Mariachi Meddler

by D. R. Ransdell

  “Most customers aren’t so picky about their tequila,” I said.

  “True. But if our restaurant came highly recommended, perhaps the men had a reason to be angry. Anyway, thanks for coming over.”

  Something was terribly wrong. Yiolanda had never before thanked me.

  “Would you mind locking up with me tonight?” she asked.

  “Not at all.”

  I returned to my place around the table where my compadres were pushing their way through another semi-familiar song.

  We quit early after the two families left. I hovered near Yiolanda, but the evening was back to normal. Yiolanda and I had to wait for the dishwashers to finish up and for Corinna to inventory fresh food. A customer called to ask if we were still open. Though Yiolanda was subdued, she didn’t seem concerned.

  As we stood together securing the door, her perfume tickled my nose.

  ***

  I kept thinking about the phone message. I was sure about two things: The message was meant for Yiolanda, and it had nothing to do with the restaurant. Since I didn’t want to risk falling asleep, I called Stefani, who was agreeable when I invited myself over to her cozy apartment in Costa Mesa. Her sofa was comfortable and still smelled new. Better yet she had an air conditioner. She always turned it on when she suspected we’d be heating things up.

  Stefani wasn’t my girlfriend, but we got together sometimes. We’d met months earlier at a bar where casual complaints about dry spells in the bedroom led us straight to hers. Later she wanted to take things to a higher level, but I assured her I wasn’t relationship material. Not only did I work late five nights a week, but I also always preferred playing to entertaining a date.

  When I arrived, Stefani was planted on the sofa watching Cary Grant mess his way through Bringing Up Baby. While she watched the ending, I leafed through a newsmagazine. I hadn’t realized gas prices were expected to rise another twenty percent. That gave me one more reason to stick to my motor scooter instead of buying a car. The occasional rain was inconvenient, but Southern California rarely froze, I walked to work, and my brother loaned me his car when I needed one. Joey kidded me that I’d never find a real girlfriend until I graduated to a real vehicle. “My Vespa is vintage,” I would tell him. “It doesn’t start half the time!” he always replied. His comment was a fond exaggeration. The scooter usually started.

  After reading all the credits, Stefani flicked off the TV. “I love that film.”

  I didn’t find it memorable, but I was thankful I didn’t have to compete with the male lead. “You’re lovelier than Katharine Hepburn,” I said, taking her hand as she sat on my lap. She did look lovely. Her hair was squashed from lying in different angles against the cushions, giving her a sleepy, disorganized look. The sheer nightgown revealed the outline of her breasts whenever she turned sideways.

  “I’m glad you called,” she whispered.

  “I was afraid you might have been asleep.”

  “In that case I wouldn’t have answered the phone.”

  That’s as much dialog as we managed. Usually Stefani undressed me and folded my clothes neatly on a bedside clothes hamper, but tonight she scattered them from the living room to her narrow double bed.

  Afterwards I sat up straight, cradling Stefani in my arms while she snuggled into my shoulder. “I’ve missed you,” she said.

  “I’ve missed you too.”

  “At work I was so busy this week that I didn’t have a moment to myself.” She booked flights on California Air all day, so summer was her busy season. “Now I can relax.”

  But I couldn’t. I kept reviewing the scene with the two men. Something was wrong about it. For Yiolanda to lie was nothing. For her to seem intimidated was out of character.

  “Where shall we go for vacation?” Stefani asked. “California Air is running cheap flights to Puerto Vallarta at the end of the season. We could go for the week.”

  “Sounds great.” Last season she’d wanted me to go to Maui, but since Joey couldn’t cover for me at the restaurant, I’d been excused.

  Somewhere, I’d seen the man with cropped hair before. “Would you rather go somewhere else?”

