The city attorney of Aldama isn’t happy to meet with us. The stout man is a bustle of irritation, waving us into his office hurry-up style, collapsing into his chair, frowning deeply. He has the blunted nose and cauliflower ears of a boxer. The rest of his face is like pumpernickel dough, dark and lumpy. He wears a tan dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, neatly-pressed jeans, and cowboy boots. A hairy hand rises to his neck, where a crucifix dangles from a thick gold braid. His fingers close around the crucifix protectively. He noticed my evil eye.

I drop my chin, hiding behind the sweep of my bangs. Two mismatched chairs face the city attorney’s desk. One is all wood, the other is cheap molded plastic on a metal frame. Neither looks very comfortable. I pick the wooden chair, sitting carefully because of my long polo dress. Then I pull a notebook and pen from my shoulder bag and wait attentively. Time to look like a dutiful assistant.

“These are old pictures of Aldama?” Nick says in Spanish. He’s still standing. Dawdling, really. Over by a wall decorated with black-and-white photographs, the kind with handwritten captions in the bottom corners. “Lot of coal mining back then. More than now, from the looks of it.”

“Senor. Please. Have a seat.” The city attorney is glaring now.

Nick ambles toward the unoccupied chair next to mine. Then he stops abruptly, craning his neck. “That’s a nice view of the plaza.”

The city attorney twists around in his desk chair, glancing out the window. The hand remaining on his desk turns into a fist, lumpy and scarred. I flinch just thinking about how his knuckles got that way. I hate hate hate boxing. All bloodsports, really.

“I was robbed at knifepoint out there yesterday,” Nick is recalling. “While four cops watched from the steps of this very building.”

The city attorney has lost all patience. “I’m sure they were on break.”

“They were drinking tequila.”

“Then they were off duty.”

“Ah,” Nick says.

He finally takes his seat, making a show of getting comfortable. Watching his lazy motions you’d never guess he was born in a hurry. But this is how Nick operates. When someone wants him to hurry up, he slows down. And vice versa. I catch myself smiling down at my notebook. He’s the same way in bed with me.

Nick reaches over to my lap and grabs the photocopied shipping manifest. “We’re here to see you about the Korea Textile maquiladora tax records. It seems there’s some confusion about the number of boxes.”

The city attorney waves at the paperwork in Nick’s hand. “My secretary already provided you with the documentation. We received 13 boxes. That’s all.”

“That can’t be right. The Chirbampo municipal jail shipped…how many boxes?” Nick knows exactly how many boxes. But in Mexico it’s the underlings who are supposed to know the details, not the bosses.

“37 boxes,” I say on cue. “The Chirbampo municipal jail shipped 37 boxes.”

The city attorney’s eyes remain fixed on Nick. “We received 13 boxes. That’s all I can tell you, senor.” He stands, signaling the interview is over.

Nick doesn’t get out of his chair. He just slouches there, rubbing at his bald spot. Normally it’s a nervous involuntary reflex, but this time it’s deliberate. “What do you think happened to the other 24 boxes?”

“I have no idea.”

“Maybe they fell off the truck.”

The city attorney shrugs, a muscular gesture. It makes the polo pony on his shirt rise and fall. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

“You haven’t even asked me what I want with those other 24 boxes.”

“No, I haven’t. Because I don’t care.”

“I’ll tell you anyway. I’m being paid to digitize the Korea Textile maquiladora archive. All of it, including the tax records.” Nick crosses his arms obstinately, watching the city attorney for a reaction.

The reaction isn’t good. The stout man’s frown has deepened all the way into a scowl. But he doesn’t say anything.

“I think I know why those 24 boxes have gone missing. That way the lawsuit against Senor Reyes will be dismissed for lack of evidence, right?” Nick leans forward conspiratorially. “Whoever misplaced those boxes for Senor Reyes was probably supposed to destroy them, but I suspect they’re still around. Hidden somewhere. Because those boxes are leverage on Senor Reyes. An insurance policy, let’s say. Or even blackmail material.”

Goosebumps are rising on my bare arms. I can’t believe Nick is talking to the city attorney this way. Aldama is no welcoming pueblo of a couple hundred people, like Chirbampo. This is a poor and desperate city of 50,000. Anything could happen to a pair of Americans like us. We’re probably in danger of being tossed in jail — or worse.

But the city attorney doesn’t pick up his phone and order our arrest. Instead he leans forward across his desk, bracing his weight on his palms. That fight-scarred face is even more intimidating close up. “I’ll say it again, senor. I don’t care. Now get out of my office.”

“I’d pay for access to those 24 boxes. After the lawsuit against Senor Reyes has been dismissed, of course.”

“Get out!”

“Of course. We appreciate your time, senor.” Nick is changing mode. He tosses the shipping manifest back to me and gets up — quickly. His broad shoulders are vanishing from the office before I can even steady myself on these stupid wedgie sandals. I almost have to chase after him.

We clatter down the stairwell of the municipal building and spill out into the bright sunshine. Around us the plaza is wide-open, an empty lake of patterned cement. Vehicles circuit the fringes, some glinting in the cool afternoon, most dull with coal dust. I keep glancing over my shoulder, expecting the city attorney and cops in hot pursuit.

Nick slows to avoid a few pigeons strutting and bobbing toward us. His profile is resigned. “That was pretty stupid of me, huh?”

“Omigod. That was the stupidest thing ever!” I pound on his arm with small fists, angry and afraid. “How could you say those things to him? What the heck came over you? You could’ve gotten us in big trouble! Or maybe — ” I gasp in terror. ” — maybe we are in big trouble.”

“Yeah. We should probably leave town. Just to be on the safe side.” He pulls his Kangol hat out of a back pocket and slaps it onto his balding head. Something electric is happening beneath the brim. “Where the hell did I park?”

“Over there,” I say urgently, pointing out his rusty Ford Explorer. It sits between a panel truck and a pickup tilted by a flat tire.

We resume our blistering pace across the plaza, glancing around to see if anyone is following us. Down a side street I can see a barren hillside dotted with mine derricks that are barely taller than Nick and I put together. What did he call those tiny mines? Oh, yeah — pocitos. Little holes.

“What are you doing?” Nick asks in irritation.

I’m unfolding my antique Polaroid camera as we powerwalk. “I want a picture. To remember this by.”

“Fuck that.” But he doesn’t stop me.

I don’t bother sighting around the plaza, I just press the button blindly. Click. Then another click. Might as well double my chance of getting something good in the picture. “Does this mean I’m done digitizing the archive?”

“Yeah. Well, no. Maybe not yet. I might still get access to those 24 boxes.”

Nick plows into the afternoon, his face a mask of hopeful stubbornness. Struggling to match his long strides, I feel even more afraid, even more angry. I’ve seen the same expression before. On Saman’s not attractive, not unattractive face. Whenever my husband talked about saving our marriage. Right up to the point where he broke my nose.