by Johnny Shaw
“Is there anyone else I could talk to about Yolanda?” I asked.
Tomás glanced at Minerva. A soft smile crossed his face as he spoke softly to her. “Yolanda? La conoces? Una de las chicas de Alejandro? Una mancha de nacimiento aquí.” He pointed to his neck where Yolanda’s birthmark had been.
“Sí. Yolanda Palomera? Muy alta. Sí, la conozco. Vivimos en La Ciudad Perdida.”
Tomás pointed at Alejandro. Little Piwi picked him up and threw him over his shoulder. Blood and saliva dripped from Alejandro’s open mouth. Mumbling sounds escaped, not quite words. Little Piwi carried him out of the room.
With a fresh set of detailed directions, Bobby and I drove away from the middle-class neighborhood toward La Ciudad Perdida, a colonia near a group of maquiladoras at the western edge of the city. La Ciudad Perdida was a makeshift slum filled with mostly migratory residents. Some waited for their chance to cross the border, but many just survived on hope remaining in their own country.
While nowhere near the size of the slums in Tijuana, the western edge of Mexicali swelled in constant growth with haphazard structures made from wooden pallets, corrugated tin, garage doors, weathered plywood, street signs, blue tarp, and whatever other discarded or stolen materials were available. A wall of old tires stacked ten high acted as the informal barrier between the road and the colonia, each tire painted a different bright color. It was almost pleasant. Until you saw the confinement of pain and poverty that it concealed.
I parked my Mazda in the muddy truck ruts that ran alongside the road. The smell of sewage rose from the stagnant water that trailed into a low ditch. Three naked children chased a half-starved dog, laughing as they ran. Bobby and I followed them into what could only be described as the main drag, a wider expanse with a series of boards zigzagging over the watery filth of the district’s runoff.
Bobby rarely looked up from Tomás’s directions as he acted as guide. “Go straight. At the house with the Coca-Cola billboard for a wall, jog left. If the path is flooded, see below. If not, head toward the house with a small satellite dish on its roof. Just after the house, turn right. The path will narrow.”
“Sorry about what happened back there,” I said.
“What?” Bobby looked up from the paper.
“Sorry to get you into this—put you in the middle of my mistake.”
“You hadn’t punched Señor Shithead, I would’ve. I got your back no matter what. You know that.”
I noticed that we were getting some attention. Two young men followed us. As we approached the narrow path described in the directions, I had some concerns about our safety. My face had finally healed from our last trip to Mexicali, and I liked to think that I had learned my lesson. Bobby read ahead on the directions, his lips moving silently with each word.
“Bobby,” I said. “We got company. Couple of townies been following us since we got here.”
Bobby gave them a look and then smiled. “They’re just curious. Bored, probably. Not many gringos come in here. Least none that aren’t reporters or Christ types. You don’t look like either. They’re harmless. Don’t got the look.”
“All of a sudden you got Spider-senses? You can just tell whether someone is trouble or not?”
“Six of one. If they want to start something, we can take ’em. Bro, after that shit at Tomás’s, I’m ready to throw down. Got a lot of steam in me. If I don’t fuck or fight soon, I might explode. These boys want to tussle, take it ringside, ’cause I’ll do damage.”
We both gave a smile to the young men. They made an effort to look hard and indifferent. Bobby was right. They were only curious. They followed us to our destination, but never got within twenty yards.
The door was one of the few doors that was actually made out of door. I knocked, but I didn’t expect an answer. If Minerva was right and this was Yolanda’s house, who was supposed to be home? I knocked again anyway. Nothing. I grabbed the door by the knob and hinge edge, lifted it out of the way, and set it against the side of the shack. You can’t lock a door if it’s not attached to anything.
One of the young men spoke behind me. “Oye. Salga de ahí. Esa es la casa de Yolanda.”
Bobby turned. “Yolanda esta muerta.”
“Muerta?” He glanced at his friend, surprised. The other boy shrugged.
“Sí,” Bobby said.
The boys spoke softly to each other. They gave us one last look and then walked back the way they had come.
