Name of the Dog

by Elmer Mendoza

  When did you get in? Last night. By car? By plane. Ah, so any news of my brother? He’s good, a bit fat compared to you. He must eat like a horse. He likes hamburgers with double fries and he puts bacon on everything, and he’s always drinking beer, sometimes too much beer. Is he an alcoholic? Hmm, I don’t think so, what I do know is how much he misses you, you can tell he loves you a lot; we saw him last Thursday and he got all nostalgic. Silence, except for “Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way”. Enrique told me you were unbeatable in the mile. I do alright, but I’m not into that anymore and I don’t train much. Don’t you want to make the Olympics? Well, I’d rather be a policeman. Mendieta studied him, the kid was like him, undoubtedly an improved version, but that much? Are you sure that isn’t like a kid wanting to be a fireman? No, I’ve thought it over and I’ve made up my mind. In the United States I suppose it’s a good job, here it’s usually a last resort. I don’t know about that, I just know I want to be like you; several of my friends have decided to be the same as their fathers and I will too. Lefty’s mouth hung open. Wow, this kid has it all figured out and he’s not fooling around. Is that the latest thing, to be like your fathers? Maybe, Jason read a text and responded immediately, maybe it’s because some of them are real heroes, in Iraq, in Afghanistan or in the city. Trudis called them to the table.

  Young man, tell me again what your name is, gringo names always slip away on me. Jason. Young Jason, don’t pass up the opportunity to taste this machaca, it’s special, nothing like the ones they make in a blender. My grandma already made me some. Well, now you can compare them, taste it, don’t tell me you’re like Lefty that way too, he eats like a bird; come on, just have a little, you need to grow up strong and healthy even if you are as tall as Lefty already, and she served him; he can eat his omelette and you can have this delight, taste these flour tortillas, they’re made the way God wills, you need to feed that body. Trudis is not easy to contradict and as you can see she has great powers. Don’t exaggerate. Jason took a bite and chewed slowly; Mendieta watched him out of the corner of his eye. So this kid is my son, well, alright, what can you do? that’s some pedigree and on top of it all he wants to be a badge; I’ve got to call Ortega so he can tell me what’s what, what a father talks about with his son, where he takes him, what advice he gives him; I’m not going to spoil him, no way could I take him to El Quijote; what an eager beaver, since I wouldn’t return his calls he didn’t let me know he was coming, he didn’t want me to run away and hide, and that bit about him wanting to become a badge is heavy, isn’t it? and Trudis is thrilled, they act like they’ve known each other for years, should I take him to the whorehouse? no, I don’t think so, he must have his girl, he’s not ugly and his face sure isn’t pockmarked.

  Jason was a strong boy, light-brown skin, sure of himself, he looked at his messages, answered rapidly or ignored them. I want a Christmas present, he said after finishing his juice. Lefty was still floating and Trudis was somewhere in the bedrooms doing her thing. I deserve one. Why? Because I’m the only one in my class this year who didn’t do drugs. It’s a big problem over there, isn’t it? It’s really hard to stop; if you want, you can do a drug test on me. They smiled. I brought you some American Nescafé, but you didn’t notice the difference. Mendieta tasted his coffee. You’re right, it’s even worse. They smiled again and relaxed. Uncle Enrique warned me, he told me not to be offended when most of what you say is rude. Is that what that damned beer belly told you? wait till I get hold of him, tell him what he’s going to die of. Listen, Mama wants to speak with you, don’t think it’s something I put her up to, all I wanted was to meet you and see what comes from that, and that’s happened, I like you. His stomach started feeling weird. See me? for what? he thought, then suggested: How about the three of us have supper together tonight? Only I have something on for tonight, so you two go ahead, will you pick her up at my grandma’s? Why not? at eight; if there’s work to be done I’ll ask someone to cover for me for a couple of hours. Will you lend me your Jetta? you probably go around in a cruiser. I’d rather give you the taxi fare, I don’t want anything to happen to you, the city is pretty hot. They looked at each other, expressionless. Are the police that bad off? Bad off is putting it nicely, no-one can explain how we manage to function. Alright, just don’t forget my present. Have you thought of something? Yup, I’ll tell you later. Trudis went to answer the telephone, which was ringing off the hook. Hello; it’s Zelda. Lefty put the portable to his ear, listened closely and said: Tell me the address again; O.K., I’ll see you there in an hour.

