The Skull of Pancho Villa and Other Stories

by Manuel Ramos

  “Well there was some trouble, yes. Tell us, did you see anything out of the usual tonight?”

  “Can’t say that I did. But then, I’m an old man, and I might miss things that others see, know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, sure. Have you seen any strangers around lately, even if you didn’t see anything tonight? Maybe some kids hanging around, messing with things they shouldn’t?”

  “Strangers? Kids? Well, there’s always kids around, but I wouldn’t call them strangers. Why, what happened?”

  “How well you know the Parkers, the people across the street?”

  “Don’t know them at all. They keep pretty much to themselves, not like the Ávilas who used to live in that house. We were always talking to each other, visiting, sharing stuff. Not these new folks, though. Not like it used to be.”

  “Yeah, we understand. You didn’t know the Parkers and you didn’t see anything tonight or anything unusual lately. Sorry we bothered you.”

  “Uh, Officer. What happened? What was the trouble?”

  “Well, if you don’t know already you will soon enough. Mr. Parker, Carl Parker, he was killed tonight. His wife said that they had been out to dinner and when they came home they ran into a kid who apparently had broken in to their house. According to Mrs. Parker the kid went crazy. He wanted money, drugs, anything, and when Mr. Parker tried to stop him the kid went after him with a bat that he had taken from Mr. Parker’s memorabilia collection. Then the kid took off and Mrs. Parker called us. We’re looking for a dark Mexican kid about fifteen wearing a blue baseball cap, jeans and a black T-shirt that had some lettering on it that she thinks said ‘Cinco de Mayo’ or something like that. Seen anybody matches that description?”

  “A Mexican kid? You’re joking, right? That’s all there are around here. Why would a kid do something like that? Damn, it doesn’t make sense.”

  “That’s okay, pop. Nothing these punks do ever makes sense. We’ll figure it out. Leave that to us. If you think of anything, or see something in the next day or two, give us a call. Here’s my card. Thanks for your help.”

  He turned, then stopped.

  He said, “And maybe you should have your house checked for security. Locks, windows, that kind of thing. We can help. Call us at the station, we got a program, especially for seniors.”

  Seniors? My ass.

  What do you know? A Mexican kid? It’s not right. The way these people try to blame others for their mess. Maybe I should have told the cops what I know. They wouldn’t believe me. An old man? Old man Sánchez, seeing things. That sweet Sara Parker said it was a Mexican delinquent and that’s who the cops are going to find, and when they drag one in front of her, she’ll pick him out. Any story I might have told the cops will be dismissed and forgotten. Case closed.

  “Hello, Larry? Larry Delvecchio? Sorry to call so late. This is Joe Sánchez, an old friend of your father’s. They called me Mexican Joe.”

  In those days everyone had a nickname and Mexican Joe was the best they could do for me. I was lucky compared to what they called some of the other guys.

  “Sure, Joe. Long time no see. I haven’t heard from you in years. Tell the truth, I wasn’t sure you were still around. All the old guys are slipping away. But you know that. Say, is anything wrong? Anything I can help out with?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I do need a favor, Larry.”

  “Hey, Joe, no problem. My father made it clear just before he passed that I was to take care of the guys, and he told me about all the favors you did for the family, starting with that hot night before I was even born. Just give me the details, Joe, and it’s done.”

  “Thanks, Larry. It means a lot to me, and I appreciate that your father remembered me. I respected him and he respected me, but that’s the way it was back then. Listen to me, blubbering like an old man again. Anyway, Larry, it’s like this. These people across the street, they been trashing up the neighborhood and now they did something that could ruin it for all of us around here. The woman’s husband just died, so he’s out of the picture. But her and her boyfriend . . . it would be better for everyone if they left the neighborhood and stayed away, the both of them.”

  “We’ll take care of it, Joe. Give me an address, whatever, then you go to bed. It’s late.”

  “Dad, you need to eat better. This meatloaf’s still in the fridge. I brought it over last week. I’ll have to throw it out now.”

