Rain of Gold

by Victor Villaseñor

  The old woman took a big breath, fully realizing that no one could pass on to anyone the experiences of life. Each had to find their own way. This was, indeed, the frustration and yet the challenge of every parent. She drew Lupe close, giving her all her love. After all, wasn’t it love, and only love, that a parent could pass on?

  The people all stared at Juan as he drove into the barrio of Corona in his big, new green Dodge convertible. He looked like a king, the mayor of Corona, as he nodded hello to them and went slowly down the street.

  At the end of the road, Juan saw José and Pedro playing baseball in the open field with a bunch of other kids, and he honked at them. Seeing his great new car, they came screaming!

  They were barefoot and half naked and they ran up to the big Dodge, and touched it all over, wanting to be a part of such grand luxury. The Dodge was the car of the day. Only a Cadillac or the grand Packard was more luxurious.

  “¡Tío!” screamed José. “Is it ours? My God, it’s beautiful!” He was twelve years old now, a big kid, just half a head shorter than Juan.

  “No,” said Juan, laughing happily. “It’s the mayor’s!”

  “Oh, then he loaned it to you?” asked the big, husky kid.

  “Sure,” said Pedro, laughing at his older brother. Pedro was only going on nine but already was quicker than his brother in many ways. “The mayor always loans us mejicanos his cars, stupid!”

  José turned and started after his younger brother. But Pedro only laughed and dodged away.

  “Give us a ride, Uncle!” begged Pedro.

  “Why should I?” said Juan. “I thought you told me only gringos could have good cars.”

  “I was wrong!” yelled Pedro. “All wrong! Please, let us ride with you!”

  “But you’re all dirty!” said Juan, enjoying it.

  “We’ll jump in the canal and wash off!” cried Pedro.

  “No, then we’ll be all muddy,” said José realistically.

  “Oh, please, tío!” begged Pedro. “Give us a ride and we’ll even go to church and pray ten rosaries so the law don’t get you!”

  On this one, Juan spoke hard. “What did you say?”

  Pedro knew he’d gone too far. Very clearly they’d been told never to mention to anyone what it was that their tío had gotten into. “I mean we’ll pray for you so you’ll be sure to go to heaven,” he said, correcting himself.

  Juan had to laugh. His nephew Pedro had a mouth, as big as his sister Luisa’s, but he also was smart enough to catch on as quickly as she did.

  “Look, Pedro,” said José, “saying ten rosaries might help our uncle get into heaven, but it isn’t going to stop us from getting his car all dirty. I think what we should do is promise to wash his car inside and out if he’ll take us for a drive.”

  “All right!” yelled Pedro, turning to the others. “My big brother is right! And I’m personally going to make sure you guys all do a good job washing my tio’s car or you can never have another ride in our family’s car again!”

  Juan laughed again, seeing how Pedro was going to make sure he didn’t do any of the work. He just loved his two nephews. They were so completely different from each other. Blood really was blood; there was just no getting around it.

  “All right,” said Juan. “Get in. All of you.”

  The seven other boys made a mad rush at the car, grabbing the doors. José had to knock down two of the boys with his fists to get them to calm down.

  “You will get in quietly!” shouted José. “If one of you so much as scratches my tío’s car, you’ll have to answer to me!”

  The boys calmed down and got in quietly. Juan was amazed. When José talked, he sounded just like the father that he’d never met.

  Once they were all in the Dodge, Juan put the big car in gear and they drove off. The dirt street was full of pot holes and chickens. At the end of the street Juan drove into the orchard, almost getting hit in the face by the low-hanging limbs.

  He raced up and down the rows of orange trees, honking his horn and whirling around a lone tree. The boys crowed with glee. When he’d had enough, Juan stopped the car in front of their two houses and got out.

  “Go on, José,” he said, “you drive now.”

  “Me?” said the big boy with absolute terror and yet an on-rush of wonder.

  “Sure,” said Juan, “you drove my old car for me before. So go ahead!”

  “But this one’s new,” said José nervously.

  “Do it!” yelled Pedro. “Or move over and I’ll do it!”

