Dancing with the Tiger Read Online Free

for himself.
    â€”
    A half hour later, he tiptoed back to the hall. The guards lay splayed, heavy with sleep. He tapped Feo’s thick shoulder. Nothing. The looter entered the first storage room, switched on his headlamp. Bricks of marijuana were piled knee-high. Without warning, the third guard lifted his head. The looter flattened into a shadow, closed his eyes. He could die here or he could not die here. The precariousness of the moment brought fresh understanding. Fuck Guatemala. He needed to go home. Make amends. Pay his mother back the three grand he’d stolen. Buy her a new microwave. Rub her fallen arches.
    He willed the guard to drop back asleep. As if by command, the man collapsed, curling into a comma, a messy hunk of punctuation, silent again.
    The looter’s hands trembled as he opened the second door. The room was a wreck of duffel bags, helmets, and guns. His fingers played over shelving crammed with relics—pots, urns, magical flutes, pieces he’d sold to Reyes months ago lay stacked without order or care. A take-out fried chicken container rested on a hammered gold mask. A bully stick balanced on a Mayan urn. Reyes claimed he was an art collector, but he needed Gonzáles to tell his head from his ass.
    On the bottom shelf, a familiar blue face glared up at him.
Motherfucker, get me out of here.
    The looter lifted the mask, already calculating his next move. He’d send Gonzáles a photo, have the asshole dealer find a buyer with deep pockets. No need to mention this hiccup with Reyes. Just tell Gonzáles that Reyes had passed on it.
    Mask so nice he’d sell it twice.
    Floating out of the vault room, he murmured a cradlesong to the junkies and hit men.
Sleep, little babies. Sleep, beautiful boys.
Even the worst men looked innocent when they slept. Their faces were the masks they’d wear when they died. Their own faces, at peace.
    Gliding into the perfumed night of Mexico City, the looter whispered,
“Col-or-a-do.”
The death mask grinned in his satchel.

four ANNA
    Anna drove fast. Windows open despite the cold. Bare trees, stone walls, classic rock on the radio. Every song reminded her of slow dancing in somebody’s basement. She was not loved. She was not lovable. Both were her fault.
    The plan was to go home and see her father in Connecticut. Away from the city, she’d regroup, the polite euphemism for figuring out what the hell to do next. She’d have to tell her father she’d changed her mind and needed the money after all. Find out when it was coming, and how much. She’d leave David, move out. Cancel the wedding. Cancel the honeymoon. No moon. No honey. What an idiot she’d been to become so dependent, a fat tick on a dog.
    She sipped Jose Cuervo from a dirty coffee cup. Its vomitlike aftertaste coated her nostrils. Exhaustion blanketed her cheekbones. She’d hardly slept. After her exquisite departure in her black-cat dress, she’dspent the night on her yoga friend Harmonica’s futon, working a bottle of chardonnay, weeping, checking her phone for messages, wondering if David was devastated or relieved. How had she missed the signs? There was that night, post-Chinese, when he’d said:
I don’t feel close to you.
She’d been sitting right next to him and joked:
How much closer can I get?
Apparently, his new assistant, Clarissa, got really close. Apparently,
many
women enjoyed getting close to David’s video camera. Who did he think he was—Andy Warhol?
    She should have skipped the nap. She’d always hated naps, the way they sucked the life out of you, but she’d wanted to be fresh for David’s opening, ready to put on a brave face. If “schadenfreude” was the word for taking pleasure in another’s pain, what was the word for resenting a loved one’s success? Pettiness. No, treason. Of course, she hoped David’s show would light up the art world. She wanted that for him,