“What the fuck is going on?” Mosca was shaking, his hand over his mouth, his eyes bouncing all over place.
It stank of rot, of sewer. I held my breath. Then I called, “Chapo!”
Chicano pulled my arm. “Quiet,” he whispered. He looked at Mosca and placed a finger over his lips.
Mosca nodded.
We walked ahead, slowly, close together around the curve of the path. Then Chicano stopped. A boy’s naked body lay propped against a tree covered in bugs. It had one arm, a leg, and no head. It was bloated, the skin almost translucent so that it appeared to glow in the darkness of the forest.
Chicano turned to us. I nodded to let him know I was okay, but my heart was beating fast and hard. I wanted to run. We moved slowly, carefully stepping around the body, Mosca and I keeping side by side behind Chicano to where he suddenly stopped again. A head hung from a tree branch.
My knees buckled. “Kiko!”
Chicano picked me up, but my legs had lost their strength. He held me in a hug, my body trembling uncontrollably.
“Kiko. Pinche Kiko,” Mosca cried and ran up to the head. Kiko’s hair was tied to a rope hanging from a tree branch. His eyes had been plucked out. His mouth was slightly open in an expression of sadness. “Kiko.” Mosca’s voice cracked. “And I thought you were with them, cabrón. Look at you now. Pinche güey.” He walked slowly around the head, his hands gesturing in the air, moving around Kiko but not touching.
Chicano grabbed Mosca’s arm and pulled him away. “Come on.”
We walked around the tree and ran, Chicano carrying Mosca and me at his sides, my feet dragging, but trying to keep pace. When we reached the end of the ravine where the creek disappeared into the culvert, he stopped and knelt to keep out of sight from the road.
Mosca sat and stared at the empty darkness where we had come from and whispered, “Kiko.”
Chicano shook him. “Mosca.”
Mosca stared like he was in a trance. “Kiko. Kiko.”
“Stop it!” Chicano slapped him.
Mosca’s eyes grew wide. Then he turned away and cried. It came out in a long sustained wail that grew and fell with his breathing. It made my skin crawl. I shut my eyes hoping it would all go away. It didn’t.
Chicano dropped his head in his hands. When he raised his head again, I could see the panic behind the eyeholes in his mask.
“That was the boy who warned us,” I said.
Chicano pulled us in. He held us tight and we huddled, our bodies shivering, my head pressed against his chest. I closed my eyes and felt the quick drumming of his heart against my cheek.
24.
At school, everyone was talking about Kiko. Some peasants walking through the ravine stumbled upon his remains and reported it to Pineda. None of the rumors were an exaggeration. I don’t think anyone could have invented something worse. Mosca didn’t come to school. I kept to myself and said nothing. As far as I was concerned, I was never in that ravine. I talked to no one. I just did my schoolwork and went home.
I was in such a daze I didn’t even notice Chapo hadn’t come home. But it had happened before. He often disappeared for a couple of days, off with a pack of street dogs or chasing a female in heat. Who knew what dogs did?
It took a few days for my fear to simmer. I was jumpy, paranoid. It was as if everything had been confirmed. Death was all around us. My worst fear was that my parents had met the same fate as Kiko. And yet something inside me kept hoping. Like maybe I was wrong.
I called Mosca’s house. Every time his aunt answered and told me he wasn’t home. I didn’t believe her. Mosca had been pretty freaked out. I imagined him sitting alone in his room, afraid of leaving the house. And who could blame him? I had never been so scared in my life.
It was then that Gaby decided to bring her boyfriend by the house unannounced. We were sitting at the dinner table when they arrived. Gaby stepped into the dining room wearing a bright red dress, high heels and a lot of make up.
“Hola!” She struck a pose, a hand on her hip, her chest out like a model in one of those ads in the back of the newspaper.
“Look how pretty.” Abuela dabbed her lips with a napkin. “You look just like your mother when she was your age.”
Gaby beamed. “Ay gracias, Abuela.”
“Someone better call the fire department to put out this fire,” Chicano said.
