Desperado
Page 1
Praise for the work of Manuel Ramos
“Manuel Ramos captures Denver’s Latino North Side in the same intense way that Walter Mosley depicts black L.A. It’s all here in a gripping dark mystery: the gritty landscape, the racial tension, the conflict between native and newcomer, the violence and gangs and street loyalties as strong as family ties. No outsider could write about North Denver with such feeling and understanding. In Desperado: A Mile High Noir, Manuel Ramos creates a startling novel.”
—Sandra Dallas, New York Times best-selling author,
on Desperado: A Mile High Noir
“Manuel Ramos has taken the best elements of classic noir—the loser anti-hero, urban grittiness, thuggish cops and femme fatales, double and triple crosses—and updated them for the age of Obama. Gus Corral is a zero, a smart but underachieving Chicano who has missed the brass ring of life. He has been reduced to working in his ex-wife’s second-hand shop in the gentrifying Denver neighborhood where he grew up, when Artie Baca, his high school running buddy turned successful realtor, turns up looking for Gus’ help to buy off an extortionist. Old ties and the promise of a thousand dollar pay-off get Gus to agree to Artie’s plea for help, but then Artie is murdered. What follows is a ride through the underside of the American Dream as Gus sets out to find out what really happened to Artie Baca. Money, sex and greed figure prominently in the story but so do class tensions, barrio culture and a multicultural milieu. Ramos handles all of these elements with a deft hand that keeps the story moving and, while avoiding any overt messaging, creates an up-to-the-minute portrait of the new America. I loved this book!”
—Michael Nava, author of the Henry Rios Mystery series,
on Desperado: A Mile High Noir
“Manuel Ramos’ brilliant and gripping Desperado features unforgettable characters, a propulsive plot and the sharpest delineation of the life and geography of north Denver I have ever read. Desperado fully engages the reader from the first page, and I heartily recommend it.”
—Diane Mott Davidson, New York Times best-selling author of the Goldy the caterer series,
on Desperado: A Mile High Noir
“Manuel Ramos’ Gus Corral is a hard luck individual for whom life hasn’t quite panned out like he planned. But when an old friend is murdered, Gus finds himself on unfamiliar ground where danger comes at him hot and heavy. He just might get to the truth—if he doesn’t get his head bashed in first. Desperado: A Mile High Noir is a terrific read.”
—Gary Phillips, author of Warlord of Willow Ridge,
on Desperado: A Mile High Noir
“Manuel Ramos’ latest novel, Desperado: A Mile High Noir, is a vivid, page-turning, gritty crime story about tenacious Gus Corral, who consistently gets caught up in schemes he never bargained for. Ramos offers the historically Chicano neighborhood of North Denver as backdrop and Gus is the in-between guy negotiating the past and seeing the future grip all that was once home. He’s the good-looking, self-effacing, dedicated Chicano who’s trying to make a living in his ex-wife’s thrift store but trouble inevitably finds him and he must prove that he’s neither murderer nor thief. His bold sisters, Corinne and Max, are a perfect complement as they help him dodge the police and criminals. Ramos’ writing is precise, clear, witty and hard to put down. Anyone who is interested in writing crime fiction can learn significantly from reading Desperado. And anyone who wants a first-rate, vibrant read with twists and turns will appreciate Ramos’ mile high noir.”
—Emma Pérez, author of Gulf Dreams and
Forgetting the Alamo, Or, Blood Memory
“A very impressive debut.”
—Los Angeles Times on The Ballad of Rocky Ruiz
“A thickly atmospheric first novel—with just enough mystery to hold together a powerfully elegiac memoir of the heady early days of Chicano activism.”
