In the tank in Tulare, Juan saw that he and his friend were in for problems. There were over twenty men in the fish hole, and they were fighting amongst themselves like mad dogs.
Realizing that they’d be spending the next two months in the hell hole, Juan immediately decided to buy a carton of cigarettes and bring peace to the tank as quickly as he could.
Going to the far corner of the tank with his cigarettes, Juan sat down by himself and watched things, planning his strategy. He listened to the men arguing among themselves and quickly came to the conclusion that the two main troublemakers were a big, blond-headed farm boy and a small, short-nosed, bulldog Anglo. There were five other whites in the tank, but they didn’t matter. The rest were all mejicanos, except for four blacks and Juan’s friend, the old Chinaman. The blacks were of no consequence to Juan. Inside a prison, the main battles were always between the gringos and the mejicanos; blood and guts were the main issues, not the size or muscle.
Sitting in the corner alone, Juan saw that the mejicanos were keeping watch over him, but he’d deliberately stayed away from them. After a few minutes, the tall farm boy came over toward Juan, acting abusive as he came. He was a big, raw-boned kid, about nineteen years old. Juan acted frightened. The big, unsuspecting boy loved it, closing in.
“Hey, you son-of-a-bitch chili-belly,” he roared. “You give me ’em cigarettes or I’ll fry your greaser-ass!”
Saying this, the tough boy made the mistake of taking his eyes off Juan so he could look around and make sure all his friends had heard his threat. That was the poor boy’s mistake. Instantly, Juan sprang to his feet and hit the big boy under the chin with the top of his head as he slugged him in the balls, then spun him around and rammed his head into the concrete wall. Blood splattered, his teeth coming through his lower lip, and the boy collapsed. And when Juan whirled about to go after the other troublemaker, the man with the short nose backed away as fast as he could.
The mejicanos, seeing Juan’s worth, shouted, “¡Viva Méjico!” And they came over to meet their fellow countryman, but Juan didn’t join them. He’d quit trusting his people since the rock quarry. No, instead, he organized them as Duel would’ve done. He gave out cigarettes and promised everyone that he’d buy them more. Then he had them elect a judge and three advisors, and Juan made sure that the Chinaman got to be an advisor, too.
By nightfall, Juan had the tank running as smoothly as a card room, and he told them that he’d tolerate no more bullying. They were men, after all, not dogs. And so they would get along with each other like civilized people or they’d answer to the judge and would be severely punished.
That night, Al, a huge old Italian who’d been sitting quietly all this time in his own corner, came over to Juan.
“I been watching you,” said Al. “And I’ve been here two weeks and we been fighting each other like so many fools, but you been here only half a day and you make the peace.” He smiled, showing a fine, gold tooth. “You going to go far, young man,” said the huge, dignified old man. “You have real talent. It’s an honor for me to meet a man of peace. The name is Al Cappola.”
Juan took the old man’s hand, which was every bit as large as his own. “Juan Villaseñor,” said Juan. “The honor is mine, Señor. It’s not every day that I have the pleasure of meeting a man who respects the peace.”
The old Italian smiled even more and invited Juan to his corner. They sat down together and talked quietly all night. Al Cappola told Juan that he was a professional liquor maker who’d been brought over from the old country by a group of Italians for the sole purpose of making fine liquor for a big operation in Fresno.
His friends were all Italians, and they supplied ninety percent of all the liquor in the San Joaquin Valley, from Sacramento to Bakersfield. They even took care of parts of San Francisco. But the distillery where Al worked, outside of Fresno, had been raided last month.
“But still, I got no worries,” said the handsome old man, “I’m paisano with the bosses, and so I’m getting paid five dollars a day for every day I spend in jail.”
Juan was very impressed. He’d never heard of such a group of people outside of his own family back in Mexico, being this close and responsible for one another. And five dollars per day was a great fortune. The old man had to be first-rate to be paid such an amount.