  “M’ija, you worry too much about me. I eat, I sleep, I take walks around the block. I’m all right. Don’t worry so much.”

  “Right, Dad. I’m not sure you can take care of yourself anymore, especially in this neighborhood. It’s worse than I remember. There used to be all those Italian gangsters running around when I was little, but now trouble could come from anyone, even the kids. Look at what happened to those poor people across the street.”

  “I heard about the husband.”

  “Not just him, Dad. The wife, too.”

  “What? Something else?”

  “It was in the paper, Dad, if you’d read something besides the comics once in a while. She disappeared. Gone. Her sister from Chicago’s been trying to get a hold of her and finally she called the police. They can’t find her. No trace. She left everything in the house and just took off. They think she might have gone up into the mountains and killed herself. Griefstricken over her husband. Something like that.”

  “¡Qué carambada! I didn’t know. I hadn’t seen her for a few days, but I had no idea. Maybe you’re right about this neighborhood.”

  “Absolutely.” She stood against the counter, looking at the few dirty dishes in the sink. “Dad, these windows are filthy.” A pause. “Oh-oh. Check this out. Some people think the streets are a junk yard. That pickup’s still parked down the block. It’s been there for days and nobody’s moved it. I’m calling somebody down at City Hall. Have the damn thing towed if I have to.”

  “Good idea, m’ija. Don’t want any trash in the neighborhood. Starts with an abandoned car and then who knows where it could lead.”

  MURDER MOVIE

  Marie handed me the jacket, pants and hat and tried not to laugh as she did it.

  “When I volunteered to help with the festival,” I said, “I didn’t think it would mean driving people around. I’m not a chauffeur.”

  “Quit complaining, Miguel,” she answered with a big smile. “This is a great opportunity for you. You’re the one that wants to be in the movie business, no? The Latino Film Festival puts you right in the middle of the action with people who can help you. Don’t be stupid. Impress people with your commitment to the festival, to helping out. Mingle, talk to them so they know who you are. It could lead somewhere. What else you got going that you can’t spare one weekend to take care of some producers, directors and actors, and see free movies, too? Seize the day, pal.”

  What Marie said made sense, of course, but I didn’t want to listen. She may have been a friend, even a girlfriend once upon a time, and she may have managed to get a sweet job at Channel 7 in the news department, and she still may have looked real good all dressed up for work, but I thought she had done me wrong with this festival thing. When she told me she could get me on the volunteer list for the festival, I had jumped at the chance. I thought I could moderate some of the directors’ panels, or introduce a couple of the films, talk to Eddie Olmos or Andy García about my screenplay and maybe entertain one of the cute Latina starlets in between screenings.

  That’s what I expected, that’s not what happened.

  The day before anything official started, I had to pick up a few Hollywood wannabes at the airport, at some very strange hours I thought, then get them to the hotel and squeeze in a few trips to dinner for groups of AIPs (almost important people). Then, on Friday, I waited for them at their hotel until they were good and ready, trucked them to the theater, waited around to drive them to the receptions, and then later back to the hotel. I was stuck up front in the limo, and my only interaction with my passenge
rs was an occasional hello or thank you or hey, slow down, we don’t want to die in Denver. I deserved more respect than that, even if I was only twenty-five, but there was no one to gripe to except Marie, and she quickly tired of my “whiny act.”

  I managed. That was my attitude. I could survive anywhere, do anything, if I had to. I kept a grin on my face although the silly uniform I had to wear was too damn bulky for the Colorado springtime sunshine. I said yes sir and no ma’am, got headaches from the perfume and liquor breaths and did not get any sleep that first night before I had to be back at it early Saturday morning and do it all over again.

  By Saturday night, I was exhausted and cranky. The day had been hot, the passengers had not been in good moods since they were all nervous about the audience reaction to their movies and I had not made any meaningful connections with anybody. The job had been a bust and then it got worse when Marie called me on the car phone and begged me to do one more drive that night, after the last film. I argued, but in the end I gave in because she promised to make it up to me and the way she said “make it up to you” was enough to reenergize my tired bones and dormant libido.

