Well, negotiation with the boy hadn’t worked. So—no way out of it—force would be necessary. He couldn’t do anything here, so publicly. He would have to make plans, shrewd ones, designs for different places. He regretted he’d abandoned the Acetoform.
But Rafo hadn’t departed. He had made his conclusive decision not to go north with Mike, had untied his rooster and said he was leaving. But he hadn’t gone. He was still sitting at the table and he had a doubtful look on his face. I wonder, Mike thought . . .
The boy answered it. “My father still has a rodeo?” he asked.
Mike watched him closely. “Yes.”
The boy’s smile was bitter. “When I was a little boy he says he will take me to his rodeo. He never take me. He is a fucking liar.”
Mike held his breath. It’s not lost yet, he thought. “Well, he is taking you to his rodeo. A little late, but he’s taking you. . . . So he’s not a liar.”
The boy didn’t say anything for a long while. Something was giving him trouble, hope perhaps. At last he faced Mike directly:
“My father wants me?”
“He doesn’t have any other children, you know.”
It was more convincing than an overt lie would have been. The boy nodded. But the transaction had not yet been completed.
“If I don’t like it up there,” Rafo warned, “I will say the hell with him. I will come back—the hell with him!”
“That’s right—the hell with him.” Mike nodded, wondering if the boy had actually accepted the deal.
No, the fine points of the contract had not yet been agreed to. “I can take my rooster with me, yes?” Rafo asked.
Mike had a flash of doubt. He hadn’t planned to reenter Texas by way of a customs point. They were going to sneak back illegally, like wetbacks. But with the boy so peaceably agreeing to return to his father, it might be possible to go openly through customs and avoid the risk of being shot at like a couple of criminal immigrants. However, if they did go through customs, poultry would very likely not be permitted. Or, questions might be asked. Still, it was senseless to battle the issue now. Time enough when they approached the border.
“Sure—why not?” Mike said.
“Okay!” Rafo said. “Where is your truck?”
“The Calle Cacha,” he replied. “Near the shoe-maker’s.”
Already in action, Rafo got up from the table and started away. But in the opposite direction from the Calle Cacha.
“Hey—where are you going?” Mike said.
“I will meet you there at eleven o’clock,” Rafo replied.
Quickly Mike started after him. “Wait a minute. What do you mean, eleven o’clock?”
“That bastard Zafiro—he is a friend of mine—he owes me twenty pesos. He was suppose to pay me tonight—at the cockfight. But he did not come. I go get my pesos.”
It might be a fake, Mike thought, or it might not be. But he couldn’t take a chance the boy would disappear. “No—don’t waste the time!” he said. “I’ll give you twenty pesos!”
“Give is not take,” Rafo said. “You think I’m going to let him cheat me? See you eleven o’clock.”
With the rooster under his arm, he rushed away. Mike stood there, off balance, undecided. It was stupid to take Rafo’s word that he would return. The most sensible thing was to dog the boy’s footsteps, not let him out of sight.
Debating, Mike watched Rafo go farther and farther away into the darkness. Soon the boy would be out of reach.
An idiot of faith, he let him go.
8
Mike rushed like crazy getting ready for the trip. He checked out of the hotel, filled the truck with gas and topped up the oil, battery water and other vital fluids, searched all over the Niza neighborhood for an open grocery store and bought sacks of food, Coca-Cola and, for Rafo, Orange Crush.
He performed one extra service for the boy. He went back to the poultry section and purchased a chicken coop the animal would be safe in—tipped the owner three times its value, and the grateful tradesman hosed it out until it was spotless.
All that hectic running around—Mike might have saved himself the trouble. It was 11:20 by the shoemaker’s clock and Rafo wasn’t there.
The little bastard. He should have known by the boy’s shifty eyes. Eyes like his father’s. No, Rafo’s eyes didn’t at all resemble his father’s. Howard’s were cold, steely blue and his son’s had dark heat in them, like hot black coffee. He was the image of his mother—a disturbing face, quick-changing, foreign.
