Playing for the Devil's Fire

by Phillippe Diederich

  “You make this?”

  “No.” I laughed. “Jesusa made it.”

  “Your grandmother?”

  “Our maid. She’s off today.”

  He took a long drink of coffee. “That’s nice.”

  “She’s in Coyuca del Río.”

  “Good for her.”

  “I almost missed the wrestling because of her and my sister.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, Gaby had to go out.”

  “How old’s your sister?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “She went out on a date?”

  “With a friend.”

  He nodded and scooped stew into his mouth. I don’t know if he sensed there was something wrong. He seemed more interested in the food. “So you were at the lucha. What a fiasco, no?”

  “They said El Hijo del Santo was going to be there.”

  He laughed. “That’s what they do. They bill it as one thing and give you something different. If you really paid attention, you’d know El Hijo del Santo’s on the Todo X Todo tour with Blue Demon Jr.”

  “Really?”

  “Besides.” He shrugged. “He’s too big for a little country feria. In Toluca, yes. But here?”

  “They did it on purpose?”

  He nodded and continued with the stew.

  “And you knew?” I asked.

  He smiled, stood and sucked his fingers.

  “Why do they do that?”

  “For the same reason everyone does what they do: money.”

  “But that’s cheating.”

  “Welcome to the glamorous world of lucha libre.”

  How could they do this? And El Hijo del Santo, there was no way he would allow someone to use his name to rob good people. But maybe Chicano was right. On TV wrestling had gotten too fancy. The moves were unreal, the outfits too crazy. Sometimes it looked more like a costume show. It was not lucha anymore. It was a joke.

  “Tell me,”—We went to the living room. He dropped his large frame on the couch—“why did you help me out there?”

  “I don’t know.” I sat on my father’s big chair. “When I saw you at the match everyone was against you. I guess I felt sorry for you, so I took your side.”

  He smiled. “You like underdogs, eh?”

  “I like Santo.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “I know, but he was a good guy.”

  “You’re hung up on ghosts, hijín. You’re not seeing the world in front of you for what it really is.”

  “Oh, yeah? What makes you such an expert?”

  “I’m a realist. I survive.” He stretched and lay back on the couch just as if he was at home.

  “What are you doing?” I said.

  “I’m gonna take a nap.”

  “But you just woke up.”

  He placed his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. “I’m a luchador,” he said. “I sleep during the day and fight evil by night.”

  “Not in here,” I said and pulled his arm. “In the shed.”

  “You admire me, but treat me like a dog.”

  “It’s temporary.” We walked to the front patio. “I promise.”

  I didn’t care what he said about Santo being a relic. He was the one who started it all. If Chicano weren’t so selfish, he would see that he owed his career to Santo and Blue Demon and Mil Máscaras. Those guys opened it up for everyone else. They were pioneers.

  I called Regina’s house, but there was no answer. I was worried about Gaby, but I had to trust that Regina was aware of the danger. She would take care of her like she took care of Ximena. I could only hope.

  I grabbed some ice for my eye and went to my room. I leafed though the pages of my latest issue of Guerreros del Ring magazine, but it was too disappointing. It was all too flashy. Maybe everything Chicano had said was true. There was something pure about the old days of lucha, like Mosca always said, before it turned commercial. I tossed the magazine on the floor and dug out my prized copy of Punch (#60) from October 1975 that my father bought for me at La Lagunilla in Mexico City a couple of years ago. It had an awesome portrait of Mil Máscaras on the cover. There was no flash, just good wrestling.

  In the old days, luchadores were heroes. That’s what it was about for me. This business of tricking people made me sick. It was as if you couldn’t trust anyone anymore. I set the ice on the side of my face and closed my eyes and thought of Santo and Blue Demon and Mil Máscaras and how they always fought crime and monsters. I wished they were here, helping me find my parents. Maybe Chicano…

  When I opened my eyes, it was late afternoon. The ice had melted and left a cold wet spot on the side of my pillow. But at least my face felt better.

  I went to the shed. Chicano was gone.

