The Skull of Pancho Villa and Other Stories

by Manuel Ramos

  The girl smiled, at the word honey, I assumed, and said, “Jack, black. Plenty of ice.”

  She stubbed out her wet smoke and plucked another one from a wrinkled pack she had dragged out of a bulky red leather purse that hung on her hip, the strap twisted across her narrow shoulders. She seemed to move to the beat of the music.

  So I asked, “You like this song?”

  She finished lighting her cigarette, carefully put the match in the ashtray, filled her lungs with smoke, let it all go in a big cloud of drama. She tapped the bar, then she turned to me.

  “Yeah, I do as a matter of fact. Something about this song that makes me feel like a teenager again, know what I mean? A teenager getting ready for the prom, thinking that she’s about to lose her cherry, maybe. Know what I mean?”

  It was my turn to take my time. I drank my beer, picked at the label with my fingernail and then looked into the crazy house of those eyes. I said, “I never thought of it that way, actually. It’s more like this bittersweet poem about a man’s foolishness and the price he pays for being a man.”

  She licked the wet edge of her glass with a tiny pink tongue and did a move with her shoulders that could have been a dance step, if we had been on the dance floor, if we had been dancing. When she finished with the motions, she said, “A foolish man. It’s always a foolish man.”

  Right then I knew that our dance had finished before it had even started. She had to be under the weight of a story that was guaranteed to bore me or make me laugh or maybe even make me feel pity for her, but none of those responses was what she wanted. The truth of the matter was that I would never figure out what she was looking for, not if we had all the time in the world to sit in that bar and talk about it. Not if we went to her place and spent the night talking about it, not even if she told me all about it while we lay naked in her bed, smoking cigarettes. I would never know because what she carried around with her was not for me to know. It’s a lesson I had learned in that bar so long ago that I had forgotten my teacher but I had never forgotten the lesson.

  I shrugged and let it go. Maybe she wanted to get picked up. Maybe she only wanted a drink. Maybe she was waiting for the latest in a long line of foolish men, and maybe he was the kind of guy who would not appreciate another man talking to her about the implications of the sensual vocalizing streaming from the jukebox. It got all complicated right then and there and I decided that I should have another beer. I waved my empty bottle at Maggie and she retrieved one from the cooler at the end of the bar. Almost simultaneously, the girl hollered, “Hey, another Jack, black. More ice.”

  One of the boys next to her said, “Put that on my tab, Maggie. Let me buy the little lady a drink.”

  I winced and waited for something, anything, because what the guy said just didn’t seem right and a response of some kind had to be on its way.

  The girl said, “Hey, I never pass up a free drink. Thanks, mister.”

  Then she turned to me.

  “Your friends okay? Or are they maybe perverts who want to get me drunk and do something really nasty to a little thing like me?”

  The boys laughed and she laughed and I laughed and I thought that at any minute the Club Lido would turn weird. But it was weird in that bar all the time, and I told myself that whatever I was watching had nothing to do with me.

  I kept an eye on Maggie, who had proven to be a good gauge for weirdness and trouble. When something was about to break, she could sense it. Fifteen years of serving drinks to crowds of men in varying stages of inebriation will do that. She often had a bat in her hand at the same instant that a drunk decided to trash the place, and then he would either leave or she would open up his forehead with the bat. I had seen it and I trusted her to figure out the girl.

  Maggie did not offer any body language that told me anything about the girl. She served us our drinks and I tried to relax and enjoy my rest stop after work.

  One of the boys said, “Hey now, that ain’t us, sweetheart. Ask Maggie there. She’ll vouch for us. We’re okay. Right, Maggie?”

  The bartender had her head back in the cooler, counting beer bottles, so none of us could see her face when she said, “A couple of teddy bears, honey. Real gentlemen. Just don’t believe them when they say they want you to meet their mother.”

  The boys laughed again, a bit nervously I thought.

  The girl stood up from her stool and moved a little behind us. She had her hand in her purse. I offered her a cigarette from a pack I had sitting on the bar, but she shook her head and persisted in digging in that purse. The boys went back to telling jokes because it looked as if the girl would play with that purse for a long time.

