Playing for the Devil's Fire

by Phillippe Diederich

  “Everyone’s real busy these days,” Mosca said.

  “No chingues.” Kiko wiped his nose with the back of his hand and hacked. “Look, you wanna go to the side of the church and shoot a game of marbles?”

  “What do you have to lose?”

  “Don’t be a pendejo, Mosca. Let’s go to the church and play. Come on.”

  Kiko led the way, his head turning at all angles, looking everywhere. When we reached the side of the church, he drew a wobbly circle in the dirt with the heel of his boot.

  “Look.” He shot a marble. “You guys need to be careful.”

  I laughed. “Not if you keep shooting like that.” His marble had landed on the side of the circle.

  “That’s not what I’m talking about,” Kiko said. “It’s the wrestler.”

  “Chicano?”

  “He’s doing the wrong thing. He’s gonna get in trouble. If you two pendejos keep hanging around him, they’ll mark you too.”

  “What do you mean, mark?”

  Mosca laughed. “Like with a magic marker?”

  “Listen to me. That thing the luchador did, taking down the bodies from the overpass, it pissed the fuck out of them.”

  “Out of who?” I said.

  Kiko lowered his head and whispered. “You know who.”

  “Joaquín?”

  Kiko grinned. “He’s nobody.”

  “Then who?”

  “Duende.”

  “Who the fuck’s Duende?” Mosca looked at me. We moved closer to Kiko, but he stepped away from us.

  “Play marbles.” He kneeled and took a shot even though there were no other marbles in the circle. “They’re always watching.”

  “Who’s this Duende, güey?” I asked.

  Kiko stared past the wall to the municipal building. From where we stood, we could only see the second floor. The windows were open, probably Pineda’s office. “The boss. El jefe de plaza,” he said. “All the new guys are with him. They’re his people.”

  “What about you?” I asked.

  He swooped the marble from the ground and held his hand up for me to take it. “You win.”

  Kiko’s eyes were shiny, ugly, scared. He walked quickly away to the front of the church where the workers had gathered around a well-dressed man and Father Gregorio. When Kiko saw them, he turned and headed in the opposite direction toward the municipal building. Then he disappeared around the corner.

  Father Gregorio and the well-dressed man looked at us. They both smiled. Then they looked at the street where Kiko had gone and back at the workers.

  Mosca and I walked out of the churchyard, but just as we reached the steps, Father Gregorio called my name.

  Mosca ran to the plaza. I walked back and met Father Gregorio. The workers and the well-dressed man had gone inside. He placed his hand on my shoulder. “How do you like it? It seems business is good for everyone. Ramiro Contreras is building a hotel, and Don Ignacio is expanding his store.”

  “Some kind of progress, no?”

  “So it seems.” He didn’t smile. “It’s the new highway. One day we might even get a Wal-Mart.”

  Father Gregorio led me to the steps, away from the church, then he dropped to one knee so his eyes were level with mine. “Liberio. I have some news from Father Elíseo in Huizachal. Your parents drove a blue Jetta, is that correct?”

  “What did he say?”

  “One of his parishioners told him he saw a car fall into Devil’s Ravine last month.”

  “But that’s right there. How come Pineda—”

  “Never mind him. That’s precisely why your father went to seek help in Toluca.”

  “So you think my parents are down there? Dead?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe we can get Pineda to—”

  “Listen to me, hijo. Forget Pineda. He’s a sloth and a good-for-nothing. If something nefarious is going on, Pineda’s probably in someone’s pocket already. I don’t trust him, and neither did your father. We need to keep quiet about this until we find evidence of some kind. Then we can go to the proper authorities. So. Not a word to anyone. Is that clear?”

  I ran across the street and met Mosca and Chicano outside the municipal building. The street kids who had been sleeping in the gazebo and the children of the vendors gathered near Chicano, but no one approached him. They just stared as if he were a saint and whispered among themselves.

  “Did you find anything?” I asked.