  “Abuela?” I cracked opened the door to her room.

  “Look.” She pointed to the window. “Look at all the freighters. They say a hurricane is headed our way. They are all coming in to port. Have you ever seen such a stunning sight?”

  “What happened to Chicano?”

  “They say we might have to evacuate.”

  I went out. Chapopote came running behind me. There was no trace of Chicano at the plaza. I headed up Avenida de la Merced toward El Gallo de Oro. I’d found him there once. I might find him there again.

  Two blocks up, I noticed a crowd outside Paco’s Tacos. People were spilling out onto the street, jostling to look inside. My stomach twisted. Gaby, I thought, dead and naked like Rocío Morales. I ran in and burrowed my way between the people. It was Chicano. He was sitting at a table eating tacos and drinking a beer.

  “What are you doing? I said.

  He gestured to his plate. “I was told they make the best tacos al pastor. Not bad.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “I had to go.”

  “Why?”

  He set his taco on the little plastic plate. “I missed my fight in Toluca. I went to check on a bus to Querétaro. I have to work, hijín.”

  “But you can’t go.” I had an idea, an image of Chicano facing Pineda, asking questions and getting answers. Real answers. Behind me, the crowd pushed in. No one spoke. They were like sheep, staring quietly at the luchador in his red mask and blue and white cape.

  “I know.” He took a long sip of beer. “I got rolled last night. I lost my bag with all my cash.”

  “So you’re staying?”

  He shook his head. “I need to get my manager to arrange for a bus ticket.” He glanced past me. The people pressed forward. “Unless someone gives me some cash.”

  “But you can’t go. I need your help. Please.”

  “I have a schedule to keep.” He dabbed two spoonfuls of salsa on his taco, picked it up between his thick fingers and took a huge bite. “Querétaro,” he said with his mouth full. “Then San Luís and Monterrey.”

  “No, no. Please. What about my parents?”

  “What about them?”

  “You have to help me find out what happened to them.” It came out just like that, without thinking. “Please.”

  Chicano finished his taco and shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

  I told him about my parent’s disappearance.

  “That’s for the police, no?” He leaned back in his chair, sucked the ends of his fingers and wiped his hands with a napkin. “Don’t pull me into your fantasies, okay? I’m sorry about your jefes. But no one can beat these guys, not the president and his army. Not even the gringos. I can’t help you.”

  “But you can. Santo made a difference—”

  “Those are movies, hijín. Seriously, you need to get real.”

  “Please, Chicano. I’ll help you. We’ll do it together. We’ll find my parents and fix everything.”

  “Liberio!” It was Regina. She broke through the crowd. Ximena trailed her. “What are you doing here? Your sister’s looking all over for you. She’s really mad. Oh, my God what happened to your eye?”

  “Gaby’s mad at me?”

>   “You left your grandmother alone in the house.”

  “Yeah, right. And Gaby never even came home.”

  “Who’s this?” Chicano interrupted.

  “Regina,” I said. “She’s a friend.”

  “No, no.” He leaned back in his chair and glanced past Regina. “The other one.”

  I followed his gaze to Ximena. She stood like she did—hip to the side, hands at her waist, and that faraway, disinterested look in her dark, cat eyes.

  “Nice.” Chicano stood. “Very nice.” He dug into the waistband of his tights and dropped a few pesos on the table.

  I searched the faces in the crowd for Joaquín and his friends.

  Chicano reached past me and offered his hand to Ximena. “Chicano Estrada,” he said. “Para servirle, corazón.”

  Ximena shook his hand but said nothing. Then she glanced at Regina and looked around the crowd as if searching for a signal or someone to tell her what to do. When no one said anything more, she crossed her arms and gave Regina a look as if she wanted her to hurry up and finish her business so they could leave.

  “Come on,” I said and tugged at Chicano’s cape.

  “Watch it, niño.” He slapped my hand and pulled the cape away. “It costs money.”

  “I’m not a niño,” I barked. “My name’s Liberio Flores.”