Not the kind of face Mike cared for. Matter of fact, there was nothing about the boy to please him. He couldn’t stand kids like that. He liked open-faced kids, like Laurie, loving, available ones, guileless kids who didn’t hide their vulnerability, whose eyes weren’t covered with a glaze of hatred.
The bastard, the little bastard. He was probably holed up in some dirty little alley, laughing at how he had made a jackass of the gringo.
He would give Rafo another few minutes, then go back to searching for him. This time, goddamn it, when he found the kid he would beat the shit out of him, tie him up and throw him into the truck. No conversations this time, no negotiations, Orange Crushes, deals. Beat him, tie him, go.
At 11:30 Rafo showed up.
He came strolling at a leisurely pace, his rooster under his arm, a disreputable bundle of dirty clothes slung over his shoulder. Mike saw him at the far end of the street, dawdling along and whistling a melody so off key it was unrecognizable. When he got to Mike he made a vague little Mexican gesture of greeting, a vulgar little movement of his fingers combined with a wiggle of his body. And he smiled.
Mike didn’t. “Well, you little runt, you finally made it.”
Rafo didn’t understand. “What?”
“You’re late.”
“Who say?”
Mike pointed to the shoemaker’s clock. “The clock say.”
Rafo looked. The clock said 11:30. “No, he don’t. He say eleven o’clock.”
Annoyed, Mike imitated him. “He say eleven-thirty.”
Rafo smiled slyly. “He say eleven-thirty gringo time—eleven o’clock Mexican.”
Mike didn’t offer any appreciation of the witticism, but he eased a little. “Did you get your money?”
Rafo put his hand in his pants pocket and, with a cocky smile of accomplishment, rattled a pocketful of pesos. Mike wondered how he had managed to collect it. “This friend of yours . . .” He couldn’t remember the name.
“Zafiro,” Rafo said.
“Is he a man or a boy?”
“A man.”
“A little man, huh?”
“Big.”
“Old and weak?”
“Young. Strong.”
“How’d you make him pay up?”
Rafo laughed. he wasn’t divulging trade secrets.
“How?” Mike asked, getting more curious.
The boy stuck his thumb in his mouth, pulled it out wet and made an obscene gesture with it. Again Rafo laughed; again Mike didn’t.
Mike opened the doors of the truck and, by the shoemaker’s window light, the boy saw the bags full of food and Orange Crush. He made happy slapping sounds of his hands against his chest, his belly, his legs.
Mike pulled out the chicken coop. He expected the kid to be pleased at his thoughtfulness.
Rafo’s face went blank. “What is that?”
The rooster was near the truck, walking the street at liberty. Mike pointed to the animal. “It’s for him.”
There was no modulation in Rafo’s voice. “No.”
“What?”
“I don’t put him in there.”
Mike tried to match Rafo’s calm. “Yes, you do.”
“No.”
“You can’t carry a chicken loose in the back of the truck.”
&nbs
p; Insulted, Rafo flared. “He is not a chicken—his name is Macho!”
“I don’t give a damn what his name is—it’s still chicken shit in the back of the truck.”
“He is not chicken shit—he is Macho!” The boy was in a fever of rage. “You know what this means, macho? It means strong, it means champino! When I first find him he is no good. He run away—he is scared—he is only feathers on the floor. His leg is broken, he is bleeding. He is a coward and everybody piss on him. So I lift him up, I take care of him. I say to him, ‘Stand up, you bastard! Fight, fight!’ Then one day he fight—he kill a big black rooster. And from that time on, he is Macho!” He caught his breath, became calmer, confident he had proved his case. He reached down to the ground, scooped the rooster up and tucked him under his arm. Then quietly putting an end to the subject, “I don’t throw him into a dirty little chicken coop.”
Mike didn’t point out that the cage had been specially washed. “What if he gets loose?” he asked. “What do we do? Chase him all over Mexico—while the cops are chasing us?”
“He won’t get loose.”
