Dancing with the Tiger Read online

  A MARIAN WOOD BOOK

  Published by G. P. Putnam’s Sons

  Publishers Since 1838

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2016 by Lili Wright

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  eBook ISBN 9780698197015

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  For John Bahoric, who brought me to Mexico, and for Laila, Sara, and Mercedes, who made me want to stay

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  PART ONE one | ANNA

  two | THE GARDENER

  three | THE LOOTER

  four | ANNA

  five | THE GARDENER

  six | THE HOUSEKEEPER

  seven | ANNA

  eight | THE LOOTER

  nine | ANNA

  ten | THE CARVER

  eleven | ANNA

  twelve | THE HOUSEKEEPER

  thirteen | THE GARDENER

  fourteen | ANNA

  fifteen | THE GARDENER

  sixteen | ANNA

  seventeen | THE GARDENER

  eighteen | THE LOOTER

  nineteen | ANNA

  twenty | THE GARDENER

  twenty-one | ANNA

  twenty-two | THE LOOTER

  twenty-three | ANNA

  twenty-four | THE GARDENER

  twenty-five | THE POOL CLEANER

  twenty-six | ANNA

  twenty-seven | THE COLLECTOR

  PART TWO one | THE LOOTER

  two | ANNA

  three | THE GARDENER

  four | THE COLLECTOR

  five | THE LOOTER

  six | ANNA

  seven | THE GARDENER

  eight | THE HOUSEKEEPER

  nine | THE PAPERSHOP GIRL

  ten | ANNA

  eleven | THE LOOTER

  twelve | ANNA

  thirteen | THE LOOTER

  fourteen | THE DRUG LORD

  fifteen | ANNA

  sixteen | THE GARDENER

  seventeen | THE PAPERSHOP GIRL

  eighteen | THE LOOTER

  nineteen | ANNA

  twenty | THE GARDENER

  twenty-one | ANNA

  twenty-two | THE LOOTER

  twenty-three | ANNA

  twenty-four | THE COLLECTOR

  twenty-five | ANNA

  twenty-six | THE GARDENER

  twenty-seven | THE HOUSEKEEPER

  twenty-eight | THE COLLECTOR

  twenty-nine | THE LOOTER

  thirty | ANNA

  thirty-one | THE LOOTER

  thirty-two | THE DOGS

  PART THREE one | ANNA

  two | THE LOOTER

  three | THE COLLECTOR

  four | ANNA

  five | THE LOOTER

  six | THE DRUG LORD

  seven | ANNA

  eight | THE GARDENER

  nine | ANNA

  ten | THE GARDENER

  eleven | THE COLLECTOR

  twelve | THE LOOTER

  thirteen | THE PAPERSHOP GIRL

  fourteen | ANNA

  fifteen | THE LOOTER

  sixteen | ANNA

  seventeen | THE HOUSEKEEPER

  eighteen | THE GARDENER

  nineteen | ANNA

  twenty | SANTA MUERTE

  twenty-one | THE HOUSEKEEPER

  twenty-two | ANNA

  twenty-three | THE LOOTER

  twenty-four | THE PAPERSHOP GIRL

  twenty-five | THE MEXICO CITY NEWS

  twenty-six | ANNA

  twenty-seven | THE CARVER

  twenty-eight | CRUISE

  twenty-nine | CHELO

  thirty | ANNA

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Even in the slums of Mexico City, pieces of the fallen Aztec Empire keep showing up.

  —Craig Childs, Finders Keepers

  PROLOGUE

  The looter dug into the cave with the fervent touch of a lover. Cranked on meth, he shuddered as he dug, cursing a lilting lullaby to women and smack. His body smelled. He noticed, then dismissed it, the way he noticed and dismissed the wet in the air, his cut knuckles, the dust and sweat that covered his skin like fur. Lesser men would have whimpered about their knees, their aching backs. Little pussies. But tweaked, he could work for hours without losing his cool or quitting from hunger or succumbing to the roar of Aztec ghosts. Everything that mattered in life was buried, covered up, lost, afraid to show its true face. Few people had the courage or imagination to dig.

  Christopher Maddox was far from home, an American in Mexico, a college dropout kneeling in the dirt, a holy man. You could find religion anywhere. Two days before, his trowel had hit the leading edge of an urn or crown, a relic worth enough cash, he hoped, to float him all the way to Guatemala, where drugs were cheaper than mangoes, where women greeted you with warm tortillas and a goat. Gua-te-ma-la. All those soft syllables, adding up to nothing but a hammock and a song. The looter. That’s what he called himself. Alter ego, doppelgänger, shadow in the moonlight—the hero of a story that began when a humble man from Divide, Colorado, dug up a treasure that saved his life.

  His headlamp slipped. He righted it. Sweat froze in electric beads, a crown circling his forehead. A lot could go wrong underground. Apocalypse. Asphyxiation. Popocatépetl. The cave that caves in. Any minute, pinches federales could pounce. He picked up his wasted toothbrush and scrubbed, watched stones reveal themselves like a stripper. Sex humped his brain. He dug past time and he dug past death. His skin itched from nerves, the tickle of bugs, the spook of the dark, the thrill of the find.