  I didn’t want to go anywhere with Stefani for a week. In the first place, even though we’d talked about it, I was afraid that she would take my going on vacation with her as a sign that I was heading towards boyfriend status. More importantly, I didn’t like to spend time away from Noche Azul. Whenever I took too many nights off at a stretch, I lost my edge. The only way I could remember the vast repertoire was to perform it consistently. Otherwise the words went right out of my head. I’d tried to explain the situation to Stefani on several occasions, but she couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t jump at the chance to spend a week alone with her.

  “Puerto Vallarta sounds fine.” Normally I might have protested, but since the end of the season was two months away, I had plenty of time to decide how to wiggle out of her grasp.

  I kissed the top of her head. “I’m in your hands.”

  Possibly the men with the shiny hair were associated with the Three Stars Hotel, which was a couple of blocks south of my apartment. I’d heard that Europeans owned it, but I hadn’t been inside the lobby since they remodeled it from a Holiday Inn.

  “We need to pick just the right spot.”

  I stroked her hair. My own was boringly straight. Her soft black tufts were easier to play with.

  “Then we’ll make just the right baby.”

  I jerked away without trying to. I miscalculated the space on her bed and fell off, hitting my head on the nightstand. The alarm clock crashed onto my chest before bouncing along the floor.

  “What?”

  She peered at me from over the bed as a mother peers into a crib. “I said, ‘Then we’ll make the right baby.’”

  My bare hip stung from landing on the tip of a high-heeled shoe. I lifted myself up long enough to sweep away the shoe but stayed on the floor where I felt safe.

  She stretched sideways along the edge of the bed and propped her head on one hand. “You’ll be a good father. Very smart.”

  “I’ve told you over and over that I’m not ready to be serious.”

  “Oh, Andy! I know that. But sooner or later you’ll change your mind. Anyway, you don’t have to worry. We don’t have to get married.”

  “We had an understanding.”

  “I understand you. Really I do. But enough’s enough. You’re scared. That’s all. You need to relax and grow up a little bit. I’ll take care of everything else.”

  I couldn’t speak. Her entire psychoanalysis of me had lasted three seconds. I felt like a pickle in a jar waiting to be speared and sliced.

  She rolled over on her back and patted her stomach. “I don’t like giving up my figure, but it can’t be helped.”

  I stood, searching for dignity as I brushed off the dirt. “I’m especially not ready for children.”

  “You’re nearly forty. My parents had me when they were half your age.”

  I stepped into my shorts, which had landed by the foot of the bed. Stefani’s parents’ decisions didn’t have anything to do with me.

  Stefani inserted her hand under the elastic waistband of my shorts and pulled me closer to her. “A half hour ago you said you loved me.”

  Not fair. She’d posed the question at an inopportune moment, so the most I’d managed was a grunt.

  “Having a family is different.”

  She knelt on the bed, making us nearly eye level. “Don’t you see? I’m ready to love you with everything! I’m ready to give you a baby!”

  I fished my shirt from the hall, angling into it without bothering about buttons. “I don’t want a long-term commitment. I’ve told you that repeatedly.”

  She slid under the sheets and kicked her legs. “You said you loved me!” Her voice was muffled, but I could distinguish each word.

  I sat on the bed and tried to rub her shoulder, but she scooted away. “You’re a wonderful woman,” I told her. I
wasn’t sure if I meant it, but at any rate she pretended not to hear.

  I slid my feet into my Tevas without strapping down the Velcro. The clock on the nightstand read three-forty in red letters. I had just enough time to swing by Yiolanda’s.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Díaz condo was dark. So were the others in the complex. I turned off my motor scooter and counted a few passing cars before deciding I had better ways to use my time.

  The night traffic was so sparse that I still reached my apartment too quickly. I wasn’t ready to resign myself to hot, stale rooms. I parked my scooter and sauntered towards the main drag of Squid Bay. I’d moved to the area after taking the job at Noche Azul, which was in the heart of the commercial section. For the most part the town offered everything I needed, including a space to think.