—Kirkus Reviews on The Ballad of Rocky Ruiz
“Ramos succeeds brilliantly in marrying style and substance to form a seamlessly entertaining novel [with] characters and scenes deeply etched with admirable brevity and skill.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review, on Blues for the Buffalo
“Once again, the compelling, pull-no-punches style that Manuel Ramos is widely known for is what makes this modern corrido of a story the type you can’t put down until the last page. What ensues is a search that takes the reader down a road wrought with greed, sex and corruption—leaving the after-burn of any great thriller-mystery except that this one comes from a distinctly Chicano flame, as unpredictable and American as the genre itself.”
—Tim Z. Hernandez, author of Breathing, In Dust
Manul Ramos
Desperado: A Mile High Noir is made possible through a grant from the City of Houston through the Houston Arts Alliance.
Recovering the past, creating the future
Arte Público Press
University of Houston
4902 Gulf Fwy, Bldg 19, Rm 100
Houston, Texas 77204-2004
Cover design by Mora Des!gn
Cover art by Adan Hernandez
Hell Hound On My Trail
Words and Music by Robert Johnson
Copyright (c) (1978),1990,1991 MPCA King of Spades (SESAC) and Claud L. Johnson (SESAC)
Administered by MPCA Music, LLC
All Rights Reserved
Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation
Witchi Tai To
Words and Music by James G. Pepper
(c) 1969 (Renewed 1997) JOBETE MUSIC CO., INC.
All Rights Controlled and Administered by EMI APRIL MUSIC INC.
All Rights Reserved International Copyright Secured Used by Permission
Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation
Ramos, Manuel
Desperado : a mile high noir / by Manuel Ramos.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-55885-770-4 (alk. paper)
1. Murder—Investigation—Colorado—Denver—Fiction. 2. Noir fiction. I. Title.
PS3568.A4468D47 2013
813'.54—dc23
2012043781
CIP
The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.
© 2012 by Manuel Ramos
Printed in the United States of America
13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This book is dedicated to Genaro “Henry” “Hank” Ramos
1928–2012
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Many people contributed to the creation of this book. Some may not realize their role. Each was important to the process. My thanks to all who played a part. These include fellow writers Lucha Corpi, Sarah Cortez, Sandra Dallas, Diane Mott Davidson, Tim Z. Hernandez, Michael Nava, Emma Pérez, Gary Phillips, Catherine Rodriguez-Nieto; family and friends Neil Gotanda, Mercedes Hernández, Florence Hernández-Ramos, Diego Ramos, Maria Santos; my pals at La Bloga; my colleagues at Colorado Legal Services; artist Adan Hernández; and, of course, the great Arte Público staff.
Special thanks to my agent Toni Lopopolo, who took a chance and hung in there.
Thank you
Author’s Note
Chapter 5 previously appeared as the short story “The Skull of Pancho Villa,” in a slightly edited version, in Hit List: The Best of Latino Mystery, edited by Sarah Cortez and Liz Martinez (Arte Público Press, 2009.)
She tried to wash away her sin
with holy water, then covered her body
with a long, thick cloth
so you would never know
her brown skin had been damned.
—©Lucha Corpi (from “Marina Virgin” in Palabras de mediodía/Noon
Words) used with permission of Lucha Corpi and Catherine
Rodríguez-Nieto (translator)
I got to keep movin’
blues fallin’ down like hail
And the day keeps on worryin’ me
it’s a hell hound on my trail
hell hound on my trail.
—Robert Johnson (from Hell Hound On My Trail)
Juan Diego unfolded his white tilma, where he had the flowers; and when they scattered on the floor, all the different varieties of rosas de Castilla, suddenly there appeared the drawing of the precious image of the ever-virgin Holy Mary, Mother of God, in the manner as she is today kept in the temple at Tepeyac, which is named Guadalupe. When the bishop saw the image, he and all who were present fell to their knees. She was greatly admired. They arose to see her; they shuddered and, with sorrow, they demonstrated that they contemplated her with their hearts and minds. The bishop, with sorrowful tears, prayed and begged forgiveness for not having attended her wish and request.
—Taken from a version of the Nican Mopohua written in Nahuatl by
Antonio Valeriano in the sixteenth century.
