Playing for the Devil's Fire

by Phillippe Diederich

  “And why not? Teresa left. So can I.”

  I had no answer. After burying Chapo and coming to the realization that my parents were dead, I was ready to go with her to Veracruz or anywhere else.

  “Why?” she said again, pleading in a tone I’d never heard her use before. “Why will you not let me go?”

  “Because I don’t want you to.”

  And suddenly she stopped. She dropped the dress she had in her hands and stared into my eyes as if an answer existed somewhere in my sadness.

  “Please?” I whispered.

  She trembled. Maybe she realized we were alone, that we needed to stick together. We were all we had.

  “Please, Abuela—”

  “You can come too,” she said quietly, her energy spent.

  “No, Abuela. Not right now.” I moved past her and began taking her things out of the suitcase. Jesusa joined me, plucking the clothes from the case and putting them away in silence.

  Abuela watched us for long while, her hands resting on the post at the foot of the bed. Then she said, “They never wanted me here, in this town.” Her voice was soft. Empty. “It was his dream. I stayed only because I loved him. The other women never allowed me in. They never made me a part of their community. Except Teresa. And now she’s gone. I hate it here. I want to go home.”

  “It’s not just here, Doña Esperanza.” Chicano stepped into the room. “It’s everywhere.”

  I took her by the shoulders and sat her on the rocking chair. “I understand how you feel, Abuela. But let’s wait a little while. We don’t even know who’s left in Veracruz.”

  “Everyone is there. The whole family.”

  “But you haven’t spoken to any of them in fifty years.”

  “But they’re there,” she insisted. “You will see. Everyone is there, Valentín Valdez and Dolores García and Israel Jacinto, and even Felipe Rosas and Mauricio Ortega.” She touched my face. “You would love it, Liberio. I know you would.”

  “We’ll go,” I said. “We’ll go one day, but not now, Abuela. We can’t just abandon Izayoc. And Gaby.”

  “Yes,” she said quietly and bowed. “You’re right. There is a protocol.”

  Jesusa finished putting away the clothes. “How about a little café con leche, señora?”

  “Yes. That would be nice. Gracias, niña. With a little sugar the way they serve it at la Parroquia.”

  I followed Jesusa to the kitchen. She was agitated. Her hands trembled as she went about making the coffee. “Pobrecita, losing her only daughter. Now her granddaughter. It’s too much for her. It’s too much for anyone.”

  I was thinking: what about me? I just lost my parents? But I just stared at the tiles, wishing we could leave. All of us. Any place had to be better than this. Izayoc had turned into hell. But we couldn’t just leave Gaby. And what if my parents weren’t dead. What if they came back?

  That night a noise woke me up. Chicano’s massive body moved in the darkness. He was dressing.

  “What’s going on?” I said.

  “I’m going out…to investigate.”

  I turned on my bedside lamp. “Investigate what?”

  “Shush. You’re going to wake everyone.” He put his pants on, sat on the bed and worked his socks over his giant feet. “Let me do my work, will you?”

  I tossed the covers aside. “I should go with you.”

  “No.” He stood and buttoned up my father’s white dress shirt. “I have to do this alone.”

  “But—”

  “I would never forgive myself if something happened to you, hijín. Besides, this is something I have to do alone.” He ruffled my hair and walked out of the room.

  As soon as I heard the front door close, I hopped out of bed, got dressed, and ran after him. The streets were pitch dark, deserted. When I came to the corner of our street and Avenida de los Recuerdos, I saw his broad shoulders and the slick masked head silhouetted against a streetlight. He walked quickly, then disappeared around the corner toward the plaza. I followed.

  He turned on Calle Agustín Melgar and stopped in front of the house with a big black gate where Ximena lived.

  He stood in the street and whistled like a bird. Then he picked up something from the street and threw it at the house. He paced for a couple of minutes. Then the gate opened a crack and he walked inside.

