by Sam Hawken
Ortíz got out and so did the men. Kelly saw one of them wore a gun open on his hip. The air smelled of dust and when the wind shifted the odor of open sewage pits carried from the south. Kelly had grit in his hair.
“All right,” Ortíz said. “Come on, Kelly. Let’s go inside, have a cerveza, all right?”
They left the men to unload the cocks in their plastic cat crates. Ortíz led the way. Inside the shift to fluorescent lighting left Kelly blind until his eyes adjusted, and then he saw the unpainted concrete walls festooned with grafitti and posters, the terraced benches around the fighting pit and, on the far side, a lively beer bar crowded with men. The terraces were almost empty, but already there were cocks fighting.
“You ever come to the palenque, Kelly?” Ortíz asked.
“No,” Kelly said.
“This is fighting,” Ortíz said. “You know I love the boxing, but there is nothing better than this. Even when los perros fight… it’s not the same.”
Kelly smelled blood, but in the bar there was too much smoke, beer and the odor of bodies and the whiff of blood vanished. Ortíz paused to talk here and there, but never for long. Kelly waited, and soon they were at the bar itself. Ortíz got two bottles of Tecate and presented one to Kelly.
“Salud, dinero, amor y tiempo para disfrutarlo todo,” Ortíz told Kelly, and it was bottoms up. This was the first beer Kelly had tasted in over a month. Ortíz wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I have six cocks fighting today. Good animals, the best money can buy.”
Kelly nodded. It was possible to see from the bar the head of the judges in the fighting pit, but not the battle itself, though occasionally a feather flew loose, or there was the sudden, visible flurry of dark wings.
“I like the pure fighting, you know?”
“That’s what you said.”
“How much fighting are you doing these days, Kelly?”
Kelly shrugged. “Not much. I’ve been training.”
“And you look muy bueno, Kelly. Better than ever. Listen, my friend, I know you like to fight and that you want to earn some money, so maybe you want to hear about this. I have some clients that like the pure fighting. Not boxing, but traditional. You know what I mean?”
“Not really.”
“Bare hands. Like they used to do it in the old days.”
The beer didn’t taste right to Kelly. A bowl of lime slices was close at hand. Kelly took one and sucked the juice. He shook his head. “There’s no sanction for fighting like that,” he said.
Ortíz spread his hands wide. Around them, men were filing out of the bar area and down to the terraces. Kelly saw one of the men from the truck down by the pit talking to one of the judges. “You think everything that happens has to have paperwork? This is a good time, Kelly. Lots of money. You can even get your dick wet; lots of girls at these things. Pretty girls. Young girls.”
“I got a girl.”
“Yeah, you got a ballbusting puta,” Ortíz said. He made a face. “Some people, they think maybe she’s the one with the cock, you know?”
Kelly pushed the limes away sharply. “Don’t talk about Paloma like that.”
“Nothing personal.”
“Okay, then let’s talk about business. I want to fight. Real fights.”
“I got nothing like that.”
“You can get something.”
“How? There’s nobody backing you, Kelly.”
“You are.”
“Sure, sure. I mean who gave you all those fights when you came to Juárez? Me. I watched out for you, kept you in the ring.”
“I know. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”
“About a real fight.”
“That’s what I said.”
Ortíz finished his beer and signaled the bartender for another. “You’re reliable, Kelly. I don’t care about what happened in the past. This is now.”
Kelly took a deep breath. He felt light headed, but it couldn’t have been just the beer. “I’d like to see about getting into some sanctioned matches. I don’t have to fight under my name. We can work something out, get me in under the radar. Little fights, you know? Four-rounders to start. I don’t care who you put me up against.”
Ortíz’s beer came. He turned from Kelly and rolled the cold bottle between his hands. His expression was pensive. He glanced sidelong at Kelly. “I’m not sure what you’re asking me, Kelly.”
“We’re talking about a real fight.”
“And I’m telling you I don’t got nothing like that for you. I got something better.”
“I’m not fighting nobody bare-knuckles,” Kelly said. “A real fight, okay?”
“What do you think I’m saying, Kelly? I’m talking about real fighting without all those gloves and all that huevadas. You don’t need to get some paper from some burócrata behind a desk.”
Kelly thought about taking another drink, but the taste for it was gone. “No, I’m telling you that’s not my thing. I’m not that kind of fighter. I want to box. It’s not like I don’t appreciate what all you’ve done. I mean… that’s why I’m talkin’ to you now. I know you can get me in the ring legit.”
The bar area was almost empty now. The bartender took Kelly’s bottle away. Ortíz was quiet for a long time. Another cockfight started and the spectators cheered.
“I want to get back up there,” Kelly said finally.
Ortíz shook his head slowly. He half-smiled, took a swig and then laughed out loud. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Kelly. You look all right; did you get hit in the head? Maybe that’s it.”
