“Money?”
“Until now, I just cared about myself, where my next meal was going to come from. But this isn’t right. What’s happening here isn’t right.”
“I know, but you’re Chicano Estrada. You have fans all over the country. You have people who believe in you. And you’re helping me.”
He laughed. “It’s not like that. All I ever do is take advantage of situations. I’ve been selfish. I suppose it’s a survival device. But even that’s just an excuse. I have no excuse for the way I’ve behaved. Now I know there’s more to life than just me. I’m sorry for taking advantage of you, and of your family’s generosity.”
“What are you talking about? You stayed here to help. We’re making progress, no?”
“Well, I suppose the blade cuts both ways.” He took a deep breath. “When I decided to stay here, I was only thinking of my next meal. I have nothing going on. I don’t have a fight in Monterrey.”
“And Toluca?”
“I had a fight there at a little feria in La Unión. But I got drunk at that cantina and missed my bus. The story of my life.”
“What about your manager, Chaparro Mendoza?”
“I don’t have a manager.”
“But you called him on your cell. I saw you. You left him a message.”
He shook his head. “I was making it up. I’m just a two-bit loser from Tepito. I have no manager, and my cell phone service was cut off months ago. I’m a nobody.”
“You can’t say that, Chicano. It’s not true.”
“I needed a place to stay until I made some money, figured out my next move. But when I saw those two bodies hanging on the bridge, and you pushed me to take them down, I understood. I was wrong about good guys, Liberio. You’re a good guy. You’re the last of the good guys. You make me proud.”
We were quiet for a long time. I was angry, but also glad. I wanted to kick him and hug him at the same time. It was at that moment that I knew for sure I would never see my parents again.
27.
I tried getting ahold of Mosca to give him the news about Chapo, but no one answered the phone at his house. He was probably still on stakeout. In the afternoon, Chicano and I went to see Father Gregorio to find out if we could bury Chapo in the cemetery near where my grandfather was buried. But he said it wasn’t possible.
“The cemetery is for people,” he said quickly. “Besides, your dog wasn’t baptized.”
“But it’s important to me,” I said. “Maybe we we could make an exeption, just this once. Please.”
“I don’t make the rules.” He seemed impatient. Workers were all over the church breaking down the scaffolding and cleaning the construction debris.
“What if you came with us and blessed the ground where we bury him? Would that allow him to get into heaven?”
“This is a ridiculous request, Liberio. I’m sorry. We haven’t even had a mass for your parents, and you want me to do this for a dog? Seriously, I think you need to reassess your priorities, young man.”
“But we don’t know if my parents are dead. I can’t bury them. Please. It would mean a lot to me, Father.”
“What happened at the ravine?”
“It’s a funny thing,” Chicano interrupted. “We had a real show there. Someone tried to run us over.”
“And they shot at us,” I said.
“They what?” Father Gregorio’s eyes jumped from me to Chicano and back. “I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it,” Chicano said. “And a few days later someone delivered a bag with Liberio’s dog chopped up into little pieces like a goat at the market.”
“Dios mio, but how—”
“It was a set up,” Chicano said.
“But who would want to harm you? Did you report it to Captain Pineda?”
“Give us a break,” Chicano said.
“Can you come with us to bury Chapo?” I said. “Please?”
“Liberio, I can’t. I’m sorry. Besides, I have the workers. I have to get this place cleaned up before Sunday.”
“But isn’t he one of God’s creatures?”
“Liberio, please.”
Chicano laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Forget it, Liberio. The church won’t lift a finger for the poor unless there’s something in it for them.”
“Excuse me.” Father Gregorio gasped. “Who are you?”
“I’m Chicano Estrada. I fight for justice and defend the poor.”
I smiled. He was really putting it on for Father Gregorio, but still, it sounded awesome.
Father Gregorio didn’t move or say anything, like he didn’t get the joke or like he was trying to figure out what to say or what to do. Next to Chicano, he looked small and afraid.
“That’s so unfair,” I said as we walked back to the house.
“That’s why I don’t go to church anymore.”
“You don’t believe in God?”
“Of course I do. But if God is good and powerful, he can see through all this mierda. I don’t need the church. It cramps my style.”
“I can’t believe it. I thought he was my friend.”
“Priests,” he said flatly. “They’re vultures.”
“Careful, Chicano, that’s blasphemy.”
He stopped walking and waved a finger at me. “See, that’s our big problem. We as a people are too religious. We have too much faith in God. Our answer to everything is that it must be God’s will. La voluntad de Dios. We’re numb. We just sit back and expect God to take care of everything.”
We headed to the Flats. I carried the shovel and Chicano carried the black bag with Chapo’s remains slung over his shoulder like some kind of Santa Claus luchador.
It seemed fit to bury Chapo in the Flats. It was the place where I found him when he was a puppy and where we spent most of our time together. And there was plenty of space. We picked a spot away from the soccer field. It had grass, tall bushes and a few magueyes and big nopales. It looked peaceful.
Chicano set the bag down, and I began to dig. The rains had softened the earth, but after a while I had to stop. Chicano took the shovel from me and finished digging the hole.
“So. What do you want to do?” he asked.