  I agreed to drive a producer and his actress wife to a late dinner meeting with a group of local Hispanics (among my friends, Hispanics means Mexicans with money) who wanted to play Hollywood. The concept was enough to make me gag, but I kept my smile as I waited in front of the hotel for my passengers.

  She twirled through the revolving doors and I immediately knew it was Mrs. Castillo. Short red dress, bright red lipstick, a black top that had to be some kind of lingerie not quite covering her ample bosom and the sweetest accent I had heard since my cousin Cristina from Matamoros had stayed with us one summer and learned a few English words.

  Debra Castillo used to be Dee Luna, the sexpot who had a decent career in Mexican B movies. The plots of her flicks usually involved singing stock-car racers or rodeo cowboys. She had an affair with a Chicano senator from California, and that led to an appearance in a Robert Rodríguez project. Her life changed with that small part. There’s one classic scene that produced a memorable poster and about a million downloads on the Internet. She stands in the desert, the wind lifting her skirt in all directions, and she blows a kiss to the Yankee pilot as he takes off in his biplane to hunt down Pancho Villa. Her gringo lover loses control of the plane after Pancho has riddled it with Gatling gunfire, and the desperation in her eyes as she watches the plane spin in fiery descent was enough to get her more and better parts. In just a few years she had graced the cover of every magazine that catered to movie fans, Latinos or men who like to ogle attractive women. She was the current Mrs. Reynaldo Castillo. Her husband was one of the few Cuban-American producers in Hollywood and one of the few producers of any heritage who could bankroll a movie all by himself, if he had to.

  I opened the passenger door for her, and she gave me a breathless, “Gracias, jovencito.” Her entrance into the car was anything but glamorous, and I had to help her with a polite push. I did get an eyeful of a pair of tanned thighs that would have made me stay for a double feature, but she didn’t seem to notice or care.

  A few minutes later the husband stormed through the same revolving doors. He practically ran to the car and jumped in. I was closing the door when he grabbed it and jerked it shut. By the time I had made it to the driver’s seat, they were in a full-fledged shouting match that even the massive body of the Lincoln could not contain. I spied on them in the rearview mirror, but they were so intent on drowning out each other that they did not stop even when I pulled away from the curb. I did not need to talk to them anyway. I had my directions and I knew the address.

  They were meeting the investor group at an expensive restaurant in the foothills about thirty miles away, and I had an hour to get them there. I bitched about the drive to Marie, but she explained that the money people from Boulder didn’t want to drive into Denver. And one of them owned the restaurant. An out-of-the-way place for a serious discussion about Latino movie-making in the brand new century—that’s what Marie told me when she filled me in on the details of my task.

  I drove through the city streets to the interstate, cut to the Boulder Turnpike for several minutes, and then off the highway onto a gravel road into the hills and the secluded nature reserve that surrounded the restaurant.

  I thought I saw him slap her and I did see her break into tears at least twice. They finally stopped arguing about a mile from the restaurant when she tried to rearrange her makeup, without much luck.

  I stopped the limo and opened the door for them, but only he got out. He turned in her general direction and said, “Quit the games, Dee. I’m not doing this anymore. Either you come in now or you can find another way back to the hotel. Hell, you can find another way back to L.A.”

  I heard her answer: “¡Cabrón! ¡Déjame!”

  Mr. Castillo must have understood that to mean that he would have to go to the meeting by himself and he chugged off, mumbling under his breath.

  I still held the door, so I leaned in and said, “You okay? Anything I can do?”

  “¿Habla español?” she asked in return.

  “Uh, lo siento,” I stammered. “Por favor. I’m Chicano, pero, uh, I don’t speak Spanish very well.”

  “That’s all right. I can manage in English. At least I think I can.” She coughed, and I thought she was going to cry again.

  “You sure you’re all right? Did he hurt you?”

  “No. No. Not really. Not this time.”

