The crowd didn’t let up. And neither did Mosca and I. We yelled with everything we had.
The announcer’s face twisted in horror. “In this corner,” he yelled over the crowd. “Wearing his trademark tricolor mask, the red, white and green of the glorious flag of this splendid nation—and back in Mexico after an extensive tour of Japan—and with only three defeats in his entire career: Ladies and gentlemen, EEEEL SUUUB-MIN-ISTROOOO FOX!” A spotlight shone on the back of the tent. A powerful bass erupted, thumping and vibrating our ribs and rattling our teeth. A strobe flashed. The thumping morphed into a powerful salsa rhythm. El Subministro appeared from behind the curtain with two girls in skimpy Aztec costumes hanging on each arm.
The crowd went crazy.
Subministro Fox was a rudo. He was big—bigger than Zorrillo. And he was big-time. I had even seen him on TV. When he climbed into the ring, the two girls went with him. They removed his luxurious cape and his thick championship belt, gave him a kiss, and climbed down.
Things calmed down enough for the announcer to speak. “And from the working class barrio of Tepito—right smack in the historic center of Mexico City—having had a significant career in the United States—with bouts in California, Texas, Nevada, and Florida under his golden belt—the challenger: EEEEL CHEE-CAAAA-NOOO ESTRADA!”
There was no music, no applause. From the back of the tent, a luchador almost as big as El Subministro strutted like a badass toward the ring. He had on a classic mask, red with little blue stars set along the white trim around the eyes and mouth. His cape was white and red with a large white star like in the American flag. This was El Chicano Estrada.
Suddenly, the silence turned into heckles. The crowd wouldn’t cut him any slack. Even Mosca jeered. But not me. El Hijo del Santo had cancelled. It wasn’t Chicano’s fault. The poor guy had gotten a raw deal. But still he walked up to the ring alone, with his head high, and the dignity of a champion. A sudden gust of pride swelled inside me. He was an undiscovered hero. I took a deep breath and cheered him until my throat burned.
Mosca smacked me. “What are you doing, güey?”
“I like him.”
He shook his head. Then he dug into his bag of popcorn and threw handfuls at the ring as Chicano paraded around the arena with his arms in the air. The whole place was a loud, nasty whistle. I was the only one cheering.
Chicano dove into Subministro. But his moves were premeditated. Subministro was always a step ahead. Even I could’ve done better. It was so disappointing. If the first match had been mediocre, this was worse. After about ten minutes, the crowd began to yell obscenities at Chicano, telling him to go back to Texas. Then it started raining popcorn again.
But despite Chicano’s pathetic moves, Subministro was worse. It was as if he was fighting with his eyes closed. He caught everything Chicano threw at him, but he did nothing with it. Totally uninspiring.
“You still rooting for your Chicano, güey?” Mosca asked.
I threw my hands up. “This is ridiculous.”
And suddenly, Chicano came back with a vengeance. It was as if someone had insulted his mother. He turned on Subministro with fancy, well-executed moves, one after another. He was on the attack nonstop, charging Subministro again and again. His red mask was all over the ring. He was showing some real heart. He was great.
But Subministro was the favorite. The crowd chanted: “Mexico—Mexico, rah, rah, rah!”
I was Chicano’s only fan. He was my luchador. I cheered and screamed like my life depended on it. I needed him to know he had a fan, that he wasn’t alone.
Chicano managed Subministro into a full nelson and ran him head first into a corner post. He did it against all four posts. Subministro’s mask ripped. Blood gushed from his face. Chicano had him pinned to the ground. He was trying to expose him, unlacing his mask at the back. The crowd went crazy, yelling profanities.
Then someone threw a beer bottle into the ring, nailing Chicano on the side of the face. He turned. Subministro threw him off, then charged from behind. Chicano stumbled, bounced against the ropes and fell back on the canvas with a loud thump. Subministro wasted no time. He jumped in the air and landed with an elbow against Chicano’s abdomen. The ring shook like an earthquake.
