Desperado

by Manuel Ramos

  The Boxcar Bimbo had an address on upper Larimer Street. Tourists bunched together in Larimer Square and LoDo, but they rarely ventured north of Twenty-First, a not yet developed area of warehouses, Mexican bus depots and other businesses that didn’t fit the LoDo aesthetic. Homeless men and women congregated at the end of the block. Clubs like the Bimbo capitalized on the old Larimer Street skid row reputation and attracted customers who didn’t care if the place was trendy, only if the music blasted away the daytime aches and pains.

  The Bimbo stretched long and narrow. The squat building resembled a World War II bunker more than a boxcar. Nothing said bimbo until I got inside. The life-size inflatable doll with the perfectly formed oval mouth, Orphan Annie eyes, anatomical correctness and Betty Boop outfit greeted customers from the red leather seat of a chrome and black Harley. The plastic sex toy made me feel like I should avert my eyes out of respect for the lady’s lost modesty.

  An antique-looking mirror with a filigree frame extended behind the battered bar along one of the walls. Dolls of every size, color and condition hung from the ceiling, their ceramic, plastic and rag hands somehow fixed to the cracked tiles. A rotating light rapidly changed the color of the few tables and chairs scattered around the floor and the people sitting in them. An overflow crowd filled the club with noise and smells. A few years before, cigarette smoke would have clogged the air and my sinuses. The unrelenting noise agitated me.

  I didn’t see a face I recognized. The customers’ youth struck me. I felt out of place and too old for my surroundings. I could deal with feeling out of place. I had trouble with the “too old” thing.

  Max’s band played in the club four nights a week, starting around ten. I hadn’t heard the latest version of the Rakers, which she reminded me of at every chance. Max preferred to stay back stage when the Rakers entertained. She worked hard as the band’s manager. On a gig she had to deal with numerous details and crises. Occasionally she joined them on stage with her tambourine or to wail a song whose lyrics I never understood. The last time she talked to me about the band, she said she was changing a few things I might like.

  I managed to squeeze up to the bar and hollered an order for a Dos Equis. The bartender delivered quickly and I thought she said “three dollars,” which I set on the inner lip of the bar. The hum of people surrounded me, choked off the air. The beer soothed my anxiety. I left the bar and walked to the far side of the club where the band set up. The musicians bounced around the stage while they checked their instruments—three guitars and a drum outfit.

  A part of the crowd mingled in front of the stage. I moved in as close as I could. Maxine did not appear on the stage or in the background.

  The lights dimmed. A spotlight focused on the band—four young men with beards, filthy jeans and not a hint of a smile. One guy’s head was bald, another sported a spiky red hairdo, and the other two had greasy shoulder-length locks. Without any introduction or build up they began to play. Immediately the sound level shook the walls. My feet jumped from vibrations in the floor. The audience gyrated, shook and bumped in the tiny space that served as a dance floor.

  I hated the song. Nothing but noise. I liked most music, even some country. But the Rakers hurt my ears. I stuck with the band, finished off my beer, then walked back to the bar. Glasses hanging from a wooden rack behind the bartender rattled and tinkled. I secured another beer and walked in the opposite direction from the stage.

  “Hey, where you going?!” Max shouted her greeting, but I heard only some of her words. I’d walked right past her in my escape from the harsh decibels.

  “I can’t hear anything,” I shouted back. “Where can we talk?” I pointed at my ear and shook my head.

  “Come with me. Sometimes you act like a helpless child.”

  I followed her to a narrow staircase near the restroom doors. She wore flared jeans, a bright red silky blouse and enough jewelry to sink the Titanic. A butterfly tattoo adorned one shoulder. She climbed the rickety stairs to a level of the club that I hadn’t noticed. The temperature increased but the noise dramatically decreased. Another crowd of people took up the second floor but they were quieter than the first-floor mob. Max found us a booth.

  “You didn’t like it, did you?”

  “Just not my thing. That’s all. You got a great crowd. Someone likes your band.”

  “We do okay. Steady dates in several venues. The boys are happy.”

  “I thought you were doing something different?”