“My hat is off to you,” said Juan. “I respect your organization and this term you use of paisano. And, also, I wish you to know that we have the same word where I come from in Mexico. Paisano, meaning countryman, is also what we call the long-legged bird that runs along the roads. Because that bird, you keep him near your house, and he’ll kill all the rattlesnakes in the area and make it safe for you and your children.”
Al smiled. “Small world,” he said. “Paisano means exactly the same thing back in my hometown, too. A friend who keeps away the evil snakes of life.”
And so they continued talking, quickly becoming friends as men do in jail, showing their true worth to each other, and it was good.
The following night, Juan licked his lips, measuring his words very carefully, for he knew that the knowledge of making fine liquor was worth millions right now. That was why they’d brought this magician all the way from the old country: just for this purpose. “Look, Señor,” he said, “we’ve talked and become friends, so I hope you don’t take offense at what I’m going to ask, but, well, I’m a gambling man, you see, and I’ve got a little money put away, and . . ., well, I’ve tried making liquor before, but believe me, it’s a talent far beyond my humble abilities. So, well, I was thinking,” continued Juan carefully, cautiously, “if it wouldn’t put you in badly with your paisanos, that I’d like to pay you a few dollars per day to teach me how to make liquor while we’re here.”
The old man looked at Juan a long time before he spoke. “You know,” he said, “if anyone else asked me this, I’d spit in their face, but,” he said, smiling, “I like your style. So, yes, for a few extra dollars per day, I’ll teach you the art of fine liquor-making as only they know in Italy or France! But, remember, you no sell in my paisanos’ area or they’ll kill you four times before you die, and I’ll help them!” he whispered under his breath, staring at Juan.
But Juan didn’t shy away, fully realizing that he was no lightweight, either. And he pulled down into his guts and stuck out his hand. “Agreed,” he said, “man to man, a lo macho!”
“Good,” said the old man, “then it’s a deal!”
For the next two weeks, Juan listened to the detailed lectures that the old man gave him, asking questions when he didn’t understand. And, little by little, Juan began to comprehend just how fine liquor was made. It wasn’t that complicated once you got the basic concept. In fact, it was quite easy once you knew how. It all made perfect sense, just like a magician’s trick.
Two weeks before Al was to be released from jail, Juan paid a guard twenty dollars for him to smuggle in the supplies they needed to make a batch of liquor. They made several gallons of whiskey right there in the county jail. By the time the Italian was released, Juan was a quality liquor maker, and all the guards and prisoners were happy, they got so drunk.
The day Al left, Juan felt as sad is if his own father was leaving, they’d become so close, talking day and night for five weeks.
There had been only one time in all their talking that Juan had ever seen the gracious old man’s eyebrows come up. And that had been when Juan had told him that he’d been searching for a quick-eyed Filipino and his big Italian partner when he’d gotten arrested.
“And what will you do to these two men when you catch them? Ah, cut their throats like they did you and draw the law to yourself?” The old man had shaken his huge, lion-headed face sadly. “I’d thought you were a man of peace. Too many good young men have I seen die in senseless vengeance. Forget them; get rich and find a wife,” he’d advised. “Enjoy your life.”
“Thank you,” said Juan. “I think you’re right.”
And Juan h
ad said nothing more. He wondered if maybe the formidable Italian was Al’s relative. Maybe even his son.
But getting out of jail, Juan Salvador immediately went looking for the Filipino and his friend. He hunted them for several weeks but could find no trace of them. Juan decided to quit his hunt for the time being and looked up Al Cappola in Fresno. He was tired of being poor and wanted to make some real money.
Juan and the old Italian broke bread and drank together, truly enjoying themselves. Al gave him the address of a place owned by some paisanos in Los Angeles that sold everything that a quality bootlegger needed to get started.
“Also when you’re down that way,” said Al, “stop by and visit my younger brother, Mario. He makes a little whiskey, too,” he said, handing Juan his brother’s address. “Who knows? Maybe you two can help each other keep the snakes away, like true paisanos.”
