Everyone on both sides of the bridge kept silent. It was just cars passing and an occasional dog barking somewhere. Chicano did the same with the other body. He pulled the rope and then grabbed the body and knelt as he laid it next to the other one. When he stood, everyone at the bottom of the bridge cheered.
I nudged Mosca. The people moved forward and climbed the steps. It was as if they had been released from a spell. Someone yelled that they needed to get an undertaker for the bodies. A group of workmen broke through the crowd. “We’ll take them to Monroy’s,” one of them said. They picked up the dead men and carried them away.
A woman ran up to Chicano and hugged him. Men shuffled and lined up to shake his hand. He looked at me and smiled.
“See?” I grabbed his arm. Mosca and Junior joined us and we walked across the bridge. Everyone was reaching out for Chicano, thanking him and blessing him for what he had done. He held his head up high like he’d just won a match against Santo or something.
“You’re a hero,” I said.
“For real!” Mosca was ecstatic.
We made our way down the steps. Then I saw Pepino. He was with Kiko and Chato. They stood alone at the end of the crowd, looking straight at us. I thought they were after Mosca because of the devil’s fire. Then I realized they weren’t looking at us. They were staring at Chicano.
Pepino said something to Kiko who ran off along the side of the highway and disappeared between the food stalls. When it was clear to the both of us that we had seen each other, Pepino tapped Chato on the shoulder. They turned and walked behind a vulcanizaroda where two men were working to patch up a flat tire.
20.
Gaby slammed her hand against the table.
“It’s just for a week,” I said. “Please.”
“No.” She even refused to make eye contact with Chicano. “He can’t stay, and that’s final.”
“You’re not the boss of the house. When Papá was here, I was allowed to have friends over.”
Jesusa said, “It’s true, señorita Gaby.” We were eating supper at the dining room table. Jesusa was going around serving the reheated tamales our neighbor Viviana had given us over a month ago when my parents had first failed to return from Toluca. It seemed so long ago, like time had sprinted forward and then stopped completely.
“And who’s talking to you, metiche?”
“He’s staying,” I said.
“No, he’s not. We know nothing about him.”
“We do.” I pushed my plate away. “He’s a luchador. He helped take the people down from the bridge. He’s a hero.”
Gaby sighed. “Ay, Liberio. Stop it.”
“But it’s true.”
“And how do you know he’s not the one who killed Rocío Morales?”
Chicano coughed.
“Because he’s not. He wasn’t even here when that happened. God, Gaby, you can be such a jerk.”
Abuela glanced across the table at Chicano. “He can stay,” she said suddenly with so much authority, everyone froze.
Gaby’s jaw dropped. “¿Perdón?”
“I said he can stay. It’s the Christian thing to do. It’s not as if he’s moving in forever.” She smiled at us. Then she turned to Chicano. “Are you?”
“No, señora. Just a week, I think. I have an event in Monterrey coming up in two weeks.”
Abuela leaned back on her chair and placed her hands on the table. “So it’s settled.”
“Abuela,” Gaby cried. “We can’t afford to feed every stray Liberio drags into the house.”
“Por Dios, niña, don’t be rude. Your parents raised you better than that. The luchador can stay so long as he doesn’t drink.”
“No.” Chicano coughed. “That won’t be a problem. I only hit a rough patch every so often. I’m good now.”
Abuela turned to Gaby. “You see?”
“What’s this about the drinking? What is going on here?”
“Nothing,” I said. “He’s a good guy, Gaby. Really.”
“We could use a man in the house,” Abuela added. “He can help fix things, no?”
Chicano nodded.
“Dios mio. What is the matter with you people?” Gaby said. “Don’t you see what’s happening?”
“Please, you don’t need to act so self-important,” Abuela said.
“Válgame,” Gaby cried. “When did you get back from Veracruz?”
“Leave her alone,” I said.
