Oh, the stars above were truly enjoying themselves. It really was like his mother had said: “One look at your father sitting so proudly on his horse, and I just knew this was the man I’d been born to love and marry.”
Juan decided not to stop by and see Archie. No, he drank down the pint and decided to drive directly to Los Angeles and go to work. His mind was made up. This was it. This was the woman that he’d court and marry and build his family with for ten generations!
But to do this, he’d need money, big money, so he could buy a good-sized piece of land and never have to kiss any gringo’s ass again. He would have to go through with the hotel deal, whether he liked it or not.
By God, he’d lose Lupe if he didn’t move quickly. She was a full, hot-blooded woman and had to be caught, and given rein before she got away. He began to sing, feeling wonderful—in love with love itself.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Love was in the air, choking the very atmosphere. The birds and the butterflies began their seasonal courtship.
Not wanting to waste any time, the next day Juan decided to look in the Anglo part of town for a house in which to put his distillery going. He washed the Dodge and dressed in his best clothes. Then he braced himself with a few good shots and took off. But no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t get any Anglo to rent him their house. And, of course, they never came out and said that it was because he was a Mexican, but Juan could guess the truth.
He began to feel helpless. No matter how much money he had in his pocket or how well he dressed, he was still a nobody. He was glad that he and Lupe weren’t married and looking for a home, she witnessing how truly useless he was.
One day, driving back toward the barrio, Juan saw a large real estate office, so he went inside. After giving them a Greek name, Juan was able to get a big, beautiful house the following day.
On the day that Juan moved Julio, his wife and daughters into the house, he deliberately got dressed in his dirtiest work clothes. His truck was loaded down with old pipes and mattresses and big barrels. If anyone asked them anything, Juan was prepared to say that they were in the plumbing business. But no one came near them. They just watched them from behind their parted draperies.
Juan was carrying in the big metal stove when a little white dog came running up, barking, and bit him.
“Don’t, Tiny!” shouted the elderly lady from across the street. “They’re dirty!”
Juan couldn’t believe it. The old gringa came rushing across the street and got her dog, but never apologized.
“That old bitch!” said Julio, helping Juan inside with the stove. “I’ll make a taco out of her dog!”
“I wish we could,” said Juan. “But, remember, we’re only here to do our business.”
Julio’s wife, Geneva, fixed the kitchen with her three little girls while Juan and Julio set up the stove in the back room. They had already setup the big, fifty-gallon drums for the fermentation. It would be ten to twelve days before they could start the distilling.
Al had explained to Juan that the secret to the fermentation process was to use plenty of sugar and yeast with the water, then to let it sit for approximately ten days, until you got the exact kind of sour mash that you needed for the liquor you were making. And the sweet could be sugar, raisins, cane, beets, or even potatoes. The formula Juan had used for the first two batches had been fifty pounds of sugar cane and one pound of yeast for each fifty-gallon drum of water. Each drum had then distilled out to approximately six gallons of alcohol, which, then, Juan had put in the charcoal-burnt barrels to age.
But now, to get enough sugar to try to make fifty barrels of whiskey was going to be a big job. Hell, all the grocery stores that they’d gone to the last time only carried five-pound sacks of sugar. They were going to need half a ton of sugar to do this big job.
While taking a bath, Juan thought about Lupe and the hotel deal. He truly wondered if he’d be able to pull off the whole thing. After changing his clothes, he told Julio and Geneva goodbye and got into his big Dodge. He was going to drive around and think about the sugar problem and then maybe, possibly, drive by the barrio and see if he might see Lupe again. Oh, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Especially her sitting in the car with that damned Anglo.
Juan was just getting to Santa Ana when he saw a big delivery truck pulling away from a large grocery store. The truck was delivering bread and cakes. Juan drove around the block, thinking, figuring. Obviously, a bakery used tons of sugar and a bakery couldn’t just run down to its local grocery store every few minutes to get a five-pound bag.