  A shadow caught his eye. Against the cave wall, a figure, a vision: his mother’s weathered face flickered across the fissured rocks. Her spotted hand reached for him, trying to yank him back from the abyss. The looter’s chest cracked with this new agony. He grabbed his pick, stabbed the ground, not caring what he broke. He just wanted his due. Now. Ahora. Dá-me-lo.

  An angel sighed. The devil bit his lip. The relic fell loose, five hundred years of Aztec history tumbled into his busted hands. The looter rolled on his heels, giddy, cooing, Sweet baby Jesus, because he was no longer in the cave alone. A face stared up at him, a turquoise mask with only one eye.

  —

  Into Mexico City he burst, dancing on the points of a star. As his cab roared down Reforma, he rocked the mask in his lap, coddling its splintered face, a mad ga
laxy of green and blue. Its mouth was a grimace of shell teeth, fully intact. Across its forehead coiled two snakes. One eye was missing. The other had no opening. A mask made for the dead.

  He wanted to howl. He wanted to salsa into the snooty antiquities shops in the Zona Rosa, toe-tap into the anthropology museum and see the officials’ shock when they realized a penniless gringo had uncovered a national treasure. But more than admiration, more than money or love, he needed a fix.

  The cab dropped him at the safe house. Scary fucking place. A compound for cholos and bangers, a vault for drug money, a graveyard for the damned, who were chopped into salad and dumped in mass graves, fetid in the wind. They called it a safe house, but no one there was safe. At the gate, the looter flashed his signature cell phone, his only possession of value. Reyes paid the bills. He needed to reach his people 24/7. At the front door, Feo, the human beer can, flexed his gym muscles. Alfonso peered over his shoulder, on tiptoes, in sneakers. Guy was so tatted he didn’t need clothes. The word scrawled over his lip formed an illegible mustache.

  The looter held out the mask.

  Feo turned it over, sneered, offered a grand.

  The looter shook his head, disgusted. “I need ten times that.”

  “You dig. We decide what it’s worth.”

  Fury rose inside him. Stupid, greedy mensos. Like his work had no value. History had no value. Nothing had value but their next drug run to the border. He wanted to speak to someone with an IQ.

  “Let me talk to Reyes.”

  Feo grinned. “No one talks to Reyes. No one even sees Reyes.”

  This was true. In three years, the looter had never met the man. The drug lord was constantly moving, every day a new location, a new face. Mazatlán penthouse. Juárez sewer. A man of a million disguises: grifter, hipster, attorney general. Rumor had it his real face resembled an old man’s testicle. Behind his back, people called him that—El Pelotas. Half his right ear was missing. Reyes was high up, a patrón who considered himself cultured, collected antiquities by the pound, adored gallery openings and pink champagne. He’d turn up in a rancho, toss gold rings to children. Like a magician, he could make men disappear, saw a woman in half.

  “Tell Reyes I have something. Tell him this is worth his time.”

  Feo smirked, eager to watch this debacle unfold. “Oh, well then, come in.” He swung open the door to an entryway with a circular staircase. “I’ll tell the patrón his favorite caveman needs to see him right away. Make yourself comfortable. Have a drink.”

  The looter stood in the gloom with Alfonso. In the next room, a couple of shitty couches faced the world’s largest TV. The looter held the mask over his groin, studied the fractured bulletproof windows. The bullets had come from inside.

  Alfonso lit a cigarette, blew smoke. “You’re a real idiot.”

  “Regálame un tabaco, compa.”

  Alfonso threw him a pack and a lighter. “The dying man’s last request.”

  Everyone here smiled and nobody meant it. Footsteps on the stairs. Two sets. The first figure stopped on the landing, left hand on the banister, right in his pocket, gripping a pistol. Reyes was a small man, bow-legged, froglike, his wide chest panting. He wore narrow black sweatpants and a golden poncho. A straw hat streaming with pink ribbons covered most of his face. Some indigenous concoction. The looter was curious about the ear, but lowered his eyes, bit his cheek.

  “You wanted to see me?” Reyes’s voice was steady and cold.

  The looter did some kind of bow, held out the mask. He was proud of his Spanish, knew how to lace it up nice. Humble and flowery. “Patrón, con todo respeto, I bring you a magnificent treasure today. It took me two days to remove from a cave.”

  No response. No one talks to Reyes. No one even sees Reyes. The looter’s throat tightened. He realized his mistake. “This mask is five hundred years old,” he went on. “It belongs in a museum. CNN, National Geographic—totally viral. It was made to turn a powerful man into a god.”

  Reyes stared at him like his face was on fire.

  The looter tried again, more direct. He was losing his voice, his pants, his bowels. He needed the cash, the rock. He jerked his head, fought to gain control, lifted his chin. “It’s worth twenty grand easy, but I’ll take ten. Today.”