Everyone laughed. Then her boyfriend peeked into the room.
“So,” Gaby said in a soft voice, “I brought someone for you to meet.” She gestured for him to come into the dining room and took his hand. “This is Francisco Serrano.”
He was dressed in black pants that looked as if they were made of leather, a shiny colorful print shirt and black boots with a perfect polish. He didn’t wear a hat. And he wasn’t ugly or mean-looking. As a matter of fact, he looked like a nice guy.
Abuela smiled politely. “Mucho gusto.”
Francisco stepped up and gave her a light kiss on the cheek. “Encantado, senõra.”
Abuela blushed a little and turned to Chicano who was still gawking at Gaby.
She pointed at me. “And this is my brother, Liberio. And Jesusa, the maid who I guess has been integrated into the family.”
I nodded and glanced at Chicano and then at Gaby. When she didn’t say anything, I said, “And this is El Chicano Estrada, the famous luchador from Mexico City.”
Francisco offered his hand. Chicano took it and held it for like half a minute without shaking it.
“I’m sorry,” Gaby said when Chicano released Francisco’s hand. “Is that my father’s shirt?”
Chicano touched the lapel of the white dress shirt he was wearing and nodded. “And the pants too.”
Gaby glanced at me. Her eyes narrowed. “What’s going on here?”
“He lost his bag,” I said. “He needed to borrow some clothes.”
“Now, now,” Abuela said, “you’re a little late for dinner, but if you would like to join us, I am sure Jesusa can come up with something.”
Gaby looked at her boyfriend.
“No, thank you very much, Doña Esperanza.” Francisco held his hand up to his chest and bowed politely. “We have a previous engagement.”
“Perhaps a little dessert?” Abuela pushed. “¿Un cafecito?”
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “Really, we can’t.”
“My,” Abuela said, “a social scene in Izayoc?”
Gaby took Francisco’s arm. “It’s business, Abuela.”
“At this hour?”
Gaby looked at her boyfriend. “Maybe we should tell them now?”
“Tell us what?” I said.
Gaby smiled and took a deep breath. “We’re opening an Internet café.”
Abuela turned to Jesusa. “What is that?”
“Really?” I said. “Where?” Suddenly things looked brighter. I hadn’t seen Francisco around town or with Joaquín’s gang. Maybe Gaby was right. Maybe he was just a businessman. Maybe I had been wrong about him, about everything.
“The panadería,” Gaby announced.
“Cool,” I said. “A bakery and Internet café.”
“No,” Gaby said. “Just the Internet café.”
“What about the panadería?”
“We’re going to change it,” Gaby said.
“What is this? You’re closing the panadería?” Abuela said. “Why, that’s Dorian’s bakery. He built it. You can’t just close it down.”
“Abuela, the bakery’s not profitable.”
“That is of no consequence, mija.” She spoke firmly, her voice rising. “No. I forbid it. You cannot do that.”
“I’m sorry?” Gaby stepped back. She set her hands on her hips and pushed her head forward the way girls do when they’re angry. “I’m the one who’s been running that stupid bakery. I’m the one who wakes up at four in the morning to go open your dear Dorian’s panadería. I’m the one who’s there all day long working. I’m the one who closes at night and stays up until midnight b
alancing the books to keep it going. And you’re going to tell me I can’t do that?”
“Hija mia—”
“No, Abuela.” Gaby waved her finger. “The time of panaderías and tortillerías has passed. Ignacio Morales is expanding his store. Did you know he’s adding his own panadería and a tortillería—and even a butcher? Ramiro Contreras is going to build a hotel. There’s a rumor that a Wal-Mart might even open in the empty lot by the Pemex station. Who do you think is going to buy bread at poor little Panadería La Esperanza?”
“We’ve been baking bread for almost”—Abuela paused and counted the decades in her frail fingers—“fifty years. And as far as I am aware, no one has ever complained.”