He continued around the block. He’d have to go inside the store and ask them where a bakery got its sugar.
By the time Juan came back around the block to the large deluxe-looking store, his hands were sweating. He wondered why it was that he wasn’t afraid to face down two armed men, but it scared the hell out of him to approach a gringo’s place of business. He’d never felt like this up in Montana. Something very bad had happened to him since he’d moved down here and seen his people treated like dogs.
Parking in front of the store, Juan was glad that he was dressed up, but still, he needed to reach under his seat and pull out a pint bottle and take a long pull. No wonder his nephews thought that the only way for them to get ahead in this country was with a gun. Hell, he was an adult and he felt frightened.
Juan put a stick of gum in his mouth, remembering how Al had always told him that the proof of good whiskey was when you gave a drink to a mouse and the mouse pounded his chest, saying, “Bring on the cat!” Smiling, Juan said, “Bring on the gringo!” He got out of his Dodge and approached the store, whistling as if he didn’t have a problem in the world. But inside, he was trembling,
Entering the store, Juan picked up a newspaper so he’d have something in his hands. There weren’t many people inside, and there was an Anglo at the cash register.
“Good afternoon,” said Juan to the man at the register.
“Hi,” said the man. “Can I help you?”
“Well, I’d like to see the boss,” said Juan.
The Anglo looked Juan over. “Why?” he asked.
Juan was completely taken aback. He hadn’t expected this response. But pulling himself together, he said, “Well, why not?”
“Why not?” repeated the man. “Well, I guess you got me there, friend.” He laughed. “All right,” he said, “so talk. I sign the checks.”
“Then you’re the boss?” asked Juan.
The man nodded. “Yep, me and the bank.”
“You and the bank?” said Juan, not understanding.
“Sure, I don’t own this thing outright, friend. I got a loan on the place like everyone else. Hell, I’m not rich.”
“Then, you mean, the bank loaned you money so you could start this business?” asked Juan. He’d never realized that banks loaned money for businesses. He’d assumed banks were only places where the rich put their money for safe keeping.
“Absolutely,” said the man. “Hell, no one has the money to build a place and buy the merchandise. I had a little money and the bank loaned me the rest.”
“Eh, I like that,” said Juan, excited with the idea of a bank helping a hardworking, honest businessman like himself someday.
The man looked Juan over, truly amazed by his good clothes, and yet his complete ignorance of business. “Where you from, friend?” he asked.
Juan could see he’d become suspicious. “From Pomona,” he lied.
“Tom Smith,” said the man, extending his hand.
“Juan Castro,” said Juan, using his mother’s maiden name as he took the Anglo’s hand.
“What do you do in Pomona? Those are pretty fancy clothes.”
“Oh, thank you. I . . . ah, haul manure.”
“Good business, eh?”
“If you got enough shit,” said Juan.
The man burst out laughing. “I guess the same thing could be said about my business. Well, anyway, what did you have in
mind, amigo?”
“I want to know where I can buy lots of sugar,” said Juan. “You see, I plan on opening up, well, a little Mexican bakery and make sweet breads, Mexican-style.”
“Oh, I see,” said the man. “Here, I’ll give you the names of two of the largest wholesalers in Los Angeles. Tell them I sent you.” He wrote down the names and addresses. “And when you get the bakery going, bring me some. Maybe I can move some of your goods for you.”
“Great,” said Juan, “thank you very much. I’ll be sure to stop by and see you.”
“Good luck to you, amigo,” said the man.
Driving off in his Dodge, Juan brought out the pint bottle of whiskey and took another long pull. It was crazy, but that man had treated him so well and, still, it had scared him.
He breathed deeply, thinking about the rock quarry and how his fellow countrymen had broken down like stupid babies. He thought of his two nephews and how they’d quit school and were losing all respect for anything Mexican. He thought of Lupe and what they would do when they had children. Raising children among the gringos was very different from raising kids in Mexico.