  I crossed the street and tried the gate. It was locked. I walked a couple of houses down and climbed up a telephone pole. I could see the front patio of the house. It was dark, but I could make out an older Volkswagen Beetle parked in the patio of Ximena’s house. Then I saw Chicano, his wide back folding over like he was holding something delicate. Ximena’s arm wrapped around his shoulder, her leg around his waist. They moved together around the side of the Beetle and disappeared behind the car.

  I told myself he was a luchador. I told myself over and over, Luchadores always get the girls. I had been the one who had invited him into my life. What did I expect? Besides, he was helping me. He’d come to Devil’s Ravine and even saved my life. He helped me bury Chapo. And besides, I was too young for Ximena. There was nothing I could do.

  I climbed down the pole and walked home. Chicano, Ximena, they didn’t care about me. Nobody did. The streets were quiet. Dogs didn’t bark. I was a ghost. I was invisible to the world. I was nothing.

  Chicano was a traitor. I hated him. Even if what I felt for Ximena was an illusion—a fantasy—it was something he should respect. I knew Ximena and I could never be together. She was older, beautiful and in control of her life. My life was falling to pieces. I had no parents. What could I possibly offer her?

  But maybe Chicano wasn’t a traitor. Maybe the best thing for Ximena was for her to be with Chicano instead of Joaquín. That was hopeful. He could save her. I would have to accept that. Even if it hurt.

  I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling. About an hour later, Chicano walked in. He was real quiet and didn’t turn on the light. He took his pants off and dropped them in the corner.

  “You’re back,” I said.

  “Ay cabrón. You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were asleep.”

  “How did it go?”

  “Fine.” He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it in the corner with his pants. Ximena’s perfume was all over the room.

  “Did you find anything?”

  “It’s not easy, hijín. I can’t seem to get a straight answer from anyone.”

  “Who did you ask?”

  He sat on his bed on the floor and pulled his socks off. “Just people,” he said and covered himself with the blanket. “But they’re scared. Everyone’s scared. No one wants to talk.”

  “Maybe we should ask Ximena, no?”

  He didn’t move. Then he forced a laugh. “What could she possibly tell us?”

  “She’s doing that Joaquín, no?”

  “Hey, don’t be vulgar.” His voice was loud. “Besides, they’re probably just dating.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t. I just don’t think you should think of her that way.”

  “I thought you liked her,” I said.

  “Who wouldn’t like her? And what’s with all the questions?”

  I shut my eyes and spoke the most difficult words to ever come out of my mouth. “What happened by the white Beetle?”

  It was as if I was admitting my parents were dead. Like I was giving up hope. I wanted to know the truth, but I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to know about Chicano and Ximena. But I did. I wanted to know everything. I hated it.

  “Look, Liberio. Don’t feel bad about what you think you saw.”

  “Don’t tell me how to feel.”

  “But it’s not like that, hijín.”

  “You could have any girl in town, but you had to go for Ximena. I thought we were friends.”

  “Look.” He sat up. “It’s not as if I planned it. But it’s working to our advantage. She’s the closest thing to Joaquín.”

  “So what di
d she tell you while you—”

  “Chingada madre,” he interrupted. “Don’t be that way, Liberio.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Nothing. She wouldn’t tell me anything. But maybe she will.”

  “So you’re going back?”

  “I don’t know.” He turned on his side, his shoulder rising like a mountain, like Popocatepetl. “If you don’t want me to, I won’t. Just say the word.”

  “I don’t want you to see her again. Ever.”

  He turned to face me. “Look, Liberio. She’s not a nice girl. You—”

  I jumped on him. I threw punches: left, right, left, right. I threw everything I had, swinging nonstop.

  He took me by the wrists and pushed me back. I kicked and kneed, but he pressed his massive weight against me, immobilizing me. I was helpless. Then I did what I’d been trying not to do.

  “Liberio, stop. Don’t cry. Listen to me.”

  But I couldn’t stop. Everything came crashing out of me. Maybe it was more than just Ximena. Maybe it was about my parents because the emptiness of their presence had become a fixture. And maybe it was Gaby and Abuela arguing. Maybe it was knowing that nothing was ever going to be the same. Ever. It pressed against me, heavier than Chicano’s weight. I wanted to die.

