Mariachi Meddler

by D. R. Ransdell

  “I need to feel your arms,” she whispered.

  I held her a little tighter. Though she was trying to mask it, I detected the sound of tears.

  “You’re all right now.” I kissed her neck once, lightly, before I knew what I was doing. Her skin was warm.

  “It was so awful!” She turned around and sat up. “They shot at the door! They wanted to kill me!”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to call Rolando?”

  “How do you like it? The one time I need my husband, and you are the only one who can help me.”

  She brushed my bangs from my forehead. They weren’t long enough to stay behind my ears, so they fell right back in my face again.

  “Do you believe me if I tell you I don’t know what I have done to deserve this?” she asked.

  “If you’d never seen those men before—”

  “I told you. I first saw them last night when your brother was there. You can ask him. Andy, where were you last night?”

  I only paused a moment. “I needed to spend some time with Stefani.”

  “To make up?”

  “To end things.”

  She leaned over and kissed—of all things—my nose. “I’m glad you had the courage to talk to her. But you don’t need to be told you are courageous.” She lay down and faced away, pulling my hand once again to her waist.

  After a few minutes, I heard the sounds of regular breathing. They contrasted with my own.

  ***

  The phone cut the morning like an alarm clock. I usually remembered to turn the volume off; the night before I’d been too distracted.

  I counted the rings. I had no intentions of answering. I didn’t take calls in the morning on principle even if I happened to be awake, but at the moment, my right hand was lodged under Yiolanda’s breast and my right ankle rested on her leg. I feared the phone would wake her, but she didn’t stir despite the three loud rings. After the voice machine kicked in, the line went dead.

  I was now wide awake. I always woke up more easily when I hadn’t slept well, and I’d slept fitfully, waking up at hour intervals. However innocently, Yiolanda had spent the night with me, and I knew good and well how it might seem to anybody else.

  When Yiolanda shifted her weight, freeing my hand, I got up to make coffee. I wanted to call the police, but I needed to confer with Yiolanda about why we hadn’t called the night before. We could offer a variety of explanations.

  When the phone rang again, I turned off the ringer. I glanced towards the bedroom, but Yiolanda didn’t stir. I shifted the message volume to low so I could screen the call.

  “Andy, it’s Joey and I know it’s early, but …”

  “Hey, bro.” I tried to sound normal, but I was too wide awake for it, and besides, I was trying to talk softly.

  “Everything go all right over in Vegas?”

  “I guess.” I measured out enough grounds of coffee to make four cups.

  “You can give me details later. Listen, today I’ve got appointments straight through, but tomorrow I don’t have so much scheduled. How about if I swing by your place around five?”

  “Sure.” The coffeemaker purred. “What’s up?”

  “Not only was I rusty the other night, but I couldn’t play the intro to Cielo rojo, and I was so messed up on Las indias that Pablo had to play all of my parts. One lady got angry at me because I wouldn’t sing Adelita for her. She kept claiming that I sang it for her a month ago. I had to show a picture of the two of us together for her to believe I wasn’t you.”

  Common problems. That was the challenge and burden of mariachi music. In the minds of our customers, we were supposed to know all the songs. Between the four of us we did a decent job, usually only getting stumped when people asked for norteño tunes that hadn’t been recorded in mariachi style. I understood the woman’s complaint about Adelita. It was a famous revolutionary song, but I was one of the few singers around town who performed it. Most likely, the woman was offended because her name was Adelita.

  “Sorry about that. Customers get stuck on their favorite songs. Did everything else go all right?”

  “I suppose, but a couple of male customers acted like they were casing the place. They were big fellows, strong, the kind that spend Saturday nights lifting weights. One had this big silver cross, and—”

  “I know who you’re talking about. They came back last night.”

  “Oh, yeah? That’s odd. What did they want?”

  “I’m not sure yet.” I poured a cup of coffee and proceeded to spill sugar all over the counter.

  “Maybe they were looking for Yiolanda. With Rolando out of town, I can’t imagine she’s crying herself to sleep. She’s probably flirting up a storm. Rolando ought to put a leash on that woman!”

  “Right.”

  “Andy, that was a joke. What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  We listened to our breath.

  “Yiolanda’s there, isn’t she?” Joey’s voice was heavy.

  I’d learned long ago that it was a waste of time to conceal things from my brother. Sooner or later he figured things out anyway. “She’s here. But not for the reason you might think.”

  “She’s your boss’s wife.”

  “She came to me for help.”

  He paused. “Maybe so. But you’re the one who’s going to need it.”

  He hung up before I could protest. I could hardly blame him for being worried. I’d have been suspicious if he hadn’t been.

  “Who was that?” Yiolanda was standing barefoot in my kitchen, amorphous in my wrinkled shirt. She was smiling, talking to make conversation.

  “My brother.”

  “Uh huh.” With her index finger, she traced her lips. “Does he always call you in the morning?”

  “Not usually.”

  “Did you tell him what happened last night at the restaurant?”

  “No.”

  “Did you tell him what happened afterwards?”

  “Especially not that.”

  “Good,” she said, stretching herself along the doorway.

