by Shaun Harris
There was a bar to my left. A green neon sign promised cold beer. A red one made sure I knew top-shelf liquor was also available. A grinning little man in a tuxedo stood with a brass phone receiver to his ear and his other hand resting on a crystal tap. I wondered how he could see enough to know what the hell he was pouring.
He nodded as he spoke into the phone, but he kept his eyes on Milch and me. He hung up the phone onto an antique cradle and signaled us by crooking his finger. I followed without looking at Milch for consent. When I reached the bar, my con-man compatriot sidled up next to me.
“Gentlemen,” the bartender said as he placed a beer in front of each of us.
“This for us?” I said.
“I put it in front of you, didn’t I?” the bartender replied. “Don’t worry. It’s on the house. Now, if you could wait here, Miss Samantha will be with you in a moment. She will take you to Mr. Chavez.”
“Excuse me?” I said. I had planned on some finagling to get in to see the head man. I was prepared to lie, or let Milch lie, or offer a few more bribes. I did not expect to be given an escort and a beer with minimal effort. The Catholic in me mistrusted this unearned good fortune. The writer in me just thought it was poor plotting.
“Miss Samantha will explain, sir. Ah, here she is now,” the bartender said, and pointed behind us. She emerged from the dark as if she had been created by it. She was blond, the hair pulled back in a cascading bun over her head. Wisps of golden curls dripped over her cheeks. She wore head-to-toe khaki in the British military fashion, but I don’t think Montgomery ever had a body like hers. She had the type of beauty that a man could not take in all at once, and so I had to look at her slightly askew, as if I were trying to get a glimpse of the sun during an eclipse.
“Mr. Velour?” she said. Her voice was like silk and it wafted over me like a sonata. She arrested me completely.
“Coop,” I said. “Velour is my professional name.” Samantha looked confused, but I couldn’t think of anything to follow up with. Milch grabbed his beer off the metal bar and took a long swig before he took her hand.
“What’s the deal here?” he said, waving his hand around the arena. Samantha put her hands in her jacket pockets and pushed her bottom lip out in a look of contemplation.
“It is an underground boxing ring,” she said, and turned to me. “You’re a writer, yes? You’re here for the Hemingway story, right?”
“Yeah, how did you . . .”
“Twenty cents on every dollar made in this joint goes to Mr. Chavez,” she said. She turned and continued talking, not looking back to see if we followed. I strode after her immediately, but Milch paused to finish his beer and then chug the one I had left behind. He caught up to us as she was finishing her explanation. “You gave Luis upstairs a thousand dollars. Two hundred dollars of that is Mr. Chavez’s. Luis did the right thing and called Mr. Chavez while you were in the lift.”
We moved past the empty ring on the opposite side of the ghostly murmurings in the dark. My feet crossed from rock to steel grating, and Samantha started to rise in front of me. I expected stairs but found that we were ascending gradually on a low-grade ramp. Milch stumbled behind me and caught himself on the wall. I hoped he was just surprised by the rise in the floor and that the beers had not gone to his head. I’m not sure I wanted to be partners with a drunk Milch. Shit, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be partners with a sober one.
“The SOP in this situation is for Luis to take your money, let me know about it, then send you down here. We let you hang around until you get bored and leave. If you get bitchy and demand to see Chavez, then we’ll escort you out. Today, though, is different.”
“Why is today different?” I asked. We had reached a narrow hallway with cages stacked along the sides. Inside the cages, roosters cocked and crowed and scratched. Brown, red, green, yellow, and as big as bulldogs. One of them eyed me like I was a juicy piece of steak, which confused me because I thought chickens were herbivores. Samantha was difficult to hear over the ruckus they made. And then there was the sound of the fans. Huge industrial blades set into the rock ceiling.
“Today Chavez finds you interesting. He likes writers.” We passed one final large cage set into the stone wall. A large ball of thick black fur snored in the far corner on a bed of hay. As we passed it, the ball shifted and I could see a snubbed brown snout and coal black eyes. They had a fucking bear. I hoped the cocks didn’t have to fight it.