  “We are. But that’s not for the public yet. You won’t believe where we’re going with our music.”

  “Tell me. I need to hear how someone is doing what they want and feeling good about it.”

  Before she answered, a woman tapped her on the shoulder. Max jumped up and hugged the stranger. Then they kissed with a show of affection that signaled Max had herself a new lover.

  When they unlocked their lips, they continued to hold hands and sat down.

  “This is my brother, Gus. I hoped you’d meet him tonight.”

  The woman stretched her hand to me and I shook it. About a dozen silver bracelets jangled on each wrist. Heavy eyebrows and bright teeth accented her dark skin.

  “I’m Sandra, Sandy. You look a lot like Max.”

  “Thanks. That’s a compliment.”

  “I meant it that way.” She glanced at Max. “Your brother’s cute.”

  “In a hoodlum, lowrider way,” Max said.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Just kiddin’. You know I love you, bro.

  You’re the best.” “Now you’re making stuff up.”

  She smiled. “Seriously, Gus. You’re family and you’ve always put the family first. You stood by me. That’s big in my book.”

  I got a little choked up.

  “I can’t wait until you meet my brother,” Sandy said. “He here in Denver?” I asked.

  “Afghanistan,” Sandy said. “Nine more months. I haven’t seen him for two years.”

  “To your brother,” I said. We each drank from our beer. “You two been together for long?”

  The question sounded rude but I didn’t intend to be impolite. I needed a point of reference. Max’s relationships tended to burst on the scene and then fade out. I wasn’t one to talk, but lack of commitment plagued her like bad luck stuck to me.

  “For a few weeks now,” Sandy said.

  “We met last year,” Max said. “In Austin at South by Southwest. She checked out the Rakers because they were from Denver. I had to go all the way to Texas to meet someone from my own hometown.”

  Sandy reached over and kissed Max again. Another deep one that made me look away.

  “Maybe I should give you two some privacy,” I said.

  They reluctantly let go of each other.

  Red blotches of embarrassment or emotion or something crept up Max’s cheeks and into her forehead. “Sorry, Gus,” she said. “I know you don’t like PDAs. You’re such an old man sometimes.”

  They laughed and held hands again.

  Max sounded cheerful, upbeat, like always. Corrine and I toted cynicism like sacks of potatoes. We were as close to clinical depression as we could get without requiring a prescription for Prozac. Max, on the other hand, represented the cheery side of the family. She was the only one on that side.

  Max’s good disposition did not come from a happy upbringing. Our father never accepted her coming out as a lesbian in high school. The final years of his life were hardest on her. He didn’t disown her or anything dramatic like that. He simply never hugged her again. I doubt they said more than a dozen words to each other in the five years from her announcement to his death. I did what I could as her brother. I could never be her father.

  I trusted her reliability and composure. I turned to her when I needed help but not another Corrine lecture.

  I looked at Sandy. “You’re a musician, too? Or . . . ” I said.

  “Sandy’s my collaborator,” Max said. “She’s part of my new project. She�
��s got a degree in music and can play at least three instruments, but she wants to produce. The band loves her and her ideas. I’m really excited, Gus.”

  “Great. That’s all good. But, what is it? I haven’t seen you this worked up since you won the four hundred meter dash at the district track meet.”

  “You tell him, Sandy.”

  Three more beers appeared from a mysterious hand that set the bottles on our table.

  “We’re sampling jazz. That’s all. The guys are very talented. They can play almost anything. Steve’s father’s played in the Denver Brass Band for years. He grew up with that kind of music. Miguel started out with a mariachi group, if you can believe that. It’s just incredible what Max has pulled together. Now they’re adding jazz riffs and sentiments to the basic tonalities of the music they play, only, of course, in different time sequences.”

  Her words meant little to me.

  “You’re going to love it,” Max said. “Very soon we’ll have a CD ready for a demo. We just might end up with a recording.”

  “Are you talking about real jazz?” I said. “Coltrane, Parker, Armstrong?”

  They nodded. “Absolutely,” Sandy said. “Although not so much straight-ahead or be-bop. More fusion.”

  “Bitches Brew, Gus,” Max said. “Can you believe that? My guys are working with Miles Davis’ masterpiece.”

