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noxious fumes. Above all, he wanted a job where he could stay clean and not worry about chemicals eating into his skin.
    Longoria the factory worker had begun his search for new employment on a Sunday afternoon, walking into the storefronts along Pico Boulevard to ask the owners if they needed any help. He was turned away at a discoteca and a shop that sold religious articles, saints and votive candles of all shapes and sizes. He stepped into a store called La Primerísima, which sold First Communion, wedding, and quinceañera dresses. Waves of lacy white fabric gushed from every corner of the cramped space, from the display windows, from hooks on the walls, from the rows and rows of racks on the floor. The young women who worked there laughed at him, asking if he wanted a job modeling the dresses.
    His next stop was El Pulgarcito Express. Behind the counter stood a thirtyish pug-nosed man in a square-cut guayabera shirt, the uniform of the well-dressed Latin American businessman. The man turned quiet, his eyes narrowing, when Longoria asked if the company was hiring.
    â€œYou’re a soldier, aren’t you?” he said, staring at Longoria as if he were some sort of zoological curiosity. “I can tell. You’re a veteran.”
    â€œYes, jefe. Así es. ”
    â€œWhat unit were you with?”
    Talking about one’s military past was always risky, but Longoria already had an inkling of this man’s sympathies.
    â€œ Ejército de Guatemala ,” he answered efficiently, as if he were addressing an officer. “ Batallón Jaguar. Sargento Guillermo Longoria, para servirle. ”
    The man in the guayabera broke out in a perfect white smile—a wealthy man’s smile, Longoria observed—and embraced him.
    â€œWelcome, sergeant, welcome to El Pulgarcito Express. Of course we have a job for you. You’ll work the counter, you’ll help with the shipments. How’s six fifty an hour sound?”
    This was two dollars more an hour than Longoria had ever earned before.
    â€œConsider this your home, soldier. You’re part of our family now.”
    The man was William Duarte, owner of El Pulgarcito. Duarte was a fervent Salvadoran nationalist and self-described “militant” in the right-wing ARENA party; his claim to fame, back in El Salvador, was that his sister was married to a rather influential government minister. He decorated his offices with ARENA campaign posters and the mustachioed portrait of the party’s balding presidential candidate, Alfredo Cristiani. In between all the political posters calling for “ ORDER, PEACE, WORK ” were tourist posters of Salvadoran landmarks: snapshots of palm-lined beaches and tidy cities. Judging from the cars and the clothes styles, Longoria guessed that the posters dated from the 1960s. El Salvador before the war.
    After hiring Longoria, Duarte disappeared for several weeks. When Longoria inquired about him, his co-workers said el ingeniero Duarte was busy. El ingeniero Duarte was tending to his many investments and properties scattered across Los Angeles. They always referred to the owner by this formal title, ingeniero , because he claimed to have a degree in civil engineering, though few of his employees really believed this. El ingeniero Duarte drove a white BMW and often called the office on his car phone, yelling at his employees to talk faster because the calls cost a dollar a minute and he worked too hard to waste his money on slow-witted people.
    When Duarte returned to branch number two, he pulled his newest employee away from the front counter to say he desperately needed a word in private. He grabbed Longoria’s arm and began talking with frantic energy, as if he’d been waiting to have a chat with him for a very long time. They sat in a small office in the back, a bare room with only two chairs and a telephone on the floor. Duarte sipped at a milk shake in a Styrofoam cup.
    â€œI