He began dealing by the balloonful, but that quantity was too expensive for junkies, who barely live day-to-day. The solution rested with chinches: single doses. But the profits were limited. San Pedroslavia is a City of Vice, and every three houses somebody offers you drugs. If you don’t want to bother, you can go straight to a shooting gallery where, for twenty pesos, you stretch out your arm, they apply a tourniquet, and the dealers themselves inject you. While the others dealt via windows, Pedro Rodríguez used the old mule system. He’d deliver the drugs straight to the home. His clientele were the addicts who didn’t want to move. They were few in number. Nonetheless, there were enough earnings so he’d never lack his own personal spoonful.
Pedro Rodríguez was a huge wrestling fan. Each Sunday, he’d go to the Laguna Coliseum. He was a rudo. His father had been a wrestler: The Blue Shadow. He lamented having lost The Cowboy Bible. The wrestling arena made him remember. It was there he found The Cowboy Bible, abandoned, broken, worn; a musician had stepped all over it after having traveled with it under a train seat. In the end, if they haven’t been destroyed, instruments should be pawned or sold to get drugs.
William Tell’s Corrido
—Thank you very much. Luis Ernesto Martínez on the saxophone. Dr. Benway on drums. Clark-Nova on the bajo sexto. Dave Tesorero on accordion.
—On the mic: Juan Salazar.
The Bunker, a blues bar, was oversold. The crowd could not accept that the band was not coming back for a second encore. Juan Juan Juan, screamed the pickpockets, always among the most passionate fans. Pedro Rodríguez had a seat at the third table. He knew the group wasn’t coming back onstage when he saw a tech guy approaching him. He got up to go with him back to the dressing room, but some staff guy said, Not here. Juan’s waiting for you at this address and handed him a piece of paper with directions.
The info on the napkin didn’t indicate 210-8 Orizaba Street. Instead, there were directions to a bar called The Other Paradise. The place was sordid, and the clientele was subdued. It was a junky bar, with a dirt floor and wooden tables. The bar was on the left. The curtain to the bathroom was made from long strips of matchbox tops threaded together. In the back, near the jukebox, a concrete stairway led to the second floor.
Pedro Rodríguez entered the bar and took a seat at a table facing the back. There were only three customers. Two at one table were getting ready to shoot up. The other guy muttered before a bottle of sotol. Ten minutes went by and the bartender still hadn’t offered him a drink.
He was about to order a Superior beer when Juan Salazar appeared at the top of the stairs. The bar lighting changed. Everything became a sandy color: the bar, the barman, Juan Salazar’s tie.
He began to descend the stairs, and time turned to rubber. Pedro Rodríguez sensed something different in his walk. He thought maybe it had something to do with the exaggerated care he was taking in coming down, but no. It was confirmed when he arrived on even ground. He was walking stiffly. Each step was in the form of a square. Every two steps, he’d change directions. He seemed more like a car trying to park than a man approaching his destination. He seemed indecisive. Pixelated. Yes, a pixelated Juan Salazar was nearing his table.
He sat down across from him, but his image seemed to be experiencing some sort of interference. It was as if his signal was getting lost. His tie resembled transistors. Behind him, the linked bottle-top curtain at the front door clattered when a customer entered the bar. They got up and started up to the second floor. Pedro Rodríguez couldn’t recall if the singer had said a single word.
John Vollmer was waiting for them in a little room. There was a Cowboy Bible in the corner. Pedro Rodríguez took it out of its case and began to play a polka. He paused to present his newest album. John Vollmer asked him how long he’d been playing. Since I was a boy. Juan would love to ask him to join the quintet but, unfortunately, they had a complete group; if the current guy screwed up though, they’d contract Pedro. Juan prepared the drug, and all three shot up.
When the drug’s intensity began to fade, John Vollmer and Juan Salazar began to fuck. Pedro Rodríguez remained on a rocking chair by himself. Given his position, he couldn’t see them, but he could hear them moaning. He looked under the rocker and saw them. He saw the dogs. They were there. It couldn’t be. I’m not cold turkey. This isn’t my room. He leaned down again and recognized his bed, the phrase written on the wall. The dogs were organizing a hunt.
When the lovers finished fucking, the dogs overpowered Pedro Rodríguez.
—It’s time for the William Tell routine.
The apartment where Juan Salazar was unbuttoning his jacket was in the Monterrey Building. The meeting was to celebrate their recording of Mi último refugio with a string accompaniment. The boys in the band, the sound engineers, and a marquis, who, it was rumored, was after the singer’s bones, were toasting with Torrecillas sotol.
—It’s time for the William Tell number, Juan Salazar said again.
He was drunk, and the first thing every norteño in love wants to do once they’re intoxicated is prove what a good shot they are. He left his jacket on the couch, rolled up his sleeves, loosened his tie, and undid the safety on the Star .380. John Vollmer raised a half-full glass of sotol and coyly placed it on his head. The singer stepped back about two or three meters and aimed.
