Playing for the Devil's Fire

by Phillippe Diederich

  “Stop it,” Chicano said, the binoculars still on his face as he scanned the horizon below. “You sound like a couple of girls. Mosca, you know you’re dancing with the devil, no? And that little number never turns out well for anyone but the devil. Got it?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Just do this one thing,” I said. “Don’t get greedy.”

  Mosca sat up. “What are you now, Santo?”

  Chicano lowered the binoculars. “Just be careful, mano. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m cool.”

  “If you hear anything that might help us find Liberio’s parents, let us know, okay?”

  “You still beating that dead horse?” he said.

  “Cabrón, they’re my parents!” I couldn’t believe it. I moved toward him.

  Chicano grabbed my arm and pulled me back. “We don’t need to go there.”

  “I’m just saying. After what happened to Kiko you can be sure—”

  “You don’t know shit,” I yelled.

  “Take it easy, you two.” Chicano moved between Mosca and me. “We could use your help.”

  “Well, yeah,” he said. “Sure.”

  “The last thing we need is to fight with each other.”

  I stepped back. “I wasn’t fighting.”

  “No problem.” Mosca smiled. “I’ll be like your man on the inside.”

  “No,” Chicano said. “Just finish this job and get out. Don’t ask them anything. Just keep your ears open, that’s all.” He handed Mosca the binoculars.

  Mosca brought them to his face and focused on the old highway.

  By the houses near the foot of the cross, a woman was setting laundry to dry on a line. Chickens scratched the ground around her. A blond dog slept in the shade under an old Chevy set on blocks. The clouds kept rolling like giant monsters in the sky. It was getting dark.

  “So when are you gonna get done with the job?” I asked.

  “The end of next week.” He lowered the binoculars. “And if the Suburban doesn’t pass by then, Pepino said he’d throw in another five hundred for the weekend.”

  Chicano took the binoculars from Mosca again and scanned the road. Then he focused on the plaza.

  “What is it?” I said.

  His finger moved over the focusing knob. “The priest. He’s talking to Porky the policeman.”

  “Pineda.” Mosca laughed.

  Chicano looked to the left and adjusted the focus. “There she is.”

  “Ximena?”

  “The one and only.”

  “Is she with him?”

  “She’s with him and another two men. And Regina.”

  “Poor Regina,” I said. “I don’t think she likes those guys.”

  “She’s with them, no?” Mosca said.

  “Probably because of Ximena.”

  “Regina doesn’t know what she wants,” Mosca said and grabbed at the binoculars.

  Chicano pulled them back. “It’s bad manners to just grab at things.” Then he handed the binoculars to Mosca, but kept looking over the town. “We should go to the plaza.”

  “I really don’t want to see Joaquín,” I said. “I hate that pendejo.”

  Chicano slapped me on the back. “You need an attitude adjustment, hijín.”

  “What, I can’t hate him? He’s with Ximena.”

  Chicano waved a finger at me. “You can’t blame it all on Joaquín and Ximena. If you’d talked to her, maybe she’d be here with you instead of with that flashy cabrón.”

  “He’s right.” Mosca lowered the binoculars and laughed. “You could be lying in the grass feeling her up and squeezing her fine little chichis.”

  “Shut up.”

  Chicano laughed. “He’s right though.”

  “Come on. We’re supposed to be looking for my parents.”

  We left Mosca at his post. The children around us parted. We walked through and around the bend past the big cross toward the road. Chicano said, “I have a feeling those guys with Ximena know something about what happened to your parents.”

  I said nothing. I’d had that feeling from the moment I met Joaquín in Pineda’s office.

  “It’s just a feeling,” he said. “But I think it’s time to ask them some questions. And who knows, maybe I’ll get lucky and get a kiss from Ximenita.”

  “Is that all you think about?”

  “And you don’t?”

  The gray clouds moved in as we walked down the mountain. Just as we reached the bottom, it started to rain. We ducked under the awning of a shuttered hardware store.