“I’m just saying—”
Ortíz waved Kelly silent. “I hear what you’re saying.”
“So—”
“Don’t you get it? Nobody wants to see some washed-up bolillo in the ring with decent fighters. You get paid to bleed. You ain’t any kind of contender. This is it, okay? Nobody in Juárez would touch a fucking junkie gringo but me.”
“I’m not a junkie.”
“Whatever you say, Kelly. You think I don’t know those marks on you? Huh?”
Kelly crossed his arms unconsciously. He was short of breath. Kelly forced himself to inhale and exhale.
Ortíz went on: “I always gave you what you could get. This is what you get.”
“I can do better than that,” Kelly returned.
“Who says? Is it that fucking Urvano feeding you this shit? That puto doesn’t know nothing I don’t know, Kelly. Where was he when you wanted to fight back when? Huh? Huh? You tell me!”
Kelly wanted to be angry. Ortíz advanced on him with his hands waving. He spilled his beer. The few men left near the bar moved away fast. Kelly backed off. “I’m clean and I’m not playing,” Kelly said. “I know you done right by me before. We have respect.”
“‘Respect’? When you got respect for me then you do me a favor after all the favors I’ve done for you, naco. Where do you think I get the money to pay you? You think I’m some kind of asshole you can take for a ride, like those fucking turistas you and that zurramato Estéban peddle dope to?”
“That’s got nothin’ to do with nothin’,” Kelly protested.
Ortíz ignored Kelly as if he hadn’t said a word. “You stupid fuck. Talk about respect to me? This is my country, pendejo, this is my city. You want to talk your white bullshit to me? Is that it?”
“I get it,” Kelly said. “All right? Fuck it. I don’t need anything from you.”
He left the bar. Ortíz kept close behind. “Don’t you turn your back on me, cabrón! You don’t got nothing in Juárez without me. You think Urvano can get you into real fights? They’ll find out all about where you been, what you done.”
“You don’t know what I did.”
“Fucking bolillo!”
Kelly saw the way out and picked up the pace. One of the big men from the truck stepped in his way. The man still wore his Gargoyles. He was tall and wide and hard as cement beneath his black T-shirt. A tattoo of La Virgen de Guadalupe sto
od out in blue and red on his forearm. “Out of the way,” Kelly told him.
The big man didn’t move. Ortíz caught up. “Let him out,” he told the man. “He can walk back to his fucking hole in the wall. I should have Lalo run your white ass over.”
Enough. Kelly whirled on Ortíz and the smaller man took a step back. He still held his bottle, but by the neck like a weapon. “Goddammit, you little son of a bitch,” Kelly said. “You want to fight with me? I don’t give a shit how many guys you got with you, I’ll tear you a new asshole!”
Kelly felt Lalo move behind him. Ortíz put his hand up. “No,” he said.
“You find somebody else to bleed for you,” Kelly told Ortíz. “I’m out.”
He left the arena and exited into the hot, clean sunlight. He skirted around the big pick-up and headed up the dust-heavy street. Ortíz didn’t follow, nor Lalo or any of the other men from the truck. Kelly was alone.
PART TWO
Sospechoso
ONE
ON THE DAY AFTER HE SLEPT late instead of getting up for roadwork. He ate a healthy breakfast, but his heart wasn’t in it and he went to a taquería for something greasy. There he ate until his stomach started to feel all wrong and before he walked half a mile he puked his guts out against the side of a building. He wandered after that, not sure where to go or what to do. He didn’t like what he was feeling, which was angry and sad and lost all at once.
It occurred to him to call on Paloma, but he didn’t. Nor did he make the trip to Urvano’s gym. A part of him felt like he should work out harder than before and prove something, but another part urged Kelly to simply be. He bought a liter-sized bottle of cheap beer and sat on the edge of an overpass watching buses go by. When he finished the bottle, he dropped it over the side into a concrete-lined ditch and smiled at the sound of shattering glass.
He misspent the time until well after noon. When he got back to his apartment he was suddenly tired and took a nap for nearly three hours. He was aware of raised voices outside, a man and a woman squabbling and plainly audible through the open window, but they didn’t wake him; instead he dreamed about arguing with Paloma until she turned her back on him and disappeared.
Kelly woke up sweating and smelling like beer. He showered and put on fresh clothes, but then he just sat on the couch in his living room staring at the blank television. “Fuck you,” he said to no one, though maybe he was talking to Ortíz. He gave the TV a middle finger.
The walk back from the palenque was long, even with a bus hop along the way, and Kelly was aware now of how his feet hurt. He foraged aspirin from the bathroom, chewed two and waited half an hour for them to kick in. A half-hour after that Kelly still felt the ache. He forced himself to be still for another hour because he knew he shouldn’t go out the door to do what was on his mind.