  “You’re not listening to me,” Regina said. “Gaby’s going crazy looking for you.”

  “So?” I said. “You think I don’t know what you two were up to last night?”

  Regina’s eyes grew wide. “Fine. Do what you want.” She turned and pushed her way out of the taquería. Ximena followed her.

  “No, don’t go, muñecas,” Chicano said. Then he smacked me on the chest. “What’s your problem?”

  “I told you.” My lips trembled and my voice cracked. “I need your help to find my parents.”

  “Listen, I told you once, and I’ll tell it to your stubborn face again: I’m a luchador, not a superhero.”

  “But I know you can help me. Even if it’s just to find out what happened to them. Just to ask around. Please.”

  Chicano turned and looked at the crowd as if he were seeing them for the first time. “And you, what chingados are you staring at like a bunch of burros?”

  The people blinked and turned to look at each other as if they’d just woken from a trance. They shuffled and moved without actually leaving.

  “I have a fight,” Chicano said. “I can’t disappoint my fans in Querétaro.”

  “As if you had any,” I cried. Someone in the crowd whistled.

  “Is that how you want to do it?”

  “I’m just asking for a little help. I helped you when you were lying in the gutter. Please, Chicano.”

  The crowd mumbled. Someone said, “No sea cabrón, pinche Chicano. Help the boy out.”

  “You stay out of it.” Chicano waved at the crowd.

  “When’s your fight in Querétaro?” I said.

  “Saturday.”

  “You have a week. Stay a few days. Please?”

  He glanced past the crowd. “So what’s that vieja’s story?”

  “Who?” My gut tightened. “Ximena?”

  “Yeah, the pretty one.”

  “She’s with one of them.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “And he’s a real hijo de puta.”

  “And the other one?”

  “She’s a friend of my sister.”

  “Right, and they’re all seventeen?”

  I rolled my eyes. “And?”

  “And nothing. Look, maybe I can call my manager, see what I can get away with.” I followed him out of the taquería. We crossed the street to get away from the crowd. He found a patch of shade at the end of the block and dialed his cell phone.

  “Hello?” He held the phone aside and said to me, “Voicemail.” Then he spoke into the phone. “Chaparro, it’s me. Listen, I ran into a little problem here in…whatever the fuck town I’m in where I fought Subministro Fox. Look, I didn’t make it to Toluca. Someone stole my bag with all my cash last night. I need you to wire me some money and arrange for the bus ticket to Querétaro. Give me a call as soon as you get this. And hurry. I’m low on battery and my phone charger’s in my bag. Órale pues. We’ll talk later.”

  “Don’t you have a bank account?” I said.

  He spread his arms. “Do I look like I’m rich?”

  “You don’t have to be rich to have one.”

  “You know,”—he waved his finger at me—“that mouth is going to get you in a lot of trouble.”

  “So you’re staying?”

  He shoved his phone in the elastic waist of his tights. “I’m not sure. I have to run it by my manager. He’s a busy man, manages the best wrestlers in Mexico.”

  “But you can stay for a couple of days, no?”

  “Tell me then,” he said and grabbed my shoulders, “what’s in it for me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Yeah, what’s in it for me and my manager? We need to make money. That’s how it works, get it?”

  “So you won’t help unless I pay you?”

  “Look, hijín. Even in the Santo movies, he was a detective.

  Someone had to pay him. How do you think he could afford that nice house with the pool and those hot-looking maids. And the nice convertibles and shit? That’s how it works.”

  I tore away from his grip. “Not always.”

  “Besides,” he said, and we started up the street away from the plaza. “If I stay, I’m going to need a place to sleep. I’m going to have to eat. ”

  “You can stay with me.”

  He laughed. “In the shed, like a dog? I don’t think so, hijín.”

  I stopped. “Where you going?”

  “To El Gallo de Oro.”

  “Why?”

  “I need to find my bag. If I don’t find it and Chaparro Mendoza doesn’t send me money or a bus ticket, I just might have to spend the rest of my life in this shithole.”