I glanced at the bundle. “We just put him in, no?”
He picked up the bag and set it in the hole. Then he stepped back and joined his hands together at his waist.
I tossed in a shovelful of dirt and then passed the shovel to Chicano. He did the same and then passed it back to me. As I filled the hole with dirt, I thought of when Chapo was a puppy. I had tried to keep him in my room, but he made such a mess my father forced me to make a place for him in the shed in the front patio. Some nights I would sneak out and lay with him in the bed Jesusa had helped me make for him using old rags. He was a stinky dog. No matter how much I bathed him, he always stank. But the thing that got me was that after a few weeks, I kind of just left him to his own devices. I took him for granted.
I took my parents for granted too. They were always there taking care of us. I never stopped to think what it would be like if they ever disappeared. We fought and argued about stupid things like homework or having to work at the bakery after school or on the weekends. It had been the same with Lucio and Gaby. Everything we did, we did knowing we would see each other again, as if every day would be the same. I guess for a while it was, but not anymore. As I finished topping off Chapo’s grave, my stomach felt queasy with sadness. It felt as if I were burying my parents.
“Any words?” Chicano said.
“I don’t know. What can we say?” Everything was stirring inside me. I was afraid if I started talking, I would break down. But I held it in. I told myself I was done with that. I had to grow up.
“Maybe you should just tell God about Chapo, you know, just so he knows.”
I joined my hands at my waist like Chicano. I took a deep breath and lowered my head. “Dear God, we are here to bury my dog Chapopote. We hope you will find him a place in heaven. He was a good dog. He
didn’t know any tricks and sometimes he wouldn’t obey me, but he never gave me any trouble. He doesn’t eat dog food, just scraps and leftovers. He’s afraid of thunder and loud noises. Please take care of him.”
I wiped the tears from my cheeks and glanced at Chicano. He was looking down at the mound of earth. “And Diosito,” I went on, “please excuse the mess. Someone killed him and chopped him up. There are a lot of bad things going on here. Even if we never find my parents, please make a place for them in heaven, and please do something about our little town because we’re all sad and scared. Can’t you see us crying?”
I pursed my lips. There was so much more I wanted to say, but all the sadness and fear and anger pressed down on me like a big rock. It was too much. Besides, I figured he probably wasn’t even listening. “I guess that’s all,” I said, my voice cracking. “Amen.”
“Nice prayer.”
I took the cross we had made from scraps of wood and stabbed it at the top of the mound of brown earth. I stepped back. We stared at the grave in silence for a long time. Then I said. “It looks good, no?”
Chicano grabbed the shovel. “Come on. We have work to do.”
I followed Chicano to the end of the Flats. Then I paused and looked back at the grave. It wasn’t noticeable from the road. I knew someone might eventually steal the cross, but the grave would be fine. If I ever wanted to sit with Chapo, I knew where to go.
We walked up Avenida del Porvenir a few blocks south of the secundaria when we noticed a crowd in the street. We ran up and pushed our way through. On a vacant lot between two houses was a black Chevy Suburban with fat tires and doors wide open. It was dented at the front and side. The whole car was riddled with bullet holes. The windows were shattered. There was no one inside, but there was blood and small chunks of flesh all over the upholstery.
“Who’s troca is this?” Chicano asked.
No one said anything. It looked like all the other Suburbans we’d seen in town, the one Chicano and I had seen near the plaza, the one Mosca might have been watching out for. But this one had plates from Michoacán. On the corner of the shattered back window was a small Tweety Bird sticker.
Chicano faced the crowd. “Who was in this car?”
Everyone looked away. People wandered off slowly, their eyes downcast. Then an old man said, “No one knows. El gordo de Pineda and his men took them away.” He motioned with his arm to show Chicano the direction Pineda had taken, up the hill, toward the plaza.
“Were they dead?”
“Just look at the car.” The old man crossed himself, slung his morral over his shoulder and made his way around the car, disappearing between the two houses to the next street.
I stepped closer to the car. It smelled of gasoline and blood. The door panel was splattered with blood. On the handle was a molar. I moved back behind Chicano. The people who remained stared from the car to Chicano with his red mask and shovel and back at the car.
“Did anyone see anything?” he said.
A young man pointed to the road. “This one was coming down like that, when another one just like it came alongside from that street there. Then it unloaded on it with everything. Just look at how they left it.”
“What other one? Was it a Suburban or a truck or what?”
“It was just like this one. Black.”
“Did you see who was in it?” Chicano said.
The young man shook his head and receded into the crowd.
“I saw it too,” a boy said. “It happened late this morning. After they shot it, it crashed into that pole there.”
Everyone turned to look at the telephone pole. It had a big chunk torn off its side.
“Then it skidded and turned and ended up here. The other one pulled over there and kept shooting.” Everyone’s eyes moved from the street to the Suburban.
“And then what happened?”
“Nothing,” the boy said. “The other troca sped away.” He motioned in the direction the Suburban had taken. “Then, zas, Pineda came down in a new white troca. They pulled the bodies out and took them away.”
“How many bodies?”
“I don’t know. I think four.” Then he raised his right hand like he was taking an oath. “I mean, that’s what I saw, pues.”