  Reyes made no eye contact. At first, the looter thought he’d garbled his Spanish, then he understood a more humiliating truth: Reyes dismissed him as an idiot addict making shit up. A pit of anger caught in his chest. He might do something stupid.

  His thigh shook in his jeans. A clock ticked, or maybe his heart.

  Reyes threw down a wad of pesos. The bundle lay there, a dead animal no one wanted to touch. Alfonso stepped forward, took the mask. The looter knelt before the money, knew better than to count.

  Reyes growled, “Now bring me another.”

  PART ONE

  I’ve worn a mask most of my life. Most people do. As a little girl, I covered my face with my hands, figuring if I couldn’t see my father, he couldn’t see me. When this didn’t work, I hid behind Halloween masks: clowns and witches and Ronald McDonald. Years later, when I went to Mexico, I understood just how far a mask can take you. In the dusty streets, villagers turned themselves into jaguars, hyenas, the devil himself. For years, I thought wearing a mask was a way to start over, become someone new. Now I know better.

  —Anna Ramsey, from her unfinished memoir, 2012

  one ANNA

  She wore black, the color of nuns and witches, the color of the loneliest corners of outer space, where gravity prevents all light from escaping, the name given to boxes tucked into airplanes, the ones that explain the disaster. She chose green earrings to match her eyes, a bra that accentuated her cleavage. The strappy sandals she fastened around her ankles gave her the three-inch rise she needed to look him in the eye.

  She drove to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, found a garage, let a valet park her car. The air was so cold she could see her breath.

  “I won’t be long,” Anna told the boy, slipping him a few bucks. “Put me near the exit.”

  The reception was already under way. Beneath a cathedral ceiling, svelte guests murmured small talk and gossip. Gay men in tight pants and tangerine neckties. Pale nymphs in taffeta miniskirts or cowgirl braids or Clark Kent glasses, trying to prove they could be beautiful no matter how badly they dressed. Grandes dames, donors, scions of Rockefellers and Guggenheims, women with names like Tooty and Olive, their thinning hair shellacked into gladiator helmets, their spotted wrists weighed down with bangles. The Velvet Underground sang, “I’ll be your mirror.”

  Anna plucked champagne from a passing tray, ran her hand down her dress. Her engagement ring caught the light. Familiar faces drifted past. Artists. Celebrities. Critics. A man who had pressed her to sleep with him. She’d told him she didn’t do that anymore. She was with David. Monogamous, a virtue that sounded like a disease.

  The champagne hit her hard. Anna hadn’t eaten since that morning’s sugar doughnut. She finished her flute, took another, set off to find David, strolling past Campbell’s soup cans, Marilyn, tawdry black-and-white films from the Factory. Everything cheap and loud and repeating itself.

  She found him holding court in the Damien Hirst room, schmoozing next to a shark suspended in formaldehyde. Looking into his eyes, she felt nothing. Their three years together, a collapsible hat. Instead of slapping him or sobbing, she dug down deep and pulled up her love, let it radiate across her face. She revealed her whole self, perhaps for the first time. Only hours before, she would have done anything to make him happy.

  David acknowledged her with a playful mouth. His circle opened to let her join.

  Black, the color of mourning.

  Black, the color you could never take back.

  “Anna,” he said. “You look . . .”

  She swept into his arms and pressed her lips over his. Not a
cordial peck of recognition or reunion, but a full-body embrace, bare arms wrapped around his head, fingers playing his short hairs, breasts flattening his lapels, pelvis teasing his hips, yes, there. He stiffened, embarrassed, surprised, but then drew her close. Anna put everything she had into the kiss, three years of affection and trust, three years of plans for tomorrow, and the day after that, three years of fucking monogamy. Her warm tongue made the transfer from her mouth to his as her hand entered his breast pocket.

  Black, the color of sex.

  Black, the color that fire leaves behind.

  She let him go. David’s forehead creased with confusion. His lips puckered as his long fingers reached into his mouth and withdrew the offending object. Curious guests leaned in; their gleaming faces filled with prurient delight to see the unflappable David Flackston, a curator of modern art at the Met, open his mouth and remove a diamond ring. Even more curious was his new pocket square—a beige pair of ladies’ panties.

  two THE GARDENER

  When the papershop girl announced that her family was moving to Veracruz, Hugo felt his blood drain from his body. He asked When? and Lola said Two weeks and Hugo said How long have you known? Lola said They told me yesterday. Hugo paced the paper shop, slamming his fist on the counter because she was leaving him and because in Veracruz every man would see what he’d seen and smell what he’d smelled and what was now his alone might be stolen by any man looking for stationery.

  Like a good fire, their love affair began with paper. Hugo was writing his cousin in Texas and needed the kind of skin-thin stationery that makes even the firmest intention seem like a dream. He’d stopped in a papelería and the girl behind the counter smiled. His stomach tightened. She wore a yellow dress with white bunting, all schoolgirl and fresh daisy. Her fingerless lace gloves fastened with a snap. The first customer paid for his pens, the second did his copying. The door jingled shut, leaving the two of them, Hugo and the girl, surrounded by pencils and compasses and pens with invisible ink.