PROLOGUE
The Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico City, a combination of tourist destination and sacred church, did not use metal detectors or other screening devices. Guards did not search any of the thousands of daily visitors, and the administrators of the place admitted they had no organized system to prevent an attack. A few soldiers paraded around the grounds with guns, but they primarily snapped pictures at the request of visitors, using the tourists’ cameras. The light security contradicted the importance of the basilica’s most valuable possession: the blessed tilma of San Juan Diego, the tattered maguey cloak with the Virgin’s image imprinted on it, miraculously preserved for more than 400 years, suspended behind an altar where it received believers’ prayers and adoration.
When the thieves came, some of them dressed as priests. Others looked like tourists or office workers on break. They smuggled weapons under their coats and jackets. At a pre-arranged signal from one of the leaders, the men opened fire, indiscriminately, trying to panic the visitors. Hundreds of people rushed to the exits. In the midst of the chaos, an explosion ripped through the building. The moving walkway screeched to a stop. A trio of gunmen jumped over the walkway and, using ropes and grappling hooks, secured the frame that held the tilma, bolted high on the wall. They wrenched the frame from its anchors. Pilgrims and worshippers screamed in agony, desperation and fear.
A priest rushed to stop the men. Several of the gang shot him repeatedly. He bled to death crawling toward the altar.
The tilma, frame and glass crashed to the floor, missing by inches the men who hauled it down. The man who had signaled for the raid to begin picked shards of glass from the icon. With automatic weapons exploding around him and men and women screaming and crying, he cut the cloth from the broken frame with a long-handled knife.
He stuffed the cloth into a thick leather case. The gang ran out of the church to a waiting helicopter that sat on the vast plaza surrounding the basilica. The man with the tilma leaped into the helicopter. The other men ran furiously to the fence that surrounded the compound. A few fell, shot by the soldiers or the police who had finally arrived on the scene. Those who made it through the fence jumped into waiting vans that sped off and raced through the streets of Mexico City, headed in different directions.
One of the escape vans collided with a Volkswagen taxi. All of the men in the van and the taxi driver were killed when a rain of bullets from the pursuing police ignited a gas tank and both the van and VW erupted in flames. Meanwhile, the helicopter rose and disappeared into the smoggy Mexico City sky.
A day later the Archbishop of Mexico City received a demand for one hundred million dollars, the release of twenty-five members of the Rojos held in various Mexican prisons and five more doing time in Texas jails. The neatly typed note warned that if the demands were not met, the cloak would be burned and the entire world could watch the venerated object go up in smoke, all played out on the Internet.
Summer in the city. For a few, living came easy. For others, living ended.
I moved to familiar rhythms embedded in memories of days that stretched forever and nights filled with promise. I executed rituals meant to define my existence. I hoped for one more grand time, one more forever. But the sun drove parasites and pests from the shadows and exposed the limits of my hope.
Dry winds rolled in from the mountains and whipped up dust devils on the horizon. Urban grasses and flowers yellowed in the heat. Aged elms and oaks bowed to thirst. When the dog days arrived, monsoon rains filled gutters and drains but failed to clean the city, or me. I struggled like a fish trapped in a net. I searched for a way out, an escape. . . .
1
He looked as cool as ever. Clothes, hair, attitude. Same old Artie Baca—the hippest guy in high school and now coming across like a GQ cover boy, Chicano style. Sharp-creased slacks, form-fitting silk shirt. Reminded me of that song about werewolves in London. His hair was perfect. He had it working that day.
We sat on opposite sides of a metal card table on uncomfortable wooden chairs painted a disturbing bright red. I hadn’t dug out the floor fans from the storage room, so the recent heat wave left Sylvia’s Superb Shoppe stuffy. Even Mr. Cool had a few drops of sweat on his upper lip. Mustiness surrounded us.
I transacted business at the table when the rare customer bought any of Sylvia’s second-hand junk, what she called antiques. I rang up sales on an ancient cash register, accepted cash or ran credit cards, handed out receipts and change, provided bags when necessary and updated the inventory on a laptop. Highly-skilled, no?