  When we finally made it to the plaza, it was deserted. The rain had left the square with a silver-like sheen, like it was made of plastic. Everything looked brand new. But it was empty. There were no people, no dogs, nothing. All the businesses were closed, their metal shutters drawn, graffiti lettering tagging each one like some secret census.

  We found Zopilote sitting alone, drinking a Victoria beer at Los Perdidos. When he saw us, he waved us in.

  “What the fuck was that shit with the gun the other day?” I said.

  “Just goofing around, pinche Boli. Lighten up.” Then he pointed at Chicano with his beer. “But you, amigo, you need to be careful. Joaquín is onto you.”

  “On to me how?” Chicano sat across the table from Zopilote.

  “What you’re doing with his girl.”

  Chicano grinned. “And what is that?”

  “Don’t play dumb, Super Barrio. He knows you go see her at night. He knows everything that happens in this town.”

  “She’s free to do whatever she wants, no?”

  “She was.” Zopilote raised his chin. “Joaquín doesn’t mess around when it comes to his women.”

  Chicano stood and took Zopilote’s shades from his face. “Tell me something.” He examined the glasses and then put them on over his mask. “You heard any talk about what happened to Liberio’s parents?”

  Zopilote looked at me, then at Chicano. “I already told him. I saw nothing, heard nothing, know nothing.”

  “Deaf, dumb and blind,” Chicano said.

  “Better believe it.”

  “Nice.”

  “But I’ve heard a lot about you,” Zopilote said.

  “All good things, I hope.”

  Zopilote put his pinky into the mouth of the beer bottle and raised it just off the table, turning it in little circles. He smiled at me and set the bottle back on the table. “If I were you, I’d keep my head low. Maybe go back to Mexico City, crawl back into that hole in Tepito.”

  “But you’re not me,” Chicano said.

  Zopilote smiled.

  Chicano stepped out of the restaurant. He removed the sunglasses and tossed them back to Zopilote.

  We walked to the plaza and turned on Calle Lealtad. People were coming out after the rain. A man swept water that had puddled on the sidewalk in front of the small appliance store. All the other businesses were shuttered. A rooster crowed. Across the street, Lucio was walking toward us.

  We met him at the corner. He set a large duffel bag on the ground by his feet. It was the first time I’d seen him without huaraches. He had on a pair of hard, solid, leather shoes with a good shine.

  “Moving on with the times,” he announced with a smile.

  I glanced at Chicano. “She didn’t waste any time, did she?”

  “It’s no problem,” Lucio said. “And don’t blame Gabriela. She offered for me to stay and work. She took good care of me. Don’t be angry at her.”

  “But you don’t have to leave town. There’s other work, Lucio.”

  He shook his head and gave me his crazy Lucio grin. “I’ve been around, hijo. People like me, we get pushed around from all sides.”

  “Amen,” Chicano said.

  “But Lucio, please—”

  “I’m going to the coast. I want to spend some time by the water. A nice beach on the Pacific side, the Costa Grande. We’ll see.”

 
; “But what are you going to do for money?” I said.

  “Fish.”

  “You’re not a fisherman.”

  “Some years ago, I wasn’t a baker either.”

  “I can respect that, viejo.” Chicano patted him on the back. “It’s important to know when it’s time to move on.”

  “The job does not make the man,” Lucio said. “Unless you’re a luchador.”

  “Stay.” I grabbed his arm. “Please. You can stay with us in the house. We’ll open another bakery. You and me and my abuela. I promise.”

  He laughed softly and placed his hand on my shoulder. “We all have to move on sometime, mijo. If you don’t move, you run the risk of getting buried in the past.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Life is not about just one thing. In a couple of days, I’ll be out on the coast with my toes in the sand. Doesn’t sound that bad, does it?”

  “I wish I could go with you,” Chicano said. Then he raised his head and looked past Lucio. A black Suburban with fat tires cruised slowly toward us. It passed and turned on a side street before it reached the plaza.

  I looked at Chicano. “You think?”

  Chicano nodded. “Mosca’s Suburban.”

  “Bueno, pues.” Lucio picked up his bag.