  Nestled between suburban sprawls, the town was a haven for tourists because the alcove that housed the beach broke the waves and allowed for swimming instead of surfing. Families loved Squid Bay for that reason. The hotels varied in price, but most were smart enough to offer package deals during the week. The tactic ensured streams of visitors that kept our restaurant full of new customers.

  Usually Squid Bay enjoyed an ocean breeze, but tonight the street and the air were dead. As soon as I started moving I felt sweat at my armpits, but I liked walking when it was quiet. I had the illusion that the street was mine. I made a full circle around the block before starting up a side street.

  I kicked myself for not anticipating the situation with Stefani. I should have known that the age references she’d made lately weren’t random. She was thirty-two. Over the last few months she’d repeatedly told me that it was a good age. Stupidly I had agreed. I’d let things get out of hand, and now I’d have to make a quick decision as to how to get away from her. Though I liked the woman, living with her and a baby in my two-room apartment or giving up my comfortable life to live out in Costa Mesa were equally unappealing.

  I circled by the clock tower, envying its vantage point. I needed one. Stefani and I had fun together, but there were several reasons we weren’t right for one another. She pretended to care about my music, but she didn’t know Pedro Infante from José Alfredo Jiménez. It was one thing if the audience didn’t know the difference between a romantic film star and pistol-toting ranchero, but I needed a partner that did.

  I couldn’t blame Stefani for wanting a traditional life, but I was used to working in a restaurant half the night and sleeping half the day. In theory, Stefani was in favor of my music career, but if we hooked up, it wouldn’t be long until she’d want me to take a “real” job that would put us on the same schedule. Every once in a while she reminded me that since I had a degree in architecture, I might as well use it, but I didn’t feel the same need. Besides, I exercised my skills when Joey overbooked himself and called me in to supervise small projects. In exchange he played for me whenever I needed a night off. I wasn’t a skilled architect and he wasn’t a skilled violin player, but we liked the change in routine.

  As I turned onto Hickory Street, the image snapped into focus. I’d seen the wavy-haired man at a nearby café the week before. He’d been sitting by himself.

  “Aah!”

  The shout was accompanied by running feet. Half a block ahead of me, a woman darted across my path. She wore a light dress, sandals, and a scarf that covered her head. For a millisecond she paused and glanced in my direction. I thought I recognized her.

  “Yiolanda!” Running, I reached the intersection and turned down a side street.

  The figure had disappeared. The streets were as deserted as before. Overhead the street lamps buzzed like cicadas.

  I retraced my steps and kept walking. I went past the library and continued towards Flower. My steps echoed against the deserted sidewalk.

  The hike from the clock tower to the library had taken me nine minutes. My best time was seven, but when I moved that fast, my heart thumped afterwards and I sweat through my clothes.

  When I found a bench, I sat and kicked off my sandals. Yiolanda hadn’t worn a dress to the restaurant that evening, I’d never seen her wearing a scarf, and although she walked briskly, I couldn’t imagine her running. Many women had her basic form and would have cried out after turning an ankle on the old-fashioned brick streets.

  I headed back along Mills Lane, but I didn’t make it straight home. Moments later a squad car whipped passed me before turning into the alley.

  I followed the vehicle. A group of sleepy, half-clad neighbors had already gathered. The first person I recognized was Peter, whose bakery overlooked the street. I sidled through the crowd to reach him.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Don’t tell me the commotion woke you.”

  “The noise doesn’t carry that far. I was out walking.”

  “Be glad you weren’t going to the same place as the guy over there.”

  I followed Peter to the edge of the on-lookers. We wormed our way through the crowd until we could see the man who lay crumpled on the curb.

  “Shot through the back.”

  The man lay face down. He’d split his pants, so a flicker of white showed through the black crease.

  “Let us through,” said a policeman. He was followed by another.

  Without ceremony they rolled the victim onto his back. My mouth fell as I recognized Marco Antonio Gutiérrez.

  “My neighbor said he heard shots,” Peter continued. “I didn’t hear anything until a few minutes ago. It’s a funny thing, isn’t it?”