  “Oh, no, not you, Pedro,” said Juan. “You put your hands on that steering wheel, and I’ll skin you alive!”

  Pedro was like his father, quick-witted and cute; he wasn’t responsible like José.

  “You heard our tío!” shouted José, and he shoved his younger brother aside and took hold of the wheel.

  All the boys stared at José with anticipation. He started the motor, put the big car in gear, and popped the clutch. They were off through the orchard in a series of quick-lunging leaps, screeching wildly. Hitting a low-hanging branch, oranges showered into the convertible and Juan stood there laughing so hard that he had to grip his stomach.

  Hearing the commotion, Luisa and Doña Margarita came rushing out of the front house.

  “Stop them!” screamed Luisa. “They’re going to get killed!”

  “No, they’re fine,” said Juan.

  “They’ll ruin your car!” she continued screaming.

  “So what?” he said.

  “You’re teaching them disrespect!” said his sister.

  “Good,” said Juan, “too much damned respect kills people.”

  The Dodge jerked and lunged, weaving dangerously close to the trees, and Pedro was screeching the loudest of all.

  “Oh, Juan,” said Luisa, coming up close and hugging her brother, “you get them so excited every time you come, they don’t obey me for weeks.”

  “Good,” said Juan, hugging his sister close. “You’re too damned bossy, anyway.”

  “Oh, no, mi hijito,” said his mother, smiling as she watched the big car full of children go racing in and out of the trees, “they’ve even quit going to school.”

  “What?” said Juan.

  “Yes,” said his mother. “Luisa tells them to go but they say, ‘Why go? The way to make money is with a gun, like tío Juan, not books.”

  “I see,” said Juan, watching the boys race up and down between rows. “I’ll have a talk with them.”

  “But don’t hit them,” said Luisa. “They must be made to understand. They never saw all the death we saw, and so they know nothing of the terrible chances that you take.”

  Juan nodded. “You’re right. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  He took a big breath. These nephews of his were in for a surprise. Bootlegging and guns weren’t the answer. They were only to help him get started.

  It was late that same night when Juan was with his mother in the little shack in back. They just couldn’t stop talking. In the last six months, Juan hadn’t seen too much of his old mother.

  “Come here to the light,” she said, taking hold of his heavily-bearded face, “and let me see how the cut has healed.”

  After Juan had his chin cut, his mother had continued soaking his face with herbs and oil. She was one of the best healers in the whole barrio.

  “It looks pretty good, mi hijito,” said the old woman, glancing between each hair. “I think it’s now time for you to shave your face and start looking in earnest for a wife.” She fixed herself a cup of coffee with some of Juan’s good, smooth whiskey. “You tell me, what good does it do a man to inherit the earth if he doesn’t get married and have children?”

  Juan laughed. His mother just wasn’t going to stop until she saw him married and settled down.

  “It’s been two years since you arrived from Montana,” she continued, “and I still don’t see you with a wife!”

  “All right, all right,” said Juan, thinking of Lu
pe. It had been weeks since he’d thought of her.

  And they would’ve gone right on talking, truly enjoying themselves, had they not been abruptly interrupted by a strong, hard knock on the front door. It was dark and no one ever came to his mother’s house at night, much less knocked. Quickly, Juan signaled his mother with his eyes to go to the rear of the little, one room house, and he went to the front door with his snub-nose .38 in his hand. His .45 was under the seat of his big Dodge.

  Doña Margarita got down as small as a rabbit and made the sign of the cross over herself. But no, the old lady wasn’t really frightened. She was still stout hearted in her belief that God was on their side.

  The knocking sounded again, hard and forceful.

  “Yes?” shouted Juan, moving to the side of the door, making sure that his mother was out of the line of fire.

  “Villa!” called a foreign-sounding voice. “Is that you?”

  “Maybe,” said Juan. No one called him Villa, short for Villaseñor, except for some of the Italians whom he’d become friends with in the last few months.

  “Damn it, Villa, open up! It’s Mario, I got to talk to you!”

  “Oh, Mario,” said Juan, feeling relieved. He turned to his mother, nodding that everything was okay, but still he picked up his coat, which was hanging over a nail on the wall and draped it over his shoulder so he could hide his snub-nose .38. “He’s a friend,” he said to his mother, and he went to open the door.