  “Whoa. How’s that going? That’s got to be complicated.”

  They nodded again. “Absolutely,” Sandy said. “Complicated, intricate and difficult. But these guys can do it.”

  I listened to a few seconds of the music from downstairs. I shrugged. “It might fit in. I guess. You’ll have to share it with me when you’re ready.”

  Max grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “You know I will, Gus.”

  I drank more beer. Max and Sandy couldn’t keep their hands off one another.

  “Max tells me a friend of yours was killed?” Sandy said. “That must be terrible.”

  “Not a friend, but I knew him for years. Someone shot him.”

  “The cops have been questioning Gus,” Max said.

  “Really? They think you had something to do with the shooting?” Sandy said.

  “They don’t know where else to look, that’s all. I saw the guy who got killed the day before he was shot. So, yeah, the cops talked with me. But, it’s nothing.”

  “Who was he?” Sandy said.

  “Arturo Baca. A real estate agent. He made a lot of money on North Side development.”

  “Artie Baca?” Sandy said. “You knew him? I heard on the news about them finding his body. Small world.” She scratched at the label on her beer bottle.

  “Why you say that?” I said.

  “Oh, it’s only . . . it’s that . . . ”

  “What is it?” Max said. “Now you got me curious.”

  “No big deal. Artie Baca helped my mother sell her house when the old man died. We both wanted out of there as soon as possible.

  Too many bad memories. He did it quick and Mom made some money.”

  “Recently?” I said.

  “Yeah, about a year and a half ago. He would talk with Mom occasionally, after we moved. She thought he was a friend. I did too, until he hit on me. He quit calling when I told him I had no interest.”

  “Yeah, that’s Artie,” I said.

  “Then, out of the blue, I saw him, not long ago, leaving this place. He was toasted. Could barely walk.” “Artie Baca was here?”

  Sandy nodded. “Absolutely. Not his usual hangout, for sure. He wasn’t alone. A girl partied with him. Too young for the bar, but no one hassled them. Pretty little thing. She helped him, held him up so he wouldn’t fall over.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “It really is a small world.”

  “There was something funny about that whole scene.”

  “What do you mean?” Max said.

  “I was outside, getting some air.”

  “Is that all?” Max said.

  “Don’t get weird on me. This was before you and I hooked up, but I wasn’t doing anything except trying to breathe fresh air.” She smiled at Max and Max returned the gesture.

  “So, what happened?” I said. “The girl took Artie outside, and he was drunk. Then what?”

  “She pushed him into a nice car in the lot. More like threw him. Then she climbed in the back seat.”

  “She didn’t drive?” Max said.

  “No, that’s what I noticed. She got in the back, Baca in the front. This huge Mexican guy, wearing a cowboy hat, sat in the driver’s seat. He started the car and they drove away. I guessed Baca had a chauffeur or a designated driver. It felt strange.”

  “That all that happened?” I said

  “Only that I heard Baca say to the girl, before he passed out, that she should call a taxi. But why’d he say that if he had a driver?”

  “As though he didn’t know he had a driver.”

  “Exactly. Maybe he was a friend helping out, or the girl called him instead of a taxi. I guess there are explanations. I hadn’t thought about any of that until I read about Baca’s killing.”

  The downstairs crowd roared when the band lit into a club favorite. Somewhere in the din I heard bits and pieces of “Light My Fire.”

  “Come on, Sandy,” Max said. “I should be downstairs with my boys. Let’s dance. Gus?”

  “Go ahead. I’m ready for another beer, then I’ll take off. I’ll call you, Max.” She hugged me and kissed my cheek.

  “Good night, Gus. So happy you made it tonight.”

  “It’s been a pleasure, Gus,” Sandy said. “I expect we’ll be seeing more of each other.”

  They rushed downstairs. I sat at the booth for a few minutes before I left. Sandy’s bumping into Artie and Misti was nothing more than a coincidence, but it got me to thinking again about them and the unknown driver.

  “Too many unknowns,” I said.