The store had large windows through which I watched the traffic on Thirty-Second Avenue. They also magnified the outside heat or cold and were always in need of a good cleaning, as Sylvia reminded me almost every week.
“I need help, Gus.” Artie’s voice wasn’t what I remembered, not as deep. “I don’t know who else to ask. It’s not something I can talk about to just anyone.”
A thin smile and a subtle wink. Yeah, except for the voice this was the Artie Baca I remembered from my less-than-memorable high school years. I hadn’t seen him all that much since we graduated—I never made it to the tenth-year reunion—but here he sat, asking for something in that way he had that came off as though he were doing me a favor just by asking. He did that all through North High and got away with it. Almost everyone liked him, some even loved him. I was more in-between ignore and hate. He was a pal, don’t get me wrong. At least, that was what I told anyone who asked.
“What kind of help, Artie?”
“This stays between us.” The clipped words rushed from his mouth. “You can’t tell anyone, not Sylvia, no one. Okay?”
Why would I tell my ex anything? But I let it slide. He had my attention, for sure.
“Whatever, dude. Unless you’ve killed someone and you want me to get rid of the body, I won’t talk to anyone about what you say. No need to.”
The skin around his eyes twitched when I said “killed someone” and the healthy tanned hue of his face faded a bit.
“No. Nothing like that. It’s about a woman.”
That didn’t surprise me. Artie copped more tail in high school than the entire football team put together. Girls acted like robots around him. He’d say “Good morning” and they’d drop their panties and bend over. Really, it was almost that bad. Of course, that meant he often hid from one girlfriend while he fooled around with another. Plus, he had more than his fair share of run-ins with angry fathers, brothers and cousins. I said almost everyone liked him. He took the hassles in stride—called it “poon tax.” “I got punched out by Gloria’s brother—paid the poon tax,” he’d say, and then try to laugh. It never sounded like a laugh to me, more like a half-assed giggle through clenched teeth. He could be coarse like that, but we were high school kids.
“Aren’t you a little old for women problems, Artie? I
thought you were married? What happened to that?”
“No, no. I’m married. Linda’s a wonderful woman. I got a couple of kids almost in high school. I . . . ” His voice trailed off. I filled in the blank spots.
“But one night, probably in a bar, you forgot all about your happy marriage and your kids almost in high school because the young woman flirting with you had beautiful eyes and a pair of chi chi’s like . . . ”
“Okay, okay,” he said. “I screwed up. Bad. I admit it. You don’t know how sorry I am that I let it get out of hand. But this was the only time I did anything like that since I got married. I love Linda. I wouldn’t hurt her. I just screwed up. One time, and now it’s like I’m in hell. This girl is crazy.”
“You get her pregnant?”
“Not that, thank God. She wants money, but not for a kid. She’s trying to get what she can out of me. It’s classic. She said that for ten thousand I can have peace of mind for the piece of ass. That’s the way she put it. She’ll go to Linda if I don’t pay. She set me up. We were both kind of drunk, at least I was, and I let her, uh . . . ” He couldn’t finish. He pulled out a pocket comb and ran it through his hair. A quiver of nostalgic regret ran through me. I could’ve been standing in the high school hallway next to my locker, waiting for Artie to set the agenda for the day.
“What happened?”
“I didn’t know what I was doing. We was just partyin’. I didn’t think . . . ”
He caught his breath and turned away when I tried to look him in the eyes. He opened his expensive phone and tapped a few icons. He showed me the video. They were naked on a rumpled bed. A hardcore sex scene that I didn’t want to see played out before me. I said, “A sex tape? Really?”
“This could end my marriage,” he said, the words dull and flat. “I have no choice. I’ll pay her the money.”
I almost laughed out loud. The coolest guy in the world became the victim of the oldest con in the book. I stifled my laugh, sat up and tried to sound sincere.