I gave Bobby a look and entered the one-room house, ducking my head at the low eave. It was still light out, so it hadn’t occurred to me to bring a flashlight. My first step in the dark room, I tripped on something and flew its length into the opposing wall. The impact shook the whole structure.
“You okay?” I heard Bobby through a laugh. “I’d blame it on clumsiness, but it’s like you’re allergic to Mexico.”
I turned to see Bobby’s silhouette in the doorway, squinting his eyes and examining the interior. He took slow, deliberate steps to my left and picked up something.
“There’s a lantern. Toss me your lighter,” he said.
The room was so small that I only had to crawl a few feet to hand my lighter up to him. He shook the lantern and then lit it. The room filled with flickering orange light. Shadows danced on the walls, funhouse-distorted by the ripple of the corrugated tin.
The dirt floor was covered with two thick Mexican blankets. A bed, a small desk, a single stool, and a dresser made up the furnishings. Not much room for anything more. The furniture was third-or fourth-hand, dinged and paint-peeled, but everything was clean and the room felt organized and cared for. I scanned the floor to see what I had tripped on. A big, red ball. The kind we played kickball with as kids.
“What are we looking for?” Bobby asked, already flipping through papers on the desk.
“I don’t know. Mail. Can you even get mail here? An address book. Anything that might tell us more of who she is—or, I mean, who she was. Where her family is. You’ll know when you see it.”
“I will?” Bobby studied a piece of paper for a few seconds and then set it aside. He sat down on the stool.
I took the dresser. Clothes filled the top drawer, stacked neatly. My hand searched underneath the dead woman’s dainties, hoping to find I’m not sure what.
As I reached to open the second drawer, a three-year-old boy burst through the open door, screaming, “Mama!”
Both Bobby and I jumped, surprised by the loud exclamation. My heart raced from the shock. The child stopped in his tracks. His eyes grew wide, filled with fear and confusion at the two men rifling through his mother’s belongings.
“Holy shit,” Bobby said slowly. “She had a kid.”
“Or we’re in the wrong house,” I countered.
And with that, the boy took off running.
Bobby and I looked at each other for a second, and then Bobby ran for the door. I scrambled to my feet and followed as quickly as I could. I could hear Bobby hollering. “Niño, soy un amigo de su madre.” I looked down the muddy path just in time to see Bobby scoop up the kid in his arm. The boy kicked and screamed as Bobby carried him back toward Yolanda’s home.
“Shhh. Calma. Yo no le dolere. Calma,” Bobby said softly into the child’s ear. But the kid wasn’t having any. He was a fighter. And after a few near misses, his heel connected with Bobby’s groin. A nauseous smile crept onto Bobby’s face. His eyes teared up, but he held his grip.
He looked up at me. “Square in the cojones. Center shot. I’m lucky I have kids, or I wouldn’t be as practiced at the nut shot. When you become a parent, your balls are a big bull’s eye. It’s like they know.” He even managed a laugh, going back to shushing the boy.
We had created quite a commotion, as a few heads popped out of doorways. A middle-aged woman with a powerfully squat Mayan build stomped toward us. She shouted Spanish too fast for me to absorb. Bobby spoke calmly, trying to get his words through her barrage with little luck. She reached for the boy. Bobby had
no choice but to hand him over. She turned her body protectively, continuing what I can only assume was a scolding. She stood her ground unafraid. Bobby tried to calm her, and after fifteen minutes, more out of exhaustion than convincing, the woman allowed Bobby to speak.
The Spanish was too fast for me. But when I heard Bobby say “muerta” three times in thirty seconds, that apparently hit home. Her face changed, and she muttered “no” a few times.
Her sympathy turned to the boy. She stroked his hair. There was something familiar about the boy’s face. Had he been one of the chicle kids from weeks ago? That would be a hell of a coincidence. Couldn’t be. Maybe I was becoming one of those white guys that all Mexican children looked the same to me. That wasn’t it. I knew this kid.
I was concentrating so hard on the boy’s face that I only just heard Bobby say to me, “She’ll talk to us. She’ll help.”
Carrying the boy, the woman entered into Yolanda’s house. I was about to follow when Bobby grabbed my arm.
