“What’s this?” Pepino said, “You’re not playing with the diablito?”
Mosca shook his head. “I’m playing with my trusty perico.”
Pepino frowned and spat on the ground. “Let’s see the devil’s fire then.”
Mosca laughed. He dug the legendary marble out of his pocket and held it over his head for everyone to see, the little red ball shining between his thumb and index finger like an ember, a swish of yellow at its center. The crowd of boys shuffled and murmured like they’d seen the eye of God.
Mosca handed me the marble. I put it in my pocket with the money. I was so nervous I kept my hand in my pocket, my fingers fondling the money and the marble just to make sure they wouldn’t disappear.
The four of them gathered where Kiko had drawn the line on the dirt. They played rock, paper, scissors to see who would go first. Pepino won.
As soon as they started, the crowd formed a wide circle around them.
I had never seen Pepino play before. He used a bluish cat’s eye marble and put a lot of weight on his hand and pressed against the ground. His face was flushed. His hand shook. I thought he was nervous, but he was shooting real well. Maybe it was just his style.
The wind came in gusts, kicking up dust, our clothes flapping like little flags.
After four turns, Chato left himself exposed. Mosca shot and knocked his marble way out of the circle. “Chiras pelas,” he called.
Pepino was flustered. His face was getting redder by the minute. But I knew he wasn’t too fazed. Chato wasn’t a good player. Everyone knew that. He must have come up with a hundred pesos so Pepino had to let him into the game.
Mosca shot and missed Pepino’s marble. His perico ended up too close to the line of the circle. It was Kiko’s turn. He knelt and aimed his marble.
“Focus,” Pepino said. “This is our chance.”
Kiko took a deep breath. It was quiet. Between the gusts, we could hear music coming from somewhere far up in the colonias. Kiko closed an eye, held his marble tight against the knuckle of his thumb. Then his clear green agüita shot across the circle toward Mosca’s perico. It nicked it but didn’t go far enough.
“Pinche, Kiko!” Pepino threw his arms in the air and stomped on the ground. “It was yours. What the fuck were you thinking?”
“It was a long shot,” Kiko complained.
“If he knocks mine out, I’ll kill you.” Pepino was in a rage.
Mosca’s perico was now in direct line with Pepino’s blue agüita. Mosca knelt and shot quickly, almost without aiming. He missed Pepino’s marble. When Mosca raised his eyes, I could tell he had done it on purpose. He was that confident. He wanted to beat Kiko first so he could face Pepino alone.
Pepino studied the position of the marbles. It wasn’t an easy shot, but it wasn’t impossible. When he aimed, his hand shook like an electric current was zooming across his body. He pressed down against his hand, his face red, his body shaking like an old man. He missed.
Kiko’s marble was at the edge of the circle. There was no shot except to get back in the game.
Now it was Mosca again. He smiled at me. He knelt and shot quickly. His marble spun and knocked Kiko’s green agüita out of the circle by about an inch.
“It’s still in,” Pepino cried.
“It’s out,” Mosca said. The wind had faded the circle making it difficult to tell where the line was.
“Ni madres. It’s in.” Pepino was sweating, shaking like a rabid dog.
Mosca glanced at me and shrugged, but then Kiko grabbed his marble. “No. Mosca’s right. It’s out.”
Pepino looked stunned.
It was Mosca’s turn. He had a decent shot at Pepino’s marble, but it would need to be real powerful to knock Pepino’s cat’s eye out of the circle.
Mosca knelt and considered the shot. He leaned to the left and to the right. He bit his tongue, held his breath and shot. The marble flew like a bullet and smacked Pepino’s with a loud clack. The cat’s eye flew out of the circle by at least a foot.
“Chiras pelas.” Mosca grabbed his perico and stood.
Pepino froze. Even Kiko and Chato stared at him, waiting for something to happen. I thought this was it. Pepino was going to lose it and jump Mosca, but all he said was, “Rematch!”
