Pelón stood frozen and stunned. He looked me straight in the eye for a long, silent moment, then touched himself in the torso, as if looking for the spot where the bullet entered his body. I pointed above his head. Pelón turned and looked up. The drywall directly behind him had a bullet hole the size of a quarter, about an inch above his bald dome.
Pelón turned slowly toward the man. “¡Maldito sea!” He grabbed the gun from Tony’s hand and cocked it.
I said, “Pelón, no!”
Pelón looked at me with the gun pointed at the man’s belly.
“Don’t make this worse. That gunshot was heard by the neighbors. They already called nine-one-one. We gotta roll!”
Pelón looked at the gun. He nodded. He quickly ejected the bullets toward one end of the room and tossed the weapon toward the other. “¡Vámonos!”
Tony and I headed toward the door. Pelón was behind us.
He said, “Espérate,” and we froze by the door.
With a wild look, Pelón picked up the elephant tusk and swung it like a heavy baseball bat at the man’s head. From our vantage point Tony and I could not see what precisely that did to the man, but blood exploded and his head rocked and hung to the side like his neck had become rubber. Blood splattered all over Pelón’s pants and shoes.
Pelón dropped the tusk and lingered a second over the body to take a mental snapshot of his handiwork. Then he said, “¡Muévanse!”
We hustled out the door, down the ramp, into the van, which Beto had waiting right in front.
Beto pulled off without burning rubber or driving erratic. “I heard a gunshot.”
Pelón said, “Nobody got shot. Freaking guy decided he wanna play rough. No fue nada.”
Beto said, “Is everyone all right?”
Pelón said, “You see us, don’t you? Stop asking so many questions and focus on the road.”
Beto got us to I-94 and headed back toward the city. Nobody followed.
Beto drove with both hands on the steering wheel. “So how was it? Did you get the yayo?”
Pelón said, “Ha! Piece of bizcocho, nene. You gonna have a good time tonight.”
After the score Pelón played with his hoop earring and offered us an opportunity to renegotiate our contract. We could either take our five grand apiece, as agreed. Or we could keep one of the kilos, break it up, and start throwing it on the street. Using it to make crack was another option.
Pelón said, “It all depends on how much you love money.”
Tony and Beto looked to me to take a position.
I kept my finger to my lip as I thought. Finally, I said, “Why don’t we keep it as flake and put it on the street in quarter bags. Crack’s too political right now; we don’t need that kind of attention.”
Everybody nodded. So we walked away from the episode with a big brick of coke and a new business. That night we all sampled our supply and discovered that it was super high-grade material. I remember the way young Tony laughed when I told him that his nose looked like it was dipped in powdered sugar. We were each certain to turn a fat profit over the five grand “invested,” and we all felt real good about that. Occasionally, I thought about the guy in the wheelchair, but then I shook it off. It was the beginning of a whole new era.
CHAPTER 17:
PORTRAIT
I sat by the window and dialed Xochitl’s number. The night sky was clear, the moon was out, and across the miles, the Chicago skyline twinkled.
Xochitl answered.
“Guess who?” I said.
“How’d I know? I normally don’t pick up if I don’t recognize the number.”
“You hiding from someone, Xochitl?”
“No,” she said. “I just don’t like to be bothered.”
The lights were off in my room. The classical station was on low.
Xochitl asked what I was up to.
“Sitting in the dark, thinking,” I said.
“About?”
“You, girl. That’s why I called.”
“What kinds of thoughts does a grown man have in the dark?”
I paused. “How ’bout I save those for when I see you in person?”
Xochitl laughed and the sound of her laughter made my blood flow.
We chatted about a lot of things, like the assholes Xochitl worked with and how much they did not appreciate her, finding time for chores, where we did our groceries, how her kids performed in school, her hopes that everything would work out better for them than they had for her. I mentioned that it must be nice to have someone to care for.
“It is,” she said, sounding only half-convinced. “Actually, I know that’s true, it’s just—”
“You don’t have to explain, Xoch.”
“I know. Actually,” she said, “I’m a little worried about you. You’re the one who sounds a little distracted tonight.”
I thought about saying it was nothing. “I’m a little down. I ran into a friend today. He’s pretty messed up.”
“Drugs?”
“What else? Coke’s eating his brain.”
“He’s probably just depressed,” she said. “Self-medicating.”
“You read that in a book?”
“Just common sense. Sometimes the best you can do for someone is back off.”
“Ever dealt with an addict, Xochitl?”
“Who hasn’t? But I ain’t even talking about that. I’m talking about human nature.”
Xochitl told me about her sister who married an alcoholic. How he hit her. Controlled everything. Kept her from her family.
I tried one of my mother’s lines. “El amor es ciego.”
“That’s not love,” said Xochitl. “That’s abuse. My sister was smart. She could have been something. Now she spends her day doing laundry, cooking, cleaning. All of that has its place, but. . . So many times I told her to leave; couple times she’s actually done it. Then he cries, she takes him back, and it starts again.”
“Change is a motherfucker, Xochitl.”
