Читать книгу Playing for the Devil's Fire - Phillippe Diederich - Страница 8

2.

The gate at the Secundaria Vicente Suárez school was closed. The groundskeeper sat on a chair inside, his big straw hat pushed back on his bald head, his arms crossed. He smiled, showing us his rotten teeth. “Haven’t you heard, niños? El Profe Quintanilla is dead.” He slowly ran his thumb across the front of his neck from ear to ear. “They cut off his head.”

Classes were cancelled for three days. I ran home, changed out of my uniform, grabbed my shoeshine box, and went to the Minitienda to meet Mosca. Three days without school meant three days to polish shoes and earn some cash. The feria was coming to Izayoc in a few weeks. Mosca and I had to make some serious money.

A lot of us hung out at the Minitienda on Avenida Porvenir, one of the old cobblestone streets between my house and the plaza. Don Ignacio was cool with that. He didn’t have a problem if we brought bottles to redeem the deposits or just hung out on the narrow sidewalk in front of his store, even if we didn’t buy anything.

I set my shoeshine box down and sat on the sidewalk when Edwin Contreras walked up. He was seventeen, fat, and wore clothes that were too small for him. He was always hanging around: all talk and no action. That’s why he got the nickname Zopilote, the vulture.

Zopilote’s parents owned Dos Caminos, a big open restaurant with a palm-thatched roof. It was on the outskirts of town near the new highway. On weekdays, it was popular with truckers, and on the weekends people from Izayoc would spend the afternoon there drinking and eating seafood cocteles and grilled meats.

“What’s up, pinche Boli? No work?”

“At least I work, no?”

“Take it easy, güey. I was just saying. You look bored. Where’s your girlfriend?”

“Shut up.”

He laughed and walked into the Minitienda.

Zopilote was a fool. His father resented him because he never helped with the restaurant, but his mother gave him money. I actually felt sorry for him. He was always alone. Everyone laughed at him behind his back, but he didn’t seem to care. He was a jerk, always acting like he was too good for the rest of us.

He came out of the store with a caguama of Carta Blanca and leaned back against the wall. The big bottle looked huge in his hand. “Too bad I’m wearing sneakers, otherwise I’d ask you for a shine.”

I glanced at his shoes.

“They’re the new Nikes,” he said and took a long drink of his beer.

“They’re fake.”

“What are you talking about?” He looked at his shoes and turned his foot to examine the logo. “My mother got them in Toluca.”

“Real Nikes don’t have that stitching around the logo like that.”

“Bullshit.” He turned to the side, holding his beer between his arm and chest, and texted someone on his smart phone. Then he grinned at me as he put the device back in his pocket. “It’s the latest model. You can’t get them around here. Or even in Toluca.”

A group of girls was walking toward us on the opposite side of the street. They were still in their school uniforms—blue skirts, white blouses and tall white stockings, their black hair in braids and ponytails. They stopped to look at the fabric in the window of Telas y Novedades Virgo. The store belonged to Bonifacio Cruz. All the girls in town, including my sister Gaby, bought material there to make their quinceañera dress. My father always said Don Bonifacio had a sweet deal. Unless people were willing to make the trip to Toluca, they had to buy from Don Bonifacio.

“Check it out.” Zopilote pointed to the girls with his beer. “Here they come, Boli. Get smart.” He stepped away from the wall and squinted. “Ay güey, that one looks like Ximena.”

It was. Ximena Mata and her best friend Regina Martínez and three other girls from the secundaria. Ximena was a princess. She never braided her hair like the other girls. She kept it loose so it sailed across her face whenever the wind blew. She had high cheekbones and sleepy eyes. I swear that was what drove us all crazy. That, and how she wore her stockings rolled down and always kept her uniform blouse unbuttoned down to the middle of her chest.

“That Ximena’s a real doll,” Zopilote said. “Look at how she swings her hips when she walks. “Qué nalgas, no?”

Then we heard the pounding of a deep bass at the opposite end of the street. A late model black Ford Expedition Max with pitch-black windows and spinning silver rims was coming slowly down the hill.

Zopilote gawked. “That’s a fine truck right there. One day I’m gonna get one just like that, but red with gold rims. Or a pickup.”

The sound of the cumbia got louder as it got closer. When it passed, the bass shook all the windows on the street.

“For real, cabrón. You all think I’m wasting my time, but I’m making friends in important places. That’s how it’s done. You’ll see.”

I had never seen the truck in town before. As a matter of fact, only Don Bonifacio had one like it, but his was a Suburban. It was green and old and he didn’t even drive it anymore. This was a brand new Ford with California plates and wide, low profile tires. It was so low to the ground, the bottom almost scraped against the cobblestones. When it reached the girls, it stopped. The girls pushed each other and laughed, covering their mouths with their hands. Ximena smiled. She never smiled.