“Ni madres, güey.” Mosca glanced at the crowd and back at Pepino. “We’re done.”
That was it. If there was going to be a fight, this was it. Pepino and Kiko and Chato stood mesmerized, staring down at the faded circle. The boys around us began breaking up, walking away, and already talking about Mosca’s amazing skill.
A gust of wind blew over the field bringing a wall of dust. Mosca and I turned away and closed our eyes. After it passed, we walked across the field that was now a sandstorm, brown with dust and bits of trash from the dump.
When we reached the road and no one had jumped us from behind, Mosca put his arm around my shoulder and laughed. “We rule this fucking town, pinche Boli. You and I. We’re the kings of Izayoc!”
11.
We celebrated our victory at the Minitienda with a couple of sodas. Ignacio Morales was still dressed in black even though it had been more than a week since they’d found his daughter’s body. He was leaning over the counter by the scale, talking quietly with a couple of workmen. When we approached the counter, the men hushed up real quick and Don Ignacio waddled his huge body to the register.
“Any news of your parents, Liberio?” he asked.
I shook my head. He looked tired, sad. I thought it was because of Rocío. She was his only daughter. But when our eyes met, I realized it had to be something else. His whole face seemed to sag like it was melting or something. His eyes were dark and quick. I thought he was angry. But when we set our drinks on the counter, he waved us away. “It’s on me, niños. Go on. Have fun, pues.”
He walked back to the two men. One of them was Jesús Valdez, a stonemason. He’d done work for my father—and for just about everyone else in town. He was a drinker. Once I heard the people at the pharmacy talking of how they found him passed out on the street a few blocks from Taguería Los Perdidos.
Mosca stepped outside, but I lingered by the door for a moment. Jesús was saying, “…No. No, just that. No one knows anything.”
Don Ignacio shook his head. “They leave us no option, do they?”
“Pay, leave or die,” the other man said. “It’s extortion.”
Jesús stretched his neck and looked sideways at his companion. “Lupe García left. Took his family with him. Just closed his shop. Left everything. And Quintanilla’s widow’s gone too. But that I can understand.”
“Genaro Jiménez and Everardo Rodríguez left last week. They both had a good business here,” his friend added.
“They’ve come to me a number of times already. Now they want my store.” Don Ignacio knocked twice on the counter. “I don’t know what to do.”
Jesús waved. “But just look at the alternative, pues.”
“What did Pineda do about the leg?” Don Ignacio asked.
“He just came and got it with Francisco Monroy. They said they were taking it to the mortuary.”
Don Ignacio ran his hand under his chin and scratched his sideburns. “And they didn’t take photographs or interview witnesses, ¿ni nada? No investigation?”
Jesús shook his head. “And there was a good crowd there.
They didn’t ask any questions from nobody. Not that they would have talked. Everyone’s afraid.”
“They’re afraid, or they’re with them,” Don Ignacio said. “Like that Pineda. Corrupt hijo de puta.”
“They just took the leg and cleaned up the mess,” the other man said. “That’s all.”
“Ey. They just came and picked it up and put it in a black bag and left. Zas, just like that.”
“I wonder who it belongs to?” Don Ignacio said.
“You know how it is. Anyone who associates with them ends up, you know—”
“You’re wrong,” Don
Ignacio interrupted. “Rocío was not involved with them.”
“I didn’t say she was,” Jesús said. “It just seems some of the men she knew are all turning up, ya sabe usted, in little pieces. You don’t just lose a leg like that, ¿que no?”
Don Ignacio stared at Jesús and said nothing for a long time. He ran his hand back and forth along the back of his neck. He turned to the side and saw me.
“Hey!” He yelled. “Go on, you. Get out of here.”
I joined Mosca on the sidewalk and drank my Mirinda.
“We have it made,” Mosca said.
“Made how?”
“When word gets out about the devil’s fire, other people will dare me to play for money. We’ll keep going like this until we’re rich.”
“That’s gambling, güey.”
“Yeah, right. Who died and made you a saint?”
