Gunmetal Black

by Daniel Serrano

  She tilted her head slightly and blinked her answer, then placed her drink on the bar, and covered it with a napkin.

  I leaned in her ear because of the music. “Why’d you do that?”

  She touched my forearm and spoke close to my ear. “You never know when somebody might try to slip you something.”

  “That little napkin?”

  “It’s a deterrent. Plus, this way the bartender won’t take it away.”

  She handed her girlfriend her purse. I took her hand and pulled her brown thickness to the center of the pulsating dance floor.

  The thing about dancing salsa, it can be very instinctive. For some it’s in the blood. Even so, if you don’t practice, it can be very hard to feel exactly what you’re supposed to do. The timing can be off. It’s worse if you’re a little drunk. That first step especially can be a tricky one.

  I stood in front of her, resisting the urge to look down into her ample bosom. I held her hand and the small of her back, and stalled for a couple beats longer than I should have. The woman grabbed the lead and got us moving. I fell in step and she yielded the lead, which I felt in my hand. We moved back and forth in synch, a very basic step.

  I spoke over the music. “You’re wearin’ the hell out of that dress.”

  Her smile had less volume than when she spoke to her friend, but it was there. She wore dark maroon lipstick, and eye makeup that reminded me of Cleopatra. “Can we not talk and dance at the same time?” she said.

  I tried to turn her, but it was awkward and took us off beat. I would’ve felt embarrassed except that we jumped back on beat together, easily. I released her hand and she did some steps. I did my own, sometimes imitated hers, or added variations. A couple times she flashed a playful smile. She turned and I turned, and she turned and I turned, and we fell in step, together. No static. Just the eyes connecting in flashes, and a wordless conversation on the dance floor.

  The song finished and we finished with it, on beat, but without too much flourish. The salsera in the red dress turned her smile down completely, businesslike. She fanned herself and lifted her hair away from her neck.

  I asked if she needed a drink.

  “Still got my Cosmo.”

  We made our way back to her friend.

  I ordered a beer and introduced myself.

  She told me her name was Xochitl.

  “So-what?” I said. It sounded like she said So-chee. “Spell that for me.”

  She did.

  “What kind of name is that, Xochitl?”

  “Náhuatl.”

  “Does it mean anything?”

  “If I tell you, you’ll just say something corny.”

  Xochitl didn’t introduce me to her friend—a black girl who looked bored—but I didn’t care. I kept my eyes on Xochitl. She sipped her drink and watched the crowd.

  I made a comment about how cool the club was, and Xochitl just nodded. I asked if she came often.

  “Do they have a poster in the men’s room with all the same questions?” she said with a slight, mischievous smile. “Let me skip ahead: I’m a Gemini.”

  “I can tell.” Xochitl and I’d had nice communication on the dance floor. Now I was lost. “You’re a pretty good dancer, Xochitl.”

  She thanked me in that way that people do when they’re accustomed to compliments. I decided maybe Xochitl was a little stuck-up.

  A guy on the dance floor led his partner and did fancy footwork. I pointed my drink at him. “You like that style?”

  “He’s all right. Kind of busy. Not a lot of people here dance on two, though. He must be from New York.”

  I was not sure what Xochitl meant by that, just a vague idea. While Chiva did occasionally count, his method of musical instruction did not involve as many numbers as you might imagine.

  “I haven’t danced in a long time,” I said.

  “It shows.” Xochitl giggled. “I’m just teasing you. Actually, you have a pretty strong beat.”

  “Yeah? Maybe you can teach me some of your moves.”

  Xochitl crinkled her nose. “Better if you take a class.”

  I sipped my beer and tried to think of what else to say. Xochitl seemed a little icy, but a little flirty too. I might have walked away and looked for something easier, but I really liked the way she hugged the inside of her dress. She had given me just enough lead for me to keep circling.

  Xochitl asked if I was Puerto Rican.

  “To the bone,” I said. “And you?”

  She raised her fist in a Black Power salute. “Viva México.”

  “Figured.” Her voice was a little nasal, feminine, but also a little husky. “You got a bit of a rough voice, Xochitl. I like that.”

