Silver Nitrate(6)

“I told Candy we’d fill out the green form when you came back.”

“You are not supposed to do that. If I’m not around, you’re supposed to talk to Samuel and let him figure out the schedule.”

“I didn’t see Samuel.”

“He was right in the office. If you’d checked with him, you might have seen Paco has an overdue bill—”

“Fine. I’ll fill out the green form.”

“You have to start paying attention. I can’t run a business if you’re goofing around. You’re a decent sound editor, but you have a terrible attitude,” Mario said, moving past her and almost making her spill her cup of coffee as he elbowed her on the way to the coffeepot.

“What? How do I have a terrible attitude?”

“You do. Everyone complains about it.”

“Who?”

“Samuel, for one. He organized that team-building exercise last month, and you were the only one who didn’t show up.”

“You’re kidding me, right? The ‘team-building exercise’ was drinking beer in very big glasses and pinching waitresses’ behinds. I don’t need to play sexist caveman games with the boys to do my job.”

“Sexist,” Mario said, crossing his arms. “I suppose now you’re going to say that you’re getting picked on because we’re all being sexist here.”

“I am getting picked on. You’re giving Samuel the best jobs, you’re pushing me to the sidelines,” Montserrat said, knowing she shouldn’t be getting this worked up or speaking this honestly about the situation, but it infuriated her when people tried to belittle her. “Come on, Mario, we both know you’re fucking with me.”

“See? That’s what I’m talking about. No one can talk to you because you simply explode,” Mario said, rolling his eyes. “It’s as if you get your period twenty out of thirty days of the month.”

“I’m not the asshole pitching a hissy fit over a green form.”

“That’s it. Out you go. You’re not scheduled this week,” Mario said, majestically pointing a finger at the door.

“What? No! I’m doing that job for Paco.”

“You’re not. You call next week to see if you have shifts. You’re getting seven days off unless you apologize for being disrespectful.”

“I haven’t done anything!”

When Mario was in a bad mood, he became a petty tyrant. She knew from experience that the answer was to bow her head and blurt out a half-assed apology. That’s what Samuel or the boys did when Mario was grumbling and stomping through the building. But if there was anything she hated, it was having to stomach a bully. Every single fiber of her body resisted the impulse to grovel, even when she could see by the look in Mario’s eye that he expected her to. Maybe it had been the comment on sexism that had gotten him riled up. Whatever it was, Montserrat would be damned if she was going to take a reaming from this guy.

“Well? Are you going to apologize?”

Montserrat slammed her cup down on the rickety plastic table where they were supposed to have their meals. “I’ll take the seven days off. Maybe when I come back you won’t be such an ass,” she said, gathering her jacket under her arm and storming out of the room.

As soon as she opened the front door, she knew she’d messed up. She shouldn’t have gone off on him. Mario had been baiting her. He was probably itching for excuses to let her go, and she was giving them to him on a platter. Well, there was nothing to be done about it that day. Mario would probably change his mind in a few hours. He usually did. If he didn’t call her in the morning…well, fuck.

Montserrat put on her jacket with a quick, fierce motion and hurried to her car. She desperately needed to find alternative sources of income, because this job wasn’t cutting it anymore.





2


Tristán had been without a phone for ten days now. On the one hand, he wasn’t surprised because Telmex wasn’t exactly prompt, but with the rent he was paying at his new apartment he had assumed things would proceed more smoothly. The apartment manager had certainly assured him he’d get all the trimmings at his new home.

Now, to be perfectly honest, the apartment wasn’t the height of luxury. Sure, it was located right next to Polanco, but it was actually in Granada. Tristán told himself it was like Polanco, except it wasn’t, not with the warehouses and ratty buildings nearby. Walk a few blocks and you’d be in a land of new sports cars and chic restaurants, but that was still a few blocks from him.

Tristán’s building was five stories tall, painted green, and had been refurbished to serve a higher class of clientele in the past few years; he didn’t doubt in a decade or two developers would bulldoze the whole colonia and build it anew, making it as shiny and elegant as Polanco. But for now the prosperity that the building owner had expected had not manifested.

Yet Tristán could not do any better. Already the new apartment was making his wallet bleed. He needed to line up more gigs.

That was why he wanted to get his phone up and running again. He was trying to land an ad campaign. He kept staring at his pager forlornly and running to a pay phone a block away to make calls.

The one good thing about this state of affairs was that the journalists might have a harder time getting hold of him. The anniversary of Karina’s death was coming up. Ten years since she’d died. A guy who worked over at a miserable rag had called him a few weeks before looking for an interview. At least this way Tristán wouldn’t be tempted to talk.