  Chicano took a deep breath and raised his hands as if he were about to preach a sermon. “I found out your Captain Pineda is a first-class pendejo. The men under him are worse. The whole department is useless. How this town manages to exist is beyond me.”

  Mosca laughed. “Please, Chicano, tell us something we don’t know.”

  He threw his cape over his shoulder and marched on, his masked head held high.

  We crossed the plaza and walked on Calle Lealtad. Once we were out of sight of the church and the plaza, Mosca nudged me. “So what did the priest want?”

  “Nothing.” It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Mosca, but I’d given my word to Father Gregorio.

  “You and him seem to have a lot to talk about lately,” Mosca said.

  “He’s helping me find out about my parents.”

  Chicano stopped walking. “And?”

  “And what?”

  “What else?” He glared down at us, his hands on his waist like Superman. “Mosca told me what the kid said while I was wasting my time with Porky up there. I’m in this now. My own hide’s at stake here, so spill it, hijín. No secrets. This is too dangerous.”

  I kicked the ground and told them what Father Gregorio had said.

  “For real?” Mosca said. “You think it’s really them?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I hope not. That would mean they’re dead for sure.”

  Mosca slapped me on the back. “We should go see.”

  “I don’t like it.” Chicano rubbed his chin. “I mean, Devil’s Ravine? This is starting to sound like a Santo movie.”

  “It’s no big deal,” I said. “Mosca and I’ve been down there a million times. It’s after the big curve—”

  “Devil’s Curve,” Mosca said.

  “There’s nothing down there, just forest.”

  Chicano looked at the sky. “It’s going to be getting dark soon. Let’s sleep on it. We’ll go tomorrow after school.”

  “We have at least two hours,” I said. “We can make it.”

  “No,” Chicano said. “I don’t want to get caught down there in the dark. Besides, you have homework. I don’t want your sister ragging on me about keeping you away from your schoolwork.”

  “But Chicano—”

  “Listen to me. If your parents are really down there, they’ll still be there tomorrow.”

  Mosca placed his hand on my shoulder. “Maybe he’s right, Boli.”

  We heard the loud bass from a stereo. Zopilote’s green Golf cruised slowly along Calle Lealtad toward the plaza. As it passed us, the tinted window on the driver’s side went down real slow, blasting reggaetón all over the block. Zopilote wore dark shades. He raised his right hand just over the open window and pointed his silver pistol at us. He pulled it back three times in slow motion as if he were shooting at us, his ugly mouth forming little O’s with every kick of the weapon.

  22.

  Later that evening, Chicano and I sat at the kitchen table watching Jesusa cook dinner. I was still stunned about Zopilote’s display, but Chicano seemed fine. He sat back on his chair teasing Jesusa about the work she did at the house.

  “You don’t know work if you haven’t lived in the Sierra,” she said. “That’s work. Hard work, pues.”

  Chicano laughed. “You make it sound as if the Indians are the only ones who work.”

  “What would you know about work? Your hands are soft. Your muscles,” she said, and smacked his back with a wooden spoon, “are built from exercise, not from working the milpa and carr
ying lumber and water.”

  She stirred the pot of stew. “Every morning before it was light, I had to walk down two mountains to fetch water in the creek.”

  “Leave it to the Mixtecos to build a village in a place without water.” Chicano winked at me. “Who does that, Liberio?”

  But what about Zopilote? Would he really kill us? What if someone gave him the order or he lost his temper. Would he do it? Had he already killed someone? And what about Duende?

  “Down and up the mountain three times in a single day,” Jesusa went on. “I had to gather wood and make a fire and cook for my aunt and her father and cousins.”

  “How dramatic, chaparrita.” Chicano rolled his eyes and tapped his fingertips against the table. “If you were as poor as you say you were, all you did was eat bugs. What’s the big deal?”

  “No, pues. I had to make the masa for the tortillas. And who do you think had to clean the house?”

  “Wait.” Chicano crossed his arms and leaned back on his chair. “You mean jacal.”

