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Authors: T. Jefferson Parker
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so diverse and unpredictable, I am trying to bring them a bigger audience in Mexico, much bigger. The Arabic musical influence is so distinctive and unusual in Spain. Absolutely! And the Scottish are among my favorites—fromancient highland bagpipes to the guitar of Mark Knopfler! And he mixes them together in ‘Piper to the End!’ And of course the English, too, they produce greatness. And you Americans. You have Bob Dylan and the Boss and Bonnie Raitt and Taylor Swift. You may wish to know that Erin and the Inmates are beginning to be very popular in this country, especially in the states along the Gulf of Mexico. I sell you very strongly there because many of these states are friends to me. And because Mexicans love women who can sing. So they love you. I sell CDs of American women singers by the many of thousands. Most in Mexico, but many to Central and South America. Not in the United States anymore because of iPods. All of those products you saw in the basement are ready to be shipped. Of course, the downloading of music will ruin my CD business when the iPods become more affordable here. Until then, I will sell to the people what they want.”
“You shouldn’t rip off the artists you love so much.”
He eyed her. The lugubrious expression returned immediately. “Business always must be first.”
“Make it second and you’ll be happier.”
“I will be happy?”
She shrugged and looked out at the gorgeous Yamaha shining in the studio lights. “It’s possible that was a stupid thing to say.”
“Do you know how many people are trying to kill me?”
“Not exactly.”
“Thousands.”
“Truly?”
“Very truly. There are soldiers and police and hired assassins and enemies and even mere boys who would kill me without one thought. There are people who would kill me just to have a
corrido
written about it. Yet this is all a part of business. So, as you see, it must come first or I will die. You must comprehend that your world is not my world.”
“You’re right, Señor Armenta, this is not my world. And you’re also right about Flaco Jimenez. He’s one robust accordion player.”
“Yes. Music. I will tell you about my son someday.”
“He frightens me.”
“Not Saturnino. Gustavo. I will tell you about Gustavo. He was the beautiful one.”
Up on the fourth floor she recognized her hallway and room door. This level spread out logically at right angles, all hallways and guest rooms, like a hotel. Some of the doors were open and Erin saw that the rooms were beautifully furnished and decorated, like hers. Some were closed. They came to seating alcoves with high windows and heavy rancho sofas in leather and cowhide and grand recliners arranged around rustic trunks piled with books and periodicals. Monkeys peered down on them from the curtain rods. Parrots and macaws lined the landing rail and the banister that zigzagged down four floors as Erin looked over. A black man wearing white pants and a white shirt used a step ladder to remove various excretions from the drapery. The bucket on the floor beside him gave up the smell of lavender and Erin saw that a portion of the tile pavers was clean and still wet from the mop.
“In the daylight there are excellent views from these windows. You can see the ruins and the laguna.”
“I don’t think I’ll be free to enjoy views.”
He regarded her with a mild shrug. “No. This would not be practical.”
The top floor—Erin was fairly sure it was floor five—housed an observatory, a home theater the size of a multiplex, a recital hall, and a game room with billiards, table tennis, Foosball, scores of arcadegames from “Cabela’s Big Game Hunter” to “Daytona Challenge” to “Kandahar Killers.” Father Edgar Ciel sat cramped but splendidly upright in the Daytona car, hands clutching the wheel, blazing his way through the competition while the novitiates watched on.
Back in the elevator Armenta pressed the second button from the top, which
“You shouldn’t rip off the artists you love so much.”
He eyed her. The lugubrious expression returned immediately. “Business always must be first.”
“Make it second and you’ll be happier.”
“I will be happy?”
She shrugged and looked out at the gorgeous Yamaha shining in the studio lights. “It’s possible that was a stupid thing to say.”
“Do you know how many people are trying to kill me?”
“Not exactly.”
“Thousands.”
“Truly?”
“Very truly. There are soldiers and police and hired assassins and enemies and even mere boys who would kill me without one thought. There are people who would kill me just to have a
corrido
written about it. Yet this is all a part of business. So, as you see, it must come first or I will die. You must comprehend that your world is not my world.”
“You’re right, Señor Armenta, this is not my world. And you’re also right about Flaco Jimenez. He’s one robust accordion player.”
“Yes. Music. I will tell you about my son someday.”
“He frightens me.”
“Not Saturnino. Gustavo. I will tell you about Gustavo. He was the beautiful one.”
Up on the fourth floor she recognized her hallway and room door. This level spread out logically at right angles, all hallways and guest rooms, like a hotel. Some of the doors were open and Erin saw that the rooms were beautifully furnished and decorated, like hers. Some were closed. They came to seating alcoves with high windows and heavy rancho sofas in leather and cowhide and grand recliners arranged around rustic trunks piled with books and periodicals. Monkeys peered down on them from the curtain rods. Parrots and macaws lined the landing rail and the banister that zigzagged down four floors as Erin looked over. A black man wearing white pants and a white shirt used a step ladder to remove various excretions from the drapery. The bucket on the floor beside him gave up the smell of lavender and Erin saw that a portion of the tile pavers was clean and still wet from the mop.
“In the daylight there are excellent views from these windows. You can see the ruins and the laguna.”
“I don’t think I’ll be free to enjoy views.”
He regarded her with a mild shrug. “No. This would not be practical.”
The top floor—Erin was fairly sure it was floor five—housed an observatory, a home theater the size of a multiplex, a recital hall, and a game room with billiards, table tennis, Foosball, scores of arcadegames from “Cabela’s Big Game Hunter” to “Daytona Challenge” to “Kandahar Killers.” Father Edgar Ciel sat cramped but splendidly upright in the Daytona car, hands clutching the wheel, blazing his way through the competition while the novitiates watched on.
Back in the elevator Armenta pressed the second button from the top, which
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