I’m standing in the Center for Latin American Studies. Twilight bleeds the place of its bustle and multiple dialects of Spanish. Most of the lights are turned off, most of the doors are shut. The remains of a party litter the flat surfaces — appetizer platters with the shrimp all gone, picked-over pizza getting cold, opened bottles of wine. A colleague of mine passed her orals today and the department threw a goddamn fiesta to celebrate. When I passed my orals I didn’t even rate a slap on the ass. That’s the kind of warm affection I engender in people. I’d be pissed about it, except the sentiment is mutual.

I grab a bottle of something red and swig directly from it. Cabernet sauvignon. A good one, way better than the stuff I can afford. But I abandon it when I discover a lambrusco that hasn’t even been opened yet. I stuff the torpedo-shaped bottle into my backpack, next to the week’s undergrad papers for Introduction to European History. I need to stop carrying them around and start grading them.

Past the lobby and administrative alcove is a hallway that deadends into an office door. The nameplate is etched without a title or the “emeritus” honorific or even a full name, just a single word — HERCULES. The door is slightly ajar with shadows inside. I make a fist and rap on the heavy wood.

“I’m not here,” a rumble answers from within.

“Eugenia says different.”

“For chrissake.” Not much of an invite, but it’ll have to do.

The office is a wide but shallow space pressed up against a wall of glass, now hidden behind vertical blinds. The left half of the room is floor-to-ceiling cherry shelves in the floorplan of an E. The right half is a sitting area with black leather couches and framed pictures of Hercules posing with luminaries, like Bill Clinton and various presidents of Mexico. Spanning the halves of the room is the messy book-stacked desk where Hercules the academic and Hercules the politician collide.

The man in the pictures is seated in an imposing leather captain’s chair. His dark collar-length hair is circled by a UCLA visor. He wears a ribbed turtleneck sweater that drapes flatly into his lap. He looks up from the paperwork he’s reading and scowls, the carved mahogany of his face coming alive. “Haven’t you moved to Tijuana yet, Mr. Roberts?”

“Good to see you too, Professor.” I shrug out of my backpack and drop into one of the wingback chairs facing the desk. “I came by to — ”

Hercules is already silencing me with a leathery palm. “Let me guess. You’re here to ask for a supplemental research grant.”

“Tammy-Sue talked to you.” I expected it, so it’s easy to keep my voice calm.

“She said she explained the grant requirements to you. So unless you’re planning to preserve an archive you never told me about, we have nothing to discuss.”

“Well, actually…” I unzip my backpack and fish out a multi-page letter on Corona stationery. The beer’s famous crown logo pirouettes through the murk when I drop the letter on his desk.

“What’s this?”

“Just read it.”

Hercules stares a hole in my face for a while, then finally glances down and begins to read. Beneath the visor his dark eyes are moving faster. “You’re going to preserve an archive?”

“M-hmmmm. A corporate archive.”

“For a Corona distributor?” he retorts angrily, his brow a Cyclopean line.

“The signatory owns a defunct maquiladora in Tijuana called Korea Textile S.A. If you read the next page, you’ll see that he’s authorizing me to make a digital archive of all company papers and donate it to — ”

” — the Center for Latin American Studies,” Hercules finishes for me, flipping ahead. “What’s this part about adequate resources?”

“Well, the signatory is only prepared to execute this agreement if adequate resources are provided for the undertaking.”

“Like a supplemental research grant, I suppose.” He’s back to staring a hole in my face.

“This would be a research legacy for future generations. All the inner workings of a maquiladora? Board minutes, executive memos, HR and payroll data, you name it.” I lean forward a little, selling hard. “Plus it’ll make two great press releases for the Center for Latin American Studies. The initial announcement, and the follow-up when it’s available for use.”

“So you get more funding, and I get an archive for the center and some publicity. What’s in it for this Corona distributor?”

“The archive has to be called the Juan Angel Santelana Archive in perpetuity.”

Hercules glances at the letter again. Chuckling now. “You sold him naming rights.” He waves at the library half of his office, where shelves of bindings advertise their authors. “His name memorialized on something besides a monograph.”

“Or a headstone!” I find myself relaxing into laughter, all buddy-buddy, one manipulative sonuvabitch to another.