  “When will I see you again?” I said.

  “I don’t know, mijo. But remember to move forward, always. Make new friends, see new places. And don’t worry about me.”

  I had never thought of Lucio being out of my life, just like I hadn’t thought of Jesusa or my abuela or my parents being out of my life. And Chicano. He would be leaving for Monterrey soon. I felt my throat tighten. I wanted to cry.

  We left Lucio and walked in silence for a few blocks. Finally I said, “I’m sorry.”

  “About what?”

  “About earlier, when we argued.”

  “Forget it. Besides, I was just trying to get a rise out of you. I like how your face gets all red when you’re angry.”

  26.

  That night Abuela talked non-stop about Veracruz. We sat at the dining room table, eating a bowl of fideo soup and quesadillas. She went on and on about some festival and the spectacle of the fireworks. “Look, just look.” She waved her hand frantically over the table and pointed to the ceiling. “Is it not beautiful? And that one. Ah, look at them all. You know, José Miranda’s father brought them all the way from Atotonilco. They’re the best in the country. You won’t see a show like this in Mexico City. I know. I’ve been there. And look how they illuminate Dorian’s face. Look how handsome that man is.”

  Chicano, who had yet to experience one of my abuela’s episodes, sat with his spoon in his hand, staring at her like she was a ghost. “Tell her something.”

  “Like what?” It was funny to see him so uncomfortable over something so innocent.

  “I don’t know, like that she’s not in Veracruz for one.”

  “No, let her dream.”

  He rolled his eyes and turned to Jesusa for support. “And you, do you dream of your pueblo in the sierra?”

  Jesusa waved. “Only nightmares.”

  “That’s what I’m saying,” Chicano said. “The past is a nightmare.”

  Abuela stretched her arms out and reached to her sides. “If we hold hands and run to the water we will see better. But we have to go together.” She took my hand, squeezed it and smiled. “Thank you, niño. You are a prince.”

  I glanced at Chicano and Jesusa, but they were in their own worlds. Maybe their dreams had faded. Who knew what grownups dreamed about? I was only glad my abuela was dreaming of good times and the wonderful things that had happened or that she thought would happen one day. She gave me hope.

  After dinner I pulled out a videotape where I had recorded the movie, Santo contra los zombies.

  “There are some excellent fighting sequences in this one,” Chicano said as we settled on the couch. “But I prefer Santo against the female werewolves. The she-wolf, which is also human, wants to eat the men. And that’s all the men really want.”

  “Hush!” Jesusa smacked him on the arm. “The zombies are creepy.”

  “You think everything is creepy,” I said.

  “Santo had it made from the start.” Chicano stretched his legs and loosened his belt. “With a name like that. And the silver mask. You can’t beat it. The man was pure class.”

  “You could beat him,” I said. “I’m sure of it. You could beat Joaquín and Pedro and Zopilote, all of them.”

  In the Santo movie, Dr. Sandoval’s daughter goes to the police because her father disappeared, just like it happened with my own parents. When they can’t find any clues, they end up getting Santo’s help. I had Chicano’s help. The zombies Santo fights in the movie are dead criminals who come back to life. They weren’t monsters, just regular people, ugly and invincible, kind of like Joaquín and his friends.

  At the end of the movie, after Santo had saved Dr. Sandoval’s daughter and eliminated all the zombies, he said something that made me think of Izayoc. “When men defy God’s laws,” he said, “they fall victims to their own evil.”

  Early the following morning, as I left the house for school, I discovered a heavy-duty plastic trash bag hanging on our front gate. Our street was deserted except for the neighbor’s maid who was sweeping the driveway two houses down. I set my schoolbooks on the sidewalk and grabbed the bag from below. It was too high and heavy for me to lift.

  I opened the gate and stepped into the patio. “Chicano, Jesusa!”

  Jesusa came out wiping her hands on her apron and joined me on the street.

  “Look.” I pointed at the gate.

  She stared at the bag for a moment, then she looked at me as if I was up to something. The bag smelled foul, like trash.