  Three

  Ugarte was good-looking. Women chased after him and men liked to call him Faggot. In high school they said it so often that more than once he wondered: Could I be? Looking in the mirror he convinced himself he was more beautiful than his sisters, so he went to the Military College and soon stood out as a hard-ass. Then General Alvarado trained him in intelligence and he never made a mistake; well, one, maybe two: being honest and falling in love with the wrong person. The first obliged him to spend fifteen years in hiding until his enemies were dead and buried; the second brought him the best and worst days of his life and may have been what goaded him to make the most of his not inconsiderable talent. The army kicked him out, but the General fixed things so he could continue collaborating as a special agent, a privilege he was deeply grateful for.

  Because loneliness kills more people than cancer, he always visited Turk Estrada, a narco doing twenty years in the Tijuana lock-up and a friend since junior high. Besides, it wasn’t far from La Jolla, California. Estrada was short and fat, and during his time in La Mesa, despite the brutal physical and psychological torture, he never let a real name pass his lips; he invented so many nicknames and situations the jailers were convinced he was faithful as a dog. Later on he lived under protection in Culiacán, doing odd jobs, putting his children through school and dragging around a burden of hatred he could never shed.

  What’s doing, fucking Faggot? Ugarte heard his friend’s greeting. They had arranged to meet at Vía Verde, a natural food restaurant, because neither of them wanted anything to do with alcohol, that three-faced con artist who pulls in so many parishioners. Christmas mood music. What’s up, I.B.M.? That nickname twists my balls. What’s wrong with it? you should be proud, Immense Bucket of Manure, how’s the family? Great, next year my eldest gets his law degree and my daughter is doing journalism, what about yours? Same as last year, my daughter is still stubbornly insisting on an army career and her younger brother is a singer. Like Jim Morrison? you know his dad was in the navy. Not even if God wills, that guy was nuts, that’s the last thing I’d want for my son. But he sang “Light My Fire” like he was God himself. My son’s into other things, he wants to be in musicals and shows, nothing to do with rock. A waitress wearing a Santa hat served them chakiras, the juice that smooths and soothes, and turkey-and-cheese sandwiches. Did you celebrate your sixtieth? At home, with a barbecue in the back yard and agua de jamaica. Next they’ll be doing a piñata for you. My son hired a violin trio, boring as hell; I told him: son, since you’re messing with me anyway you might have brought something more danceable; nope, he says, because for his thesis he’s drafting a noise-reduction law for the city, people won’t be able to hold weekend parties at home or in the street, they’ll have to hire a hall. If they approve that, good luck to the police who have to enforce it. It’s going to be written in Chinese; and you, what about you? After Christmas or in January. Do it in January, there are too many parties in December and you won’t enjoy it as much. I’ll think about that. Then they talked about the weather, about how women were getting more and more beautiful, how pale Ugarte looked and thinner than usual, and how bloody the war on organised crime was getting. Room adorned with Christmas decorations, “Let it snow, let it snow . . .”