  A kid with a Mohawk haircut grunted at me. “What’d you say?” I shook my head. “Nothing. Talking to myself.” I left the bar and drove to my back room. On the way I passed a group of men standing at a corner, setting up cardboard shelters and newspaper beds. I looked away but the scene caught in my throat.

  At Sylvia’s Superb Shoppe I made sure I had clean clothes for Artie’s funeral.

  9

  The only suit I owned, a dark blue pin-striped job with out-of-date, too-wide lapels, felt warm and itchy. Many people at Artie’s funeral didn’t wear suits or sport coats, not even ties. I wasn’t like that. I believed that death deserved respect and the best way I knew to give respect was to dress like the occasion mattered, which meant that I sat in a pew under too many layers of clothes.

  Judging from the mourners in the old Catholic church, Artie circulated within a wide and varied circle. Many were friends like me—blasts from his past and misspent youth. We wore the funeral look, stressed and worried, that said, “How much time do I have left if Artie’s gone already?” Several realtors, lawyers, bankers and developers represented the money crowd. These men and women dressed neat and professional, nothing out-of-date about their outfits, but stress and worry played on their faces, too. Deep down, under the uniforms and costumes, we all harbored the same fears.

  After the services, Linda Cisneros Baca, the widow, kept her children close and accepted the condolences of the crowd outside the church. An older woman in a faded black dress huddled near Linda and the children—Artie’s mother, I assumed.

  Artie’s body rested in the hearse and the procession to the cemetery waited for Linda, the children and the mother. When I had the chance I walked up to her and extended my hand. “I’m very sorry, Linda. If there’s anything . . . ” She pushed away my hand and gave me a quick hug. “Gus Corral. Thank you for coming. It’s been too long. You and Artie used to be such good friends.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “There’s never enough time for old friends, is there?” She nodded then moved on to the next person in line.

  Linda appeared to be ho
lding up well. In high heels and a simple black dress, she towered over many of the people who commiserated with her. A few strands of gray punctuated her dark auburn hair. Tiny wrinkles floated around her mouth. Blood-tinged eyes betrayed her calm exterior, but she radiated health and vigor. She kept her back straight. Her long neck stretched taut under her clenched jaw, and her legs looked sinewy and toned—a runner’s legs.

  Her daughter and son stood behind her. The boy seemed angry, the daughter cried quietly.

  I started to say something to the older woman standing next to Linda. She cleared her throat and whispered, “Gracias.” Her rheumy eyes didn’t look at me. Occasional sobs escaped her throat. I walked on to my car.

  I followed along in the funeral procession to the cemetery where the mother completely fell apart. In Spanish she let out her anger in loud curses and threats against God and whoever was responsible for her son’s death. When the coffin was about to be lowered into the ground she screamed. Two men gently moved her away. Her sorrow filled the air and cascaded across the dark green lawn. Linda drew her children closer and waited with them until Artie’s coffin disappeared. She led the son and daughter back to their car, her arms wrapped around their shoulders. The girl looked back at the burial site. Linda and the boy stared straight ahead.

  The scene messed with my head. My throat tightened and a swirling uneasiness took root in my gut. I attributed the nausea to the general effect all funerals have on me, with the added touch of the connection to Artie.

  It’s not like I had any special reason to feel sorry about Artie. His surprise visit was the first time I’d seen him in years. The only motive he had for talking with me was to rope me into his plot to get rid of his blackmailer. Other than that, Artie Baca hadn’t any use for me since we were arrested together, hundreds of summer nights ago.

  But I couldn’t ignore the hysterical mother and the grieving children and the essential waste of Artie’s life.

  I didn’t spend much time at the grave. I said a fast prayer, maybe for Artie or maybe for me. Then I waited in my car. When other cars started up I drove to Artie’s house, a nice place near Sloan’s Lake about twenty minutes from the cemetery. Southwestern furniture, Indian pottery and bright wall colors complimented the Southwestern architecture. An amazing picture window took up most of the front wall of the house. The Baca family had a great view of the lake, picnickers and boaters. The lake reflected mountains, skyscrapers, trees and homes. I imagined that at night the scene impressed as well, especially with the city lights mirrored in the murky water of the lake.