“You see it?” Bobby said, studying my face in an unsettling way.
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Bro, that kid looks just like you. When we met in kindergarten. That kid is the Mexican version of you.”
I knew I’d seen that face before. The kid looked like photos I’d seen of myself. Not someone I’d met, but images that I grew up with. Pictures on the mantel. Pictures in scattered photo albums. Pictures of me.
Bobby slapped my shoulder. “Looks like you got yourself a new hermano.”
“That’s not Pop’s kid.”
“Whatever.” Bobby shrugged. “Just saying, he looks like a browner version of you. But I’m sure it’s just a coincidence. A woman Jack was plowing ends up with a kid that looks just like you. Call Ripley’s. You’re right. Impossible.”
“No way Pop had a kid and didn’t tell me about it.”
“Everyone has secrets.”
“Why wouldn’t he tell me?”
“It’s funny how quickly this became about you,” Bobby said. “Jimmy, think. Maybe Big Jack wasn’t so proud of his Mexican mistake-bastard. He was old-school. Probably thought you wouldn’t never find out. What good does it do to tell you? Other than make you feel responsible for the kid.”
“That’s not his son,” I said.
“The lady said the boy’s name was Juan. In the olden days, wasn’t Jack a nickname for John?”
“I can’t believe he wouldn’t tell me. What the fuck do I do? If that really is Pop’s kid? Christ, that’d make his parents both dead. Probably make me…”
“His closest living relative. You wanted to find her family,” Bobby said. “Easy as looking in the mirror. You cracked the case.”
I gave Bobby a stare that attempted to convey the complete lack of humor in the situation. He smiled goofily, communicating silently that he would find humor in any fucking thing that he damn well found funny.
“It’s possible Jack didn’t even know he had the kid,” Bobby said.
“That’s true, I suppose,” I said, doubting it.
“You want to put a side bet on it?”
I ignored Bobby and walked into Yolanda’s house.
Bobby did his best to translate. He let me ask the questions, only occasionally following up to clarify details. Both of us stared at the young boy who played in the corner with some faded multicolored wooden blocks. He even had the same haircut I had at that age. He did look like a brown me. A good-looking kid.
“Where is the boy’s father?” I asked.
Bobby gave me a face, but asked and listened for her response.
“She says he’s an American.” Bobby smiled. “She doesn’t know his name. A farmer.”
“We’ll get back to that. Does she know Yolanda’s family?” I said.
Bobby spoke to her, and then he relayed, “Yolanda has people in Guadalajara, but she doesn’t know their names or where they live. She thinks her parents are dead and all there are are uncles, aunts, and cousins.”
“It’s a start. Gets us a little closer. We got a last name. Now we got a city.”
“I’ve been to Guadalajara. There’s like three, four million people there,” Bobby said.
The woman continued without any prompting, and Bobby listened and relayed her words. “Yolanda had told her that she had plans to take Juan back to Guadalajara. Mrs. Ruiz, this nice lady, met Yolanda about five years ago. Said Yolanda came to Mexicali to try to earn enough to cross to California. But after she had Juan, she decided to stay in Mexico and earn enough to go home. Yolanda told her last week that she had raised the money. Enough to take care of Juan and open a dress store in Guadalajara.”
“Did she say how much money that was?” I asked.
“No,” Mrs. Ruiz responded after Bobby asked. “Probable-mente miles.”
“Probably thousands,” Bobby unnecessarily translated.
“Did she talk about any of the men she met?”
The woman listened to Bobby, crossed herself, and then nodded. She spoke conspiratorially to Bobby, glancing at Juan to make sure he didn’t hear. Bobby relayed, “On nights when Yolanda wasn’t working and Mr. Ruiz was out at the bars, they would sit and watch the children, drink a few cervezas or some pulque, and Yolanda would tell her about her job.
“She says her life isn’t exciting. But Yolanda’s, it was like the telenovelas. Drama and sex and…” Bobby searched for the word. “Mischief. She says that you shouldn’t think that Yolanda wasn’t a good mother. She took good care of Juan. She says you’re not a woman, you wouldn’t understand. Although, I’ve always thought of you as a bit of a woman. She says it’s a mother’s job to do what’s necessary to protect and feed and clothe her children. Yolanda was a good mother. She did the necessary.”