Juan thanked Al and took off. Getting to the big warehouse in downtown Los Angeles, Juan was shocked. Why, Al hadn’t been joking. They really did sell everything that a bootlegger needed, short of the actual liquor itself.
Juan bought a kettle, a stove, a needle for aging the whiskey, and half a dozen oak barrels. Now he was on his way.
He rented a big house in the barrio just east of downtown Los Angeles, put the barrels to ferment, and went home to visit his family and tell them how he was doing. Then he stopped by and saw Al’s brother, Mario. The man was friendly and treated him well, but Juan just didn’t trust him the way he’d trusted his older brother.
Juan returned to Los Angeles and finished making his first batch of liquor, and it was excellent! The best he’d tasted since he’d left Montana. He was able to sell it all to Archie Freeman at a damned good price.
He hired Julio, his old friend from the rock quarry, and brought him up to Los Angeles to help him make up a bigger batch. He was able to sell half of this one to Archie, too. Juan made so much profit that he decided to buy himself some new clothes and the finest car that money could buy.
What the hell! Having money to burn in your pocket made the whole world look so good that it was hard to keep murder in your heart. Maybe Al was right, he should forget about the Filipino and his friend and enjoy his life.
Juan parked in front of a big luxurious car lot in downtown Los Angeles, and got out of his beat-up old car, feeling great. Oh, walking down the street with a roll of money in your pocket so thick that you couldn’t fold it in half made a man feel ten feet tall!
“Which one do you like?” asked a young blond, salesman, walking up behind Juan.
“Don’t know,” said Juan, walking around a big, dark green Dodge convertible. He was dressed in a navy blue pin-striped suit and had a pair of tan calfskin gloves and a full-length, ivory-white car coat. “This one with the brown seats goes well with my gloves and coat.”
The salesman laughed. “That’s a good one, my friend,” he said, sticking out his hand.
But Juan didn’t take it. “How much?” he said, wanting to cut through the bullshit.
The salesman lowered his hand. “Fifty bucks down and you can drive it home today.”
“No,” said Juan, “how much cash for the whole thing?”
“You mean all seven hundred and ninety-five dollars?” asked the salesman. He was in his early twenties, and he’d never sold a car for cash before.
“Sure,” said Juan, “unless you got something against cash.”
“Oh, no,” said the salesman, becoming extremely courteous, “believe me, I have nothing against cash. Come right this way, we’ll go into my office and write you right up, sir!”
The salesman walked Juan across the lot and opened the office door for him, smiling and talking politely the whole time, and Juan loved it. It felt good being treated like a king by a gringo.
Pulling out his wad of money, Juan paid the man in fifties and twenties. The salesman got so nervous, he had to call someone else in to recount the money. Juan loved this, too. Cash, he’d found out in the last couple of months, made grown men squirm like anxious virgins.
Lupe didn’t know what was happening to her, but she thought she was falling in love. Still, the first two times that Mark walked her home from the library, she’d deliberately told him goodbye when they had reached the barrio. But this afternoon, Mark insisted that he walk her all the way home.
“Well, yes, of course,” said Lupe, trying to sound calm, but inside, she was going crazy. She really didn’t want him to walk her home. Lupe wasn’t ashamed of her family’s poor, run-down house or anything like that. No, it was just that she knew that people would give them the eye and start talking badly about her, saying she thought she was too good to go out with her own kind.
What could she say? Mark was wonderful, always so kind, and polite and respectful. They talked about books and school, and it was so much fun.
Walking up the tree-lined street, Lupe prayed to God that no one was back from the fields yet and they wouldn’t be seen. Turning the corner, Lupe saw her next door neighbor digging the weeds out of her roses.
“Buenas tardes, Lupita!” said the old lady, seeing Lupe with the tall Anglo.
“Buenas tardes,” said Lupe. It would be all over the barrio within an hour. This old woman was the biggest gossip in all of Santa Ana.
“Are you all right?” asked Mark, seeing how nervous Lupe was.
“Oh, yes, I’m fine,” she lied. “It’s just that I have to hurry inside and start dinner.”
