Sam Hawken - The Dead Women of Juárez

Sam Hawken is a native of Texas now living on the east coast of the United States. A graduate of the University of Maryland, he pursued a career as an historian before turning to writing. The Dead Women of Jurez is his first novel.

Sam Hawken

A complete catalogue record for this book can be
obtained from the British Library on request

The right of Sam Hawken to be identified as the author
of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

Copyright 2011 Sam Hawken

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real
persons, dead or alive, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced,
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otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

First published in 2011 by Serpents Tail,

an imprint of Profile Books Ltd

3A Exmouth House

Pine Street

London EC1R 0JH

website: www.serpentstail.com

ISBN 978 1 84668 773 0

eISBN 978 1 84765 655 1

Designed and typeset by f olio of Mayfield

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays, Bungay, Suffolk

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

The paper this book is printed on is certified by the 1996 Forest
Stewardship Council A.C. (FSC). It is ancient-forest friendly.
The printer holds FSC chain of custody SGS-COC-2061

Acknowledgements

R EGARDLESS OF WHAT IT SAYS ON the cover, every book is a team effort. With that in mind, I must thank Dave Zeltserman and my agent, Svetlana Pironko, for championing my work when even I had my doubts. Thanks also go to Pete Ayrton and John Williams of Serpents Tail for taking a chance on me.

Most of all I thank my wife, Mariann, for allowing me the opportunity to pursue a career as a writer, for being my first reader and prime defense against bad writing, and for being the cornerstone of our family. Without her, there would be no novel for you to read.

For las mujeres muertas de Jurez

PART ONE
Bolillo

ONE

R OGER K AHN WROTE , B OXING IS smoky halls and kidneys battered until they bleed, but in Mexico everything bled in the ring. And there was also pain.

When Kelly Courter fought in the States he was a welterweight, but he didnt fight Stateside anymore and he was heavier. No amount of sweating and starving would take him out of the middleweight class now. This mattered little to the man who paid the purse. If pressed he would call these catchweight fights, but they were really just demolition without a weigh-in or any formality beyond money changing hands.

The Mexican kid was leaner and harder than Kelly, and that was the point; Kelly was here to be the kids punching bag. Mexicans liked to see La Raza get one over on a white guy. It was twice as good if the white guy came from Texas like Kelly did.

They circled. Kellys blood was on the canvas because he was gashed over the right eye and his nose was dripping. Vidal, the cut man working Kellys corner, wasnt much for adrenaline and pressure alone couldnt stop the leaking. The crowd wanted to see the bolillo bleed anyway.

Kelly worked the jab to keep the kid at a distance. He connected, but he wasnt putting enough hurt behind the punches to make a difference to the outcome. His shoulders burned and his calves threatened to cramp. He started the match dancing, but now he was shuffling.

They traded punches. Kelly soaked up the kids straight right with his cheekbone and when his head rocked he heard and felt his neck bones crackle. He hooked a punch into the kids ribs, but his follow-up left windmilled. And then they were apart again, circling. If Kelly could keep the action in the center of the ring, he might manage to stay on his feet through six rounds.

The bell rang. The crowd was happy. Under the ring lights a layer of tobacco smoke was as thick and gray as a veil.

Vidal wiped the blood off Kellys face and pressed an icy-cold enswell where it would do the most good. In the other corner, the Mexican kids trainer talked the boy up while he got all the best stuff, from ice packs to adrenaline hydrochloride. Kelly didnt have a trainer with him because he wasnt that high-class; he was just the designated sacrifice. Vidal came with a ten-year-old boy who worked the bucket and iced down Kellys mouthpiece. Kelly paid them both ten bucks a round.

Can you do something about my nose? Kelly asked Vidal after his gum shield came out. I cant breathe right.

Dont get punched in the face no more, Vidal replied, but he stuffed a soaking Q-tip up Kellys left nostril and swabbed it around. Here, suck it up.

Kelly snorted and his sinuses flushed with the stink of alcohol and blood. Kelly felt nauseated. The boy held up his plastic bucket. Kelly spat into it instead of throwing up.

You going to make it? Vidal asked.

What round are we in?

You can fall down any time now. Fall down or get knocked down.

He can knock me down.

Then youre stupid.

The bell rang. Vidal yanked the Q-tip out of Kellys nose too roughly, but the bleeding didnt start again.

As far as smokers went this one wasnt too big: about forty men surrounded the ring and the walls were close. Everybody had something to drink and there were lots of cigars. Old Mexican faces heavy with wrinkles and extra chins and dark eyes grew darker in the shadows of a fight so that looking out beyond the ropes a fighter saw only dozens of dead, unblinking holes.

Dlo a la madre!

Give him to the Mother . Roughly it meant kick his ass to death .

The Mexican kid came straight at Kelly and so did the first hard jab. Maybe Kelly was distracted, or maybe he was slower than he thought, but the punch came through his hands and cracked him right between the eyes. It shouldnt have rocked him, but it did.

Kelly took a step back. A left hook took him flush and the combo right to the body made his guts shake. He had his hands up, but they werent where they needed to be, so the kid battered him left-right, left-right, and he fell while all the old men cheered the blood.

Back in the States the ref would step in once Kellys head bounced off the canvas, but this wasnt the States. Kellys nose was gushing again. The Mexican kid was over him. Another punch slugged down from the heavens and blocked out the ring lights. Only then was the bell rung. The ref raised the Mexican kids hand and Kelly Courter disappeared for everyone in the room.

TWO

I F THE PLACE HAD DRESSING ROOMS , they werent for bolillos . They set Kelly and Vidal up at the back of the mens room. While drunken viejos wandered in and out to use the piss trough, Vidal helped Kelly get the tape off his fists and get changed. He cleaned up Kellys face the best he could, but he worked corners and wasnt a doctor.

Green and white paint on the walls peeled from neglect and humidity. The men laughed at Kelly and insulted him in Spanish because they didnt think he understood them, but he did. His face looks like a bowl of frijoles refritos , one of the old men said to another. Kelly might have argued, but he saw himself in a mirror coming in and knew they werent far wrong; the Mexican kid did a dance on his face.

Vidal put his thumbs on either side of Kellys nose and pressed until cartilage crunched. Needles of pain stabbed through Kellys forehead then and when Vidal put tape across the bridge of his nose to keep things stable. Kelly would have two black eyes for a while.