He pulled the trigger and fired. Both the glass and John Vollmer fell to the floor. Turning in concentric circles on top of the blue tiles, the glass revealed itself intact. A puddle of blood emerged on John Vollmer’s forehead. With tears on his face, Juan Salazar bent down to his lover. Juanito, Juanito, talk to me, talk to me, don’t die, Juanito, don’t die. The game had gone wrong. John Vollmer was dead. The bullet wound sparkled on his forehead.
Pedro Rodríguez woke up with half his body spilling out from under the blankets. There were no dogs in the room. The sun indicated it was noon. It was Botanus time. Plenty to be thankful for. The desert’s caress could be felt at about forty-two degrees Celsius in the shade.
It may have been inappropriate, but he wanted to eat. With blurred vision, hair on end and shaky hands, he managed to make it to the fridge. The first thing he swallowed was a jar of mayo. Without checking the expiration date, without a clue as to how long it had been there, he spooned it with his finger without a thought. Then he opened a can of Brunswick sardines, which he could tell by the smell had aged well beyond four weeks. Then he went on to a jar of Valentina sauce. Down to the bottom. For dessert, he had a first-aid gel he found in the freezer.
Still hungry, he directed himself to the bathroom, with the idea of drinking Vaseline, but the chill kept him from it. Trembling, he closed his eyes and crouched by the wall. A blanket, he cried. Someone give me a blanket! His screams were useless. Damn dogs. There was no one in the room who could offer him shelter. Just him and those forty-two degrees. A blanket! I’m dying from the cold. And so, trembling and naked, he fell asleep. With no one to help him, he couldn’t even cover himself: He was too far from the bed.
With the shoebox under his arm, Juan Salazar entered the building. He rang the attic-room doorbell. Pedro Rodríguez opened the door. His skin had red splotches all over it. Scotland.
—Pedro.
—Yes, Juan.
—I need two grams of heroin. But I don’t have the money to pay you.
—Juan, you know… it’s business.
—I brought this. He showed him the Star .380.
—That changes things. Given that, we don’t have to take the usual steps.
—Juan handed Pedro the gun, wrapped in a handkerchief and still warm from the shot that had killed John Vollmer, then took the drug and made his way down the dirty boulevard. Pedro Rodríguez stayed in his room, scratching. The itching was so intense that all through the wee hours the only sound on the streets was that of his nails on his skin.
The Cowboy Bible
At the station, the commissioner reprimanded two of his agents.
—What’s this about you refusing to arres
t Pedro Rodríguez?
—We’ve heard stories, commissioner.
—Damn.
—They say he’s a nahual.
—What’s that?
—A witch. An Indian witch who can transform himself into a bird, bubble, fire, coyote, or whatever he wants.
—Those are stories told by ignorant people. Do you think this is a movie? Pedro Rodríguez is nothing more than an insignificant dealer.
—They say they’ve seen him shoot with a Cowboy Bible.
—Don’t be ridiculous. A Cowboy Bible? So, what then, he uses a guitar to cut onions?
—Commissioner…
—Don’t commissioner me. You two get out of here and get that asshole by whatever means necessary.
—Don’t make me lose my patience. Just confess, Mr. Juan Salazar. What did you do with the gun that killed your lover? asked the commissioner.
—I already told you. I gave it to Pedro Rodríguez.
—For the last time, Mr. Juan Salazar: Do you know where to find Pedro Rodríguez?
Juan Salazar was detained at Lecumberri for only thirteen days. He was released on bail. Court costs were $2,312. His attorney, Bernabé Jurado, charged $2,300 for his services, $300 of which were used to bribe the boys in ballistics. When they couldn’t find the murder weapon, Jurado substituted a Smith & Wesson for the Star .380 so as not to delay the proceedings. The whole story about the William Tell game was proven false. The version presented in court asserted that Juan Salazar was cleaning his weapon. The gun accidentally fell to the floor and fired. The bullet entered the victim’s forehead without premeditation.
John Vollmer was buried in grave #1018-A in the Panteón Americano.
Pedro Rodríguez was listening to the blues on his old record player when they rang the doorbell of his attic room. He thought about the cops, he thought about the dogs, and he thought about Juan Salazar. With the needle still hanging off his arm, he got up to see who it was. It was nobody. And before some Yankee showed up with his imported boner, insisting on trading it for drugs, he grabbed the Star .380 and went out on the streets.
He arrived at the Laguna Coliseum in time for the second fight. That night, there was a mask vs. hairpiece match between Santo’s Son and Menace Jr. He bought some snacks and a Victoria beer. When it came time for the superdeluxe semifinal, after he’d had four beers, he saw a narc guarding the men’s bathroom. A second stood at the door, and a third roamed the general ring area.
With the gun tucked into his pants waist, he made his way to the rudos dressing room. A fourth narc intercepted him. All four patted him down, but they didn’t find the gun. In its place, badly hidden in his pants, they found a Cowboy Bible. After searching his attic room and driving him around in an old Dodge for two hours with his head between his legs, Pedro Rodríguez still didn’t reveal the whereabouts of the Star .380. He also couldn’t explain how he’d come upon The Cowboy Bible. They took him cuffed to the station. The gun was never found.