Chicano curled into a ball. Subministro jumped again and slammed down against Chicano. Then he paused and raised his arms to relish the cheers of the crowd.
Chicano lost his momentum. He pushed himself up and sulked around like a drunk trying to avoid Subministro. But he had nowhere to hide. Subministro punished him without mercy. He slammed him against the floor over and over with moves I had never seen. Chicano was a ragdoll.
Finally, Chicano fell on the canvas. Subministro jumped on him and locked his leg with his arm and pulled it so far it almost touched the back of his head. The ref dropped to the mat and slammed his palm against the canvas: One! Two! Three!
It was over. The crowd went crazy. “Mexico! Mexico!”
Chicano was out. He lay face down on the mat when the first chair flew across the ring.
Subministro strutted around the ring without a care in the world, his hands up in the air, basking in glory while people threw everything: chairs, cans, bottles, popcorn, trash.
Chicano pushed himself up on all fours, but remained on the canvas like a dog looking up at his opponent.
People pushed forward. A chair hit the man in front of us. He fell to the ground. The man next to him grabbed the chair and threw it back. Women screamed. Mosca and I ducked. The crowd moved like a wave back and forth, to the left and right. We were trapped in a riot.
“We gotta get out of here.” Mosca pushed me forward.
We crawled on the dirt to the side of the tent. There was no way out. The exit was in the back. People from the feria were pouring in and joining the mayhem. Young men and teenagers ran in, swinging sticks and throwing rocks. There was a loud pop, like a gunshot. The lights went out.
People stampeded. I grabbed Mosca’s arm. “There.” I pointed to a sliver of light in the wall of canvas. It was an opening in the tent. We could see the merry-go-round. We ran.
Outside it was pouring rain. The feria was going on as if nothing was happening. People carried umbrellas and plastic bags over their heads. They ate cotton candy and elotes and lined up for a turn on the mechanical rides.
Mosca laughed. “That was awesome.”
The lucha tent moved as if it were alive. People ran out. But once outside, they stopped and looked up at the rain, then walked away as if everything was fine.
“Come on.” Mosca tapped me on the back. “Let’s go on some rides.”
15.
When I got home, the house was dark and quiet. I took off my wet clothes, dried up, and put on my pajamas. Gaby wasn’t home yet. I peeked into my abuela’s room. Her bed was made. Her rocking chair was empty.
“Abuela?”
Then I noticed the closet door. It was open. The dresser drawers were empty. The photos of the family were gone. Even the small crucifix that hung over her bed had disappeared.
“Abuela!”
She was gone.
I ran around the house and double-checked everything. “Abuela!”
But there was only the rain pouring down against the roof. “Jesus,” I whispered. “Please help me find her. Please. Let her be okay.”
I threw on my father’s long raincoat, put on shoes and ran outside.
“Chapo!” I called. He poked his head out from the corner where he slept under the eve of the shed. “Come on, Chapo!” I slapped my thigh. “Come on. We have to go find Abuela.”
Chapo stretched and waged his tail.
“Come on.” He walked slowly to me. “I need your help.” I pulled him by the collar. We walked outside. I wasn’t sure what Chapo could do, but it felt right to take him. In the movies the dogs were always helpful.
To the east I could see the glow of the lights of the feria. Over the drone of the rain, I heard the sharp crack of fireworks. Or gunfire.
We ran up Avenida de los Recuerdos toward the panadería. The street was empty. At every intersection it was the same. No cars, no people, just darkness and rain.
The panadería was closed. Everything was closed, rain crashing against the metal shutters. A warm, dizzy wave turned my stomach. Chapo waited in the rain. “Help me,” I said. But he just rocked his head from side to side and wagged his tail a couple of times. “Pinche Chapo, what good are you? Come on.”
We started back and turned south on Calle Lealtad toward the plaza. My best bet was the church. She could be there, praying or lighting candles for my parents. No. She had taken all her things. Maybe she took a taxi, thinking she was in Veracruz. Shit. Or eloping with my grandfather.