“I bet you they pick up those whores,” Zopilote said.

The girls jostled and giggled, but Ximena was a statue, staring straight at the side of the truck. I wished to God I could see who was inside. The whole scene made my stomach shrink.

Then the Expedition started moving again. The girls made a tight circle and watched it bounce slowly down the hill.

“Pinches putos,” Zopilote said. “If I had a troca like that, I’d be taking those girls on a joyride to the countryside.” He took a long drink of the big bottle and moved his hips forward and back a couple of times. “You know what I mean?”

“Who was that?”

“Who cares?”

The girls split up. Ximena and Regina started up the hill toward us.

“My father says the new highway’s going to change our little town,” Zopilote went on because that was what he did. He talked and talked and didn’t care if anyone listened. “As a matter of fact, my jéfe says he’s going to expand the restaurant and might even open a hotel right there where the new highway meets the road into town. But don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.” He took another long pull at the bottle. “It’s a time of prosperity. If we play it right, we’re gonna be rich. You’ll see, cabrón. Pretty soon you’ll see me in a new troca just like that one. Or maybe a better one Ya verás.”

Regina held on to Ximena’s arm as they came up the block. Both girls were older, seventeen. Regina was friends with my sister Gaby. She was talking, but Ximena didn’t seem to be listening. Ximena was like that. She had this look as if she couldn’t be bothered with what was happening around her, but not in a bad way. It was as if she belonged in a different world and was waiting for life to take her there.

I had a thing for Ximena. I’d had it for a couple of years, ever since I was in fifth grade and she was in ninth. We were paired together on a school-wide history project about the Niños Héroes. When the teacher complimented us and named our group one of the winners, Ximena turned in her seat and locked eyes with me. I smiled. She kissed the palm of her hand and blew, sending that invisible kiss straight to my heart.

“They’re coming.” Zopilote was all excited. “You know Ximena has a badass crush on me. She’s just a little shy.”

Regina waved as they crossed the street. “Hola, Boli.”

“What’s up?” I said. “It’s nice that they gave us some time off to mourn el profe, no?”

“Can you believe it? Pobrecito.” Regina covered her mouth. “Gaby said you were there when they found his head.”

“It was pretty gross.”

Ximena turned her eyes away. She reminded me of a cat.

Regina said, “He was my favorite teacher.”

“Who was that in the troca?” Zopilote asked.

Regina shrugged. “A couple of guys.”

“¿Gringos?”

“No, qué va.”

“It had California plates.”

“I didn’t notice,” Regina said. “They said they’re from Uruapan.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Zopilote said.

“What are you saying?”

“Ya, it’s not your fury I want, mi amor.” Zopilote pressed the beer bottle against his chest. “It’s your love.”

“I’d rather be dead,” she said.

I laughed. Ximena rolled her eyes. Regina released her arm. Ximena walked into the store.

“Don’t be cruel,” Zopilote said.

Regina turned to me. “Why do you hang out with this idiot?”

“I’m not. I’m waiting for Mosca.”

“Maybe we’ll see you later,” she said. “Tell your sister I said hello.”

Zopilote watched her go into the store. “She likes me.”

“You’re crazy, güey.”

“You’re too young to understand these things.”

“Seriously, pinche Zopilote. It’s like you live in your own world.”

“Chill out, Boli. When you’re ready to learn about life, let me know. I’ll be happy to give you lessons. Gratis.”

Then the girls came out of the store. Zopilote and I watched Ximena’s smooth brown calves shining in the sun as they walked up the street.

A few minutes later, Mosca showed up.

“What happened? Where’s your box?” I asked.

“I’m done.” Mosca nodded at Zopilote. “There was a group of men drinking at El Gallo de Oro. I shined all their boots. A hundred pesos.”

“You’re rich, enano,” Zopilote said.

“Who’s talking to you, pinche puto?”

“It’s a free country, no, güey?”

“So I’m free to break your face?”

Zopilote laughed. “You and what army, pendejo?”

Mosca stepped back and raised his fists. “Bring it on.”

I’d been friends with Mosca since the second grade. I’d never seen him back down from a fight. Most of the time he won, but sometimes he lost. He wasn’t a troublemaker. But for some reason, maybe because he was short or just because he was Mosca, people liked to pick on him.

“Come on.” I grabbed his arm. “I’ve wasted enough time here.”

“No, Boli.” Zopilote set his beer bottle on the ground. “Let him try, see how he likes it.”

We walked away.