  “But be careful, mi hijito,” said the old woman in Spanish. “Even Judas was our Lord Savior’s friend at one time, too.”

  “Yes,” said Juan, “I remember.” Opening the door, he stepped outside, saw that Mario was alone, and closed the door.

  “¿Cómo estás, Mario?” said Juan. Getting to know the Italians, Juan found out that their languages were very similar. They could actually understand Spanish with very little trouble.

  “Good,” said Mario.

  “How’s my paisano Al?” asked Juan.

  “He’s fine,” said Mario. “In fact, yesterday he asked about you. He was in the hospital, you know.”

  “Oh, no, I didn’t,” said Juan, genuinely moved. “How is he?”

  “Well, considering his age, he’s fine,” said Mario, glancing toward his car which was parked alongside Juan’s Dodge. “But that’s not what I came to talk to you about, Villa,” he said, licking his lips. “Could we go for a little drive?” he asked.

  Juan glanced behind Mario. It looked like there was someone sitting in Mario’s car. Suddenly, Juan didn’t like the smell of the whole thing.

  “No,” he said. “I can’t now.”

  “Villa,” said Mario, “but this is important. It could mean a lot of money for you.”

  Juan almost laughed. Who was Mario trying to kid? Hell, if there was any money in a deal for him, then there was a lot more money in it for Mario.

  “Well,” said Juan, pretending not to be too smart, “why don’t we just talk here? My mother, she’s old, you know how it is, and we were just visiting.”

  Mario’s face hardened. “Villa, I said this is important!”

  Juan didn’t meet Mario’s stare. He simply stepped back, tightening the grip around his .38. If things turned to violence, he hoped that his nephews wouldn’t come out. His mother, he knew was good. She had the intelligence to stay put.

  “Okay, Villa,” said Mario, realizing that getting tough just wasn’t going to help. “I’ll tell you the truth. I want to buy all the liquor from you that you can make in the next month. Fifty barrels, sixty barrels, whatever you can make, but, well . . . ”

  Juan’s eyes widened. So far he had only made a total of less than thirty barrels in all his life.

  Mario laughed. “Smells good, eh?” he said. “You see, there’s a new hotel opening up in San Bernardino next month that needs all the liquor it can get. It’s a great big place. First class, bigger and better than anything in Los Angeles. People will be coming from everywhere for the grand opening. Hell, they’ve already spent over a million dollars on construction alone.”

  And saying this, Mario rocked back on his feet, giving Juan the time to get properly impressed. After all, a million dollars was a lot of money.

  “And they want only the finest liquor they can get for the grand opening,” said Mario, bringing out a pack of Chesterfields. “You got a match?” he asked.

  “No,” lied Juan. He didn’t want to release his grip on the. 38.

  A twinkle of merriment came to Mario’s eyes. “Jesus Christ, Villa, I’m your friend, remember? Al’s brother. You don’t have to have that gun on me.”

  Juan’s face caved in. He hadn’t realized he’d been so obvious.

  Seeing Juan’s face twist with embarrassment, Mario burst out laughing. “You damned Indian! Did you really think you could hide a gun from an Italian? Hell, it can’t be done! We were hiding guns while you guys were still living in caves and carrying bows and arrows!”

  Juan lowered his jacket. What else could he do? He’d been caught cold. He put the .38 in his pants under his belt.

  “Anyway,” continued Mario, “the hotel man found out about me and Al and he tasted our liquor and liked it. He called it the best Canadian Whiskey he’d tasted since Prohibition.”

  He brought out a lighter and lit his cigarette. “So he’s put me in charge of finding good liquor. But only the best. None of this cheap bathtub gin that can blind a man. And he’ll be paying seventy dollars a barrel on delivery.”

  “Seventy dollars?” said Juan, louder than he’d meant to. Hell, he’d only been getting forty dollars per barrel from Archie. He couldn’t believe it. It just sounded too good. Long ago, Juan had learned to be very suspicious of any deal that sounded too good.