“Did she ever mention the name Jack?”
On the word Jack, Mrs. Ruiz smiled and nodded. Bobby listened and translated. “Jack? Yes. But not for a long time. Not for years.”
“What did Yolanda say about him?”
“She liked him. She described him as older. Dignified. He was a customer. He paid, but was different. That’s why she remembered the name. Jack. She pronounces it Yack. She says he treated her well.”
Bobby listened intently and then continued. “Here’s where it gets interesting. She says, when Yolanda got pregnant, she stopped working. From when she started showing to two months after Juan’s birth. And when she went back to hooking, she didn’t go into El Norte. She only worked here in Mexicali. She stopped talking about Yack.”
I created a timeline in my head. Tried to get everything in the right order. Pop was a regular of Yolanda’s. She got pregnant. During that time Bobby had said they stopped bringing girls to Morales Bar. When Yolanda was ready to go back to work, she’s stuck in Mexicali. Pop and Yolanda lose communication. Then Pop gets sick the first time. In and out of surgeries. Hard to stay in touch with anyone. He learns he’s dying. He has unfinished business. But it didn’t answer the big question. Did Pop know about Juan?
I was just about to ask another question when my cell phone rang. It was Tomás.
He spoke quickly. “Jimmy, if you’re still at La Ciudad Perdida, if you’re still in Mexicali, leave. Now. Get over the border.”
“Why? What’s up?” I said, looking at Bobby.
“There’s a chance Alejandro is on his way over there.”
“Alejandro?”
Hearing the name, Bobby gave me a pair of raised eyebrows.
“What happened? You have second thoughts?”
“I don’t get second thoughts. I make mistakes, but I don’t second guess. First instinct’s always the best, even if it’s the wrong thing. I underestimated that hijo de puta. Apparently he wasn’t as out cold as we thought. What is it you hillbillies say? He was playing possum. Little Piwi had put him in the back of his own van, was going to drive to the edge of the town and burn him out.”
“Jesus, Tomás. You sure you want to be talking about this shit on the phone?”
/> “You watch too much television. I didn’t think Little Piwi could be got. But all it took was a couple of Alejandro’s boys. As Little Piwi was getting out of the van. Must’ve followed from the shoot. Two vatos shot him up pretty good. But it’ll take more than a couple of bullets to stop that buey.”
“How did…?”
“While he was lying there, he was texting or calling or something. Fucking technology, it’s like a French maid. When it’s not working for you, it’s fucking you. Tons of ways to get a message out quick. Don’t know when he woke, but he could’ve heard where you were headed. He can’t find me, and he knows it. He’s going to come after you.”
“Thanks for the warning,” I said, giving Bobby a nod toward the door.
“I’ll take care of this problem, but it’s going to take a little time. Require some organization. He knows I’ll be looking. He’ll be thinking it’s him or me. He’s right. It’s him. That doesn’t mean he’s not going to do some damage. Like Little Piwi. I’ll get him. Try to stay alive.”
I hung up and turned to Bobby. “We got to go.”
Mrs. Ruiz promised to look after Juan, at least until I could figure out what to do or what was supposed to be done. I vowed to return in a day or two, not sure if that was a reasonable possibility. I gave her all the money in my pockets, about thirty dollars. She seemed more than satisfied with the amount. I gave Juan a final look.
Bobby and I hurried back toward my truck, winding quickly along the muddy path.
“I don’t know why we got to run. Dude’s got a glass jaw. I ain’t afraid of him,” Bobby said.
“Bobby, you aren’t afraid of anything. That’s the problem. He’s past fisticuffs. You going to punch his bullets out of the air? Some shit you’re supposed to be scared of. Being scared of things keeps you alive. Even tigers are afraid of shit.”
“What are tigers afraid of?”
“I don’t know. Dragons,” I said.
“Tigers are pussies,” Bobby said with a laugh. “You see what I did? Pussies, like pussy cats. Tigers are cats, right?”