“And another thing,” Abuela said. “It would be decent of you if you brought the young man you are dating by the house so he can introduce himself. Just because your parents are absent does not mean you can go running around town like a common tramp.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’d like that,” Gaby said. “The way you’ve all been acting lately, I’m afraid you’ll crucify the poor man.”
Chicano tugged at the side of his mask. “There’s a lot of crucifying going on in this town.”
“We’re going to find out what happened to Papá and Mamá,” I said.
Gaby rolled her eyes and pushed her chair out. “Please. Don’t do us any favors.”
“It’s no trouble,” Chicano said. “But like I told Liberio, it’s not—”
“Por favor.” Gaby stood and held up the palm of her hand to stop him. “Spare me. I can see right through you and your ridiculous outfit.” Then she marched out of the dining room.
Abuela reached across the table and laid a dainty hand over Chicano’s giant one. “I heard about that business on the bridge. Welcome to the house, mijo. You can stay in Liberio’s room. And please, take a shower.”
That night I lay awake in the dark listening to Chicano snore. Jesusa had prepared him a comfortable space in the corner of my bedroom with cushions from the couch and a few extra blankets. He slept with his mask on and his mouth wide open. I could see the outline of his shoulder, his chest and stomach faint and colorless rising and falling in rhythm with his breathing. He snored deep and long like a truck climbing a steep hill.
When I was nine, my father took me with him on a business trip to Mexico City. It was just the two of us on a four-day weekend. I went with him to visit distributors in different parts of the city. We purchased the big industrial mixers for the panadería. He also bought the computer we still use.
When he finished with his business, he took me to the Museum of Anthropology. The history of Mexico, as it was laid out in the museum, was like a long tale of overcoming adversity. From the cavemen hunting giant mammoths to the Aztecs fighting the Spanish during the conquest and then fighting the Spanish for independence and then the North Americans and the French—it was as if we always had to fight someone. Mexico always fought for freedom. All through school we learned the stories of Miguel Hidalgo, Benito Juárez and Emiliano Zapata, but seeing it all at once, one war after the other, it all fit into a pattern. We were tough. We were proud.
I was in awe of the statue of Tlaloc, the Aztec God of water and rain that stood at the entrance of the museum. He looked unstoppable. He was the original luchador—strong, imposing. Yet there was a quiet mystery to his features. It was amazing to think this was all Mexico.
At the Castillo de Chapultepec, I looked down the cliff where the Niños Héroes jumped to their deaths, their bodies wrapped in the Mexican flag after the North Americans had taken the city and were making their way up the hill. Those six teenagers were the bravest Mexicans in history. I shivered at the thought that some of those cadets had been as young as me. I stood on the same ground and looked down over the city, wondering if I would have had the guts to do it.
We stayed at a small hotel in Insurgentes Sur. I don’t know if it was the city—or Tlaloc and the Niños Héroes—but the last night we were there, I couldn’t sleep. I lay awake and listened to my father’s strong steady snoring. He was in a deep sleep. It was as if his snoring was telling me everything was going to be okay. Tlaloc was Mexican. He was ours. He was there to protect us. There was nothing to be afraid of in the great city that
smelled of iron.
Now, in my own bedroom, with all the horrible things that had been going on around town, I felt a soft easiness as I listened to Chicano snore. I thought of Tlaloc and how, in the end, the good guys win. The Aztecs did not lose to the Spanish. It took them three hundred years to defeat them. All those years, there was resistance. It was the same with the Niños Héroes. They did not die in vain. Mexico regained its sovereignty. Zapata was assassinated, but the Revolution triumphed and the large haciendas were broken up. I knew all this trickled down to us. We had to fight whatever obstacle arose against us. We had to fight for justice, just like Zapata and everyone else.
I closed my eyes and felt safe in a way I hadn’t felt since before we discovered el profe’s head. I knew we could win this war. Chicano was more like Santo than he realized. Together we would fight whoever was destroying the town. And I knew, like all the great heroes of Mexican history, we would win. We were predestined to do this. When Chicano took down those men from the overpass, I got a glimpse of what we were meant to do. Tlaloc and the Niños Héroes and Zapata were with us. I fell asleep with a smile that night. I knew everything would work out.
