript. “You…did this? By yourself?”

“Sí.”

“Really? Sorry, I’m not calling you a liar, it’s just…” He flipped the pages. “Really good.”

Actually, it was not very good. The drawings were fair—their style seemed to have been heavily influenced by tattoo art, which was probably the case. Ironically, it was the brief little pencil sketches Flaco had done here and there, apparently placeholders for later ink drawings, that seemed to show the most skill. It was possible the youth had latent artistic talent.

The story itself sucked ass. Part of this, of course, was due to the mixture of Spanish and English that Smithback found hard at times to decipher. But translations were easy enough to arrange, and poor spelling or run-on sentences could be fixed. The major issue was the stupid and improbable storyline. It purported to be the autobiography of a macho gangbanger, embellished with bizarre and fantastical violence, implausible sex scenes, and a ludicrous hero with popping pecs out to defeat the forces of evil in a fantasy universe. Pure crap.

“It’s brilliant, in fact,” Smithback went on, “and the illustrations are so vivid and powerful!” He slathered on the praise, raving about the authenticity of the story and how fresh El Acero, the protagonist, seemed as a character—two critical elements, he explained, required for a great story.

“Who have you shown it to?” he asked in summation.

Flaco frowned. “¿Qué?”

Smithback then launched into the prerequisites of getting a graphic novel published. He explained the arduous process: preparing a sample, looking for an agent, hoping a publisher would show interest. Sending it out cold, week after week, getting rejection after rejection. All because in order to get published, you had to have connections. Just like in the drug business. Connections were everything.

This stroke of genius was something Flaco could understand.

Where they might catch a break, Smithback went on, interjecting our and we into his advice, was that a good number of graphic novel publishers still accepted direct submissions. And unlike commercial book publishers, they weren’t all centered in New York—Drawn & Quarterly was in Canada, and Dark Horse was in Oregon, just to name two. And, of course, his friend’s small publishing house right here in Florida. Steering the conversation in this direction, he played up his relationship to the publisher he’d started calling Bill Johnson, picking a name that couldn’t be successfully googled. He was careful to be vague about the name of the company, because that was something Flaco could easily check. He emphasized again how publishing, like so many industries, was all about relationships. Getting in the door was half the battle.

And that, Smithback ended, was something he could easily do.

“He’s on Kellogg Street,” Smithback said, pulling the name of a well-tended, innocuous downtown street from his meager knowledge of Fort Myers. “We have lunch from time to time. I could get in to see him like that.” And he snapped his fingers.

“And he read it? My book?” Flaco asked this as if he’d just been offered a skeleton key to Fort Knox.

“If I took it to him, mi amigo, he would read it right there. While I waited.”