“I saw them when they came,” a short peasant woman said. “They zoomed in and out, pues. Just grabbed the bodies and tossed them in the back of the pickup like they were sacks of corn, just like el niño says.”
“He didn’t investigate or take any casings? Nothing?” Chicano asked.
Everyone laughed, but it was a nervous laugh, as if they all knew it was something plain and obvious. And dangerous: a joke that, if you laughed at it, might get you killed.
“They don’t want to find out,” someone said. “They don’t want to know.”
“That’s not it,” the peasant woman waved. “It’s because they already know. That’s why they never do anything. Those rats all work together. Let them kill each other, pues.” Then she adjusted her huipil and walked away with short hurried steps.
“That Pineda’s been selling himself more than the whores at El Gallo de Oro,” someone said. Everyone laughed. But it was that same insecure laugh, as if Pineda or someone might be listening.
“What do you think?” I said.
“I don’t know.” Chicano swung the shovel over his shoulder. “I don’t like it. Let’s get out of here.”
We made our way to the plaza, but it was a ghost town. All the stores were shuttered. Even the regular vendors were absent. The doors to the municipal building were closed and locked. Chicano knocked and pulled at the handles, but no one answered or poked their head out. Nothing.
“What’s going on?”
“Mosca was on the lookout for a Suburban with Sinaloa plates,” Chicano said. “It might have been the one that shot up the one we just saw.”
The sun slowly disappeared behind gray clouds. Then we heard what sounded like a burst of gunfire in the distance.
“Come on,” Chicano said. “This place is giving me the creeps.”
We walked quickly across the plaza, keeping to one side, away from the open.
“Maybe they’re fighting among themselves,” he said.
“You think it was Joaquín?” I was thinking of Ximena and Regina. I hoped and prayed to God they hadn’t been inside the Suburban.
“I don’t know.” We crossed the street, almost running just to get away from nothing.
We took shelter inside the church. The workers had finished cleaning up. The brown spots and the cracks and peeling paint on the ceiling were gone. Everything looked new. It was quiet and dark with the soft orange light from candles reflecting against the sculptured gold leaf wall behind the altar. Chicano took a deep breath. The place smelled of old incense and fresh plaster.
To the right of the altar, hidden from view by a pair of stone columns and a short iron gate, I noticed the glow of candles. A new shrine. It was at the very back of the church. In a small glass case was the bust of a man in a white shirt and black clothes. He had a thin mustache and flat black hair. Around him were paper flowers and a few veladoras.
“Jesús Malverde,” Chicano said, his voice echoing softly across the church. “The patron saint of bandits.”
“I never heard of him.”
“If he’s here, you know they’re here.”
“And Father Gregorio built it?”
“He did it for them.” Chicano looked at the ceiling. “That priest is as dirty as Pineda.”
“But he’s a good man. He’s been helping me find my parents.” I walked across the church to his office and lay on the ground. There was no light under the door.
“Maybe it was one of those offers he couldn’t refuse,” Chicano said.
“You mean like a death threat?”
He nodded. I followed him to the front of the church. He cracked the door open and peeked outside.
“They can’t do that,” I said. “You can’t kill a priest
.”
“You have a lot to learn, hijín. People kill priests all the time.”
28.
When we finally made it home, Jesusa was in a panic. “Ay, Liberio. Thank God you’re here. You have to help me. Por favor. She’s over the edge. She’s packing. She’s leaving!”
“I’ve had enough.” Abuela stormed from one side of her room to the other. “She has destroyed everything we worked for. Everything. It was all for nothing.” She tore a dress from her closet and shoved it in her suitcase.
“What are you talking about?”
“Gaby!”
“What happened?”
“She destroyed Dorian’s work. The panadería. It does not exist anymore.” She folded a blouse and pressed it into the suitcase with both hands.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Calm down. Please, Abuela.”
“It wasn’t just Gaby,” Jesusa said. “Doña Teresa came to say goodbye to la señora. They closed the papelería and are moving to Houston.”
“Texas?”
“I don’t know. Houston, Houston, pues. But after Doña Teresa left, la señora starts about the panadería and insists she has to go. She never likes to go, but now she has to go. And then, újule, you should have seen. I didn’t know Gaby had everything torn up. There’s no more panadería. Even the sign is gone.”
“What did Gaby say?”
“They had a big fight. Your abuela yelled all kinds of insults at her and at the workers and everything. Gaby cried. The workers stopped doing what they were doing. They just stood and watched. And who can blame them? It was a real show, pues. Right out of a telenovela.”
“Abuela.” I placed my hand on her shoulder. “Please. Wait. Slow down.”
“No, Liberio. It’s too much for me. I can’t take it anymore.” She paused her work and looked at me for the first time. Perhaps she had finally realized what was happening. That my parents were gone, that Izayoc wasn’t the same place she had come to with my grandfather. “I didn’t even have the opportunity to see it one last time,” she said. “And you know what she said. She said if I didn’t like it, I could leave. The nerve of that girl.”
“But Abuela, you can’t go just like that.”
Playing for the Devil's Fire Page 19