The hall ended with two double doors made out of dark wood. A scene was carved into the wood—two large men stripped to the waist with raised, bare fists. It was lovingly carved and each stroke of the knife was accented with gold filigree. Samantha pushed open the doors and we followed her inside. As the doors closed behind us I heard the bear moan softly.
The office was brightly lit in contrast with the dark hallway. The decorator had been a fan of the art deco movement but did not have access to the proper materials. The result looked something like the stagecraft of a high school production of The Broadway Melody of 1940.
A tall statuary of Jesus stood between two silver clamshell wall sconces. Upon closer inspection, I saw that the statue’s face had thick black eyebrows and a Fuller Brush mustache, making Him look more like Burt Reynolds circa Hooper than Our Lord and Savior circa the Sermon on the Mount. Two wiry but muscular men knelt before the statue, their taped hands lying against the base of a prayer candle between the icon’s feet. One wore blue trunks and the other wore white. Their sweat-slicked backs were bare, and their heads were bowed with solemnity. I focused on this odd sight first, and so I was startled by the deep, rumbling voice from the far side of the room.
“They pray to Jesus Malverde,” the voice said, and I turned to find a Mexican rising from a chrome desk. He was a full foot shorter than me, and he had the same mustache as Jesus. He came around the desk at a languid stroll in a blue polo shirt and mom jeans. He stopped by the two praying pugilists, and they crossed themselves in unison before they stood up to face him. He placed a hand on each of their shoulders and whispered in their ears. They genuflected, repeated the sign of the cross, and exited side by side through the door that Samantha held open.
“They fight next,” the Mexican said. “It will be a good fight. It is always a good fight when two brothers are on the card. So much history will be spilt on the canvas tonight.” He extended his hands to us like a grandfather welcoming his grandchildren. “Gentlemen, I am Sugar Ray Chavez.”
“Mr. Chavez, my name is Henry Cooper,” I said.
“Sugar Ray, please,” Chavez said. “And your friend here is Joe. Luis informed Samantha and Samantha informed me. You want the Hemingway story, yes?”
“That’s right, Sugar Ray,” I said. “I’m writing a book. Sort of an In Cold Blood–type of thing.” Chavez nodded slowly.
“I was very young when I met Papa,” Chavez said. He guided us to matching rattan deck chairs that sat in front of the gleaming desk. He took a seat on the opposite side. He opened a box of cigars and held them out for us. I declined, but Milch took two. One he stuck in his mouth and the other went into his shirt pocket. Samantha arrived silently next to Milch with a lighter. She bent at the waist to light it for him. I reconsidered the cigar, but Chavez had already taken them off the table. With the cigar lit, she moved to stand next to Chavez, her arm slung over the back of his chair so that the tips of her blood-red fingernails grazed his collar.
“I have heard this story many times,” Samantha said with a cool smile. She brushed the back of her hand against Chavez’s cheek, and the gesture seemed to surprise him. He looked up at her with raised eyebrows as if he were looking for some sort of cue from her.
“Would you rather watch the fight?” he said.
“I do not want to watch it alone,” Samantha said. She looked at Milch and a pang of jealousy shot through me. “Mr. Milch is not a writer. He seems like a man who prefers action to stories.”
“You’ve got me pegged,” Milch said, and the look on his face was borderline l
ascivious. She returned the grin and tilted her head in a way that almost made me fall out of my chair.
“Would you join me?” she asked.
“I have a private booth above the ring,” Chavez said, beaming with pride. “Samantha will make sure you have anything you may need.”
“Is that right?” Milch said, standing up. “I do believe a boxing match is just the sort of entertainment I need on a night like this.”
“Don’t you think we shouldn’t, um,” I tried to think of a word that wouldn’t make us sound like we were a couple. I failed. “Get separated?”
Chavez let out a booming belt of laughter. Milch snickered. Samantha smiled.
