by Manuel Ramos
Praise for the work of Manuel Ramos
“Somewhere down a dark alley, a blinding freeway, or sitting at a splintered table in a public park, sits one of Manuel Ramos’ heroes. He is a disbarred lawyer, a defrocked priest, or a desperate woman. Ramos, a lawyer in some former life, tells stories of the street in an unmistakably noir style. He has heard it all, and his characters act it out. Sometimes, justice is achieved. Other times, not. The author of eight novels, Ramos sings pochismo jazz.”
—Kathleen Alcalá, author of The Desert Remembers My Name: On
Family and Writing, on The Skull of Pancho Villa and Other Stories
“The Godfather of Chicano noir hits us hard with this collection. Great range, dark visions, and lots of mojo—much of it bad to the bone. A fine book!”
—Luis Alberto Urrea, author of The Hummingbird’s Daughter, on
The Skull of Pancho Villa and Other Stories
“As invigorating as a dip in a Rocky Mountain stream.”
—Mystery Scene on Desperado: A Mile High Noir
“A dark mix of North Denver gangsters and Catholicism, but it’s [the] setting that really grips readers. Nostalgia is combined with reality . . . Ramos gets it right.”
—Denver Post on Desperado: A Mile High Noir
“A very impressive debut.”
—Los Angeles Times on The Ballad of Rocky Ruiz
“A thickly atmospheric first novel—with just enough mystery to hold together a powerfully elegiac memoir of the heady early days of Chicano activism.”
—Kirkus Reviews on The Ballad of Rocky Ruiz
“Ramos succeeds brilliantly in marrying style and substance to form a seamlessly entertaining novel [with] characters and scenes deeply etched with admirable brevity and skill.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review, on Blues for the Buffalo
“Ramos’s finely crafted tales contribute a welcome Hispanic voice to the mystery genre.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Last Client of Luis Montez
“Ramos tells a gripping story with panache and humor, offering an inventive plot, a cast of appealingly oddball characters, and a refreshing and likable hero.”
—Booklist on The Last Client of Luis Montez
“Noir fans won’t want to miss Moony’s Road to Hell, by Denver attorney Manuel Ramos.”
—Publishers Weekly on Moony’s Road to Hell
THE SKULL OF Pancho Villa AND OTHER STORIES
MANUEL RAMOS
The Skull of Pancho Villa and Other Stories is funded in part by grants from the city of Houston through the Houston Arts Alliance.
Recovering the past, creating the future
Arte Público Press
University of Houston
4902 Gulf Fwy, Bldg 19, Rm 100
Houston, Texas 77204-2004
Cover design by Mora Des!gn
Cover image by Mercedes Hernández
Ramos, Manuel.
[Short stories. Selections]
The Skull of Pancho Villa and other stories / by Manuel Ramos.
p cm
ISBN 978-1-55885-808-4 (alk. paper)
I. Title.
PS3568.A4468A6 2015
813'.54—dc23
2015003063
CIP
The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.
Copyright ©2015 by Manuel Ramos
Imprinted in the United States of America
15 16 17 18 19 20 21 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Introduction
BASIC BLACK
NO HABLO INGLÉS
TEXAS AFTERNOON
WHEN THE AIR CONDITIONER QUIT
OUTPOST DUTY
WHITE DEVILS AND COCKROACHES
WHEN PIGS FLY AND MONKEYS TALK
OUTLAWS
THE SKULL OF PANCHO VILLA
IF WE HAD BEEN DANCING
NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH
MURDER MOVIE
BAD HAIRCUT DAY
BACKUP
THE SMELL OF ONIONS
LOVERS
THE SCENT OF TERRIFIED ANIMALS
THE 405 IS LOCKED DOWN
THE TRUTH IS
WHY BOSTON IS HIS FAVORITE TOWN
HONESTY IS THE BEST POLICY
CHICANISMO
LA VISIÓN DE MI MADRE
KITE LESSON
SENTIMENTAL VALUE
2012
FENCE BUSTERS
PUBLISHING HISTORY
“Backup” originally published in You Don’t Have a Clue: Latino Mystery Stories for Teens. Sarah Cortez, ed. Arte Público Press, 2011.