“I know it. Believe me I know. And it’s gotta come from within. How deep is your friend?”
I thought about Tony’s anguish in the church. “Rock-bottom. Completely divorced from reality.”
“That’s too bad. But sometimes that’s just what it takes to really see.”
I wasn’t sure what I thought about that. It sounded logical. Static interfered and I walked around the room to improve reception. I changed the subject.
“Must be hard on your family,” I said. “To see your sister, I mean.”
“You’d be surprised. I think my parents would be more traumatized by my sister getting a divorce than by her playing a punching bag the rest of her life.”
“Is that how they reacted to you? When you left? You haven’t said much about it.”
“All you have to do is ask.”
“So I’m asking.”
Xochitl took a breath. “I’m separated, not divorced. The lawyers are still working on it. We have the children. Property to consider.”
“Property? Sounds complicated. You the one who broke it off?”
“It usually takes two to drive a marriage into the ground. Can we change the subject?”
“Sure.” I lay on my bed. “So what are you doing now, Xochitl, this instant when I called?”
“Watching a novela. Giving myself a pedicure.”
“Mmm,” I said. “Now there’s an image. What are you wearing?”
She said, “Don’t be a juvenile,” but I could hear her warm up on the other end.
“You need me to come over and massage your feet, Xochitl?”
Xochitl brought her voice down to a purr. “That sounds nice.”
We let a little silence pass.
“What about you, Eddie? I haven’t heard you say anything about your family. Any brothers and sisters?”
“I’m an only child.”
“Kind of rare in our community. You must be spoiled rotten.”
“Oh, I’m rotten, all right. But I was ne
ver spoiled.”
Xochitl said, “How come your parents had only one?”
“It wasn’t by choice. My moms had a bunch of miscarriages. I almost didn’t make it. Choked a little on the umbilical cord. My father said she didn’t want me to see this world.”
Xochitl made a disgusted sound. “Only somebody who’s never carried a child could say something like that.”
I didn’t disagree. We were quiet for a second. I could almost hear Xochitl concentrate on getting the polish on her toenail.
“Where are they now?” she said.
“Who? My parents? Resting.”
“Retired?”
“No. In the cemetery.”
Xochitl’s voice softened. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s been a long time.”
“Do you have any other family here?”
“My mom has a couple brothers around. They got wives and kids and all that. I never got to know ’em.”
“How about in Joliet? You said you stayed with family there.”
“Oh yeah. . . that was this, um, this one favorite eccentric uncle. He passed away too.”
“So you’re basically alone?”
“Isn’t everyone?”
“No,” said Xochitl. “But is that the way you like it?”
“I don’t know. That’s just the way it is.”
Xochitl waited a few seconds. “What are your plans now?”
“Whatta you mean?”
“Your goals,” she said. “What are you working on?”
“Who talks like that, Xochitl? You been watching too much Oprah.”
“Listen, there’s nothing wrong with having a strategy for self-improvement.”
“See what I mean?” The truth is I liked the way Xochitl talked. I let a few beats pass. “I don’t know, Xochitl. Goals? I studied percussion. Hoping to get back into it.”
“Music?”
“Uh-huh. Congas. Afro-Cuban rhythms. Salsa. Bomba, plena. All kinds of stuff.”
“Aha! The secret of that incredible beat. You wanna be in a band?”
“Someday.”
“You say you used to study. Did you quit?”
“I gave my drums away.”
“Short on cash?”
“I didn’t pawn ’em. I donated them. They were cheap. And they weren’t handmade; I didn’t make them myself. I just figured it was time for me to make my own.”
“To build them yourself?”
“Yeah.”
“Does that make them sound better?”
“That’s what I hear.”
I was tempted to tell Xochitl about my Miami plan, the salsa label with Chiva and all that, but I figured it was probably a bad idea to tell a female who I wanted to get with that my agenda included skipping town. I said, “I know this guy. A friend of mine. He’s like a mentor. He knows how to make ’em. He’s gonna teach me.”
“Sounds like fun,” she said. “I’d love to hear you play. Maybe I could dance for you.”
“There’s a pretty thought.”
After that, Xochitl and I listened to each other say nothing over the line. I thought about her thick hips and big smile. I lay on my bed with the phone pressed against my ear. I didn’t want to hang up, but it felt like we were at the natural end of the conversation.
“Guess I’ll let you go, huh, Xoch?”
“It’s getting late.”
The silence extended.
“Xochitl, this is crazy. I don’t even know where you live.”
“Why would you?”
I changed my approach. “What’re you gonna do once you get your toenails done?”
“I’m gonna stay on my couch and eat a pint of ice cream. I rented a movie.”
“Yeah?” I pictured myself on the couch next to Xochitl, watching her pull the spoon out of her mouth. “For the record,” I said, “I like Rocky Road.”
“Sorry, honey, all’s I got is butter pecan. I got your number on my cell now, though. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
We said our good-nights. I was about to press the end button when I heard Xochitl say, “Eddie, wait!”