  I grabbed it from the bottom and pushed up. “Help me.”

  Jesusa reached over me and pulled the top. Together we lifted and unhooked it from the nail. We set it on the ground. Jesusa stepped back, her eyes wide, her mouth twisted with fear.

  “What?”

  She pointed to my chest. Blood. It was all over the front of my shirt and puddled on the sidewalk around the bag.

  I stepped back and stared. I thought of Kiko, my parents. All my fear rushed forward. And then, for a moment I was lifted. I saw everything that had been going on in Izayoc. We were toys, figures in a game. Nothing mattered. I took a deep breath and glanced at Jesusa. She was paralyzed. I leaned over the bag and pulled it open. Jesusa covered her face with her hands.

  It was too dark to see. Everything was black. I turned the bag. Hair.

  “What is it?” Jesusa whispered like she wanted to know, but didn’t.

  I tugged at the bag, opened it wider. It stank like puke. I held my breath and reached in. It was tepid, moist. Coarse hair. I thought of Gaby’s stuffed toys. I grabbed a handful and pulled. Chapopote’s head.

  Jesusa screamed.

  I dropped the head and turned away. My stomach contracted. I stumbled, fell to my knees. Vomit pushed up my throat in short, violent spasms.

  “Ay, Dios mio!” Jesusa cried. The neighbor’s maid dropped her broom and ran to her aid. They sat on the sidewalk, arms around each other, Jesusa looking away, her cheek resting against her shoulder like she was a child.

  I staggered back toward the house. “Chicano. Chicano!”

  He came running, shirtless, barefoot. “What’s going on?”

  “Chapo!” I pointed to the bag. “They killed Chapo!”

  He peeked in the bag and turned away quickly.

  “They killed him,” I cried.

  Chicano shook his head and sat beside me. He placed his arm around my shoulder and pulled me close. “I’m sorry, Liberio.”

  “He never hurt anyone.” I leaned my face against his side and cried. It came out of me like rain. Chapo, Kiko, my parents, a nightmare exploding into a million tiny pieces. In that bag were my parents. I could see them chopped up like meat from the butcher, shoved in black plasti
c bags where no one would ever find them. My body shook. My despair escaped in long painful wails I couldn’t control. I kept thinking, why? Why was this happening?

  Chicano held me tight. At the end of the block, two boys on their way to school crossed the street as if nothing was wrong, as if my parents had never disappeared, as if Chapo was back in the front patio, wagging his tail, and Kiko was playing marbles with Mosca and Pepino.

  After a while my rage simmered and my cries mellowed into sobs. The neighbor helped Jesusa into the house. The sun crested over the mountains and light skimmed the surface of the cobblestones like a sharp knife. Birds sang as if nothing was wrong.

  “Liberio.” Chicano loosened his hold on me. “I’m sorry.” His tone was so soft, he didn’t sound like the same man. “I’m very sorry. It’s not fair. It’s not fair to you or anyone. These hijos de la chingada—it’s more than a crime what they’ve done to you, what they’re doing to this place.”

  I took a deep breath and pulled away from his grip and looked at him, his frayed mask. “But why? Why Chapo? And my parents?”

  “I don’t know.” He shook his head and stared down at the pavement for a long while, his hands tracing the cracks in the cement. “We’re pissing them off.”

  “But my parents—”

  “They went to Toluca for help. I guess that’s reason enough for these pendejos.”

  But then what about Rocío? I didn’t get it. What did they have against her? “Why can’t things be like they were before?”

  “No, Liberio. Life is a fight. It’s not a fair fight, but it is what it is. We just have to keep at it. Always.”

  “Is that why you became a luchador?”

  He said nothing for a long while. He just stared past me, his dark eyes still and steady. Then he touched the bottom of his mask where it met his skin below the chin. For a moment, I thought he was going to pull it off.

  “I became a luchador for money. All I could do well was fight. But the few days I’ve spent here with you and your family—”

  “And Mosca.”

  “Yes, and Mosca.” He chuckled. “You have taught me a lot. There are things in life that are worth so much more than just—”