Mariachi Meddler

by D. R. Ransdell

  “Gutiérrez could have been making investments for her.”

  Joey read down the list. “Nevada Gold, Desert Mining, Las Vegas Securities.”

  “She likes to support her home state.”

  “Yiolanda show loyalty? Besides, she has such little head for business.”

  “What makes you say so?” I drained my beer, and without my asking, Joey got out two more.

  “The nights I’ve been at the restaurant, she has the same demeanor whether it’s a big crowd or a lousy one. She’s oblivious to the number of customers.”

  “You should listen to her pound the calculator at the end of the night. She cares about their profit.”

  “Right. Only the profit. Not what they have to do to get it.”

  Joey stood, reached into a cupboard for a sack of pistachios, and set them to one side of my displays.

  “How did Rolando seem to you tonight?” I asked.

  “Moderately relaxed. Extremely relaxed considering his wife is in a jail cell. Do you think he’s on meds?”

  “Shit. I didn’t think to open his medicine cabinet.”

  “He could have been more upset than he looked. He has to act friendly to customers all night long even when they’re annoying. He did snap at Tomás, but that was after the kid tripped over a small child, scattered a plate of rice all over the floor, and landed in a woman’s lap.”

  “Ouch.”

  “The woman did not seem to mind.”

  “Did Rolando say anything to you?”

  “He gave me-as-you a hard time for being drunk.”

  “Miffed?”

  “Amused. He said you were trying to copy Sergio. And you know, the worse I played, the more drunk I had to act.”

  “How’s that?” I took two pistachios at once, savoring the salt. I hadn’t eaten for hours; I suddenly noticed I was hungry.

  “I needed an excuse. You guys rehearsed the other day?”

  “A couple of weeks ago. I forgot about that.” We hardly ever had formal rehearsals. Most of the time we rehearsed on stage, relying on the fact that we played well together to get us through rough spots. We could hear our mistakes, but the audience rarely did.

  “That new version of Bikkina took me off guard. You might want to review it before going to work tomorrow since I promised you would.”

  It was a hazard of the trade. We might play a song one way for years, and then a new recording would come out with a different arrangement, and everyone would want to switch to it. The Bikini was like that. The Luís Miguel version of the popular old beach song was slicker. I didn’t like it as well, but Pablo kept insisting. He was right in a way; even request songs needed to be modernized from time to time.

  My companions and I had actually spent a couple of hours rehearsing before we lapsed into chatting instead. Since we were at my apartment and I’d had the sense to pick up a twelve-pack, we’d found plenty to talk about. “We also studied El soldado de Levita. Sergio’s been bugging me to learn the solo for the last couple of years.”

  “Ah, yes. The huapango I’d often heard but never played. Imagine my surprise when we got to my solo.”

  Even though violin parts were interwoven through every song, there weren’t many fancy violin solos. The song about the soldier from Levita was an exception. I’d avoided learning the tricky passage for years, but when a customer kept requesting the song, Sergio had badgered me into learning it. As long as I was warmed up, I could hack my way through the solo without too much trouble. If we performed the song during the first set, I usually got stuck by the fourth phrase and had to skip notes or slow down.

  “I should have warned you.”

  Joey swallowed a pistachio. “You’ll shame me into practicing yet.”

  “Did anyone ask for El gato negro? I finally learned the words last week.”

  The Black Cat was another song I’d been avoiding. Too many verses. Besides, since the cat of the song was a drug dealer, I didn’t care if we pleased people who wanted to hear it.

  “Worse. A lady requested it. I had to claim I’d forgotten the words.”

  “Sergio and Pablo didn’t press you?”

  “They’d heard me screw up on all the other songs. When I said I was going blank, they believed me.” He took another pistachio. “Are you hungry? I could find you a snack.”

  “What have you got?”

  He handed me a loaf of bread from the top of the refrigerator before surveying its contents.

  “Meat loaf?”

  “Maybe later.”

  “Salmon?”

  “Perfect.”

  The pink slab was delicious even cold. “Don’t you want some?” I asked.