  “Listen.” His voice was deep. His frayed mask hovered over my face like a devil ready to kill. “Women like Ximena are trouble. You understand?”

  I took a deep breath. When I exhaled, it came out in short spastic sobs.

  “She’s not the kind of girl you think she is.” I relaxed my muscles and his hands loosened around my wrists. “She’s after money. And her own happiness. Whoever ends up marrying her is going to suffer. Big time.”

  “You don’t know her.”

  “Trust me. I’ve known a lot of girls like her. She’s using Joaquín to her advantage. And she was using me. The only difference is that I knew it. I was willing.”

  “No.” I cried. “You’re lying.”

  “Joaquín’s her ticket to a better life. I’m her ticket out of town. She’s playing us both. But either way, she gets what she wants. Get it? She gets out of the life she has now. A life she hates.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “She told me.”

  “Liar!”

  “I know you think you love her, but she doesn’t love you. She doesn’t love anyone. She doesn’t even love herself.”

  I freed my hand and punched him on the side of the face.

  He grabbed my arm and pressed down again. “Listen to me, cabrón. Ximena is the type of girl who will use men all her life to get what she wants. Maybe if you were rich, you’d have a chance. She wants people to admire her. She’s not going to get that with the son of a baker.” He shook me and pressed my arms down. “She’s trouble, Liberio. Get that through your thick head.”

  And then, as if an angel appeared before me, I saw Rocío Morales. She was beautiful. She was like that, showing it off like no one else. She had a strange power. People talked about her with a tone and vocabulary that was different. Even my father didn’t sound like my father whenever she was around, at the panadería or in the plaza. He doted over her. Maybe the man at the Centenario was right. Maybe my father was with her. Maybe he wasn’t as good and perfect as I imagined. Maybe none of us are. I closed my eyes and my body went limp.

  Chicano released me. “I’m sorry if I hurt you.” He sat up and rubbed the palm of his hand with the ball of his thumb. “I went with her because I saw the opportunity. I thought I could learn something about your parents.”

  It was a struggle for me to speak and not start crying. “But you found nothing.”

  He shook his head. “She’s so wrapped up in herself, I don’t think she understands who Joaquín and his friends are or what they’re up to.”

  I didn’t care about that anymore. I was thinking of my father. It was all breaking apart around him and Rocío Morales.

  29.

  Abuela had finally calmed down. She was back to her usual self, drinking café con leche and talking in the present tense of Veracruz as if she were there. She seemed to have completely forgotten about all our problems in Izayoc.

  “The beach has never been my favorite,” she said while we ate dinner. “I cannot stand the sand all over me. But they say it’s good for your skin. Hortensia Fernández, the rubia whose father owns the Ford dealership, says that when she went to Europe, she had a facial with sand and mud. Can you believe that?”

  I didn’t listen. And I didn’t eat. I couldn’t.

  “I would much prefer we go to the Hotel Ruiz Galindo in Fortín de las Flores,” she went on. “Their pool is covered with gardenias. You cannot even imagine how pretty it smells.”

  My stomach twisted in a mess of nerves. I just picked at my food while my mind raced in a long loop, trying to sort out this business between Ximena and Joaquín and Chicano. And I was worried about Mosca. I hadn’t seen him in days. He still hadn’t come to school and was never home whenever I called. The job to stakeout for the black Suburban had to be over. I just hoped he hadn’t accepted another job from Pepino.

  ‡

  The following day I stopped by the panadería to see what was going on with Gaby and her new Internet café. It hadn’t officially opened yet, but she was inside, sitting in the corner with her head resting on the counter. There was no trace of the old panadería. A dozen gray cubicles like the ones they have at the Telmex office were lined up against the walls. Each one had a nice orange plastic chair and one of those inspirational posters with a landscape or scene with words like: achievement, success, imagination.