“What do you think will happen to you?” Chavez asked.
“I’m just saying,” I said. “You know, the buddy system.”
“Well, Samantha will be my buddy,” Milch said. He offered her his arm and she took it. She walked with him to a door behind Chavez’s desk. We both watched them go, or rather we watched her go. When the door closed behind them, Chavez turned back to me.
“You’ve got quite a woman,” I said.
“Samantha?” Chavez said, and looked genuinely confused. “Oh no, she is not mine.”
“She works for you, though, right?”
“Do you want to hear about Hemingway or the girl?”
“The girl,” I said. Chavez took a cigar and lit it. I heard the muffled roar of the crowd and then a thin ding that was the bell. The fight had begun.
“I have a better story than Samantha’s,” Chavez said. He cocked his ear and, as the din of the crowd crescendoed, he leaned back and stared at the glowing tip of his cigar.
And then he told me a story.
Chapter Twenty
Chavez was eight years old when the American first came. This was back when Los Ojos was still a town. After the mine went bust. After the United States flew her planes and dropped her chemical death. Before the fire. The American arrived on a bicycle, an old piece of rust that shouldn’t have been able to support a teddy bear, let alone a man. On the back were two bags, a soft olive-green duffel like one carries in the American army and a small cardboard suitcase that looked very old, but well cared for.
The stranger leaned his bicycle against the farmhouse they had converted into a saloon and hotel. He took his luggage inside and a moment later he reappeared in the doorway. The duffel was gone, but he clutched the suitcase to him like it was a wailing child. The stranger’s eyes found Chavez’s father, and he strode across the yard with graceful, purposeful steps.
“You Javier?” the American said. “I was told there is work here.”
Chavez’s father nodded and took the American’s hand when he offered it. “For those who can do the work, yes.”
Father had never given work to a gringo before. He had never expressed any particular prejudice against them, but he had passed on them many times. They had been broken, low men, desperate for work and escape. While the American also seemed to be escaping, he didn’t have the look of the desperado. He was tall and large around the chest, which belied the delicate features of his face. Although he was the same age then as Chavez was now, the lines of age were just beginning to show around his eyes, but they were only seen when he smiled and they were not seen often.
Father hired him on the spot.
Chavez never got around to asking his father what he had seen in the American, but it quickly became evident that hiring him had been a good move. The American was skilled as a fighter, although he only offered himself as a sparring partner. He was useful whenever any construction was attempted. He designed the new saloon and was the first to propose using the mines to house the fights. It was behind the bar, however, that his true talent shone. He was a master of all spirits, but it was his daiquiris that drew the crowds. They weren’t the frozen abominations that would become popular in the coastal cities, saccharine horseshit to give the tourists a sugar high. The American’s daiquiris were for drinking men. Men who knew their liquor and knew the subtle art of making each part sing so that the whole was a libation of harmony.
The American stayed for one year. He made drinks for the gamblers during the day. At night he would make his one glass of Campari last for hours. Between each sip he would hum Cole Porter.
And then the one they called Papa came.
At ten years old, Chavez had earned a spot in the saloon with the American. He fetched him his ice and washed up. It was a good job. The American was kind and mixed Chavez Shirley Temples whenever he hauled the ice from the machine in the barn to the box under the sink. When Papa came, Chavez had just finished hauling a wheelbarrow full, and he sat at the end of the bar, his feet kicking under the stool, sipping on grenadine and 7 Up. The American was having a cigarette behind the saloon. It was a quiet, dreamy May afternoon.
When the writer entered the room, the air swept out of it. Every object, every person, bent toward him as if he were a black hole sucking up their attention with nothing more than his mass. His thinning hair was combed straight back, and his wild, white beard reminded young Chavez of the Santa Claus on the cover of his mother’s magazines. Great rings of perspiration hung under the arms of his guayabera shirt. He waited a moment, panting in the doorway, taking note of the faces, the room, the liquor over the bar. His eyes moved quickly, cataloguing, collecting, understanding. He walked with a somber gait to the bar and slapped a raw, well-lined hand down on the bare wood.