“How do you know?” He was losing his patience. “Put him the hell in there!”
“No!”
“Then I’ll do it for you.”
He reached to take the rooster away from Rafo but the boy ducked, sidestepped and then was inexplicably behind him. Mike whirled and reached again. “Put that chicken in that coop.”
“Eat shit!”
Mike grabbed him. “You little bastard, put him in there!”
“No! Let me go!”
With a wrench he was free of Mike who clutched for him again. Too late; the boy was on the other side of the chicken coop now. Rafo stomped on it. One foot, then the other crashing down on the flimsy cage, smashing it. Mike pushed at him, shoved, tried to separate him from the wreck he was causing, but the boy kept darting out and back again, crushing, shattering, splintering the coop.
“Stop it!”
What stopped the boy was that he lost control of the gamecock. The rooster broke free from under his arm, fell into the wooden wreckage and was caught by the debris of the coop. Both Mike and Rafo lunged for the bird, and the man got hold of the animal. But only for an instant.
Rafo’s fist shot out and smashed into Mike’s face. It was more the fact of the blow than the blow itself that stunned him. And slowed him down long enough for Rafo to recapture the rooster. As he turned away with it, Mike seized him and twisted the boy around.
For the second time, the rooster escaped. The boy flailed at Mike, one fist after another, in the face, in the body. He was a grim, ferocious animal. There were no rules that fit the game, no way to deal with the weapons of the beast, its claws, teeth, fists, hooks, talons. Then the knee. Mike felt it in his groin, felt the shrieking pain in his testes and, to keep himself from falling because of the agony, threw both arms around the boy and clasped him with the tightest vise his muscles could make, tightening, trying to keep himself from screaming in pain.
He became aware that the ache was at last lessening a little as he heard the boy cursing at him and muttering bloodily for Mike to let him go.
But he didn’t dare loosen his hold on the little beast, for he had no notion what the thing would do. He pulled the vise tighter, crushing. The boy’s voice was a squeeze of pain. “Let go! Let go!”
“You want more?” Mike asked. He kept tightening. “You want more?”
He felt the boy go limp. It might be a trick, he thought. Another tightening and he heard a moan. This time he did let go. The boy stumbled as he pulled away. He fell. Mike stood over him. Rafo stared up from the ground, his eyes glowering.
Slowly Mike turned from him and went to the truck. He pulled out a coil of heavy cord and threw it on the ground, near the boy. He pointed to the rooster.
“Tie him up,” Mike said quietly.
“No,” said Rafo, also quiet.
“Then he doesn’t go.”
The boy’s rage was not informed by quite the same recklessness as before. Now, desperation. “Then I don’t go either! I don’t go one kilometer with you, you son of a bitch!”
“Okay, don’t go. I’ll tell your father you didn’t want to go.”
“I want to go to my father!”
Silence.
The raw event of the utterance shocked not only Mike but apparently the boy himself. He hadn’t intended such a heartfelt disclosure. His mouth tightened, but there was no taking it back.
Both of them realized he had made a confession.
“Tie him up and get in the back,” Mike said. His order was spoken composedly, but there was no mistaking it was an order. And no mistaking, either, that the boy had not been invited to sit up front with him, but in the back with the animal.
Mike didn’t look at Rafo again but went to the front of the truck. The boy sat on the ground a moment longer, immobile. Now he heard the motor starting. The lights of the truck sprang alive. The boy picked up the coil of cord, made a slipknot, tied it to Macho’s leg, lifted him off the ground and put him in the truck.
Then he too got in. He pulled one door shut after him. He hadn’t yet pulled the second door shut when the truck began to move.
* * *
• • •
In the back of the truck, Rafo nursed his grudge. It killed him that he lost the fight to the gringo. Only at the beginning, two years ago, when he first started living alone in the alleys of the city, had he lost a fight. Nowadays, he could even handle the police, if need be, but he was too smart to take a chance on them. His superiority was in the matter of speed and brain—he never saw a policeman who wasn’t slow and stupid. And he, Rafo, was smart and quick.
