Free The Dead Women of Juarez by Sam Hawken Page A

Muñoz’s arm. The woman didn’t shrink away.
    “Every woman must walk on her own,” Señora Guzman said.
    They went on. Paloma looked back one time. She still didn’t see the black truck.

SEVENTEEN
    K ELLY STRETCHED OUT, JUMPED rope until his calves burned and then shadowboxed in the corner of Urvano’s gym. Other fighters were there – some Kelly knew by name now, and more that didn’t have any words for the white boy – sparring or tossing the medicine ball or pummeling bags. Urvano stayed on his stool most of the time; though occasionally he stepped down to offer a few words of instruction to this fighter or that fighter on something he spotted.
    Managers and trainers cruised through the gym at odd intervals. Some stopped to watch Kelly and he did his best to put them out of his mind. He wasn’t a prospect anymore, not an up-and-comer; he was too old, too slow and just too damned
white
to make an impact anywhere south of the border. Still, just the sensation of being considered made him feel ten years younger, like he was in back in the gym on Zarzamora in San Antonio, still a white boy among the brown kids, but with fast hands and quick feet.
    Urvano’s only had one mirror, cracked at the corners and fogging with age. Kelly shifted his workout to a battered, duct-taped mat before this stretch of silvered glass and watched his body move. For this he didn’t rely on speed or power; instead, he shadowboxed like an old Chinese man doing t’ai chi, deliberating every punch and every step.
    Over five years, even with regular bouts in the ring, he’d let his form go. He didn’t have to think about the perfect hook or theright toe-step when he was only meant to be hit. Going slow he could watch himself and every sloppy error leaped off the mirror. Control like this sapped energy, and Kelly’s shirt soaked through with perspiration.
    He didn’t notice anyone moving behind him, or the sudden hush. Trainers stopped calling punches and the gym fell quiet except for scratchy music on the radio.
    “Hey, Kelly,” Ortíz said. “
¿Cómo te va?
”
    Even in wraps, Kelly’s hands were heavy. His shoulders smarted. Ortíz was dressed casually, but still in a neat jacket and slacks. He seemed wrong for the gym, where even the occasional promoter came in looking like a street laborer. Here the older men were like Urvano: simple, dedicated and poor. Ortíz wore a gold watch.
    Ortíz stepped up and mimed a body punch. “Looking good, Kelly. You lost some weight. About one sixty, huh?”
    Kelly nodded. Beyond Ortíz he was aware of Urvano watching. “Less,” he said.
    “That’s good. Real good. Nice to see you working so hard.”
    “Yeah, well, I—”
    “Listen, Kelly, I heard you were looking for me. I got somewhere to be, but if you have some time…?”
    “Now?”
    Ortíz tapped his gold watch. “
Ahora
.”
    Around the gym a few fighters went back to the workouts. Trainers turned their backs on Ortíz. Kelly knew they were shutting him out, too.
    “All right,” Kelly said. “Give me a minute to clean up.”
    “Don’t take too long.”
    Kelly used the shower, cold even though the day was hot, changed into clean sweats and met Ortíz outside. He passed Urvano without saying anything. When he came back there would be plenty to say.
    He found Ortíz outside beside an idling pick-up. The bed was loaded with plastic cat crates lashed down with bright green andred bungee cords. In each crate was a resting cock, bright feathered and healthy.
    “All right,” Ortíz said. “Let’s get going. There’s no room up front. Ride in the back.”
    The pick-up was big, shiny and black with a double-long cab for a back seat and reversed double-doors. When Ortíz opened one, Kelly saw big men in tight-fitting black T-shirts inside, all of them heavy with muscle. One looked at Kelly from behind wraparound Gargoyles. Freezer-cold air conditioning spilled from the open door.
    “Kelly, you coming, man?”
    “Yeah,