Then he remembered how he’d seen Lupe that first time, standing so tall and proud and regal under the outside light of the dancehall. His nostrils grew long and thin. He decided to drive by the barrio and see if he couldn’t get another look at her.
By the time Juan got to the barrio, it was dusk and the people were inside their homes. Driving down the street, Juan saw that each little house was lit up with a soft yellow glow and looked so warm and good. He breathed deeply and thought of Don Pío’s house and realized that he’d never had another real home since then.
He parked his car across from Lupe’s home and sat there looking at her well-lit little place. He could see the figures of her family through the worn curtains. They were sitting down to eat. He glanced up at the stars, feeling so lonely. His mother was right; it was time for him to settle down and build a home of his own.
Then, suddenly, he felt that someone was watching him. He gripped his. 38 and turned around slowly. There was an old woman standing in her garden, looking at him. He tipped his hat to her, put the Dodge in gear, and drove off. By tomorrow, everyone in the barrio would know that a stranger had been looking at Lupe’s house. He thought of going back and buying the woman off, but decided against it. Instead, he brought out his pint bottle and finished it off. By the time Juan got to their two houses in Corona, he was drunk. The lights were out and everyone was asleep.
In the morning Juan was sound asleep when his mother jerked the covers off his head and handed him a cup of coffee.
“All right,” said the old woman, “you’ve been gone for days and you left me in the middle of a conversation! Now get up, drink this coffee, and let’s talk. Luisa told me that you went over to see the hotel. Good thinking. That’s what I was going to recommend. Because we don’t have much time if this Italian is serious about needing that liquor in thirty days.”
His mother went on talking and talking and Juan sat up, gripping his buzzing head. It was still dark outside, and he had a terrible hangover. “Mama, please,” he said, “I got to go outside and water the tree.”
“All right,” she said, “but hurry. I’ve got it all figured out.”
He rolled his eyes to the heavens.
“Did you get the house in the gringo part of town, like I told you?” she asked.
“Yes, Mama,” he said, trying to get away from her.
“And you moved in Julio and his family, like I told you?”
“Yes,” he said, opening the door.
“And you put plenty of chicken shit on your truck?”
“No,” he said.
“Why not?” she yelled after him.
“Because I decided that we’re plumbers instead,” he shouted back at her.
“Plumbers,” she repeated, considering the idea. “Good thinking. Not bad.”
After relieving himself, Juan turned on the faucet and ran the water over his head, trying to get rid of his hangover. He’d put away four pint bottles after he’d left Lupe’s house. Oh, this woman was driving him crazy. He thought of telling his mother about Lupe and how he felt about her, but a part of him just didn’t want to. He still felt too unsure about his feelings for Lupe to put it into words yet, much less share with someone else.
“All right,” she said, seeing him come back inside, dripping wet with water, “you tell me about the hotel first, then I’ll tell you about Luisa’s boys.”
“What about Luisa’s boys?” he asked.
“No, first you tell me what you found out at the hotel,” she demanded, putting more wood in the little stove so he could dry off.
“All right,” he said, remembering the basement and the big hairy-armed man. “The hotel looks good, Mama. All on the up and up… first class, just like Mario said.”
“I see,” she said, looking at him in the eyes. “And there was nothing that you saw wrong?” she asked.
He took a big breath, feeling like his mother could see right through him but, still, he lied. “No,” he said, “nothing.”
He didn’t want to tell his mother about the basement and get her worried. Especially since he’d decided to go through with the deal one way or another.
“Okay,” she said, “very good. Then I’ll tell you about Luisa’s boys. She got them to go back to school. But these no-good skunks took the pants off their teacher and threw him out the window.”
“They what?” said Juan. “He must’ve done something.”
“Mi hijito, if he did something or not, that’s not the point,” said his mother. “The point is that we live in this country, and they must have respect.”