  Jesusa ignored him and continued her monologue. “In season I had to go to the milpa and plant or harvest the corn. I took care of the goats, cooked dinner. Everything,”

  “And now, nothing’s changed, no?”

  “What do you say? A lot has changed. But el Indio always works, pues. There is no way out. When you are born Indian, you are born condemned to a life of work and poverty. And if you’re a woman, it’s worse. That is the truth.”

  Chicano agreed. “Being born poor in this country es de la chingada.”

  “You’re not poor,” I said.

  “But I’m not rich.”

  “I would rather be poor and happy than rich and sad.” It was something I’d heard my mother say a thousand times.

  “That’s easy for you to say because you’ve never been poor,” Chicano said.

  “Well, I’d rather be poor and have my parents back.”

  Chicano fell silent. Jesusa stopped chopping onions and chiles. She looked at me for a moment as if trying to find something in my eyes. Then she turned back to the stove and placed the diced onions and chiles in a pan that sizzled and popped with hot oil and infused the house with a sweet and peppery smell. She stirred it, lowered the heat and when the sound mellowed, she said, “There’s nothing wrong with work. Money is not the friend of good people, pues.”

  “Please,” Chicano said. “Tell me you wouldn’t want to be rich.”

  “I don’t waste my dreams on it.”

  Chicano laughed.

  “It’s true, pues.” She waved the spoon at him. “And since I have worked in this house, life has been better. That is the truth.”

  “Yeah.” Chicano kicked me under the table and smiled. “Taking care of this mocoso.” He stood and signaled for me to follow him to the front patio. Chapo came to us, wagging his tail and sniffing at our legs. We didn’t give him any attention, so he made a long circle around the patio and went back to his corner by the shed and lay down.

  “Listen to me, Liberio. I’m going to duck out for a moment to chase a couple of leads I picked up from that joker Pineda.”

  “Can I go with you?”

  “No. I have to do this alone. Besides, you have to finish your homework.”

  “Please, Chicano—”

  “No.”

  “God, you’re worse than Gaby.”

  “Liberio.”

  “But what if something happens?”

  “I can take care of myself, hijín.”

  Chicano got cleaned up and walked out of the house smelling like my father’s cologne. I followed him to the street. It was dark out. A couple strolled past on the sidewalk across the street. Chicano waited for them to get some distance. “Tomorrow after school meet me by the Pemex. We’ll check out this business at Devil’s Ravine.”

  “Where are you going now?”

  “Don’t worry about that. I just want to see a couple of güeyes. Ask some questions.”

  “Did Pineda give you names? Maybe I know them.”

  “Look, I told you I’m not a detective. I’m just feeling things out as I go.”

  “At what time will you be back?”

  “What are you, my mother?”

  I stared at him, trying to see his eyes behind the mask, but it was just darkness.

  He stepped onto the street. “I’ll be back when I’m back. That’s it.”

  “Chicano,” I said, my voice cracking. “Please…don’t go to the cantina.”

  He smiled and tilted his head like Father Gregorio. “Don’t worry about that. I gave my word to your grandmother.”

  Gaby didn’t come home for dinner. After Jesusa served, Abuela gestured toward the empty setting. “Niña, why don’t you sit and eat with us.”

  “No, I’m fine, pues,” Jesusa said.

  “Do not be shy, niña. We are family now.”

  Jesusa smiled and took Gaby’s place.

  “So you see,” Abuela said. “On the evenings and weekends, bands play at the gazebo in the Plaza de Armas and at the Plaza de la Concordia. Everyone dresses up and comes out to greet each other. The whole town comes together like a family. And everywhere you go, you can hear someone playing a marimba.”

  I noticed Abuela was describing Veracruz differently. Before it was always about Dorian. It was as if we were eavesdropping on her conversation with someone unknown. Now, she talked to us about what Veracruz was like.

  “You really like it there,” I said.

  “I have been away a very long time. I miss my family. I miss my youth.”

  “Did you ever go back to visit?” Jesusa said. “I go back to Coyuca del Río, but never to my pueblo in the sierra. I don’t miss it there. Besides, I have no one there that I care to see.”