  “Coffee?”

  “Coffee would be nice.”

  She returned to my bedroom while I searched for a cup without water spots. Finally I gave up and washed a cup. Then I walked to the edge of the bedroom with her coffee in my hand. “Milk or sugar?”

  She was lying on her back in nothing but panties, her hair sprawled over the pillow in all directions, her head cradled in her arms. She’d raised one knee to delicately shield private parts with her leg. She was a Manet lounge queen with a wild streak. But she didn’t look necessarily European or anything else. She was quintessential.

  “What’s the matter? You don’t like the way I look?” She patted the bed as if it were well behaved.

  I set the coffee down on the dresser, spilling only a few drops. Then I turned and left the room. I took such a long shower that I steamed up the mirror and ran out of hot water. I shaved slowly, whisker by whisker.

  By the time I emerged from the bathroom, Yiolanda had gone.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I was late to the restaurant because I couldn’t find a clean white shirt. I finally dragged out an old one from the back of the closet. The sleeves were frayed from too many washings, and the color was off-white rather than white, but I’d kept the shirt for emergencies such as this one instead of throwing it away. I was still fiddling with the collar when I started down Adeline Lane.

  When I strode into Noche Azul, the tinkle of cutlery filled the air. Hernando and Pablo were on stage tuning while Sergio was seated at the bar, deep in conversation with Yiolanda. I couldn’t look at her without remembering the way her hair had fallen across my pillow and how difficult it had been for me to turn away.

  I ambled past the bar. “Hi, guys. Sorry I’m late.”

  Sergio nodded at me. Yiolanda dismissed me with a wave of her hand without interrupting her conversation.

  I’d expected at least a nod.

 
I got to the stage where Pablo silently fingered scales. “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “All right. Didn’t get much sleep. Think I’ll ask Johnny for a soda.” Pablo consulted his watch and shrugged. We were twenty minutes behind schedule, but the boss was out of town and his wife had commandeered the attention of the vihuela player. “Go ahead.”

  “Want anything?” “Not yet.”

  Yiolanda and Sergio were still engrossed in conversation. I went up behind her. “Johnny, would you fix me a Coke? I need the caffeine.”

  Yiolanda and Sergio were discussing the adventure movie currently being filmed in Long Beach and whether or not the male lead had enough sex appeal. During the whole time I was standing beside them at the bar, Yiolanda never acknowledged me. She wasn’t used to being turned down.

  I returned to the stage and whipped out my violin.

  “Ready to play?” Hernando asked. “We can slide through a couple of instrumentals until Sergio quits pretending he’s Don Juan.”

  I checked out the crowd. It was standard fare for the beginning of a weeknight: several tables of couples and a few family groups. At this time of the evening, as usual, the crowd consisted of tourists. If we played a few songs without proper instrumentation, they wouldn’t complain. I nodded to Hernando and Pablo and picked up Sergio’s vihuela. We warmed up on Jesucita en Chihuahua, a standard polka with easy chords. Sergio didn’t seem to notice we’d started playing without him. He merely leaned in closer to Yiolanda so that he could hear every word.

  After we finished the song, the audience clapped weakly. Half of them were studying their menus. The other half were fiddling with children in highchairs.

  “Did Rolando get back okay?” I asked.

  Pablo twisted his mute into the bell of his horn. “He’s not coming until tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “That’s what Dennis said,” Pablo replied.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “I guess not.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  Pablo knew me well enough to sense when I was worried. Normally I leveled with him, but by now it all seemed crazy: running over the roof, hiding in my apartment, Yiolanda lying mostly naked on my bed. “A couple of the customers made Yiolanda nervous last night. I was hoping Rolando would be back so that I wouldn’t have to deal with it.”

  Pablo craned his neck to look at the bar, where Yiolanda and Sergio were practically entwined. “She doesn’t seem nervous now.”

  “Stupid of Rolando to leave her alone,” Hernando chimed in. He was much older than we were, a decade older than Rolando, and his world view reflected an era in which the lines between men and women were tightly drawn. He’d calmed down by now and spent most nights with his wife, but he had shared plenty of stories about his younger days. He routinely made fun of the way Rolando let Yiolanda dangle him around.

  “He ought to be able to trust her for a couple of days,” Pablo said.

  “Ought to but can’t.” Hernando indicated the tête-à-tête. “Any moment now, they’ll start making love at the bar.”

  “Yiolanda isn’t that crass,” I said.

  “Maybe not. But those tight skirts aren’t for Rolando, are they?” Pablo re-tuned a string. “I can’t remember Rolando ever leaving during high season. Can you?”

  “Actually, no.” I wiped the sweat from my brow. “But he picked a good time to get out of Squid Bay. It was so hot last night I had trouble sleeping myself.”

  “You need an air conditioner,” said Pablo. “Sooner or later you’ll have to invest.”

  Sergio waltzed onto the stage and took his place as if he’d won top prize at an arm-wrestling tournament.

  “Stimulating conversation?” I asked.

  Sergio winked. “Yiolanda is a great talker. As long as you know it’s a game, it’s all right.”