  “I dined at the restaurant. Why don’t you ever eat there? Corinna was delighted when I asked for a chimichanga.”

  “I’m tired of her cooking. I smell it all night long.”

  Joey broke off a crust of bread and played with it before popping it into his mouth. He indicated my exhibits. “Find anything else?”

  I sifted through a few more photos. “Here’s one of Carlos Santiago.”

  “Who?”

  “The singer Yiolanda had cassettes of.”

  “Right, right. Her excuse to hate mariachi music.”

  I showed him a photo of the couple entwined at a party.

  “If he was her first lover, she could have been devastated.”

  “That’s no excuse to turn against a whole genre of music.”

  “If he were a dedicated musician … ”

  “Stop talking yourself into Yiolanda’s defense. Or do you need an excuse to sleep with her?”

  “Joey!”

  He cracked open a nut with his teeth. “Okay, okay, so you don’t need the excuse. You need a new job. One without a Yiolanda.”

  “I’m just saying that she’s not maybe as crass and self-centered as we thought. There’s some reasoning behind her actions.”

  “That’s what serial killers claim.”

  I frowned hard enough to make him repent.

  “All right, already. Show me something else.”

  I pulled a piece of paper from the bottom of a stack. “Let me read you part of a letter: ‘So, his name is Rolando and he’s not married or anything? Try to hang onto one for a change.’”

  Joey peered upside down at the sheet I was reading from. “A woman’s script. I suppose Rolando would be a good catch. Any correspondence between her and Leonard?”

  “Not that I’ve run across.”

  My brother leafed through a few shots. “Some joie de vivre she’s got.” He spread five photos in a row. In each, a different man's arms were wrapped tightly around Yiolanda.

  I pointed to the picture on the far right. “That’s Leonard.” They were standing in front of a car parked along a mountain highway, both wearing winter jackets.

  “Nevada?”

  “On the road to Zion, I’d guess.” The national park was an easy drive northeast.

  “Think it’s recent?”

  I turned it over. “No date.”

  Joey selected a pistachio that was cracked so wide open the nut fell out. “What kind of feeling do you get about Leonard?”

  “That he was a decent enough guy, but his attraction to Yiolanda was so strong that he lost hold of himself.”

  “It’s understandable his wife was bitter.”

  “Yes, and yet, I’m not sure if she was bitter about the affair or bitter that he’d let himself get killed. She grieved over not having him to herself, but losing him was more painful yet.”

  Joey picked up the picture and studied it. “Guess what I heard Rolando tell Pablo. The lawyer doesn’t want him to post bail. He says it will make the Vegas authorities angry. They want the money in their own hands.”

  “I thought they wouldn’t let him post bail.”

  “Instead it was a strategic decision.”

  I reshuffled the top few letters. “No wonder Rolando has seemed so passive lately. There’s nothing he can do.”

>   “The lawyer said for him to let the police fly her to Vegas and post bond there. The transfer will occur tomorrow or the next day.”

  “Unless this restaurant photo does some good.”

  “Right.” Joey picked up another photo, studying it. “Nothing else juicy?”

  “Not really.” I spread out a small stack of black and white snapshots. “Childhood.”

  Joey studied them. “Here she’s ready to cry.” Young Yiolanda held a doll. Her features weren’t pronounced, but she’d been a pretty child, and coupled with the innocence of youth, angelic.

  “She’s no happier here.” In the faded picture, a slightly older Yiolanda was held by a woman she resembled.

  “None of these photos speak well of childhood,” he said.

  “Only this one.” A pre-school Yiolanda held the hand of a well- dressed man who beamed down at her.

  “Her dad?”

  “I’d guess.”

  “Deceased?”

  “For years. I don’t remember for how long.”

  Joey restacked the photos. “Let’s pretend we’re psychoanalysts. She had an unhappy childhood, so she’s devoted her adult life to pleasure.”

  “Take out being chased by angry thugs, and it doesn’t seem so bad.”