He had to admit that the gringo was pretty smart himself to have grabbed him in such a way that Rafo couldn’t use his smartness and quickness. What was the secret of the gringo’s method when he had enclosed him in his bull-like arms? Grab-and-crush. Was grab-and-crush better than smart-and-quick? He didn’t think so. He had faith in smart-and-quick. Still . . . Rafo would have to think about that.
It was particularly galling that the man was a gringo. He had come to the conclusion that gringos were especially stupid, even more stupid than cops. If you were hungry and couldn’t make a few pesos in a cockfight or if you didn’t get paid for bringing a customer to El Picador or for running illegal bets at the Frontón or Hipodromo, you could always borrow some kid’s shoeshine box and go work on the gringos, outside the Hilton. Shine a shoe and start to cry. Don’t shine both shoes because Yankees get embarrassed by tears and if both their shoes are finished, they’ll drop a small tip and run. But if you’re between shoes, you have time to build the story—the number of starving children in the family increases, the mother’s sickness gets more deathly, the father’s drunken cruelty more impossible to bear—and every sob means an extra peso.
Once, when he had told the tale more graphically than usual, he got two hundred pesos from a gringo with two-toned shoes that only needed spit-cleaning—and the man was sober. With a drunk, the sky was the limit. A bandage and a drunken Yankee were an unbeatable combination. On his saint’s day, he put a tomato-stained bandage over his right eye and when his left eye was weeping the tears of catastrophe, he offered to lift the bandage so the drunk could see how he had lost the eye. The man said no thank you and Rafo didn’t even have to finish polishing the second shoe; the drunk gave him five hundred pesos and fled.
That was the first time Rafo began using his new jargon. He had spoken English very well, when he was five or six, with barely a trace of accent. But it was a deterrent, he found, to try to con a gringo for a few pesos by playing the role of the ignorant poor while your language gave you away as educated rich. So that day, working the drunk, he had tried corrupting his speech and it turned out very well. Soon he had developed a jargon all his own—partly Mexican, partly Texan, partly the smut of t
he gutter. His mother, on one of the rare occasions he came home, was disgusted by his new argot and called it. Tex-Mex-Sex. At first he spoke the jargon consciously, working at it; now it was his habitual way of speaking and it pleased him. It was the perfect discourse for cheating norteamericanos. Of course you could never bilk Mexicans with tricks like that, only gringos. They were stupid. He loved getting the best of gringos, not only for the money but the revenge. He hated them.
He especially hated his father, the gringo of all gringos. Rafo remembered him well—hardly anything about his father had he forgotten. Everything handsome and clean and, best of all, light in color. Eyes, hair, pale gray suits, fingernails—all light in color. And therefore—it was a mystery he could never explain—unattainable. It was like the Indian game of Ixtatl. There was this sacred fire on the mountain, an angry volcano. You had to scale the mountain and get close to the holy flame. But you mustn’t dare to put your hand toward it, for if one spark struck you, you would be consumed by fire. Awe-inspiring and untouchable. His father.
His father, the promise breaker. He would promise to be back by Saturday—it would be the following Tuesday before he came home. He would promise to bring him the badge of a Texas sheriff—he never brought it. Then, the year after his father had deserted his mother, he promised to come for Rafo and take him north to the rodeo. That last promise was the most precious to Rafo. For he loved animals—once he had a menagerie of cats, dogs, goats, an armadillo and an iguana—and he had a passion for horses. He learned to ride before he learned to read and the first time he went to the Hipodromo, after the very first race, he ran out onto the field, screaming in ecstasy, and had to be restrained. So that when Howard failed to keep his promise about the rodeo . . .
Rafo couldn’t understand the breaking of promises. How could grown-up people do that? He himself, if he were to be as sloppy about promises with the other boys in the banda—Cristo, they would cripple him! The promise was the heart of things. How could anybody grow up to be an adult and not remember that? Maybe that’s what being an adult was: forgetting the promise.
Cry Macho Page 13