  “That’s the problem,” Hernando said. “Rolando doesn’t know he’s being played.”

  “Maybe he wouldn’t want to know,” Pablo said.

  “Maybe,” Hernando replied. Then he lit into Cartas marcadas, and we had to stop talking. By the time Hernando sang the line about losing the game because the cards were marked, Yiolanda was deep in conversation with a male customer.

  I wasn't surprised.

  ***

  An hour later, Yiolanda beckoned to me from the back door of the restaurant. As soon as we strummed our last measures, I set down my violin and followed her upstairs. A bullet hole had destroyed the door handle. Scratches around the hole suggested that wire was used to rig open the latch. I went inside the office and closed the door behind me.

  The rest of the room was in relative order. Receipts from the beginning of the evening were spread out along the desk, waiting to be tallied. I started to ask Yiolanda how she was doing, but she shook her finger at the phone receiver, which was lying on its back. “Don’t say anything about last night!” She breathed the words, waving her hands in front of her face when she got to “anything.”

  “Ola!” boomed Rolando. “How the hell are you?”

  “Hi, Rolando. I—”

  “Yiolanda says you’ve been running things splendidly. I can’t thank you enough! I’ve been so relaxed here at my sister’s, knowing the restaurant is in good hands, and knowing somebody is there watching Yiolanda. Can you talk, or is she right beside you?” His loaded question was so bubbly that it took me off guard. “I said, can you talk now?”

  “No.”

  “She’s there. Uh huh. Anything going on I should know about?”

  I consulted Yiolanda, but again she swung her hands in front of her face in an exaggerated motion of “no.”

  “I guess everything’s okay. How’s it going over there?”

  He recounted the extensive drinking and dancing while Yiolanda watched me quietly. I pawed around on the desk until I found a piece of scrap paper and pen. I scribbled “What about the door handle?” and pushed the note towards Yiolanda. Without picking it up, she read the message and shook her head, lips tightly sealed.

  “I should have driven back home today, but I was so tired I thought, why kill myself? I knew you didn’t need me.”

  “We’re doing our best.”

  “Thanks for everything. Say hi to the other guys. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

  As I hung up, my eyes caught Yiolanda’s. “Why didn’t you want him to know about last night?”

  She paused. “He has enough worries without taking on mine.”

  “Don’t you think it would be better for him to know what’s going on?”

  She shook her head as if I’d asked a question that was too elementary to answer.

  “What if they come back?”

  “They won’t,” she said quickly.

  “If you know that, you know more than you’re letting on.”

  “No. It’s just that I have good intuition. I always trust it.”

  I pointed to the decapitated door handle. “What are you going to tell Rolando about that? Are you hoping he won’t notice?”

  “I’ll have it repaired tomorrow.”

  “Who were those guys?”

  “I don’t know. I never saw them before.”

  I stood and moved towards the door. “This is useless. When Rolando gets back, I’ll tell him everything.”

  “No, Andy! Don’t do that to me!”

  I took her by the shoulders. “You’re going to have to fend for yourself.”

  “Don’t you care what happens to me?”

  “Not half as much as I care about what happens to this restaurant!”

  We both jumped when we heard a knock at the door.

  “Andy?”

  I didn’t have time to move very far from Yiolanda by the time Pablo pushed open the door. “Sorry to interrupt.” He could barely speak for the huge grin. “There are two policemen downstairs, and they want to talk to the manager.”

  I couldn’t look at her. “I’ll talk to them with you.”

  “Yes,” she said slowly,
“perhaps it would be best if you did.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I halted her on the stairs leading down to the restaurant. “What are we going to tell them about last night?”

  “What’s to tell?”

  I pointed to the space we had vacated. “The police are going to want to know why a couple of guys fired gunshots through your door.”

  “No gunshots. No police. No questions.”

  She tried to turn, but I grabbed her arm. “Yiolanda! Think, for God’s sake.”

  “We don’t know that’s why they’re here.”

  “You don’t think they stopped by at two in the morning to ask about illegal immigrants, do you?”

  “Maybe the neighbors are complaining about the loud music again. Maybe there’s a drunk asleep in the parking lot.”

  “Yiolanda, chances are that somebody heard the shots last night. Why not tell the police right now? It will only seem suspicious if we lie about it.”

  “Okay, we won’t lie.”

  “What do you want to say?”

  “Nothing! As long as we’re not filing an insurance claim, it’s none of their business.”

  “Why not tell them?”

  “I don’t like police, all right? If they think they can help us, which they probably can’t anyway, we’ll never get rid of them. They’ll paw all around here looking for God knows what.”

  “Will they find something they shouldn’t?”

  “If they look at the books long enough, they’ll realize we’ve been paying a few people under the table.”

  All the restaurants in Squid Bay paid part of their staff under the table. At least Rolando’s employees had green cards, though some of them were faked.

  “The police aren’t here to look at your books.”

  “If you say anything about last night, I’ll say you’re imagining it.”

  So we were back to the mental card game.

  “I get it. Rolando can’t find out what happened here last night no matter the cost.”

  She stared at me without blinking. “Bravo, Andy. It’s finally sinking in.”