  I need to ask a favour, Ugarte murmured deadpan, taking a sip of his juice; he had not touched his sandwich. Estrada stiffened, his dark squint acquired a rather strange glow, some
where between fear and ruthlessness, he stopped chewing. There’s some money in it, not much, but within the realm of decency. You know which side I’m on, fucking Faggot, no shit is going to make me cross over. You’re looking at me like I’m about to take a swing at you. I’ll never get over that mother-fucking crap; before, what I wanted was to stop being afraid, I wanted to forget, now I couldn’t give a shit, there’s no fixing it. Do you still wake up at night? Sure, but I don’t scream anymore, so I don’t piss off my old lady. It’s not about fingering anybody. It was your grandmother, asshole, straight up, I saw her with these very eyes the worms are going to eat. I haven’t forgotten your tricks, I.B.M., you lie to delay. O.K., what’s itching that head of yours? In a few days there’ll be a meeting of the kingpins or their deputies, and I need to be there. So what the fuck does that have to do with me? You’ve got connections, I know. Who’s connected is your fucking mother, I told you I cut all ties, it’s a fact. Don’t get scared, this is just a routine thing. You don’t say, and then we’ll go out dancing with our respective wives? All I’ll find out is if anything important is agreed. In other words, it’s a big fat fart of a deal. Maybe, though nothing compared to what you and I have lived through. You’re going to take another stroll between the horse’s hooves. Just to dust myself off. Are you going to name names? No way around it, but only to say who was present. The Turk, on edge, was thinking about a crucial meeting held the day before at dusk in the Hotel Paraíso; well, no flies escape from a closed mouth. The Turk made a mocking face: Don’t tell me you agree with this stupid war that just piles up slabs of cold meat? No, not me, and I want to help put an end to it, am I wrong? besides, we’re sixty, we should have some fun. The war means shit to me, I couldn’t care less about it, they say it’s a fight picked by the President, who according to my son has a screw loose. Do you think it’s right so many young dudes are getting killed? Fuck them, they want to get into the sauce? well, let the assholes learn what it means to love God in Indian territory. They fell silent, in the background “When I’m Sixty-Four” with orchestra. They’re talking to you, Faggot buddy. They’re talking to us, I’d say. Just then, a family came in to have breakfast, the father and mother looking around apprehensively before sitting down. Whose deputy do you want to be? The one in charge, somebody I can charm. If only the kingpins show up, you’re fucked. I know, that’s where I want your help. Fucking Faggot, you like the wicked life. It’s one way of feeling alive, isn’t it? Fate is a fucker. And she gets up late. I’ll ask around, and like every other time I’ve given you a hand, I don’t know shit about it, and you should hang up your balls, Faggot, we’re too ancient to be playing cowboys. It’s to keep our joints from seizing up, you know what they say, any organ you don’t use atrophies. But we aren’t organs, don’t bullshit me, the nearly twenty years I did was enough for me, and with the fifteen you did you don’t owe anybody anything either. You’re just like my wife. Ugh, if mine finds out she’ll cut off my balls. They smiled. I can hardly believe you want to get mixed up with the Tricksters. Give me a hand and it’ll be a breeze, you’ll see; I’ll come by here every day between five and six until I see you, I prefer that to the telephone; he handed him an envelope with money. Transparency makes for friendships that last, and it’s your turn to pay, fucking Faggot. What, weren’t we going Dutch? Dutch my balls, pay and let’s get out of here, they’ve thrown us out of better dives. “Jingle Bells” by Boney M. on the sound system.

  Four

  People are their habits and, if you really want to know, that was what did Dr Manzo in; he was always last: last to leave, last to finish his exams, last to get married, but he was first to be worth shit; tell me this: what would he have lost by slipping out now and again to have a few beers with his buddies and letting his receptionist close up? Nothing. His assistant would leave first, then his blonde greeter and, a little while later, him; it never failed. That’s why it didn’t surprise me when I heard he got laid out on a platter, meeting the dawn in his dentist’s chair like a lapdog, with a bullet in his head . . . He wasn’t in the chair? same difference, he won’t get over the dead part . . . I wonder about that, in school he was insufferable, but nowadays who could hate a guy like Manzo? he didn’t mess with anybody, he’d changed so much you might say he’d become a nice guy, and with that babelicious wife? Somebody with very black blood, that’s who. When business was good I’d stay late and see him leave, now that everything’s upside down I leave whenever I feel like it, and it makes no difference. This country is a piece of shit, tell me it ain’t so, deep into a war that’s going no place fast, fifty million living in poverty and maybe sixty million unemployed; are you hiring at the police? . . . No kidding. It could have been a mugging, these days they’ll do it for pocket change and he was a dentist who had patients every day; well, more like a torturer I’d say, yup, he dangled my fate in front of my eyes for a porcelain amalgam, claimed the metal filling I had was leaching mercury, poison; but what dentist isn’t? Seems like they enjoy that part, the bastards. If it wasn’t robbery he must have screwed up with a patient, I’d bet there were several who had sworn to get him; but really, what bad news, I was supposed to go for a cleaning next week and he always charged me half price, you see we were in high school together. What can I get you? the storekeeper turned to a young student who had come in. A light bulb. How many watts? The special ones. A special light bulb, who do you think we are, asshole, if you think we sell garbage so people can get high, you’re nuts, get out of here, you idiot. But. Get out! Mendieta smiled. So you sell light bulbs to the crackheads, that’s interesting. Don’t pay any attention, officer, that asshole was messing with us. Well, this is simple, like in the classics you get to choose: imprisonment, banishment or burial. That’s fucking classic, let’s get one thing clear: yesterday I left early with my buddies, I’m not the kind of guy who gives advice and doesn’t follow it.