  “My sister says I sound like Ana Gabriel.”

  I didn’t know who that was. “You from the North Side, Xochitl?”

  “My people are White Sox fans.”

  “South Side?”

  She nodded.

  I glanced at Xochitl’s calves again. They had a nice big shape, but not too big. Firm. And shaved, with no nylons. I wondered about the rest of her.

  “How about you?” said Xochitl. “Where do you live?”

  I wondered if that was a come-on. Like, maybe Xochitl was interested in leaving the club with me. I told her where I lived.

  She rolled her eyes. “Ugh. I hate that neighborhood.”

  I could’ve asked why, or told her that the area had changed, but I didn’t. Instead, I sipped my beer and looked around. It occurred to me to ask Xochitl where she learned to dance.

  She sipped her drink. “I took lessons. That’s why I recommend them.”

  We stood next to each other for a while, although not together. Xochitl drifted into conversation with her friend. I figured her for not interested. Another man asked Xochitl to dance, and she lazily refused. Then a Marc Anthony salsa came on, and she tapped me on the arm.

  “C’mon, we can’t let this one pass.”

  My heart didn’t skip, but it did speed a little. I left the rest of my beer and followed her. Xochitl and I murdered it on the dance floor. We tore the song apart. By the time Marc Anthony emoted and the music rose, I felt warmed up, loose, in rhythm and in synch with Xochitl. It turned me on that after I made the first move, she now took the initiative to invite me back to the dance floor. The song finished and Xochitl and I returned to the bar.

  “That was the best set of the night,” I said.

  Xochitl fanned herself. “You’re pretty good once you get warmed up.” She took some napkins from the bar and wiped my forehead.

  I smiled at her. She smiled back.

  Xochitl picked up her drink again. “So, Eddie, what do you do?”

  I’d already spoken with a couple of other females that night and had practiced an answer. “I’m in the ink business.”

  “Ink? As in pens?”

  “Printing. It’s a real growth area.”

  “You wouldn’t think so,” she said. “With all the advances in desktop publishing.”

  “Yeah, well. . . how about you, Xochitl? You got a job?”

  “I work in a law firm. Office administration.”

  I could’ve asked Xochitl what that meant, but I didn’t care. The tight red dress was wrapped around the contours of her belly, and I had always liked a woman with a handful of stomach.

  “You got a man, Xochitl?”

  She lowered her lids a little and pursed her lips. “Right now, no.”

  I put my elbow on the bar. “That’s interesting.”

  “Is it?” Xochitl sipped and looked around the room. She looked up at me with the short straw in her fingertips. “You know what I do have?”

  “Tell me, Xochitl.”

  With a hint of Marilyn Monroe, she said, “A twelve-year-old girl, an eight-year-old boy, and a closet full of bills.” She sipped her drink to watch my reaction.

  I thought about saying how much I love kids, how excited I was about the idea of settling down, but I decided I’d appear more sinc
ere by simply saying that it all sounded tough. “What are you trying to tell me, Xochitl? You drive a hard bargain?”

  She smiled mildly. I watched her pick the cherry out of the bottom of her glass and bite it from the stem.

  “You want another drink, Xochitl?”

  “Water. I gotta drive.”

  We waited for the bartender. There was a large Art Deco mirror behind the bar. In it I saw a reflection of Xochitl standing next to me. I know I was a little drunk, but I swore that we looked really good together. Like a handsome couple. Our looks, our bodies, our colors, our features, matched and complemented each other’s, as if by design.

  I was just about to draw Xochitl’s attention to our reflection when I noticed someone else watching us in the mirror. It was Pelón. He stood behind me and over a little, with his hands at his sides, smiling.

  I turned to look at him. Pelón walked over, with the cane slung over his wrist. He wore a chocolate-colored suit with a crisp pink shirt and a pink-and-gray striped tie, a pink silk pocket square. He wore no hat, just his bald head reflecting the pulsing lights of the club. He also wore black-and-white wingtip shoes, real throwbacks that looked brand-new.

  Pelón extended his hand. “Eduardo.”