“Yeah?” I pressed the speaker to my ear and figured that I could be dressed and out the door on my way to her place in two minutes flat.
“A white T-shirt and pink cotton panties.”
“Huh?”
“What I’m wearing. Remember you asked? I’m in a clean white T-shirt, V-neck, no bra, and soft pink cotton panties. Just out of the shower.”
“Oh shit.” The blood rushed to my center.
Xochitl giggled. “Sweet dreams, bad boy.”
“Yeah, all right, Xochitl.” I would have followed up with, “You don’t play fair,” but she had already hung up.
I met Xochitl on the front steps of the Art Institute, by one of the lions. She wore a navy skirt suit with nylons, beige pumps, a cream-colored blouse under a navy coat.
“You look official.”
“One of the partners had a deposition today. He brought me to translate for our Spanish-speaking client.”
We walked into the foyer.
“I usually come here Thursday evenings, Eddie. They open late and it’s free.”
“You do this often?”
“Every once in a while.”
“You don’t get bored?” I said. “Seeing the same old shit?”
“They have exhibits where they bring in new stuff, but no. The ones I really like look different every time.”
We walked around quiet galleries, looked at paintings and other objects, liked them or did not like them according to our whim. Sometimes Xochitl knew things about the pieces, the artists, the movements.
I scratched my chin. “How did you get into this?”
“The nuns made us take art appreciation.”
We walked around a little.
“How’d you end up working as a receptionist?”
“And part-time translator.”
“Right. How did you get into that?”
“Like I told you, I thought about law, a million years ago, before I became a mother. Now that I’m finally on my own, I’m sort of thinking of going back to school and maybe picking up that path again. I figured it made sense to work in an office first. See if I like what lawyers actually do.”
“Do you?”
“Too soon to tell. I know I don’t wanna be a receptionist forever.”
We came upon a picture of an old man with a guitar. He looked like a bum. Real strung out, on a curb. He reminded me of AIDS patients by the time they hit the ward, the way he leaned against a wall and held his guitar like it was the last pint of blood.
Xochitl said, “I have this idea that I wanna help people. But also, I need to make money.”
“Does your office help anybody?”
“Yes, of course. But there’s a big focus on making money.”
“That’s only natural.”
Xochitl stood in front of a painting that was mostly just black geometric lines on white space. Maybe a spot or two of color.
I tilted my head. “Don’t look like much.”
“That’s the beauty. It looks like nothing’s happening. After a while you see the energy and movement.”
I curled my lips. “Energy and movement? How ’bout just lazy painting?”
“No way. This painting’s about balance and harmony.”
“You’re only saying that because you read the literature.”
She put her tongue in the corner of her mouth. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean that it isn’t true. It’s about order in the universe. It takes a lot of work to make something look like that.”
I shook my head. “The world ain’t never that tidy.”
“That’s why they call it art.”
We moved on to a large canvas that depicted a life-sized, very well-dressed couple from the horse-and-buggy era, arm in arm, on an evening stroll, protecting themselves from a light drizzle under an umbrella on a cobblestone street.
“That,” I said, “that loo
ks like something. They almost look real.”
Xochitl nodded. “They say Paris is romantic, but I went there and didn’t feel a thing.”
“Did you go with anyone?”
“My husband and the kids.” Xochitl got closer to the canvas. “Look how beautiful she is. I love the way they dressed back then.”
Xochitl stared into the painting. I looked at her profile and saw an angle on her that had not been visible before. I touched her cheek. She looked at me. I leaned in and kissed her.
Xochitl’s lips were soft and warm and full. I eased my tongue into hers and it felt like two clouds melding into each other.
Xochitl bit her lower lip. “I’ve been waiting for you to do that.”
I took her hand. We walked around some more. In one room was a collection of weapons behind glass. We saw two sets of armor next to each other, one full-sized, and one much smaller. The information said that the smaller one was designed for a youth.
Xochitl shook her head. “Isn’t that crazy? Sending a kid that young into a battle, where he needs to wear something like that?”
“Maybe it was just responsible. A birthday present from his father. Like, ‘Here, son, your first armor. Watch your back. And don’t get your head chopped off, it’s rough out here.’ ”
“That’s one way to look at it.”
We ended up in front of a painting called Zapata. The revolutionary enters the room all sombrero and cojones like the Angel of Death. You see a gun and bullets and there’s a knife that may or may not be pointed directly at Zapata’s eye, yet he’s the dangerous one.
“Xochitl, there’s something I should tell you.”
She looked at me. She moved to the bench in front of the painting and sat. I sat next to her. I looked up at the painting.
“I been wanting to explain something. Thinking of how to say it.”
“Coming straight out usually works best.”
I didn’t avoid her eyes. “I’m a convict. An ex-con. I just got out of prison.”
Xochitl did not change her expression. She did not gasp. She did not get up and walk away, or run. Finally, she said, “I wondered.”
“How do you mean?”
“I grew up in Little Village. I had cousins. I’ve seen convicts come and go.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“No,” she said. “It’s not. But I knew there was something. You have a certain walk. The way you look at people.”
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