  I felt very strange feeling sorry for one of the most beautiful women in the world, whose make-up was smeared and whose dress kept inching up her legs and whose angry husband was less than fifty yards away in a high-powered meeting that could have determined my future. I wanted to be in that meeting. I wanted to pitch my script. It was the right audience: influential and wealthy Latinos who should want to hear from a young Chicano writer who had a story about murder and lust and revenge among the Hispanic middle class. It was a natural. A murder movie with a Latino slant. But I hadn’t been invited to that meeting so I had to be satisfied with soothing the very upset Mrs. Castillo.

  Not that it was tough duty. Smeared make-up or not, she was easy on the eyes, as Bogart might have said in “The Big Sleep,” and I thought that I should at least try to calm her down.

  “Has he hurt you before?”

  She didn’t answer right away. She didn’t want to answer, I could see that, and that told me all I needed to know. The mighty Reynaldo Castillo beat up his wife.

  “It’s not that important. The fights aren’t what I’m afraid of. That’s not it. I wish that was all.”

  I shut the door, walked around the car and sat behind the steering wheel. I slid open the glass that separated the passengers from the driver and watched her for a few minutes. She seemed better, more in control.

  I said, “If you don’t mind me asking, what is it? What are you afraid of?”

  She hesitated again. It was difficult for her to speak but it wasn’t the language problem that was getting in her way. Why should she trust me with the secrets of her heart, with the pain of a marriage that obviously hadn’t worked out? I was just the limo man, the driver, not even a real chauffeur, and she knew it and she had every reason to tell me to mind my own business.

  She finally said, “One of Rey’s wives was murdered by a man who broke into their home. They never found the killer. Rey’s first wife disappeared after the divorce. She’s been missing for years. I think Rey had them both killed. It’s crazy, I know. But he’s a macho like from the old days, and he’s rich. Can’t bear to think that any woman would stand up to him, much less leave him. He thinks every woman wants his money. He’s mean, cruel. ¡Un bruto! If I told you what he does, you wouldn’t believe it. No one believes it. He’s famous, generous, a leader of the community. I’m the Mexican bimbo—I know that’s what they call me. No one listens to me. No one believes me.”

  I wanted to reach over and hug her, tell her that I, for
one, believed her, and that I would take her away right then and there to wherever she wanted to go. But, as I thought about what I would say, it sounded so lame even to me that I could not dredge up the courage to say it to her. She started crying again, and I listened and watched in helplessness. I shut the partition and gave her some privacy.

  The meeting took a little bit more than an hour, and he scarcely acknowledged her as he climbed in the car. I guess he forgot about making her catch another ride. He made several short calls with his cell phone, then leaned back as though he wanted to sleep.

  The drive started out quietly enough. I concentrated on the dark road because it had no street lights, homes or other evidence of human activity. We were on the edge of a slight rise in the hill that gave the appearance of a steep drop to the meadow below. The isolated stretch continued for only a few miles but it took my complete attention to keep the bulky limo on the narrow dirt strip. The return trip seemed longer than on the way in. My eyes aren’t the best, especially at night, and in the hills, with only dust covered headlights and dim moonlight to guide me, I was practically aiming the car by instinct and memory only. And I was dog tired.

  The gunshot echoed in the tight confines of the limo. I jerked and twisted the steering wheel, slammed the brakes. The car swerved and died. I thought someone from outside had shot at the car but when I turned to my passengers, I saw Castillo doubled over in pain, holding his shoulder. Blood seeped through his suit jacket. She cringed in the corner of the seat, crying, whispering incoherently.

  “What the . . . !”

  I jumped out. Dust floated around the car from my abrupt stop. I ran to the passenger side, opened Castillo’s door and stared at his wound. It looked bad but what did I know? Her slim fingers held a gun, gingerly, almost as though she were not touching it. I reached over her groaning husband and took the gun from her.

  “He tried to kill me.” She was almost too calm. “He was going to shoot me in this car, and you, too. I was trying to holler for you to stop, but he covered my mouth with his hand. I grabbed at anything I could and I must have somehow turned the gun. And then, I don’t know how, the gun went off, and he shot himself.” She sobbed, then repeated, “He tried to kill me.”