  I didn’t shake his hand. “What are you doing here?”

  “Antonio tell me he was down here, so I stop by to say hello.” He smiled at Xochitl. “¿Y esta dama?”

  Xochitl introduced herself to Pelón and shook his claw-hand without reacting to it.

  “Ah, Xochitl, yes,” he said. “I know this word.” Pelón did not release her hand. “Doesn’t it mean ‘beautiful flower’?”

  Xochitl made a face like she was impressed. “Where did you learn that?”

  Pelón batted his lashes. “An old man always has secrets. But even if I did not know, m’hijita, one look at you, and I would figure this out.” Pelón kissed her hand. “Un placer.”

  Xochitl batted her lashes back, but I didn’t feel that she meant it. She introduced Pelón to her girlfriend. The bartender came, and I ordered water for Xochitl.

  Pelón slapped the top of the bar. “Water? Eduardo, these ladies are first-class. ¡Cantinero! Forget water. Bring us a bottle of your best champagne, eh?” He put his hand out to indicate both women. “I invite you beauties to a drink.”

  Xochitl said, “Champagne? How can we resist?”

  The bartender collected Pelón’s credit card to open the tab and hopped, popping open a bottle, which foamed. He poured four glasses. Pelón raised his glass to each of the women. “Para la belleza y la juventud. ¡Salud!”

  The champagne was sweet, bubbly, and cold. Also, a little bitter.

  A Colombian salsa came on. A historical song about a slave rebellion. Pelón said, “Oh no. This is my favorite.” He put his glass down, grabbed Xochitl’s girlfriend’s hand, hooked his cane into the crook of my bent arm, and pulled the woman, without asking her, to the dance floor.

  With almost no effort, Pelón led his partner through tight weaves, stops, hops, and turns. Not satisfied, he spun close to me and Xochitl on the edge of the dance floor and grabbed Xochitl by the wrist on just the right beat to make her fall along with the other woman into his groove.

  Now Pelón, the senior citizen, led both women, one with each hand. He held his arms above his head and moved both partners merely by using his fingers, including the index finger on his claw, just twirling them. First one woman went one way, then the other went the other way. Then he turned them in the same direction at the same time, then counter to each other, crisscrossing his arms without knocking the ladies into each other. Pelón extended the women out to the end of his reach, then spun them to his chest, like he was romancing them. Sometimes he would release them and do a jig or something hammy like knocking his knees together, hot-stepping the black-and-white wingtips like Cab Calloway in a musical. This went on for ten full minutes as the DJ mixed Colombian-style salsas into one another, including “Llorarás” and “El Preso.”

  Finally, the mix was over. Pelón removed his pocket square and mopped his head as he flashed his dentures and took a little bow toward each female. The women came back fanning themselves.

  I handed Pelón his cane. “What happened to your limp?”

  “Se me mete la música.” He raised his glass at Xochitl’s friend. “And beautiful womans like this? Se me quita el dolor.” He put his glass down. “¿El baño?”

  I pointed Pelón toward the men’s room and he limped off.

  Xochitl’s friend leaned into her ear and whispered. Xochitl nodded. She tapped me on the shoulder. “Eddie, we gotta go.” She put her glass down.

  “Don’t you wanna dance no more?”

  “I’m worn-out,” she said. “Anyway, my friend and I came together and her babysitter needs to go home.”

  I took Xochitl’s hand and leaned toward the dance floor. “Just one more.”

  She pulled her hand back, polite but firm. “I can’t. Nice meeting you, though.”

  “You sure? My friend and I can drive you.”

  “I have a car.”

  “I don’t mean the old-timer. I got another friend my own age. He can take your girl, get her home safe. I’ll catch a ride with you, Xochitl. We can keep talking.”

  Xochitl smirked. “Yeah, ’cause you’re so interested in conversation, right?”

  I tilted my head. “Can I get your number?”

  Xochitl smiled. “I already burn too many minutes on my cell.”

  “C’mon, I’ll give you a call sometime. We’ll meet up right here. Or wherever else there’s music. I’m just looking for a dance partner.”