  I had to make a decision. A glass of bourbon meant that it could turn into a longer night than I had anticipated at the Club Lido. I could leave now, grab a burger on the way home and get a good night of sleep. A loud clap of thunder shook the outside world and the lights in the bar flickered. Rain fell in sheets against the dirty windows and I no longer had to make a decision. There was no way I would run to my car in the downpour.

  I tried to get Maggie’s attention, but she stared only at the girl, still standing behind us. Maggie looked sick, and I worried that maybe she had eaten too many of the microwave burritos that were Club Lido’s specialty.

  Maggie said, “Hey, honey, put that away. There’s no need for that.”

  I turned and saw a very shiny handgun pointed in the general direction of Maggie but whose sweep had to include me and the boys two stools over.

  I said, “Damn.”

  The boys stopped talking and one of them raised his hands above his head. He apparently had some experience with the situation, and so his buddy and I followed his lead.

  Maggie said, “Honey, put that away. I mean it. This is stupid. There’s no need.”

  The girl waved the gun at Maggie, and Maggie stopped talking. The girl had not said a word for several minutes but she communicated very well, I thought.

  She kept the gun pointed at all of us while she moved in the general direction of Maggie. She walked behind the bar, sneered at the two boys with their hands in the air, then rested the barrel of her gun against Maggie’s temple.

  Her words came out in a whisper and I almost didn’t believe what I heard her say.

  “Cabrona. I told you not to mess with me. Here I am, Maggie, just like I promised.”

  The boys looked at each other, then at Maggie, then at me. I raised my eyebrows at them, although I didn’t understand what I meant by that.

  Maggie rotated her neck as if she were warming up for an exercise class. A tear slowly made its way down her cheek, leaving a trail through the make-up that she wore with pride. She said, “Honey, we can talk this out. What you think you’re doing? Put that gun away and let’s go home and talk about this. This is crazy, honey. Crazy.”

  The girl pressed the gun into Maggie’s head, and Maggie quit rotating her neck.

  “¡Cabrona! ¡Cabrona, cabrona! I told you not to mess with me. You can’t dump me, vieja. Vieja cabrona. You can’t dump me!”

  Tears from those wild eyes raced down her face and her thin lips quivered. I feared that her shaking might cause her to pull the trigger by accident.

  One of the boys said, “What the hell is this? What’s this dyke to you, Maggie?”

  The girl pointed the gun at the boy, and he shut up, but it was too late. The shot sounded like a blast from a cannon. He twirled on his bar stool and flew across space until he landed on his back on the muddy floor.

  He said, “Oh God. She shot me. She shot me.”

  His right hand gripped his left shoulder where blood oozed across his fingers. His friend’s wide-open eyes gaped at the blood. Large tears formed at the corners of those eyes. There seemed to be a lot of crying, and I was starting to feel a little emotional myself.

  Maggie said, “Oh, hell, Diana, you’ve done it now. You plan to shoot all of us? Kill me and these guys just because you can’t take it that it’s over between us?
You are crazy. I knew it and now you’ve proven it.”

  I didn’t like the fact that Maggie appeared to be giving ideas to the girl about what she had to do next, but I didn’t want to say anything. The last person who had intruded into what was obviously a lovers’ spat had ended up whimpering on the floor while a pool of his blood slowly radiated around his upper torso. I did not want to join him.

  The girl finally spoke.

  “I don’t care about you, bitch. You think that’s what this is about? You give yourself too much credit, hag. I want the money. Clean out the cash drawer and get the stuff from the back, in the safe. Then I’m out of here, and you and your puta can live happily ever after, for all I care.”

  Maggie shook her head as if she wanted to take the girl in her arms and soothe the bad feelings.

  The girl screamed, “Do it! Get the pinche money! Get it now!”

  She waved the gun in the air with herky-jerky spasms of her hands. I bobbed and weaved like a punch-drunk palooka to keep out of the line that a stray bullet might travel.