Juan could see that his mother was absolutely right. No matter how badly he was treated, he never lost his respect for the law. No, he didn’t fight the cops; he hid his guns instead.
He got dressed. “I’ll talk to them,” he said, going out the door.
Outside, the day was just beginning to paint the eastern sky yellow and rose and lavender. Juan took a deep breath and walked into his sister’s house.
“Get up,” he said, kicking his two nephews, who slept on the floor in the front room. “We’re going to work. You two don’t want to go to school, okay? You come with me and earn your keep. Move! Move! We’re going! Right now!”
“But we haven’t ate breakfast,” said Pedro, rubbing his eyes. “Mama’s still asleep.”
“Breakfast?” said Juan. “You want to eat? Come on, I’ll feed you like a real man!” He hurried the two boys out of the house and into the hen coop, and handed them each two eggs.
“Now, pick a lemon off the tree,” he said to them as they walked to his old Model-T truck, “and do just like me.” And saying this, Juan tapped the big rounded, end of his egg, breaking the shell, and picked the broken pieces off until he had a nice, clean little round hole about the size of a dime.
“All right,” he said, “now put the hole to your mouth, go on, do it, and suck hard. Then chew and swallow and bite the lemon in half, eating it, too.”
Pedro made a face of revulsion, but still, he put the egg to his lips, sucked hard, then swallowed and bit the lemon—peel and all—like his uncle, and chewed vigorously.
“Good, eh?” said Juan. “Now eat the other egg, too.”
“Oh, my God, do I have to?” asked Pedro.
“That’s all you’re going to get to eat,” said Juan. “And we’re going to work all day.”
José didn’t hesitate. He quickly put the second egg to his lips, sucked hard, and then bit into the lemon again.
“There, see!” said Juan. “José did it and it’s good! The lemon cooks the egg in your stomach. Now you, too, Pedro, hurry up!”
Pedro did it once again, but he gagged and yellow yoke and white slime ran down his chin.
“All right,” said Juan, “grab those shovels and get in my truck! We’re going!”
“Where?” asked José, getting the sh
ovels.
“You’ll see,” said Juan.
The first bright fingers of daylight were just climbing up into the eastern sky when they got on the main highway heading out of town. The highway was made of dirt and gravel and had a high center so the rains would run off.
Up ahead, Juan turned off his headlights and pulled off the road into a big chicken ranch.
“Sssssh,” said Juan.
“Are we going to get in trouble?” asked Pedro.
“Not if you obey me.”
“Okay,” said the young boy, looking worried.
“All right,” whispered Juan, backing up to a huge pile of manure, “now both of you get out and load up the truck with chicken shit as quick and quiet as you can.”
“But, Uncle,” said Pedro, “why are we . . . ”
But the boy never got to finish his words. Juan grabbed the frightened boy by the throat and yanked him close. “Damn it, muchacho, not one more question,” he said under his breath. “You just work!”
He threw the boy back against the seat, staring hard. Both boys did as they were told. Two dogs started barking at the ranch house in the distance.
“Faster!” said Juan. “That old bastard has a shotgun!”
“Oh, my God!” said Pedro, and both boys shoveled as fast as they could.
When the truck was full and they got back on the gravel highway, Juan could see that both boys were looking pretty worried, but they weren’t questioning him anymore.
“Good boys,” said Juan, “good boys. This is going to be a long, long day. We probably won’t be back home until way after dinner. So pay close attention, like the cat on the mouse, and maybe we’ll have a good, safe day and no one will get killed.”
The two boys’ eyes got so big that Juan saw the whites of their eyes, but they said nothing as he continued down the road. Then, just this side of Lake Elsinore, Juan slowed down.
“All right,” said Juan, “up ahead we’re going to turn into some oak trees and go up the creek on foot. And we got to do it quick. The sun’s up and in a few minutes people will start driving by on their way to work. Do you understand me?” he asked.
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