“Abuela, listen to me. The store is deserted. Every day we have too many leftover bolillos and sweetbread. It’s not a profitable business. And from what I can decipher from Papá’s convoluted accounting, it hasn’t been making a profit for years.”
“What about Leticia and Lucio?” I said.
“What about them?”
“What’s going to happen to them?”
“Listen to you, Liberio. If you really cared, you would have been there every afternoon after school like I’ve been asking you to. But no, you’ve been too busy with your friends, playing marbles and prancing around town with this clown—”
“Luchador.” Chicano adjusted his mask just slightly.
“Whatever,” Gaby cried. “I’ve been running the bakery by myself. Now suddenly you’re all interested? Well, that’s not how it works. If you cared, you would have been doing your part. I’m fed up. I didn’t go to school to become a panadera.”
Francisco placed his hands on Gaby’s shoulders. “With your permission,” he said. “I understand your reservations, Doña Esperanza. Your bakery is a treasure. But Gaby’s right. Things are changing in Izayoc. There is only one Internet café here. It’s south of town by the secundaria. It’s very busy with students and with the relatives of the young men who have traveled north to work. I think this is a wonderful opportunity for Gaby. And for all of you.”
“It will connect us to the rest of the world,” Gaby said.
“I opened an Internet café in San Fernando a couple of years ago, and it’s done quite well. I think Izayoc is ready for another Internet café. And with the new highway, there’s a lot of change coming to this town.”
“What does that have to do with my bakery?” Abuela said. Her lip trembled and her eyes were glassy.
“Francisco and I are partners,” Gaby said. “He’s getting the computers and helping me set it up. It’s going to be a franchise of his place in San Fernando. Our plan is to open a whole string of them across Mexico.”
Abuela rolled her eyes. Then she dropped her head in her hands, elbows resting on the table. “It’s just one tragedy after another.”
25.
By the end of the week, I still hadn’t heard from Mosca so Chicano and I went up to the Barrio Santacruz where he lived. It was at the top of the cliff north of town. We walked up the mountain on the dirt road, which at times turned into nothing more than a path. The rain had washed away most of the gravel, leaving it muddy and rutted with deep tire tracks and potholes. How cars ever came and went was beyond me.
Small houses were stacked up on the side of the mountain in a mess of gray and black wood scraps, cardboard, asbestos and tarpaper. They seemd to cling to the side of the hill, tiny lots like caves carved out of the brown earth one on top of the other. Corn plants grew inside small gardens. Chickens and pigs and goats wandered the narrow paths between the dwellings, searching for food scraps. On some of the roofs, television antennas stuck out like grids and Mexican flags flapped in the wind. A light breeze came and went with the smell of charcoal fires, corn tortillas and the stink of open sewers that seemed to exist in the poor neighborhoods outside town.
A pack of stray dogs followed us. I stopped and picked up a rock and threw it at them. They scattered, then regrouped and trotted along behind us at a safe distance.
“Why did you do that?” Chicano said, looking back at the dogs. He was wearing a pair of my father’s gray slacks and a white short sleeve guayabera shirt. His red mask was frayed and soiled like an old rag.
“I don’t know. So they won’t get too close.”
He shook his head and glanced at the climb ahead. “Some dogs bark, some dogs bite, some dogs just want scraps.”
We started walking again. Somewhere a television was tunned to a telenovela. We could hear dramatic dialogue, music. It made me think of Gaby and Francisco. Maybe they would get married. Maybe that was what we needed. If my parents were really dead, I figured it would be good to have someone like him in the family.
“So. What did you think of Gaby’s boyfriend?” I asked.
“Hard to tell,” Chicano said. “But I still don’t see what she sees in a guy like that.”
“What does any girl see in a guy? Just look at Ximena. She could do much better than that Joaquín.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Of course. She could have anyone she wants.”
“You mean anyone like you.”
“I’m not old enough for her. But why not?”
We walked in silence for a while. Then he said. “Ximena, I could see. But your sister? She’s smart. Sharp. Pretty. She’s wasting it all on that pendejo.”
“You think he’s up to no good?”