  After a certain point, for women who look like Xochitl, it must not impress them anymore how bad every man wants to bang them. She crossed her arms. “Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll think about it.”

  Now I was stuck without a precanned answer. “Actually, Xochitl, I thought I would be the one to call. I ain’t got a phone right now.”

  Xochitl put up an index finger. “I know what that means. A girlfriend or a wife at home.”

  “That’s not true,” I said. “I’m just—”

  “What? Can’t afford a cell phone?”

  “No, Xochitl—”

  “See? That’s why I don’t mess around with mero mero machos. Or papichulos. And I never talk to married men.”

  “Xochitl, I’m single. How old are you?”

  Xochitl made a coy expression.

  “Mid-thirties?” I said.

  Xochitl slapped me playfully on the arm. “¡Ándale! Grosero.”

  “Early thirties?”

  She half-closed her eyes. “I’ve been telling everybody that I’m twenty-nine. Don’t call me out.”

  “OK, Xochitl, so you’re young, you’re fine and everything, but you’re not a baby, right? I can see that. You think I’m fool enough to try and slip something past a mature woman like you?”

  “I don’t know, Eddie, I just met you. I can’t say yet how big a fool you are.”

  Xochitl sported a tough shell. But it was also clear from the way she looked at me that she was curious. I wanted to grab her full hips.

  “Look, Xochitl, I just moved here, OK? I ain’t hooked up my new phone yet, that’s all.”

  “You just moved here? From where?”

  “Downstate. I was out there with some family and I just decided to give Chicago another shot.”

  Xochitl angled one eye at me. “That true?”

  “This is literally like my first night out on the town. I was planning on hooking up my new phone on Monday.”

  Xochitl’s pursed, skeptical lips slowly gave way to an impish smile. “All right, mister. I don’t know if you told a good one or not, but I’ll give you my number. Just don’t let me find out you’re a liar, OK? You got a pen?”

  I bit my lip. “Don’t you have one in that cute little purse?”

  Xochitl shook her head, but dug for one. I scored a book of matches from the bar. Xochitl wrote her n
ame and number in a beautiful cursive on the inside cover and handed it back.

  “Nine to five,” she said. “Monday through Friday. But you better not be a stalker.”

  “Not yet, I ain’t.”

  Xochitl pretended to pinch me in the ribs, which was almost better than if she had winked.

  “You’ll hear from me on Monday,” I said.

  “We’ll see. Nice meeting you.”

  Xochitl gave a little wave and turned with her friend to make their way through the crowd. I took a real good look at her from the back. Xochitl had big curves right where I wanted them.

  I pronounced her name again, “So-chee,” and buried the matchbook in my wallet.

  Tony came back still tipsy. He had been watching me wrap it up with Xochitl and stood back. “You gonna hit that shit or what?”

  I sipped my drink without looking at him.

  Tony said, “C’mon, man, I’m sorry about before, OK? You know I trust you.”

  I looked at him. “You know what, Tony? You’re a moody fuck.”

  Tony did not change his drunken expression.

  “Did you see Pelón?” I said.

  “He’s downstairs in the hip-hop room trying to mack it to some young chinitas.”

  “Fuckin’ asshole tried to cut in on my action. You call and tell him we were down here?”

  “He saw my Caddy in the valet lot and called.”

  I poured the rest of the champagne into my glass and drained it. “Let’s leave before he gets back and sticks us with the bill.”

  Tony shrugged. We headed out. The coat check girl handed us our leathers. We stood in the foyer and waited for the valet to bring the Cadillac around.

  People walked in and out of the club. My mind was on thick, brown, curvaceous Xochitl. Just then, I noticed two guys, two cons I knew from prison: Chulo and Bulldog. They were Roach’s boys. Chulo and I used to lift weights together. He still looked big and cut. They stood outside the glass door, on the other side of the rope. Roach came from behind and shook hands and chatted with the doorman.

  I nudged Tony.

  Tony said, “Mo-tha-fuck-er,” and pulled his driving gloves on tight.

  “Tony, you think there’s a back door?”

  “A back door for what? I don’t run from no one.”