“I’m just saying.”
“Well, don’t get all high and mighty on me now. We just made three hundred varos.”
“We?”
“Simón. You and me, güey. We’re partners, no?
“Chingón,” I said, but it came out flat. I kept thinking, A leg?
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Güey, we just won three hundred pesos and you’re acting like we lost the game or something—” He stopped suddenly.
I turned away. A drunk stumbled out of La Gloria, a cantina down the street. He yelled something to no one, then he sat on the sidwalk and dropped his head in his hands.
Mosca put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Boli. I forgot.”
The workmen who had been talking to Ignacio Morales came out of the Minitienda and crossed the street toward the plaza.
I ran after the two men. “¡Oigan!”
They stopped.
“What happened?”
They looked at each other for a moment. They stank of sweat and mud. Jesús said, “They found a leg up by the old highway next to the junkyard, El Yonke Estaqui.”
“What kind of leg?”
“What do you mean?” Jesús looked at his friend.
“Man or woman?”
“Ah, pues. A man’s, of course.”
“And just a leg?”
The other man nodded.
“But did it have like pants or a shoe or what?”
Mosca caught up with us. The men looked at each other. Jesús said, “I suppose it was blue pants, no?”
His friend nodded. “And a black shoe. Nice shoe, ¿verdad?”
“Yes, dressy,” Jesús said. “It was leather and polished real clean, like for church.”
“What did Captain Pineda say?”
Jesús’ friend shook his head. “Ese gordo is no good.”
Mosca put his hand on my shoulder. “What’s going on?”
Jesús tipped his hat, and the two of them walked way.
“Cut the shit,” Mosca said. “What is it?”
“They found a leg at the Yonke.”
“You think it’s el profe’s?”
“I was wondering if…if…maybe it’s my father’s.”
“Boli…”
My stomach turned. I felt sick. “I can’t remember what kind of shoes he was wearing.”
“Does he have black ones?”
“Of course,” I cried. “But I can’t even remember how he was dressed.”
“Then—”
“Everyone has black shoes!” I dropped my soft drink and ran away as fast as I could. Mosca called after me, but I didn’t stop.
I was not going to believe it. Everyone owned a pair of black leather shoes. I shined them all the time around the plaza. The leg could belong to anyone.
I went to the mortuary. It was a small storefront a few blocks north of the plaza. Inside it was quiet and cool like the church. Everything was gray. There was a display of six big coffins with brass handles stacked one over the other.
A woman sat at a table, a painting on glass of Jesus and the Sacred Heart on the wall behind her. She smiled at me. “How may I help you?”
I was panting. “Is Señor Monroy here?”
“I’m sorry, he’s not. And you are?”
“They said he picked up a leg by the old highway.”
“I’m sorry?”
“A leg. He picked up a leg by the old highway, at the Yonke.”
“I don’t understand.” The woman stood. She wore a skirt that came down to just above her knees and a tight blouse that reminded me of Rocío Morales.
I took a deep breath, but when I exhaled, it came out in short, painful sobs.
“Are you all right?” She motioned to the chair across her desk. “Sit. I’ll get you some water.”
“I just want to know about the leg.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
“Is there anyone else here?”
“Not right now. Saul went to the cemetery and Señor Monroy is out. He won’t be back until closing. What’s going on?”
I explained about the leg. She covered her mouth with her hand and then looked out the window for a moment. “Señor Monroy went out early this morning and hasn’t come back. But that’s not uncommon for him.”
“So he didn’t bring the leg here?”
She shook her head. “And I would know because I would have to unlock the back and do the paperwork.”
“So maybe they took it to the municipal building.”
“I doubt it,” she said. “They don’t have the facilities. They would bring it here. Unless they took it to Coyuca del Río or Toluca.”
“Why would they do that?”
“I don’t know. But there are facilities there. I mean, if Captain Pineda wanted to take it there in the first place. But you said a leg? Just a leg? Are you sure?”
I nodded.
“How strange. First a head. Now a leg.”