  He felt at peace. Christmas brings work, presents, parties, good weather, relaxation. Families get together, friends call, patients are thankful. You can eat just about anything without regret. Jesus allows that and more. Diet? Well, I’ll start on Monday. His thoughts ploughed ahead: after Christmas, Mazatlán, a stroll on the beach, grilled fish, swordfish ceviche with carrots, cold beer. His wife loved that. The patient, a good-looking woman of about sixty, spat out a gob of blood, rinsed, breathed in, the assistant filled the little plastic cup, and he went back to extracting a left molar. The last of the afternoon. He would buy a Juan José Rodríguez novel and something by Anton Chekhov, who was also in the health profession, and he would feel like somebody else. He loved feeling like somebody else, acting like somebody else, even when he was making love his wife would catch on and her moans and whispers would be nothing like the pitiful sounds she exhaled when she did it with him as himself. Hey, you ten-peso whore, I’m Johnny Depp, are you planning to ask about “Edward Scissorhands” or “Pirates of the Caribbean”, or are you going to pull down those panties? Did that hurt, Señora Frida? we’re almost done, you can rinse now, please. The blue mask muffled his voice.

  Again, he thought of his wife. I hope you’ve got on the ones with little hearts, Brigitte, they make you look the best. I’m wearing the ones you gave me for my birthday, Alain honey, in other words, nothing.

  Minutes later the patient, looking pale, left the office; the assistant departed next: See you tomorrow, doctor; and the receptionist three minutes later: I put everything in the safe, tomorrow first thing we do the wisdom teeth of the undersecretary of the economy, remember him? he sweats like crazy. Did he pay us in the end? He promised to settle the account on Friday; see you tomorrow, doctor. Goodnight.

  He smiled, spent a few minutes doing nothing, then freed him-self of his tie; he was about to hang it up when he saw him in the doorway. Are you leaving now, doctor? It’s been a long day, that’s for sure. Before you go, pull this tooth for me, the fucker’s killin’ me. He was wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt that said “london” across the chest. We’re closed, s
eñor, I’d be happy to do it tomorrow, we open at nine, if you can come at eight I’d be delighted to take you then. Don’t even think about that, you do it now or you’re going to be worth spilt cum; burly, dark-skinned, darker scowl and a chip on his shoulder. Sounds in the waiting room. He peeked out and saw four armed thugs resting absent-mindedly in the easy chairs and at the desk. Two were snorting coke, another was smoking and the youngest was writing on a big piece of cardboard. He noticed a bulge under the T-shirt of the pushy patient and he began to tremble. My assistant just left and I can’t do it without her. Stop fuckin’ around, doctor, any of these jerks here can be your assistant, ow, fuck, I can’t stand this bitch. Is it swollen? Like I can feel a lump, it’s been growin’ and growin’ for the past week. Open your mouth, he left his coat on the chair. He looked. Alcohol fumes over a strong stench of rot. You’ve got a huge abscess and it’s really inflamed, but hang on until tomorrow so we can take an X-ray, and I’ll have to operate, are you allergic to anaesthesia? What fuckin’ tomorrow, doc, understand me, this prick has me fucked, take the bitch out now. Pounding heart. Señor, understand me, the way it is, it’s impossible to extract, I’m going to give you some pills to reduce the inflammation and we’ll do it tomorrow. Fuckin’ mother, are you ever stubborn, he pulled out his gun. Does it ever piss me off when people try to pull pricky shit, and he shot him through the heart.