“Bad Haircut Day” originally published in Crimespree Magazine, #9, 2005.
“Fence Busters” originally published in The Rocky Mountain News, 2008, reprinted in A Dozen on Denver, Fulcrum, 2009.
Four lines used as an epigraph from “HOWL” from Collected Poems 1947-1980 by Allen Ginsberg. Copyright © 1955 by Allen Ginsberg. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers.
“If We Had Been Dancing” originally published in Disturbing the Peace: Writing by Colorado Attorneys. Denver and Colorado Bar Associations, 2001.
“Kite Lesson” originally published in Upper Larimer Arts & Times, 1987.
“La Visión de Mi Madre” originally published as “His Mother’s Image” in Southwest Tales: A Contemporary Collection. Alurista and Rojas-Urista, eds. Maize Press, 1986, and reprinted in Where Past Meets Present: Modern Colorado Short Stories. Hemesath, ed. University Press of Colorado, 1994.
“Murder Movie” originally published in Voices of Mexico, Issue 65, 2003.
“Neighborhood Watch” originally published in New Mystery, Volume VII, No. 2, 2000.
“No Hablo Inglés” originally published in Hardluckstories.com, 2006.
“Sentimental Value” originally published in The Cocaine Chronicles. Phillips and Tervalon, eds. Akashic Books, 2005, 2011.
“The 405 Is Locked Down” originally published in Latinos in Lotusland. Daniel A. Olivas, ed. Bilingual Press, 2008.
“The Scent of Terrified Animals” originally published in Saguaro, Volume 6, 1990.
“The Skull of Pancho Villa” originally published in Hit List: The Best of Latino Mystery. Sarah Cortez and Liz Martínez, eds. Arte Público Press, 2009.
“The Smell of Onions” originally published in Rocky Mountain Arsenal of the Arts, 1989, reprinted as a poem in The Lineup: Poems on Crime, Issue 2, 2009.
“The Truth Is” originally published in Pearl Street Press, 1989.
“When the Air Conditioner Quit” originally published in Crimespree Magazine, #51, 2013.
“White Devils and Cockroaches” originally published by Westword, 1986.
INTRODUCTION
These stories span the years 1986 through 2014. “White Devils and Cockroaches” first appeared in Westword because it placed second in the annual fiction contest that the magazine sponsored back then. It was my first published story. The collection includes one poem, “The Smell of Onions” and one story that previously appeared in a collection of young adult mystery fiction, “Backup.” “Fence Busters” was selected as one of the stories for the Rocky Mountain News’ unique project of showcasing Denver fiction as a way of celebrating both the paper’s and the city’s 150th anniversaries. A quartet of ficción rápida—“Texas Afternoon,” “When Pigs Fly and Monkeys Talk,” “2012,” and “Honesty Is the Best Policy”—were posted on the literary blog La Bloga in different versions and appear here for the first time as traditionally published pieces.<
br />
The tag Chicano Noir applies to some of the stories, as does hard-boiled to others, while still others have no label other than “story.” A few are predecessors to longer works. The attorney in “White Devils and Cockroaches,” González, morphed over the years into Luis Móntez, the protagonist in five of my novels. “Kite Lesson” became a chapter in King of the Chicanos, while “The Skull of Pancho Villa” launched my character Gus Corral, and that story is now Chapter 5 in Desperado: A Mile High Noir.
There is a story about each of these stories.
For Roberto Santos, Diego Ramos, and Gabriel White—
three men who, by doing some of their growing up in
our house, enriched our lives.
BASIC BLACK
NO HABLO INGLÉS
The lone ray of sunshine streaming through a crease in the dirt-stained window caught the corner of my eye and my head throbbed. A splinter of pain lodged itself in my eyeball. I sucked on a Tecate and a slice of lime whose rind had brown spots. I couldn’t remember the name of the joint in Juárez that had produced the hangover.