I didn’t know what to do, where to go. Mosca’s idea of going to Toluca was so abstract. We wouldn’t even know where to begin. And what if we disappeared? Where did people even disappear to?
I had to find them. I had to find out what happened.
I walked toward the plaza. I kept seeing my father walking with me after church on the way to the Flats to watch a game of fútbol. I could feel his heavy arm resting on my shoulder as we walked, his excited voice telling stories about his life, about how—since the age of six—he had to take care of the goats on his father’s farm, and how hard work had pulled him out of poverty. “Just look at my brother and his stupid pigs,” he’d said with a strange mix of pride and tenderness. “What kind of life is that?”
But I knew from my mother that marrying her had been his ticket out of the farm. He fell in love with the right woman, and she fell in love with him. That’s how he left his family’s farm in Coyuca del Río and came to Izayoc. That was how he became the panadero everyone loved. There was nothing wrong with that. He had nothing to be ashamed of. But he was too proud so I didn’t tell him I knew any of this.
And I was proud of him. People always came to him for advice or to thank him for something he had done for them. He was a good man, a hard worker. Everyone said so. When I grew up, I wanted to be like him, loved and respected by everyone in town.
And then it came to me: El Centenario. It was a restaurant attached to the Metrópolis Hotel, by the old highway west of town. My father supplied them with bread. He delivered it himself twice a week. He’d said he was friends with the owner and sometimes stayed until late at night playing chess with him.
It was one of those restaurants no one mentioned much. I had never been inside. It was small and dark with red candles on the tables and mirrors on the wall. I suppose it was meant to look romantic. It even smelled like candy.
The man who claimed to be the owner shook his head. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” He was a big man, with big muscles and thick black hair combed back like Elvis Presley.
“Alfonso Flores. My father,” I said and got on my tiptoes over the bar. �
�He brought bread and played chess with you.”
“It don’t ring a bell,” he said and looked across the empty dining room to one of the waiters. “Beto, you remember an Alfonso Flores?”
The waiter, a small dark-faced man, came over and leaned against the side of the bar. “What’d he look like, pues?”
“Medium height,” I said. “I guess average. He’s thirty-eight and his hair’s a little gray on the sides. He always wears a dark red jacket, the kind with the straps on the waist and neck.”
The waiter touched his lip with the tip of his finger. “Had a little mustache?”
“Yes, yes. That’s him,” I said.
“Didn’t he used to come in with la niña?,” the waiter asked the owner. Then he pointed at a table in the far corner. “They always sat back there and ordered oyster cocktails and white wine.”
“No. He brought bread and played chess.” I nodded at the owner. “With you.”
“With me?”
The waiter looked confused.
“I don’t even know how to play,” the owner said.
“But he came here all the time,” I said. “I’m just trying to find him. I need help.”
“Maybe it’s someone else,” the waiter said. A woman poked her head out of a door in the back and called him. He nodded at the owner and disappeared between the tables, his reflection on the mirrors flickering in the candlelight like a ghost.
“I’m sorry, amigo,” the owner said. He looked concerned, with furrowed eyebrows and a sympathetic grin. “But what can I do?”
I walked out of the restaurant, wondering where his friends were. Where were all the people who loved him?
By the time I arrived at the panadería, Gaby was getting ready to close.
“What happened to you?” she said, her eyes red and puffy. I couldn’t tell if it was from crying or sleeping. “You were supposed to be here after school.”
“I had to finish a project in class.”
“Don’t lie to me, Liberio. Por favor. You’re supposed to be helping. I have to go to the bank and the Telmex office and pay bills at the municipal building. I can’t do everything alone, ¿entiendes?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Leticia had to go home early.” She looked around the store. “I need you to help Lucio.” She grabbed her purse, took out her keys and fiddled with the keychain. “Make sure you clean up. And don’t forget to lock the back, okay?” She handed me the keys to the bakery. “Please don’t lose them.”
Playing for the Devil's Fire Page 7