An Acceptable Sacrifice

they’d been led to believe? After all, there’d never been any hard proof that Cuchillo was the drug lord many believed him to be. Just because one was rich and tough didn’t mean he was a criminal.
    Where exactly had the intelligence assigning guilt come from? How reliable was it?
    He realized Cuchillo was looking at him with curiosity. “Now, Señor Abrossa, are you sure you’re the book dealer I’ve been led to believe?”
    Using all his willpower, Díaz kept a smile on his face and dipped a brow in curiosity.
    The man laughed hard. “You’ve forgotten to ask for the money.”
    “Ah, sometimes I get so caught up in the books themselves that, you’re right, I do forget it’s a business. I personally would give books away to people who appreciate them.”
    “I most certainly won’t tell your employer you said that.” He reached into his pocket and extracted a thick envelop. “There is the fiftyfive thousand. U.S. “Díaz handed him the receipt on Davila’s letterhead and signed “ V. Abrossa .”
    “Thank you …?” Cuchillo asked, lifting an eyebrow.
    “Victor.” Díaz put the money in the attaché case and closed it. He looked around. “Your home, it is very lovely. I’ve always wondered about the houses in this neighborhood.”
    “Thank you. Would you like to see the place?”
    “Please. And your collection, too, if possible.”
    “Of course.”
    Cuchillo then lead him on a tour of the house, which was, like the living room, filled with understated elegance. Pictures of youngsters—his nieces and nephews who lived in Mexico City and Chihuahua, he explained. He seemed proud of them.
    Díaz couldn’t help wondering again: Was this a mistake?
    “Now, come to my library. As a booklover, I hope you will be impressed.”
    They walked through the kitchen, where Cuchillo paused and asked the housekeeper how her ailing mother was doing. He nodded as she answered. He told her to take any time off she needed. His eyes were narrow with genuine sympathy.
    A mistake …?
    They walked out the back door and through the shade of twin brick walls, the ones protecting him from sniper shots, and then into the library.
    Even as a non-book lover, Díaz was impressed. More than impressed.
    The place astonished him. He knew the size from the drone images, but he hadn’t imagined it would be filled as completely as it was. Everywhere, books. It seemed the walls were made of them, like rich tiles in all different sizes and colors and textures.
    “I don’t know what to say, sir.”
    They walked slowly through the cool room and Cuchillo talked about some of the highlights in the collection. “My superstars,” he said. He pointed out some as they walked.
    The Hound of the Baskervilles by Conan Doyle, Seven Pillars of Wisdom by T.E. Lawrence, The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Tale of Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter, Brighton Rock by Graham Greene, The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett, Night and Day by Virginia Woolf, The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien, The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce, A La Recherche Du Temps Perdu by Marcel Proust, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz by Frank Baum, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone by J.K. Rowling, The Bridge by Hart Crane, The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger, The Thirty-Nine Steps by John Buchan, The Murder on the Links by Agatha Christie, Casino Royale by Ian Fleming.
    “And our nation’s writers too, of course—that whole wall there. I love all books, but it’s important for us in Mexico to be aware of our people’s voice.” He strode forward and displayed a few. “Salvador Novo, Jos Gorostiza, Xavier Villaurrutia, and the incomparable Octavio Paz. Whom you’ve read, of course.”
    “Of course,” Díaz said, praying that Cuchillo would not ask for the name of one of Paz’s books, much less a plot or protagonist.
    Díaz noted a book near the man’s plush armchair. It was in a display case, James Joyce’s Ulysses . He happened to have read about the title last night on a rare book website. “Is that the original 1922 edition?”
    “Yes, that’s right.”
    “It’s worth about $150,000.”
    Cuchillo smiled. “No. It’s worth nothing.”
    “Nothing?”
    His arm swept in a slow circle, indicating the room. “This entire collection is worth nothing.”
    “How do you mean, sir?”
    “Something has value only to the extent the owner is willing to sell. I would never sell a single