When I woke up the next morning, Chicano was gone.
Later, when Mosca and I walked out of school, we found him waiting for us across the street from the secundaria. He was in the shade, leaning against the wall, surrounded by a handful of kids and the street vendors and parents.
“I thought you’d left,” I said.
He ruffled my hair and smiled. “I went for a run. I’m an athlete.”
“Really?”
Mosca smacked me on the chest with the back of his hand. “He has to stay in shape, right Chicano?”
“That’s right. If we’re going to do this thing, we have to be sharp.” Then he raised his gaze past us to where Ximena and Regina were walking out the school gate. “Maybe we should make sure those two pollitos get home safely.”
I could see his eyes behind the mask, black and round, and focused on Ximena.
“Muy buenas tardes,” he said when the girls crossed the street. Ximena looked away.
Regina glanced at Chicano and back at me. “What do you want?”
“Nothing,” I said. “We were just getting ready to go.”
Chicano’s attention was all over Ximena. Regina rolled her eyes. They walked away. Mosca and I followed.
“I found Gaby,” I said. I liked Regina. She had always been so nice. I didn’t want her angry at me. It didn’t feel right. “Everything’s fine.”
She slowed so Mosca and me could walk with her. Chicano caught up with Ximena who was walking ahead toward the plaza, her books pressed against her chest.
“And nothing on your parents?” Regina said quietly.
I shook my head. “I haven’t given up hope, but I guess I’m prepared for whatever God gives us.”
“You sound like Father Gregorio.”
“It’s not that. Chicano’s going to help me find out what happened. Did you hear about the men hanging from the overpass?”
She nodded and walked quickly.
I grabbed her arm and pulled her back. “What’s the matter?”
She shook her head.
“Chicano took them down. Pretty heroic, no?”
“And brave,” Mosca added.
“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” she said.
“Why would we get hurt? How?” I knew she might know something because she hung out with Ximena and Joaquín, but she just kept walking, looking ahead to where the road narrowed and the asphalt turned to cobblestone.
We caught up with Chicano and Ximena. Zopilote’s green Golf was parked in front of Taquería Los Perdidos. Mosca and I looked at each other. We slowed down, but Chicano kept in step beside Ximena as if there was nothing to fear.
“Don’t be that way, corazón,” Chicano said, turning his head to the side so Ximena could hear him. “I can take you places. Next week I’m off to Monterrey. You could come. Have you ever been there? Those regiomontanos really know how to party. You’d love it. Ándale, you and me in Monterrey. Unforgettable.”
Regina looked down and pressed her schoolbooks tightly against her chest like she was trying to protect them. “What’s with your pet wrestler?”
“Nothing.” I didn’t see what Chicano was after or that any of it had to do with our investigation, although Ximena was our link to Joaquín. “So why do you guys hang out with Joaquín and his friends?” I asked.
Regina raised her chin. “You jealous or what?”
“I’ve heard the rumors.”
“Estás loco.” Her tone was cold, short. “To you anyone who makes more money than your parents is a criminal.” Then she stopped and covered her mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“Whatever. I’m going to find out what happened to them. And if someone did something to them, they’re going to be sorry. Chicano and I are going to fix this place. Whoever is doing all this is going to regret ever setting foot in Izayoc.”
“Uy, look at you. How macho, no?”
“Don’t you want things back the way they were before? Aren’t you afraid of ending up like Rocío Morales?”
“I’m not afraid of anything.”
Mosca laughed. “You’re the only one in town then.”
We stopped across from Los Perdidos. Ximena moved to cross the street to the taquería, but Chicano grabbed her arm and pulled her to his side. “What’s wrong, do I make you nervous?”
Ximena stared at him for a moment. Then she looked at her arm where Chicano was holding it. And as if by magical powers, without a word, Chicano released her.