  18.

  Gaby was on top of me the minute I walked in the house, yelling at me worse than my mother ever had. “I can’t believe you would be so irresponsible. Don’t you get it? And look at your face. Por Dios, Liberio.” She paced back and forth across the living room, waving her hands and pointing at me, her fingernails polished pink. Her hair was done up real nice like in her quince photo. She wore a shiny blue dress I had never seen before. And high heels. She didn’t even resemble my sister. She looked like a woman, eerily like Rocío Morales.

  “I was only gone for like half an hour.” I didn’t know how much she knew—about last night, about Chicano.

  “But you left Abuela alone. What if something happened?”

  “But nothing happened.”

  “I need to know that I can trust you, Liberio. It’s not easy without Mamá and Papá. We need to be careful or we’ll end up living in some orphanage or with tío Jorge in Coyuca del Río. Do you want that?”

  Tío Jorge was my father’s only living relative. He had a small pig farm outside Coyuca del Río. When my father’s mother died, they had a big fight and hadn’t spoken since. Tío Jorge was poor. Like really poor. Living with him would be like going back to the dark ages. He didn’t even have a phone, and his bathroom was an outhouse. It was disgusting.

  “I’m not kidding you, Liberio. And on top of everything, look at your face. Abuela said you got in a fight.”

  “I’m fine.” She said nothing about last night.

  “No, Abuela said you got in a fight with some men outside a cantina.”

  “Yeah,” I said sarcastically. “In a cantina in Veracruz.”

  “Come on, Liberio. You need to grow up.”

  I was tired of people telling me to grow up. I was more grown up than anyone I knew. “Maybe, instead of worrying about what I’m doing, you shouldn’t be spending the night with your stupid boyfriend.”

  “Liberio!”

  “It’s true. And you know it.”
>
  “I was with Regina. And besides, I’m allowed to have a life.”

  “Papá would never allow you to—”

  “Enough!” She waved her hands. “You’re not my father.”

  “And you’re not my mother.”

  She froze. Her lip trembled and her eyes welled up. The space between us shrunk and began to crack and fall away in tiny pieces like glass. My chest hurt and my fear erupted in long, deep sobs.

  She touched my hand. “I just want us to be okay.”

  What came out of my mouth next was not what I had intended. “Father Gregorio thinks Mamá and Papá are dead.”

  Gaby lowered her eyes.

  “But they’re not.” The truth collapsed around me. “They’re not, right? They can’t be.”

  “It’s been too long, Liberio.” She held me in her arms. Her tone turned soft. “Every night I’ve been praying and wishing and hoping. But I can’t do it anymore. I’m exhausted.”

  I got a whiff of her perfume, my mother’s perfume. I could feel her chest heaving with sobs, and all the hope I had left seeped out of me like blood.

  She pulled away. “We need to be strong and take care of things here. Life has to go on. ¿Me entiendes?”

  I nodded, but I knew she was just as scared as I was. Everyone was, and that was what made it worse.

  She smiled and touched the side of my face. “Does it hurt?”

  I shook my head. “But Gaby, honestly, that guy you’re dating—”

  “Don’t believe all the chisme, Liberio. People in this stupid town live to gossip. They know nothing.”

  “But those guys are creepy.”

  “Not Francisco. He’s not what they say he is.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I know. He’s a businessman. He owns an Internet café. His father has a ranch outside Zitácuaro. They do well. And besides, he’s super nice.”

  “But don’t you think it’s weird, how they suddenly show up in town, and el profe and Rocío, and Mamá and—”

  “No! It’s not like that. It’s just a coincidence. Besides, it’s impossible to find a decent man in this town, one who will treat you like a lady.”

  “And he does?”

  She smiled. “He does. He really does.”

  I followed her to the bathroom where she touched up her makeup. I caught my reflection in the mirror. The bruise on my eye was shrinking. I touched it with the tip of my fingers. I was thinking of the leg they found at the Yonke and the shooting at the cantina. “Did you know Ximena is dating one of them?”