“You run this saloon, son?” the man asked Chavez. There was a smile under his whiskers, but it was weary. Chavez felt the man meant to be cheerful, to let him know he was a kind old man, but he couldn’t quite pull it off. There was a sadness in the eyes that repulsed Chavez as much as the man’s initial entrance had attracted him.
‘“My father, señor,” Chavez said.
“I see,” the old man said. “But you can pour a rum, yes?” Chavez did not answer, but slid off his stool and retreated behind the bar. He was not a tall child and, as he poured the rum into the glass, he heard the old man’s voice but could not see him.
“I understand there is a man here named Milch,” the old man said. “Is that correct?”
“I do not know this man,” Chavez said. The old man swore under his breath and slapped the mahogany again.
“An American, then? Is there an American here under any name?” Chavez almost answered at once, but he stopped himself before he could say the American’s name. He didn’t know why. The American would be returning any second. He could not hide him or warn him about the old man. He didn’t even know why he would want to. The old man was not a threat. Not here in his father’s place. But there was something terrible about him despite the kind smile and twenty American dollars he offered Chavez in exchange for the rum.
“The rest is for you,” the old man said. He drank his rum slowly, and some of it ran down his beard and dripped onto the bar. He let out a long “Ahhhhh” when it was finished and placed the glass upside down on the bar.
“Ernie,” the American said from the far end of the bar. “How good of you to come.” The old man, Ernie, turned on the stool, and Chavez could hear his old bones and tendons creak with the effort. The American stood in the doorway, that serene look on his face.
“You,” the old man said. The American moved behind the bar, patted Chavez on the head, and shooed him away. Chavez felt the sheer electricity between the two men, and although he knew he should run for his father, he stayed. He wanted to be there when whatever was going to happen happened. It would be a story, and at ten years old he had precious few of those.
The American took the turned-over glass and righted it again. He reached to the high shelf—the one Chavez could not reach—and brought down the unlabeled bottle. This bottle was meant only for men of status and the judiciales when they came for their due. The American poured half a glass for the old man. He cut a fresh lime, twisted it over the spirit, and dropped the peel in. The old man did not touch the drink.
“I don’t w
ant a long conversation. Do you understand?” the old man said.
“I do.”
“I want it.”
“What is that?”
“I don’t want a long conversation.”
“We’ve established what you don’t want, Ernie. I’m still uncertain about what it is you do want. From my perspective, I would think you would want a bath or at least a shave. By the by, I preferred the mustache. You look like Crusoe, for Man’s sake.”
“Don’t test me. Do you still have the suitcase?”
“I’ve kept it, yes.”
“I want it.”
“It’s not yours to want,” the American said. The old man stepped off his stool and raised one hulking hand, his index finger extended out like a baton.
“You went back on a square deal,” he said in a rough growl. His head bobbed as if the weight of these words rested on his brow. “What kind of man are you?”
“I suspect I’m the same sort of man you are, Ernie,” the American said. He picked up the untouched glass of rum and drank it down in one gulp. He spit the lime back into the ice and tossed the glass over his shoulder. It landed in the sink, and the sound of the glass breaking made everyone in the joint turn to watch. The old man saw that he had gained an audience, and he turned with one foot toward the room so that he could address both the American and the small crowd as he spoke.
“Like me?” he roared, and gave a thick but hollow laugh. “This man has stolen from me and now he insults me.” There were about ten men in the saloon. A mixture of fighters and gamblers, who looked at the old man with the dull expression of cattle.
“They don’t know you, Ernie,” the American said. “They don’t care.”
“They know me,” the old man said with exquisite certainty. “They may not know my face; they know my name.”
“OK,” the American said. A cruel look came over his eyes, and he called for the room’s attention. “Does anyone here know the name Ernest Hemingway?”
Young Chavez was the only one to raise his hand. The old man pointed at him with a satisfied grin.