There was nothing going on around the plaza. Most everything was closed, dark. A few people had taken shelter from the rain in the arcade of the municipal building and in the nearby taquerías that were like small pockets of light in a dark, ugly scene. Zopilote’s green Golf was parked in front of Taquería Los Perdidos.
I approached slowly, hoping Joaquín wasn’t there. Or Gaby—that she wasn’t around. She was the last person I needed to see.
Ximena and Joaquín and two men sat at a table drinking beer.
I felt a tap on my back. “Looking for your girlfriend, güey?”
It was Zopilote. He looked like shit. He had a black eye that was so swollen it was almost shut. His lower lip had a long cut across the side.
“What happened to you?” I stepped away from the entrance. I didn’t want Joaquín to see me.
“Trouble with a couple of pendejos.” His voice quivered and his one good eye kept looking over my shoulder at the taquería where the taquero was shaving bits of marinated pork from the trompo onto a tortilla. He nipped a slice of pineapple from the top and set the plate on the counter for a waiter.
“You should’ve seen how I left the other guys. Straight to the fucking hospital.”
“Have you been here a while?” I asked.
“What’s it to you?”
“Don’t be an asshole, Zopilote. I’m looking for my abuela.”
He looked around as if she might be somewhere in the plaza or down the street. “No. I’ve been here most of the night. I haven’t seen her.”
“Shit.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. She’s kind of losing her marbles. I think she wandered away somewhere. I can’t find her.” I looked past him at the street. A car was driving up the road. Zopilote also turned. It was a small Nissan. A family of peasants stood in front of the pharmacy, their backs pressed against the metal shutter, trying to stay out of the rain.
“What about Gaby?” I said.
“What about her?”
“Have you seen her?”
He looked away. The Nissan passed us. “She went on a double date with Regina. Pedro and Francisco were taking them to Coyuca del Río.”
I looked up at the rain.
“Orale pues.” He touched my shoulder. “I have to get back to my post. Good luck finding the old lady.”
I walked quickly. Peasants and vendors were abstract shapes warped by the harsh artificial light.
I ran up Avenida de la Merced and stopped at the crossroads. Chapo had abandoned me. The rain didn’t let up.
I kept going. A few blocks later, I saw the blue and yellow neon Corona sign blinking in the dark: El Gallo de Oro. There was a big ruckus inside the cantina. People catcalled and whistled. A pair of men with cowboy hats stepped out. They stood under the awning. One of them lit a cigarette. Then they looked up at the rain and ran across the street. They got into an old Ford Bronco and drove away. Parked behind the Bronco was Captain Pineda’s little patrol car.
In the distance over the low buildings I could see the green sign of the Pemex gas station, all around it raindrops like tiny sparks. I came to the old highway. To my left the gas station glowed white and green and empty like something from outer space. To my right was a long stretch of gravel where the busses and micros stopped to load and unload passengers before getting back on the highway. It was deserted except for the small dark figure in the middle of the lot, sitting on a suitcase, back erect, the oval of an umbrella floating overhead.
“Abuela!”
She turned and smiled as if nothing was wrong. “Well, hello, mijo. What are you doing here?”
“I came looking for you.”
“You’re soaked.”
I looked down at my pajamas. My father’s raincoat had been useless.
“What are you doing here?” I said.
“Waiting for the bus. I want to go home.”
“You are home.”
“Do not be silly. I want to go home to Veracruz.”
“No, Abuela. You don’t live there anymore. Come on. Let’s go home.”
She looked at me as if I had broken a promise. I took her arm and helped her up. She didn’t resist.
“I’m not crazy, you know?”
“I didn’t say that.” I grabbed the suitcase and we started back, walking side by side under the black umbrella.
“We should go back to Veracruz, you and me and Gaby.”
“We can’t go back, Abuela. Please, let’s just go home.”
We walked in silence. As we came by El Gallo de Oro, we heard a loud ruckus.
“What is going on?”
“It’s just a cantina.”
“No, there.” She stopped and pointed to the sidewalk just past El Gallo de Oro. “What are they doing?”