  “Funny.”

  He snapped his fingers in front of my face. “You don’t look so hot. Why don’t you come in for a coffee while I finish mixing up the doughnuts?”

  “Thanks, Peter. Another time.”

  I melted through the bystanders, trying not to look left or right as I propelled myself home.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  When I got to Veracruz Office Designs, the secretary waved me into Joey’s office. My brother was buried in sketches for his next project. Rolls of designs littered the couch and the desk. His office was always a mess, proof that he had endless clients and that he could juggle multiple projects without getting them mixed up. My brother was a calm, collected entrepreneur. Despite my thirteen-month advantage, Joey was more focused and more financially successful. The irony was that we looked so much alike that people thought we were twins even though during the summer I always turned a deeper shade of brown.

  “Andy!” He paper-weighted the plans so we could embrace. “Don’t tell me it’s Friday already!”

  Our weekly lunch gig wasn’t until the next day, but I smiled so weakly that he sobered up.

  “Are you all right? You’re pale.”

  “I haven’t slept.”

  “We had a record high yesterday. You were too hot to sleep. I’m telling you, you need to invest in air conditioning.”

  “The temperature wasn’t the problem.”

  “Maybe you had a few drinks last night, and—”

  “I haven’t been drinking.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.” Joey reached into his top desk drawer to retrieve his wallet. “Walk around the corner with me? I only have a few minutes.”

  We headed outside where the pounding sun promised another extreme high. Our favorite lunch spot, Super Souvlaki, was only a block away. While I waited for him to pick up a gyro, I sat on an outside bench where scraggly trees offered strips of shifting shade.

  “You haven’t looked this worried since you thought you flunked chemistry,” he said when he joined me.

  “I did flunk chemistry. This is worse.”

  He removed the plastic wrapping from his gyro as if it were gauze protecting a wound. “Your health?”

  I shook my head.

  He nodded, unwrapping another layer. “Finances?”

  “No.” I didn’t make much money, but neither did I spend much. Joey knew that. He was stalling as he thought things through. Then he sat back, holding the pita bread at an a
ngle so that the white sauce spilled on the concrete and not on his shoe. “You got a girl in trouble?”

  “Stefani would like to be in trouble, but that’s another story. The only part of this story that concerns Stefani is that I was leaving her place early this morning.”

  “Leaving, not arriving?”

  I nodded with a curl of my lip.

  “My god, bro.’ What happened?”

  “Last night there was a murder around the corner from the restaurant.”

  “Marco Antonio Gutiérrez from Las Cometas. I read about it in the paper. Don’t we know him?”

  “He played in that junior mariachi group with us.”

  “In high school?”

  “Middle school.”

  “Drug dealer?”

  It was a hazard of the job. Late nights often led to drugs and alcohol, one reason I’d tried so hard to stay away from L.A. proper and get a job in the relatively safe haven of Squid Bay. Drugs existed here too, but at least they were better hidden. “He wasn’t the type to deal drugs.”

  “Very odd. Still, I wouldn’t be too worried about it. I don’t think your neighborhood is becoming unsafe per se. Such incidents happen, especially in bouts of extreme weather. Even in my neighborhood, a house got cleaned out last week. The owners were out of town, and—”

  “I may know someone who was involved in the murder.”

  Joey didn’t notice he’d dropped an onion slice on the ground. “Have you spoken to the police?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I think it was Yiolanda.”

  “Yiolanda?”

  “She was sleeping with the guy. I’ve seen them together lots of times.”

  Joey threw the rest of the pita into the paper sack. “And now you don’t want to go to the police because you’re worried about implicating your boss’s wife in a murder?”

  “I’m worried I might be wrong.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’d be worried too.” His cell phone beeped, and he silenced it with a quick tap. “I’ve got to get back.”

  We started to the office without speaking while cars rolled past, their windows closed tightly to retain canned air.