“Did you cook this up after you talked to Tammy-Sue?”

“Nah, it’s been in process longer than that. I was planning to use this archive for my dissertation research anyway. But the idea of preserving it, all the digitization, that’s new.” I can’t resist a cheap shot at him. “I didn’t think of it until the rest of Javier’s funding went to Maria, instead of me.”

His eyes turn into jackhammers. “It would be stupid to annoy me, Mr. Roberts.”

“Sorry. I was out of line, Professor.”

Mollified, Hercules rummages around in his desk for a complicated-looking form. “You’ll need to fill out this application. And I’ll warn you now. I expect a stellar proposal, with every expense anticipated. Return the application to me before month-end.”

I’ve never seen a supplemental research grant application before. The applicant fields are pre-filled with Hercules’ contact information. I stare at his name, his office address, his contact information. Realization seeps through me.

“Is something the matter, Mr. Roberts?”

“You’re the one who gets the grant. I’ll just work for you.”

“I believe the popular expression is, you’ll be my bitch.” He guffaws at my discomfort. “Even God couldn’t get a supplemental awarded to a grad student. So the funding goes to me, and I hire you as an independent contractor.”

“That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

“No? Then drop it now.”

“I need the extra funding,” I say through gritted teeth.

“That’s what I like about you — your predictability.” Hercules tilts waaaaaaay back in his captain’s chair, a smug pose. “From the day I admitted you to this program, I don’t think you’ve managed to surprise me once. Not even with something like this. At first, but no.”

I snatch the paperwork and letter off his desk. “Do we have an understanding or what?”

“Make sure your proposal is truly stellar. I didn’t do Cecilia any favors, and I won’t do you any favors. I only care about preserving a unique archival resource, not putting a couple extra bucks in your wallet. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Then we have an understanding.” Hercules points his visor brim at the desktop again. Our meeting is over.

I retreat from the office with his name on it, pausing to grab another unopened bottle of wine on my through the lobby. I feel like celebrating. The prospect of becoming Hercules’ bitch doesn’t faze me. The way I look at it, I’m already his bitch. It’s just a question of how much I get paid for my mad bitchdom skills. The extra funding looms in my mind — an early Christmas with all kinds of cool presents. Like upgrading to a better chunk of Tijuana real estate. And hiring a Mexican to do all my data entry scutwork. I’m giddy with the possibilities.

Outside the chill is timid, barely seeping through my Oakland Raiders sweatshirt. Around me the campus is ebbing into slumber — mostly empty walkways, student commons with only a few students, parking lots with glinting shapes scattered across them. My inner Iowa farmboy pauses to enjoy the moment. This is when UCLA feels like a small town, not a campus of 50,000 lost souls.

My cellphone rings. I settle my shoulder against the rough bark of a palm tree and examine the caller ID. It’s a local number that I don’t recognize. A first name scrolls across the display and continues off it. The name looks vaguely Iranian.

“Hello?” I answer warily.

“Nick. Hi. It’s me.” Nooshin’s voice is a warm but nervous glow. “I can’t really talk right now. I’m up here in LA at my parents’ place.”

Her proximity is a jolt. “Really? I tried calling you, but, uh — you want to get together?”

“Yeah. I’d like that. Can you plan something for tomorrow?”

“How about another hike? We could do the Arroyo Seco Trail. Or hey, I know — Baldwin Hills! The view from the trailtop, you gotta see it to believe it.” Then an even better idea occurs to me. I lower my voice to a syrupy rumble. “Or I could just surprise you.”

“A surprise?”

I guess correctly that Nooshin likes to be on the receiving end of surprises. She puts on an impressive display of pleading and bitching when I won’t divulge anything, but she likes the vague treatment. There’s excitement in her voice.

Until I hear a noise in the background. Somebody is calling her name down a well. “Nooshin? Are you in the basement?”

“I gotta go,” she whispers. “Don’t call this number. I’ll call you.”

Just as quickly as she called, she hangs up. I’m left with a dial tone and my shoulder scraping against the palm trunk. The sensation isn’t pleasant. And neither is Nooshin hanging up like the phone was on fire. Things are going wrong in her world. A world that she tells me nothing about.