Zopilote was checking us out from across the street. He wore white long pointy boots, jeans, a polo shirt and a colorful jacket that reminded me of an old Michael Jackson video. When our eyes met, he pulled back the side of the jacket. Tucked into his belt was a chrome-plated automatic pistol.
We all saw it.
“It’s not bullets I fear,” Chicano said in a tone that was so calm and confident, my own fear vanished. His eyes were locked on Ximena. “It’s the pain you inflict in my heart that’s killing me.”
Ximena’s eyes grew wide for an instant, and she smiled. I was thrilled and hurt at the same time.
“Why do you hang out with those pendejos? They’re nobodies.” Chicano took her arm again.
Ximena tossed her head to the side, her long mane of hair flying past Chicano’s face. She said, “At least they don’t hide behind a mask.”
Chicano laughed. “I’m not hiding. I’m just waiting for the right woman to come along so I can reveal myself. You know, you could be her, corazón. You never know.”
Ximena smirked. “No. I do know.”
“He’s working real hard, no?” Regina said.
“He’s trying to piss off her boyfriend.” I said it more to convince myself because I didn’t like it either.
“You better be careful, Liberio.” Regina’s face twisted. “They have money, and yes, they have guns.”
“What about Gaby’s boyfriend?” I said.
“I don’t know.”
We followed Ximena across the street, but Mosca stayed behind talking to an old lady who was a friend of his aunt.
Zopilote stepped away from his car and blocked the entrance of the taquería. “El Chicano Estrada,” he said, and then looked at me. “I see you got yourself a bodyguard, eh Boli?”
“What’s with you, pinche Zopilote?” I said.
“I don’t think I like him flirting with Joaquín’s girl.”
“So you’re her bodyguard?” I asked.
“I’m everything, so don’t get smart with me. I’ve acquired a short temper. You don’t want to see me when I’m angry.”
“Yeah?” I said. “Was it that temper that gave you a black eye last week?”
Zopilote laughed. “You’re one to talk. Don’t tell me you ran into a wall.” He brought his hand down, close to his belt where he had the gun.
A c
ar honked. Mosca crossed the street and waved at the car. An old lady shoved past us and went inside the taquería. Then Zopilote moved aside to allow the girls to pass. Ximena looked at Chicano, then at me. She raised her head and walked past Zopilote and went inside.
“Nice place,” Chicano stepped forward to follow Ximena, but Zopilote put his hand on his chest and stopped him.
Chicano looked down at the hand. “I’ll count to three, cabrón.”
Zopilote dropped his hand and glanced at Regina. “You going inside or what?”
Regina glanced around as if she wasn’t sure what to do. Then, without a word, she walked past Zopilote and into the restaurant.
“They didn’t even say goodbye,” Chicano said.
“That’s how these bitches are.” Zopilote turned and followed them into the restaurant.
“Pinche Chicano.” Mosca laughed. “You didn’t even have to count.”
Chicano tapped the side of his head with his index finger. “Strength is an illusion.”
21.
Chicano went into the municipal building to see Captain Pineda while Mosca and I waited in the plaza. Except for a couple of vendors who had set up in the arcade and the taxi drivers on the opposite side by the church, there was no one around, just a couple of niños pobres sprawled on the floor of the gazebo, sleeping.
We sat on one of the iron benches under a patch of shade and watched the workers coming in and out of the church. They moved quickly, carrying long wood planks and metal bars for scaffolding, wheelbarrows, shovels.
“Check it out,” Mosca nodded.
It was Kiko. He was standing by the taxis, looking up and down the street like he’d lost something. Then he walked the long way around the side of the plaza to where we sat.
“What are you two up to with that wrestler?” he asked.
I looked around. “I don’t see a wrestler, do you?”
Mosca shook his head. “Where’s Pepino?”
Kiko was jittery. His wide, red eyes moved quickly from side to side. “With Chato. They had errands.”
Playing for the Devil's Fire Page 14