The beating ended at five in the afternoon. Two police thugs had been cracking him from eleven in the morning on, hoping he’d let loose the 411 on the gun’s whereabouts. Disconcerted by his stubborn silence, they dropped him back in his cell so that after a brief rest and a chat, he’d recover his ability to feel pain, so that he wouldn’t forget what it felt like, so that he wouldn’t miss it.
At seven they brought him dinner. It was already dark because of the summer change in time zones. He could hear music coming from the central plaza. He’d be transferred to Lecumberri the next day. The torture sessions left him exhausted, and he fell asleep with his eyes fixed on the wall.
Some goings-on in the cell woke him up. When he was sleeping, he dreamed of saxophones: tenors, altos, sopranos. He imagined the band’s revelry, he even thought he heard When the Saints Go Marching In. But the noise in the cell wouldn’t let him concentrate on the melody. He imagined the cops would be coming back for another round. What are they waiting for, he asked himself. But it wasn’t them. He remembered the dogs. He was sure it was the dogs, but he refused to look.
He kept his face to the wall. He heard a voice in his head, and he was afraid. There they are again, the voice said. Because of the din, he assumed the dogs were playing around. The voice spoke again: There they are again, and those bastards don’t understand. Pedro Rodríguez turned to look. They weren’t dogs but men, and they had gathered in a circle like a group of boys kicking around a ball on fire. He got up from the cot and moved to the center of the circle.
How can I be afraid of them, if they’re a part of me, he said, as if he was talking back to the voice inside him. Then the one hundred and seventeen men all began to jump inside him with a long wail.
The guards on duty woke from the riot.
—Go get him, the new guy’s acting out. Quick, before he hangs himself.
But when the guards on duty looked through the bars, they didn’t see the prisoner. The lock was still locked. The only thing in the cell was a snake that glittered like a cowboy belt.
—Look, partner. A snake.
—Kill it, kill it. Shoot it, you dummy. It’s a Masticophis flagellum. They nest in houses.
They pulled out their guns and opened fire on the snake that slithered and crawled, slithered and crawled, slithered and crawled. When they were sure it was dead, the opened the cell door, but there was absolutely no trace of the creature. In its place they found only a piteado belt shot through with bullet holes.
Epilogue I
Emilio says to The Cowboy Bible, You can consider this goodbye. With what’s due you, you can restart your life. I’m going to San Francisco, with the one who’s everything to me.
Four shots were heard. The Cowboy Bible had killed Emilio. The police found only a discarded gun. No one heard anything ever again about the money or The Cowboy Bible.
Epilogue II
Later, at dawn, she told me:
—You’re a loser, Old Paulino. You’re not at all affectionate. You know who was sweet to me?
—Who?
—The Cowboy Bible. He really knew how to make love.
About the Author
Born in Coahuila, Mexico, in 1978, CARLOS VELÁZQUEZ is the author of story collections Cuco Sánchez Blues (2004), La Biblia Vaquera (named one of the books of the year by Reforma in 2009), and La marrana negra de la literatura rosa (2010). He received the Premio Nacional de Cuento Magdalena Mondragón and has been anthologized in El Fondo de Cultura Económica’s Anuario de poesia mexicana 2007.
About the Translator
Born in Havana, Cuba, ACHY OBEJAS has written fiction, poetry, and journalism. She is the author of five books, including three novels: Days of Awe, Memory Mambo, and Ruins. Her poetry chapbook, This Is What Happened in Our Other Life, was both a critical favorite and a bestseller. She is trained as a journalist and has worked in the alternative press, including In These Times, where she writes a monthly column, and the Chicago Tribune. A translator between Spanish and English, she translated into Spanish Junot Díaz’s The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao and This Is How You Lose Her and into English such contemporary Latin American writers as Rita Indiana, F. G. Haghenbeck, and Wendy Guerra. She is the recipient of a USA Ford Fellowship, a Woodrow Wilson Visiting Fellowship, a team Pulitzer Prize for the series “Gateway to Gridlock” while at the Tribune, a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship in poetry, the Studs Terkel Journalism Award, and a Cintas Foundation Fellowship. She is currently the Distinguished Visiting Writer at Mills College in Oakland, California.
RESTLESS BOOKS is an independent publisher for readers and writers in search of new destinations, experiences, and perspectives. From Asia to the Americas, from Tehran to Tel Aviv, we deliver stories of discovery, adventure, dislocation, and transformation.
Our readers are passionate about other cultures and other languages. Restless is committed to bringing out the best of international literature—fiction, journalism, memoirs, poetry, travel writing, illustra
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Copyright © 2008 Carlos Velázquez
Translation copyright © 2015 Achy Obejas
First published in Spanish as La Biblia Vaquera by
Editorial Sexto Piso, Mexico City, 2011
Digital edition published by Restless Books, 2016
This edition published by Restless Books, 2016
Cover design by Rodrigo Corral
Typesetting and eBook by Tetragon, London
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: Available upon request.
ISBN: 978-1-63206-022-8
eISBN: 978-1-63206-042-6
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The Cowboy Bible and Other Stories Page 8