“So, what’s the deal, Manolo? Can you do any kind of lawyerin’, or is it like, you know, over for good?”
Nick knew I didn’t talk about my disbarment, but he asked crap all the time.
“Nick,” I answered, looking him straight in his blood-shot eyes. “Can you still say Mass? Give communion with the watered-down tequila you serve?”
He said something like “fuck you” and turned his attention to wiping the far side of the bar with a gray, stiff rag.
I dropped two bucks and eased out of the clammy, musty-smelling air of Nick’s Cave and into the white glare and oven heat of another El Paso morning.
I hated the town, but that wasn’t El Paso’s fault. I hated myself and that meant I hated wherever I woke up. That summer it was El Paso.
I waited in the congestion and noise that led to the Santa Fe International Bridge, sweating through my shirt, as lost as if I had been abandoned naked in the desert. I lit up my last American Spirit and crossed the street when the traffic slowed for a minute.
The diner was busy and I hesitated at the door until an old Mexican wearing a packing-house hardhat pushed himself from his table, stuck a few dollars under his fork and walked out with a toothpick hanging from his lip. I took his place before it had been cleared by the young Mexican busboy. He grimaced at me when he came to pick up the greasy plate and stained coffee cup but he didn’t say anything. He also didn’t wipe the crumbs off the tabletop.
I opened my notebook and stared at the pages of the great Chicano novel that I had decided I would write that summer, seeing as how I didn’t have much else to do. My words didn’t make sense. Some of the sentences trailed off the edge of the page. I must have been drunk when I wrote most of them.
The waitress cleared her throat and I realized that she stood next to me.
“What you want, Manolo?” she asked in Spanish.
I answered, in English, “Eggs and chorizo, coffee. One of those grilled jalapeños.”
She said, “Whatever,” in English, and appeared to run away from me.
What the hell, I thought. We used to be friends. At least one night not that long ago we were really good friends. Why’d she act like that?
The door opened and hot air rushed in. I smelled sweat and grease.
“You the lawyer?” The accent was thick but the words were clear.
She was small, pretty, dark and afraid.
“No, I’m not a lawyer.”
“The man at the bar across the street.” Her eyes were wide and her lips trembled. “He said the lawyer came in here and that he would be wearing a white shirt. You’re the only man in here with a white shirt.”
I looked at the diner’s other customers and she was right.
“But that doesn’t make me a lawyer.”
Tears welled up in her eyes but nothing rolled down her cheeks. She backed out of the diner, looked up and down the street, then raced in the direction of Mexico.
The frayed cuffs of my shirt had a thin border of dirt. I fingered the empty space where a missing button belonged.
The waitress appeared with my coffee. I stubbed out what was left of my smoke and carefully placed it in my shirt pocket. I said, “This used to be a very good shirt. I wore it in court. I used to kick butt in this shirt.”
She rolled her eyes and shook her head.
“You are so full of shit, Manolo.” She hurried away again.
I pulled out my wallet and was relieved to see the twenty. For an instant I thought I might have left it all in Juárez. I had more back in my room, in the so-called safe, but I understood that it was running out. The dregs of what I had managed to salvage from the Colorado Supreme Court’s order to reimburse my former clients couldn’t last more than a few weeks.
I finished the breakfast, except for the chile, and drank several cups of coffee and finally left when the waitress stopped coming by. I crossed the street again and forced myself into Nick’s.
Two men sat at the bar, dressed in cowboy hats and shirts, jeans and boots. They talked loudly with the speeded-up rhythm of Mexicans who have been too long on the American side of the border. I sat in one of the booths, almost in darkness. My eyes took their time adjusting to the change in light and when Nick asked me what I wanted, I could barely make out his silhouette.
“Just a beer. Tecate.”