  Joey opened the kitchen door and got out a packet of cigarettes. “Have one.” He offered me a Benson & Hedges. “I had to smoke those Wests of yours all night.”

  “Part of the act.”

  We let the smoke drift around us. I was thankful my heart was no longer rushing, and even though I had lots of questions, none of them were burning. “I really thank you for tonight.”

  “Forget it. Or, don’t forget it. Remember that you owe me one. Hey, I forgot to tell you a highlight. We had a guest singer tonight.”

  “So?” We had guest singers most nights. Once people had a few drinks inside them, their voices emerged.

  “A gal who plays with a group over in Arizona.”

  Since its inception, mariachi music had been male-dominated. In Mexico, women often sang part of a set, but they hadn’t reached the status of being integral members. In the U.S. women had started playing here and there at the end of the seventies. By now they were a common element even though Rolando hadn’t yet hired one.

  “She wanted to sing Esta situación, but only Hernando knew it.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Sure you have.” He hummed a few bars.

  “Beatriz Adriana.”

  “Right.” Joey folded his hands. “She sang ¡Cómo que no! instead. I couldn’t play it worth a darn, but Pablo did all right after she whispered the intro to him.”

  “Pablo knows a lot of songs.” I stood, noticing it was three in the morning. No doubt I had overextended my welcome. I always had to remind myself that some people got up in the morning and went to regular jobs.

  “She has a good voice. Loves music.”

  I drained my beer. If guest singers sounded decent instead of embarrassing, we were thankful. “Where was this woman from?”

  “Tucson, I think. Nice-looking too. She’s in L.A. for a wedding celebration. You’d like her.”

  “I hardly need another woman to think about.”

  “Sure you do. Help you forget What’s-Her-Name. Maybe get you out of town so that you can find a better job. One that pays.”

  “I’m sorry I missed her then.”

  “Don’t worry. She and her friends had a great time. They’ll come back. And she’ll remember you especially.”

  “Oh?” As I moved towards the door, Joey followed me.

  “I flirted with her non-stop. That was the only way to beat out Sergio.”

  Joey’s intentions were the best. I gave him my biggest hug. “You make a good me.”

  He grinned. “I always have.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  On my way home from Joey’s, I swung by the lawyer’s office and slid an envelope with Yiolanda’s memory card under his door. By the time I got to the restaurant the following night, Yiolanda had been released. Dennis shared the low down; Rolando had gotten a call in the late afternoon to go the police station, but the desk clerk wouldn’t say why. An hour later Yiolanda had called to ask where Rolando was since she was waiting for a ride.

  Rolando didn’t reappear at the restaurant. At midnight he called and asked me to lock up. He said that he and Yiolanda were busy celebrating her release, so he also wanted me to open the restaurant for the kitchen crew the next afternoon. His voice sang happiness; I hid the relief in my own.

  After work I was glad to leave the confines of the restaurant and melt into the night. My colleagues had spent the entire evening speculating on Yiolanda’s actions and Rolando’s responses to them. The staff gloated over her problems; even Sergio enjoyed countless comments at her expense. It was a comedy roast except that the roastee was out of earshot. Yiolanda wouldn’t have laughed at the remarks about how she wanted to be in jail so she didn’t have to hear mariachi music or that she got herself arrested on purpose so that she could test out sexy members of the police force.

  I wanted to tell everyone that they didn’t know the background: Yiolanda was fonder of mariachi music than we knew; she cared enough about Rolando’s feelings to make personal sacrifices for him; her need for attention stemmed from childhood sadness. Instead I kept my mouth shut. No one would have listened. The gang was having too much fun.

  I cut through Lilac Street and perched on a bench with a view of Hotel Osborn. Nothing explained why Yiolanda had married her husband in the first place, let alone why she’d stayed. Rolando wasn’t rich enough for her interest to be purely monetary. She lived in a cloud of lies but returned to the nest. Rolando must have noticed some of her antics yet didn’t divorce her, so there was a twisted co- dependency on his part as well.