Chicano paused to catch his breath. “I suspect everyone.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Ximena told me Joaquín and his pals want to build a hotel with a big restaurant by the plaza.” He looked past me at the children who had come running to the side of the road to look at the masked wrestler. They were dressed in tatters, barefoot, snot-nosed, dusty. He waved and they waved back.
“When did she say that?” I asked.
“The other night. She was with her friend.”
“Why wasn’t I there?”
“It was late.”
“You sneak out at night?”
“I don’t sneak,” he said and started walking again. “I go out. I watch. I ask questions. I’m trying to help you find your parents. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
We reached the top of the cliff. Mosca’s house was unpainted concrete block with wood and a small front yard. Mosca’s father was better off than most of his neighbors because he worked up north. Most of his family lived in Santacruz. Everyone knew everyone. I climbed up the path to the small house, opened the gate and went in. Chicano stayed behind. I knocked on the door. There was no answer.
“Nothing’s going on between us,” Chicano said when I walked back. “Joaquín’s got some kind of spell on her.” He followed me across the dirt road to another house.
I knocked on the door.
“Trust me,” he said. “She’ll never be mine. And probably never be yours either. No offense.”
One of Mosca’s aunts opened the door.
“Buenas tardes, señora Yarce. I’m looking for Mosca.”
“He’s out,” she said. “Goes out all day and night, that one.” She waved at the hill toward the big cross. “He might be up that way. If you see him, tell him his father called.”
I walked back to the street. “I don’t care what you say, Chicano. She’s too good for those pendejos.”
We went to the other side of the cliff. At the very top was a small stone grotto with candles and effigies and a picture of the Virgen, and above it the giant white cross. Big, ugly black clouds rolled in over the mountains to the north.
“I agree,” he said. “Unfortunately, it’s her choice. Not ours.”
“Mosca!” He was sitting on a rock almost at the edge of the cliff. The fall was straight down like two hundred feet to the bottom. He had a pair of big black binoculars hanging over his chest.
We ran to him. “Güey, where did you get those?” I said.
“You’ll never guess.” He pulled the binoculars off his neck and handed them to me.
They wer
e heavy. The real deal. “Nice.”
“Pepino gave them to me.”
Chicano took them from me and put them to his eyes. He scanned the landscape from left to right and focused on the highway as it came into town from the west. “Están rechingones.”
The boys and dogs that had been following us up the hill surrounded us. One of them reached out to touch Chicano, but he slapped his hand away. “
“Where you been?” I said. “Everyone at school is going on about Kiko. I didn’t tell them anything.”
“I’ve been busy.” He leaned back on a rock. “I got a job.”
“No manches. I haven’t even seen you in the plaza.”
“I’m not doing the shoe shining, güey. I’m on the lookout for a black Suburban with fat tires and Sinaloa plates.”
“What for?”
“Pepino’s orders.” He showed me a small two-way radio. “I’m supposed to call him whenever it passes.”
I took the radio from him and pressed the talk button. “Hello, hello. This is the rubber duck, ten-four, over?”
He snatched it back. “Don’t fuck with it, Boli.”
“It’s turned off.”
“I don’t care. This is important.”
“Oh?” I stepped back. “What’s so important about a stupid car?”
“I don’t know.” He smiled. “But he paid me a thousand pesos.”
“For real?”
“I wonder what they want with it?” Chicano said.
“Who cares?” Mosca stood and looked down at the highway. It was the perfect spot to spy anyone coming in from the west or north in the old highway. Behind the next mountain we could even see the new highway.
“Remember what Kiko—”
“Kiko’s dead,” he cried and waved a finger at me. “He fucked up.”
“Pinche Mosca. Why do you want to work for those hijos de puta?”
“For money,” he said. “I’m only doing this one thing. That’s it.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Suddenly you and Pepino are real cuates, no?”
“A thousand pesos worth.” His voice was flat, empty. He didn’t even sound like himself. “Besides, you’re too busy with your personal luchador.”
Playing for the Devil's Fire Page 17