“Well, goodbye, then,” said Mark, “see you tomorrow. And I’ve talked to my dad, so I can borrow the car and drive you home sometime,” he added.
Lupe felt her skin crawl. She just wished the old woman hadn’t overheard him.
To make matters worse, Mark was just going back up the street when Lupe’s family drove up in the truck. Lupe hurried inside their house, but Carlota was right behind her.
“Oh, Lupe!” she said. “He’s gorgeous! Can I have Jaime all to myself now?”
Lupe didn’t know what to say. She put on her apron and started rolling the dough for the tortillas.
Her mother, brother and father came in, all grinning. No doubt the old lady next door had already told them everything.
“Why didn’t you ask him to stay, mi hijita?” asked her mother, taking off her sweat-stained straw hat.
“She’s ashamed of us,” said her father, sitting down, dirt-tired.
“That’s not true!” said Lupe. “I’ve never been ashamed of us!”
“All right, enough,” said her mother. “We’re all just tired.”
All through dinner Lupe was so tense, she couldn’t eat. When they were getting ready for bed, Doña Guadalupe called Lupe aside.
“Where did you meet him, mi hijita?” asked her mother.
“In the library,” said Lupe.
“Is he a student?”
“No, not at the school where I go, but at a university in San Francisco.” She felt very nervous. “He’s studying to be an architect. He was returning some books for his younger sister when I met him.”
“Oh, I see,” said Doña Guadalupe, “and his parents, has he introduced you to them?
“No, of course not,” said Lupe, feeling annoyed. “We just met, Mama!”
“I see,” said her mother, smoothing out the apron on her lap. “Let me be perfectly frank, mi hijita. Your father and I have been talking about you for some time now.”
“But why, Mama? I’ve done nothing wrong!”
“No, of course not, querida. But, well, ever since you were a child, perfect strangers have been coming up and touching your hair, caressing you.”
Lupe shivered. “And I hated it! They had no right!” she said.
“No, they didn’t,” said her mother. “But your beauty has always been so special and, now, that you’ve developed into a full woman at such a tender age, the temptation will be even greater for men to want to possess you. Even your teacher, if you’d looked different, I’m sure that he never would have . . .
“
But, Mama, I told you, I did nothing to provoke him!” said Lupe, her face filled with anger.
Doña Guadalupe took in a big breath. “Please,” she said, “please, give me your hand.”
Reluctantly, Lupe gave her mother her hand.
“I don’t want to upset you, but I need to talk to you. Tell me, this Anglo, how does he treat you?”
“Oh, Mama,” said Lupe, her eyes bubbling with excitement, “we talk about school and books and, and, it’s so much fun! Just like it used to be with Señora Muñoz and then with Manuelita and the two little Indian girls.”
“Well,” said her mother, seeing her daughter’s happiness, “I’m very glad to hear that. So why don’t you bring him home sometime so we can meet him.”
Lupe got tense once again. “But, Mama, the way the old woman looked at us made me feel so, so ugly, and if he comes to our home, she’ll tell everyone!”
Doña Guadalupe took another big breath. “Querida,” she said, “what other people say is not of our concern. Remember, ever since that shooting star kissed the earth, you’ve been specially blessed.”
“But I don’t want to be specially blessed!” snapped Lupe.
Doña Guadalupe laughed. “And the sun, does he want to be the sun? And the moon, the moon? And God, God?” She shrugged. “No, you are not to complain or question who you are, but instead, grow, reaching for the light that’s inside you. But remember,” added her mother, “when you think of this Anglo, and not so well of the men of our own people, think of all those young girls who married American engineers back in La Lluvia, only to be left behind with children.”
“Mama!”
“Don’t ‘mama’ me,” said the old woman. “Just think and be careful. You’re not a child anymore.”
And saying this, Doña Guadalupe stared into her daughter’s eyes, wondering how she could possibly pass on to Lupe all that she knew about life. Her youngest was leaving the nest; she could see it in Lupe’s eyes.
Rain of Gold Page 40