“Chicken.”

We stopped. “Watch out,” I said. “I’ll let him go.”

Zopilote raised his fists. “I’m not afraid of him.”

“Just pray I don’t find you walking alone when Boli’s not there to save your ass,” Mosca said.

“I didn’t ask him for help.” Zopilote curled his fingers and waved his hand in an obscene gesture. “Mocos güey.”

Mosca tore away from me and charged. Zopilote’s face twisted. He jumped back. Mosca stopped and laughed. “Yeah, that’s what I thought, cabrón.”

“Guess what?” Mosca said as we walked away. “They put up new posters for the feria announcing the wrestling.”

“For real?”

“They’re all over the wall of the old brick factory.”

“So who’s coming?”

“El Zorrillo de León, Subministro Fox, Ruddy Calderón. And guess who else?”

“Don’t tell me.”

“El Hijo del Santo!”

“Bullshit.”

Mosca crossed his thumb over his index finger and kissed it.

Last year at the fair, the wrestling matches had been a joke.

All the wrestlers were nobodies, amateurs from the provinces. But now it was not only El Zorrillo de León, but also Ruddy Calderón. And El Hijo del Santo. That was huge. He was the last of the good guys. A real luchador. A legend just like his father Santo, el enmascarado de plata, the silver-masked wrestler.

“But there’s one thing.” Mosca grabbed my arm. “The tickets are super expensive.”

“With a lineup like that, they gotta be like a million pesos, no?”

We turned the corner. A group of boys was running up the street. It was Raúl Guerrero and three other boys from the elementary school.

“What do you think’s up with them?” Mosca asked.

“They probably want to play you for the devil’s fire,” I said.

“Yeah, they wish.”

They stopped in front of the butcher shop where Raúl’s uncle worked. Two butchers came out on the sidewalk, their white aprons covered in blood. Raúl pointed to where he’d come from. One of the men nodded and gestured toward the plaza and went back into the shop. Raúl and the boys ran up the sidewalk and crossed the street to meet us.

“We found a body,” Raúl said. He was panting and out of breath.

Mosca shoved him. “Liar.”

Raúl crossed himself. “I swear to God.”

Mosca and I looked at each other. We had to be thinking the same thing: the body of el profe Quintanilla.

“We’re on our way to get Pineda,” one of the boys said.

I grabbed Raúl’s arm. “Where is it?”

He pointed east. “The Flats. In the weeds right before you get to the dump.”

Mosca and I ran as fast as we could. The dump was just outside town at the end of a long field where we played soccer and where they set up the feria and the circus whenever they came to town.

The dump was always smoldering, but there were never any flames, just a long line of whitish smoke that rose like a thin string up to the sky. Most of the time the wind blew the stink away from town. But when there was no wind or in winter when the wind swept up from the east, they could smell the rot all the way to the top of Santacruz where Mosca lived.

The field was deserted except for a few dozen vultures and crows pecking at scraps and circling the sky over the dump. By the dry weeds, a pack of stray dogs growled and barked at each other.

We made our way across the dusty field. The dogs raised their heads, waited, then scampered away, their tails between their legs.

It was not the body of Enrique Quintanilla. It was a woman. She was lying face down. And she was naked. She was missing the fingers of her right hand—just had five red stumps with white bits of bone at the end. But there was no blood. It must have been what the dogs were biting at. She had long black hair. Her skin was pale and tight against her swollen body. It had a weird shine to it like oil. Flies were crawling all over her back and ass and between her legs. It stank of rotten eggs and shit.

It was the first time either of us had ever seen a naked woman. We just stood there, hands over our nose and mouth, staring at the strange nakedness, at her ass and arms and her wide thighs.

“She’s…dead, right?”

I nodded, but I really had no idea.

“Who is she?”

“I don’t know,” I said. We were breathing fast, sweating, staring.

“You think we should turn her over?”

“What about Pineda?”

A group of men and women were heading toward us from the row of small wood and cardboard houses that lined the field. The dogs kept watch from a short distance, waiting.

I don’t know if it was because the woman was naked or because she was dead or if it was the foul stench of rot that mixed with the burning trash that came and went with the breeze, but suddenly I realized something really ugly was happening. A fire burned in my throat. This wasn’t like when we found el profe Quintanilla’s head. This was worse.

Just as the group arrived and gathered around the body, Captain Pineda’s little Chevy turned off the road and bounced up and down as it cut through the field, its lights flashing like wet fireworks. When he arrived, he pushed everyone out of the way. One of his men covered the body with a white sheet. He waved us off and ordered the women to take us away because this was unfit for children. Then he picked up a rock and threw it at the dogs.