  “That sounds good,” said Juan, “very good. But tell me, Mario, why are you coming to me? Why don’t you and Al—now that he’s moved down here—just handle it yourselves or go to that big organization of your paisanos in Fresno?”

  Mario was taken aback. He hadn’t expected this. “Look,” he said, “I didn’t come here for advice, Villa. Hell, I’ve already presented this deal to five other guys, and they’ve all jumped on it! I don’t understand you, Villa. I just told you that Al barely got out of the hospital, and he’s sick. So we can’t do a big job like this. And our paisanos from Fresno, hell, they got more action than they can handle. So what is it with you? Hell, I thought I was doing you a favor to cut you into the big times.”

  Juan grinned. “But, Mario,” he said, “I’m not turning you down. No, not at all. I appreciate the offer. It’s just that, well, I’ll have to think on it and see how much I can deliver.” He licked his lips. “After all, I don’t want to say ‘yes’ and then not be able to deliver and end up looking bad or making you look bad, either.”

  “Juan,” said Mario impatiently, using his first name for the first time, “you don’t seem to understand. I need to know now. This deal is big and . . . ”

  “Did you give this hotel man my name?” Juan asked.

  “Did I what?” said Mario, coming up to his full height, towering over Juan as he stared at him in disbelief. “Just what kind of two-bit fool do you take me for? You think because you’re my brother’s friend you can talk to me like this? Well, you can’t! I’m a man! You hear? I’m no little two-bit fool that goes around giving names in our business! I’d die first, do you hear me? I got honor!”

  Instantly, Juan acted cowed. “I didn’t mean that,” he said. “I’m sorry. Calm down, please. I’m not trying to insult you. I’m just trying to understand this deal. Remember, it’s not every day that you hear about a million-dollar hotel.” And he laughed, reaching out to pat Mario on the shoulder gently. “All this talk of millions just confused me. I thought maybe . . . being so big a deal and wanting a guarantee of the quality . . . you know, the hotel man demanded the names of these quality manufacturers that you know.”

  Mario came back down to his normal size, and Juan took a deep breath. He’d known Mario
would get mad at him if he suggested he’d given any names. Secrecy between bootleggers was all important. But he’d never expected Mario to get this angry. He wondered why.

  “Please, accept my apologies,” continued Juan. “Yes, of course, I know you’re a man of respect and I know that you’d never give out names. But, well, like I said, I just got confused. Now, please, go on, tell me the rest of the deal. Like how do we deliver or do they pick it up?”

  The huge rage that had taken hold of Mario’s big body left him, and he now said, “We deliver.”

  “I see,” said Juan. “And how do we do this? Do I deliver to you and then you take it from there? Or do I follow behind your truck and deliver on my own?”

  Mario’s face flushed red again. “Listen,” he said, “are you in or not?”

  “Mario,” said Juan, “please be patient with me. I’m not as experienced as you and Al. So explain these things to me so I can understand. After all, you and your brother and me, we get along, we’re paisanos; we help each other keep the snakes away.”

  Speaking like this, Juan realized that he sounded as smooth as his mother. It had been his mother, after all, who’d taught him the art of acting weak and soft in order to get what he wanted. And people fell for it. Especially big, tough men.

  Mario relaxed and he explained everything he knew about the deal while Juan leaned back on the door and listened carefully. And they parted on good terms, shaking hands and giving each other a big abrazo.

  Back inside the little shack, Juan served himself a good-sized drink of his own whiskey and laid out the whole thing to his mother.

  “It sounds good, Mama, and it would put me on my feet for a long time,” he said, sipping the whiskey. “I’d be able to buy these two houses for you and Luisa and that big open lot, too. But,” he added, “I’ve never done such a big deal. I don’t know if I even got the right equipment to do it. And, also, it smells fishy to me somehow.”

  “I agree,” said Doña Margarita, sipping her own whiskey with relish. She loved the whiskey that her son made. It reminded her of the excellent tequila that they’d made back home in their settlement. “Even for an Italian, he became too angry when you simply asked him to clarify the matter. Remember, mi hijito, your own father got this way with me, too, but only when he was hiding something and I accidentally got too close for his comfort.”