  “Sometimes we leave behind a place and people we think we never want to see again. The last thing you expect is a nostalgia like this one to poison your heart the way it has done mine. When I was young, I detested Veracruz. I resented my father for his old-fashioned ways.”

  “I was so happy to leave my pueblo. I hated it there.”

  “You don’t miss it at all?” I asked.

  Jesusa stared at her plate of albondigas and rice for a long time. “There is nothing to miss, just work. Monte de Cocula is an ugly, cursed place.”

  Abuela touched Jesusa’s hand. “Niña, the whole country is cursed. Life never turns out the way you think it will.” She pushed her plate away and rested her hands on the table. “All your life you think you are going somewhere special, but in the end you discover no such place exists. There is no paradise.”

  “Is that what you and Abuelo were looking for when you came here?” I asked.

  Abuela laughed. “No, mijo. We were running away. This is just where we ended up. Your grandfather was an idealist. I suppose when it’s all said and done, I am one too. He believed that getting away from the city would solve our problems. We thought life in a pueblo would be free of the cheating and corruption of the city.”

  “And it wasn’t?” I asked.

  “When we first arrived in Izayoc, the people didn’t want us. We were outsiders. It was so isolated. Eventually we worked ourselves into society, but it took a long time. To be honest with you, I would have been happy in Coyuca del Río or Toluca. Anywhere. But your grandfather had his dreams. To him, this was the perfect colonial town, with the cobblestone streets, the old church and all the old architecture and the cliffs. I think it was the gringo in him that made Izayoc so attractive. In his eyes, this place was Mexico. But the people?” She glanced at Jesusa. “They could be terribly vindictive, secretive. Gente de pueblo. We went through a lot. But we stayed and made it work.”

  “You make it sound just like Monte de Cocula, señora. No wonder the country is in such a mess.”

  “Life is never what you think it will be.” Abuela’s thin fingers traced the rim of her cup. “Would you mind so much making me another café con leche, niña?”

  I couldn’t sleep that night worrying abo
ut Chicano. And about Gaby too. I knew Chicano could take care of himself as long as he didn’t get drunk. But I couldn’t understand why Gaby was dating Francisco. I didn’t understand that about girls. Like why Ximena was with Joaquín. Maybe she bought into his act, the guns and the money. Maybe that’s all it took. Maybe that’s why everyone wanted to be one of them.

  If Ximena ever gave me a chance, I’d show her. If I were old enough, I’d marry her right away. I’d love her forever. I knew that deep down, behind those sad eyes and those quiet lips, was a misunderstood girl. No one else got that. She was sad because no one gave her the opportunity to be who she really was. Like in the story of the ugly duckling—only she wasn’t ugly. Besides, I knew that despite her beauty, she had troubles. Regina told me Ximena’s father was a drunk and that he beat her. In a way, that fueled my love for her. She needed to be saved. And I knew I could do that. But I also knew it was impossible. I desperately wished I were older, just a little, enough so I could do something about it.

  And what was worse was that Ximena didn’t know I understood her the way I did. If she’d only give me a chance, I would show her what it was like to be with someone who really respected her and loved her and took care of her. She would never have to suffer again. God, I could make her so happy. If she would only dump that Joaquín and give me a chance, we would be happy forever.

  ‡

  Just past midnight Chapo barked. Then it was quiet again. A moment later the front door opened and closed. The steps were soft and careful. It was Gaby. I recognized her every move: getting a glass of water from the kitchen, going into the bathroom, then coming out, looking in on Abuela, checking the locks on the doors, and finally going into her room.

  Hours later, Chapo barked again, then whimpered. The front door opened and closed. There were noises in the kitchen, fumbling for utensils, chair legs scraping the floor.

  A short while later Chicano came into the room.

  I sat up.

  “You should be asleep.” He arranged the blankets in his corner and lay down.

  “What’d you find out?”

  “Nothing, really.”

  “Tell me, please.”

  “What are you so damn happy about?” he said.