  “Where’s your luchador?” Gaby said. Her hair was combed back tight, and her face had a light coat of make-up. Seeing her like this, I understood what Mosca had said, what men like Joaquín and Francisco Serrano saw in her. But there was something more. She looked smart. Her eyes glowed with ambition. I understood now.

  “Taking a nap,” I said.

  “For real?”

  “He goes out at night sometimes, searching for clues.”

  “And has he found anything?”

  I sighed. “No. Not yet.”

  “What do you expect him to find?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe who killed them?”

  Gaby raised her head and gave me an odd look, as if we’d been talking of something else, of the color of the walls or the weather. “Ay, Liberio.”

  I bowed my head. “I know.”

  We were silent for a moment. Her eyes were on me as I walked around, my fingers tracing the edges of the cubicles, the backs of the chairs, the wall. I looked around as if there was something to look at, but it was just an office space with no machinery.

  She came out from behind the counter. “So, do you like it?”

  “I’m sorry you argued with Abuela,” I said.

  She rolled her eyes. “I really didn’t want to upset her, but she just went off on me like everything was my fault.”

  “I think it’s all finally getting to her.”

  Gaby hung her head and walked around to the side where the only computer in the place sat disconnected and covered with clear plastic. “We’ll be operational in a couple of weeks. When she sees the place full of people, I’m sure she’ll change her mind.”

  “What about the computers?”

  “Francisco’s getting them from one of his friends in Uruapan. He was supposed to come back last night. Not that it matters because we still have to wait for the stupid Telmex people to set up the phone lines.”

  I looked at the back door. “What are you doing with the bakery?”

  “Storage.”

  “You know, I saw Lucio when he was leaving.”

  Gaby placed her hand on my shoulder. “I asked him to stay and work for us, but he said he was going to take advantage of the change to go visit his pueblo and maybe go to the beach. Leticia’s staying. She’s going to be my assistant.” She moved to the side and looked out at the street. A
water truck rumbled passed.

  I said, “So you like this guy?”

  “Francisco?” She turned and smiled. “That’s a stupid question. Of course I like him.”

  “Do you love him?”

  She gave me a gentle slap on the shoulder and turned away. “Ay, Liberio, you’re so inquisitive. I don’t know. Love. It’s not that simple.”

  “Is he nice to you?”

  She smiled and pressed her warm hand against my cheek. “You’re sweet.”

  On Saturday evening Chicano and I ventured to the plaza. We’d been avoiding the area since we’d seen the bullet-ridden Suburban earlier that week. The scene had left me with a bad feeling. Now, whenever I thought of the plaza, I thought of death.

  I found myself thinking more and more about Abuela’s stories of Veracruz. Maybe the magic of her world was working on me. Maybe such a perfect place did exist. Izayoc had been perfect once, so why not Veracruz? And if I actually had family there, even better. In my dreams, I imagined us living in one of those palatial homes she talked about, one with big open windows and a long veranda on the second floor with a view of the ocean. Lucio and Jesusa would be with us, and we would run a new, bigger and better panadería.

  The plaza was bustling. Christmas lights were strung from tree to tree and conjuntos and mariachis strolled around the square looking for customers. It was as if everyone had come to celebrate a fiesta, but there was something creepy about the place. Most of the stores were still shuttered. And all the street vendors were new. I had never seen any of these people before. Even the people making their way around the square—they were all strangers dressed up in fancy clothes and hats. This was not Izayoc.

  Late model double cab pickups, Suburbans and a black Ford Expedition were parked along the side of the square facing the municipal building.

  Chicano walked with his back straight and a badass swagger, just as if he was walking into the ring for a fight. People gawked. They whispered to each other. Girls covered their mouths and giggled. He was special, like royalty or something. We were a team and everyone knew it. Chicano and me. Boli and Chicano Estrada. Chicano Estrada and Boli.

  We crossed the street to the plaza. Pineda had parked his brand-new patrol truck, a big white Yukon, on the side of the street. A small crowd surrounded him. As we crossed the street, Pineda leaned back against the hood, pulled the cigarette from his mouth and whistled at us.