  I wasn’t ready to go home to an empty apartment, so I opted for a walk around the block. All the windows I passed were dark; my neighbors had their lives in order while I was the oddball insomniac. I took a shortcut through a grassy knoll to get to Oak Drive. The street led straight up a hill that overlooked St. Michael’s Square. I loved the panoramic view of the square, but usually I was too lazy to face the steep climb. Tonight I had a different strategy; if I could wear myself out physically, I hoped my body would force my mind to sleep.

  From my new vantage point I saw several blocks of houses. I imagined the occupants pleasantly asleep in their beds, the husbands curled up with their wives, the children with stuffed animals. Maybe Joey was right. He said I needed a new lifestyle. He threw subtle hints by telling me about houses for sale in Costa Mesa. “Why do you want to live so close to work?” he would ask. “Mainly, so I have a chance of getting there on time,” I would answer.

  Joey knew it was an excuse. Living in Squid Bay offered a steady stream of female tourists who had come to relax on the beach. By early evening, the women would populate the cafés and eventually the restaurants, searching for a way to wind down after spending the afternoon soaking in the sun. Some nights I’d been of service. After midnight, some of the hotel owners unofficially rented cheap “play rooms” if there was no hope for regular guests. At Hotel Osborn, depending on who was manning the desk, I didn’t have to pay.

  The right girlfriend might be able to keep my mind off a temptation like Yiolanda, but I needed someone understanding enough to realize that my music job came first and that I wasn’t ready to make long-term commitments. I also needed someone challenging enough to keep me from being sidetracked. So far I hadn’t met anyone who fit the bill.

  Past the library, I sat down on the front curb of a silent, private house. Before she passed, it belonged to Granny Sofia, whose grandson I’d gone through grade school with. I couldn’t think of his name, but it started with a D. He lived near my parents’ place, so I would go over to play with him, and then his parents would cart us over to Granny’s. I grew up racing a little green bicycle between Granny’s and the library. The woman only had one bike, so D and I
had to fight over it. I usually won because even though we were the same age, I was taller and stronger. Sometimes Joey was with us, and we would team up against D. Now I played with women instead of bicycles, but the game hadn’t changed.

  A yellow cat approached me cautiously and rubbed against my leg. Perhaps the companion I needed was a furry one. Cats didn’t take much work, and they didn’t make much noise. A dozen would be easier to handle than one Yiolanda. I tried to keep my mind out of the bedroom where she and Rolando would have spent the night celebrating, but it kept creeping back.

  I didn’t move until dawn started to show hints of itself in the eastern sky.

  The next evening Rolando greeted everyone joyously, thanking us for the support we’d shown him through difficult times. Yiolanda turned up late in the evening, wearing such a tent-like outfit that she hardly seemed the same woman. Instead of helping out with the register, she sat quietly at a table near the back wall. Whenever he could, Rolando sat by her side, often holding her hand, and plying her with food she barely touched.

  Although she caught my attention once, and nodded, she didn’t come near enough to me to say anything. I didn’t think she would.

  ***

  The following morning I was lounging in bed irritated that I still hadn’t fixed the fan when I heard a timid knock at the door. Eleven a.m. It couldn’t be Stefani; she never took a break this early. Mrs. Sfirakis knocked more loudly. Joey called my name while knocking briskly so that I wouldn’t be tempted to ignore him.

  After I heard another knock, I went to open the door.

  Yiolanda in a yellow sundress. Her sunglasses were perched on her head, and a slender gold chain snuggled into her chest. She carried a small leather purse and wore matching brown sandals with exaggerated heels. She didn’t wait to be invited in.

  “You’ll want your other photos.”

  I indicated my coffee table where the contents of the Spanish box awaited her. “I only took your stuff because I was afraid Rolando would come back before I could get out of there.”

  “Oh, Andy!” she rolled into my arms with a wet kiss. She proceeded to kiss my lips, my chin, and my neck while holding onto me. Her breasts bubbled against my body. I wanted to yell for her to stop, but by the time the word left my mouth, it came out as a whisper that she ignored. I reached behind her and shut the door.