  Maggie continued shaking her head, not ready to believe what was happening, but she opened the cash register drawer and scooped out a wad of bills. She was handing them over to the girl when the siren froze everyone. The money hung in midair between Maggie and the girl. The wounded boy did not groan, did not twist in his blood. His friend did not shake. And I did not lick my lips, although my thirst had become a cotton football stuck in my throat since I had decided that I would stop at Club Lido for a couple of beers after work.

  Maggie said, “Someone heard the shot. Called the cops. Now what?”

  The girl looked stupidly at Maggie. She hesitated, but the siren got louder and she finally understood she had to do something. The money was forgotten. She hugged Maggie, the gun resting on Maggie’s shoulder, and gave her a kiss that seemed too long under the circumstances.

  Then she ran from behind the bar and avoided the boy she had shot. She passed within inches of me.

  I was halfway off the stool, my feet flat on the floor. I thought about many things right then. I thought how here was a young, troubled girl, part of my raza, my people, with not much going for her except a pair of damn beautiful eyes. I thought that, except to the poor guy bleeding on the floor, she was more scared and hurt than dangerous. I thought how sometimes you have to give people a break, a second chance. I thought those things.

  I tripped her as she ran to the door and she flew head first to the floor. The gun slid from her hand and clunked against a wall.

  She looked up and saw the gun I had drawn from the holster under my sweater. Her wonderful eyes begged Maggie, but no help existed behind the bar.

  I said, “You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say . . . ”

  NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH

  The neighborhood has changed over the years, but then hasn’t everything? I’ve changed, that’s for sure. When Emilia and I moved in the house we were kids with a kid of our own. That was five children and close to fifty years ago. The house was only a few years old and we paid $5,000 for it. Hard to believe now but that was a bundle back then. It was a struggle but we stayed. Man, oh man, if I had only been able to buy three or four of these houses. For what they go for now? Well, that’s water under the bridge or lo que pasó, voló, as my father used to say.

  We wouldn’t have made it except for the job at the brick factory. Working with the Italians eventually turned into a godsend, but when I was hired I was the lowest of the low—the only Mexican guy in the entire place, so I guess they treated me all right, considering.

  Funny how life is. The Italians settled into the North Side, built homes and businesses, raised their families, and then the Mexicans started moving in and ten years later most of the Italians were gone and Spanish was spoken everywhere. Emilia and I didn’t object, of course, but I will say that those Italian people were solid for the most part. Loyal to a fault. Took care of their homes, kept the yards neat as doctors’ offices, and had the best damn church bazaars I ever been to. They had their troublemakers, sure, every group does. That was what was behind the fire bombing of the house on the corner a few months after we moved into our place. Two of the older Italians started a feud with each other and the next thing I know fire trucks are parked all up and down the street. But that was unusual. Like I said, for the most part they were good people who minded their own business.

  Sausage sandwiches and beer—you knew it was summer when you could walk over to Mount Carmel and buy a sausage sandwich and a beer for a buck, play some Chuck-A-Luck for a nickel, and all the pretty Italian girls wore red, white or green shorts.

  Oh, oh. Starting to sound like an old fart again. Sitting on the porch, on the swing that Emilia and I set up so many years ago, I guess I turn a bit sentimental. Good thing she’s not around to see me like this. Spending my days on this swing that doesn’t move—frozen stiff from age and rust, just like me—watching the comings and goings of neighbors I don’t even know. Some days I don’t talk to anyone unless one of the grandkids stops by. They’re good kids. They don’t speak more than a few words of Spanish, but I always know they’re coming to visit when the windows in the house start to vibrate from the music they blast from their cars. Embarrassing, but what can I do? I’m just the old abuelito, the little grandfather, living all by myself in this old house, and I should be grateful for the company. Most people think I’m deaf, some think I’m blind, too, and they all think I’m a little loco with a touch of that old-timers’ disease. Let them think it. Me vale madre. What do I care?

  And now the neighborhood’s changing again.