Nick had a CD player behind the bar and I thought I heard Chalino Sánchez. The slightly off-key, high-pitched voice of the martyred wannabe filled the bar with a lament about bad luck with young women. An accordion, a tinny cymbal, brass horns and drums emphasized the singer’s misery.
When Nick came back and set down the beer can, I grabbed his wrist.
“What did that woman want, Nick? Why did you send her to me?”
“The fuck I know? She said she was lookin’ for the Mexican-American lawyer. There’s only one asshole I know that fits that description. I told her you was across the street.” He jerked his arm free of my grip.
“There are plenty of Chicano lawyers in this town. Too many. What made you think she wanted me?”
He had turned away. He stopped, looked down at me. “She didn’t have any money.”
I rubbed my temples, took my time with the beer.
The two men at the bar stood up, arguing and shoving each other. Nick shouted at them to get the hell out, but they ignored him. I squeezed myself into the corner of the booth and watched as one of the men pulled a knife from somewhere and slashed at the other man. Drops of blood appeared on the slashed man’s shirt. He slapped his chest with his left hand. Nick grabbed the man with the knife, knocked the weapon free and wrestled him to the door. Curses and shouts filled the bar and whoever had followed Chalino Sánchez on Nick’s CD player was drowned out by the familiar sound of men fighting in a bar. The wounded man stumbled to the doorway just as Nick tossed out the knife-wielder.
The former friends stood about two feet apart, in the middle of the sidewalk. The cut man’s fingers gripped his chest and were covered with blood. The other man grinned. He finally laughed and walked away. His bloody companion slowly followed.
“Look at this floor!” Nick shouted. “Goddamn blood spots. Now I got to get the bleach.” His face was red and a thin line of blood traced his jawline.
I stood up from the booth and walked to where Nick examined the floor.
“That woman, Nick? What was her problem?”
“You fuckin’ kiddin’ me? Why didn’t you ask her yourself? She said somethin’ about her sister. Usual shit. Christ.” He shook his head and disappeared into a closet. I heard him banging a bucket and shaking out a mop.
I made it back to my room and laid down on the bed. I sweated for an hour, listening to the traffic in the street below, smelling the traffic. I blotted out everything else about the room, the town, the day. When I decided to leave, I took off the white shirt and replaced it with a blue shirt that I had never wor
n in court.
I walked toward the border, to the bridge where anyone with a quarter can cross into Mexico unless the bridge is closed because of a bomb threat. There had been such a threat the day before and that had been my excuse to stay in Juárez longer than I had planned. That’s what I had told myself at dawn when I tripped on the American side of the bridge and had trouble getting up.
I finished the butt saved from breakfast and scanned the line of people walking into Mexico. I looked over the vendors with their trinkets and gewgaws, tried to recognize the face of the small, dark, pretty and frightened woman who had wanted to talk to a North American lawyer about her sister.
“You ever been to the shrine of Santa Muerte?” The boy asking the question had straight, thick hair, like some kind of Indian, and the darkest eyes I had ever seen on a human being. One of the eyes was crooked and it distracted me so that when he spoke I thought he was talking to someone behind and to the left of me.
“Saint Death? I don’t think so. I don’t have time, and I don’t have any money.”
“Hey, pocho, I don’t want your money. I’m talking about La Santísima Muerte, the only real saint, the only one worth praying to anyway.” His English was good, better than my Spanish, so we talked in English. “She only promises what she will actually deliver, and she treats everyone the same—rich, poor, Mexican, gringo.”
The boy wasn’t going anywhere, so I asked a question. “What kind of shrine is this?”
“A special place. A girl got killed there and when her mother found the body, it was covered in roses that bloomed for weeks after. Now people go there to ask for help.”
“Why would I want to see this shrine?”
“You’re looking for something. Ain’t nothing she can’t help find, because everything and everyone all end up with her anyway.”
I used my handkerchief to wipe the sweat from the back of my neck. The monogrammed MT had faded from its original deep royal blue to a pallid gray. I stuffed the handkerchief back in my pocket.