He was going to make a choice, either the widow from Monclova or the spinster from that town in Veracruz. Puerco Ahogado, that was the name of it. A little place on the slopes of a mountain; picturesque, he supposed. Dull. He much preferred large cities.
But he was running low on cash. The guesthouse where he lodged did not have the best of clienteles, which meant that despite its central location it remained something of a steal. Yet between his weekly room and board, his lunches and dinners— the lodging house provided a meager breakfast— the dry-cleaning bill, and the like, he was down to his last few pesos.
His father would have known what to do. Even when all the old man had in his pocket was scraps of paper, he understood how to pull a con. He always got them out of trouble, got them a warm meal and a new place.
He had his father’s seductive eyes, but he’d been spared his wit. This flaw, this lack of a certain spark, a certain criminal talent, had not struck him as tragic until he’d had to battle the world on his own. But after three years now without his father, he was rudderless, hardly able to remain afloat.
He knotted his tie and smoothed it, peering in the mirror. He inspected his face with care, attuned to the most minimal flaw that might mar his appearance. When he was twenty, his hair had started to gray prematurely, and at twenty- nine, his temples were now streaked a lush silver. Otherwise, time was being kind to him: the silver served to enhance his features. Yet how long would that last? He looked at his hairline, at his gleaming eyes, and remembered the jaundiced skin of his father during his last, painful days.
He wasn’t old. Not yet. Not for a long time.