  Guess I wasn’t cut out to be a real estate tycoon. I didn’t buy me more houses when they were really cheap all those years ago—of course, I couldn’t have afforded to buy any more even if I had thought of it—and I never anticipated that my neighborhood, mi barrio as we used to call it, would turn into a hot market for young white couples who have at least a hundred grand of credit, want to buy a nice brick home, take care of a yard and live in a part of the city with a real history and a real personality that is close to downtown office jobs. I’m sitting on a gold mine, like my daughter Francine says. But if I sell, then what? She’s not going to put me up, we all know that. Anyway, I can still talk to Emilia here, if I set my mind to it, and that’s not going to happen anywhere else no matter how nice of an apartment my kids find for me. No, I’m not going anywhere. One day I’ll die here on my broken swing and that’s the way they’ll find me, when they find me. Probably be dead for a couple of days before someone notices that I haven’t moved for a spell.

  Those two across the street. They’re a pair. She’s cute. Sara’s her name. Likes to wear short shorts and tank tops and work up a sweat in the flowerbeds Carmen Ávila planted around the house back in the seventies. I worry about Carmen and Alfredo and hope they’re doing all right up in Northglenn. Hair like a shaft of morning sunshine. Sara across the street, not Carmen. Carmen’d be lucky if she has any hair left.

  The husband’s a big guy, always dressed in a suit except when he mows the lawn. Drives a flashy sports car. Must be a Miata or something like that, but I thought those cars were for women. What do I know, eh? His name’s Carl.

  Then there’s her boyfriend. Don’t know his name. Guy in a silver pickup truck with fancy wheels, fat tires and tinted windows who comes by every other day or so about an hour after the husband leaves for work. Short red-headed young man, but stocky, full of muscles, like he works out. He parks down the street or around the corner, runs into the house, then comes out later, much later, and runs back to his pickup. Once in a great while the two of them leave together and take off in his ride. Lunch? A drink? Just cruising around? Can’t screw every minute I guess.

  The couple’s lived in the house for only two months, but already they’ve had four fights that woke me up in the middle of the night, and it takes a lot to wake me up. The sleep of the dead is not easy to disturb. Cops came by a couple of t
imes. And other nights I hear shouting and cursing. That’s how I learned their names. That couple is trouble for themselves, for me, for the neighborhood. But what am I going to do about it? Nada. Nothing, absolutely nothing.

  Got dark on me. Damn, I must have dozed off and it’s night already. Better fix me something to eat. This porch always needed a light. A kid busted the one over the door when we moved in and I never did replace it. At least I thought it was a kid. There was some bad stuff when we moved in, at first, but the Delvecchios, next door, they had a party and invited us and we met almost everyone on the block and that was that. No more bad stuff. No more dirty words painted on the fence, no more ringing doorbells and nobody at the door, no more ugly stares. That party was where I heard about the job at the plant. A move up for me from construction work. Good thing Emilia and I decided to go to that party. Delvecchios were good people.

  Oh, oh. The pickup truck is still parked down the street. Very careless, and this late?

  And here comes Carl.

  Parks his car, doesn’t bother to turn off the lights, sprints inside. Now what?

  Should take care of that food. I could pass out from not eating, or so said the doctor. Wonder how Sara’s dealing with the men in her life.

  Um. Sounded like a crash. Something. What the hell? The red-haired guy, sneaking out to his silver pickup.

  Where is Carl? And Sara? Nothing. No lights, no sound, nada. Guy in the pickup is long gone. Hey. It’s their problem, their soap opera.

  Damn! That was a window breaking. I heard that. ¡Santo Niño! She’s screaming. The cops will be here any minute. The whole neighborhood heard that scream.

  Need to warm up the beans that Francine brought by, and that little bit of soup left over from yesterday. What’s on TV? News. Christ, it is late. How long was I out there?

  Ah. Sirens. Here come the cops.

  “Mr. Sánchez, we’d like to ask a few questions, if you don’t mind?”

  “Sure. What’s going on? Somebody in trouble?”