Two men stood against the wall. Another man lay on the ground. When he pushed himself up on all fours, one of the men stepped out onto the rain and kicked him on the side. The man flipped and fell flat on his back.
The men laughed. Abuela squeezed my arm.
The man on the ground rolled over and struggled to push himself up. The other man kicked him again.
I took my abuela’s hand. “Let’s cross the street.” Then the Corona sign flickered and I saw the red mask. The man on the ground was Chicano Estrada.
I stopped.
Abuela waited. “Liberio?”
Chicano was alone. He needed help. There was no one around. A taut wire of fear traveled down my throat. I had to do something. I set the suitcase down and handed Abuela the umbrella.
“What are you doing?”
“He needs help.”
“Pero no.” She held me back. “You’ll get hurt.”
But I had to help him. He was one of the good guys. He had to be. Besides, it was two against one.
I didn’t think about it. I ran as fast as I could. Everything I had bottled up inside—my parents, Gaby, Ximena, Joaquín—it all exploded in a flash of rage. I charged from behind and slammed the man on the lower back. His body arched and flew forward. He tripped on Chicano and fell face first on the wet sidewalk.
The other man laughed. Then everything went quiet. Rain.
Chicano raised his head and pushed himself up on all fours. I grabbed his arm and pulled, but he was too heavy.
The other man helped his friend.
I released Chicano and charged again. I hit the other man in the stomach with both hands. He dropped his friend and stumbled back, but didn’t fall. He coughed and leaned against the wall for support.
“¿Qué pasó, pinche puto?” He shook his head and straightened himself. He wiped the rain from his face. Our eyes met.
I charged again, just like in the Santo movies. I threw punches—right, left, right, left—as fast as I could, one after the other. My fists sank into clothes and flesh. I was a machine at full throttle—left, right, left. Then I was lifted from behind.
“Let me go!” I shouted.
The man in front of me laughed. He picked up his hat, ran his hand over his wet hair and put it back on. “Let’s see how you like it, mocoso.” He stepped forward and threw a long hook. His fist sank into my stomach. Everything went black. Bubbles of light popped in and out of sight. I gasped for air. Pain blasted across my body.
For a moment, the world was completely silent.
My face was wet. Everything was a blur. I heard a squeak behind me. It was my abuela. I pulled my arms, but one of the men had me in a lock from behind.
The man in front laughed.
The one who held me tightened his grip, pressed his torso against my back. He stank of liquor. He raised me off the ground and shook me. “Give him some more, tocayo.”
The man leaned in and took a wide swing. It came as if in slow motion: a big curve, a grimace, the flash of his ring. I closed my eyes and flexed every muscle in my body. My head exploded in a flash of light. Sparks flickered like a trail of fireworks and hot pain blasted across my head, up my mouth through the side of my face, my cheek, the back of my head. Silence.
My hands pressed against the wet concrete. The rain burned my face. The wet raincoat weighed on me like a rock.
Laughter. A scream. I opened my eyes and pushed myself up, but my strength was gone. I shook my head. The neon Corona sign flickered upside down. I squinted and pushed up again.
Then I realized the Corona sign was a reflection on a puddle.
I got back on my feet. Dizzy, my legs weak. I stumbled and leaned against the wall. Abuela’s distant yelling was overrun with laughter and the loud drone of the rain. The two men stood together, swaying. I charged, but I was moving in slow motion. I saw it happen in advance. The men moved to catch me before I was even close. One of them grabbed me in a half nelson.
“Enough!” A voice cried.
The man released me and I fell to the ground.
“Inside. Now.”
“But Efraín—”
“But nothing, cabrónes.” The voice was a dead echo in the rain. “Get back inside. Let’s go.”
The men walked past Chicano who was still on the ground. I couldn’t see the man with the voice, but I saw his boots. They were the same custom caiman boots I’d polished at La Gloria. I winced and closed my eyes. When I opened them again, they had disappeared into El Gallo de Oro.
Playing for the Devil's Fire Page 10