He went back to a little norteño bar and found the woman with perfect white dentures again, tucked away in her little corner under the Christmas lights. Aside from the bartender, they were alone; shift change was still an hour away. The woman looked at Kelly suspiciously when he sat down across from her; she didn’t remember him, or maybe she just didn’t recognize Kelly when his face was healed.
“What do you got?” Kelly asked her.
“No sé de lo que usted está hablando,” the woman said, and she made to get up.
Kelly reached across the table. He put his hand on her forearm. “Hey,” he said. “I thought you said you liked boxeadores.”
The woman paused. She looked Kelly over again. Seeing her up close and without a film of exhaustion, Kelly realized she was older than he thought before. Maybe she was close to fifty, the extra weight she carried pushing out the deep lines that formed on the faces of lean, worked-raw mothers in the city. He still didn’t find her attractive.
“Why don’t you say you were that white boy?” the woman asked finally.
“How many white boys you see in here?”
The woman shrugged and settled back into her seat. She smiled her denture smile again. “You want to get more hierba? You don’t look so beat today.”
“I’m not fightin’ today,” Kelly said.
“Maybe you come around for something else?”
“What else you got?” Kelly asked.
“Come back and see.”
She took him to the ladies’ room and got on her knees. Kelly let her take his cock out. She jerked it and sucked it and though it took a while to get hard, she still managed to make it happen. Kelly turned her around and took down her pants. The woman grabbed the sides of the sink and Kelly fucked her without looking at her flabby ass, the flesh stitched with dark spiderweb veins. She didn’t ask for a condom and he didn’t use one. He came inside her and when he backed off she dripped on the dingy floor.
“Again,” the woman said. “You can put it my ass if you want.”
“No, thanks.”
Kelly was the first one out of the restroom. He went to the bar and drank two beers in a row. The bartender gave Kelly a look he couldn’t read, but whatever the man was thinking it couldn’t be any worse than what swirled around the drain in Kelly’s mind. He heard the ladies’ room door creak, but he didn’t look over; he felt the woman watching him. It seemed like forever before Kelly could go to her.
“You want some hard-on medicine?” the woman asked Kelly when he sat down again. “A young boxeador like you should be able to fuck longer than that.”
“I got pain,” Kelly said.
“Okay. I’ll fix you up.”
She gave Kelly something wrapped tightly in plastic film. Kelly put it in his pocket without looking at it. The thing weighed almost nothing; in the back of his mind Kelly could calculate a packet like that down to the milligram, or damned close. He felt hot and he was sticky under his arms.
He offered the woman money. She waved it away. “Not today,” she said.
“I’m gonna go,” Kelly replied.
“Next time I give you something to keep your aparato working,” the woman told Kelly. “You don’t last long enough, white boy.”
“Maybe it’s your fat ass I don’t like.”
“¡Bolillo!”
“Like I ain’t never heard that before.” Kelly turned his back on the woman. She said something else, something about how he had a little white prick, but Kelly wasn’t listening. The woman was still yelling when he hit the street. By then Kelly’s mind was somewhere else completely.
TWO
HE SMOKED THE FIRST BATCH OF the stuff because it was low-grade heroin that wasn’t worth fucking up a syringe to shoot. The whole time he argued with himself about it, but he knew his conscience was just going through the motions; after a while even the best herb couldn’t do what the cheapest brown could.
Smoking motivosa outside was one thing, but Kelly knew to keep this indoors. He closed the windows and put down the blinds and in the still air the smoke was like acid fumes in his eyes. When the heaviness came and all the nerves went out of his body and all he could do was lie on his back in the bedroom and stare at the insides of his eyelids, Kelly realized that it was impossible to remember this kind of high; every time it was all new and just as wonderful.
Going back to the woman in the norteño bar wasn’t an option, but there were other places to get what he wanted. He stayed clear of anyone he recognized, any of the faces that surrounded Estéban, because even though he was on the other side now and falling away, he still had some pride.
The phone rang, but he didn’t answer it. No one came to the door, which was just as well because after a while if Kelly didn’t have to leave the house for anything he chose to walk around in a pair of underpants. The same underpants every day, and nothing else. The itching didn’t bother him because it was gone the moment he tapped a vein.
The farmacias gave him what he needed for his works and Mexican strangers provided the rest. Kelly knew he didn’t have the money to go on like this forever, or even for very long, but it was all temporary, anyway; he needed to get over Ort
íz and the palenque and when that happened he would get back to doing what he was doing before. All the good things were still there… just delayed.
Kelly slept a lot and when he was awake he was tired. A dose of chinaloa put him into a limbo where there was no time or place and no need for worry. Once Kelly woke up in a puddle of cold urine. The sheets and the mattress were soaked through. He stripped off the sheets, piled them in the corner, and put a towel over the wet patch. It didn’t occur to him to take off his soiled underpants, and by the time he remembered he was already headed back down the rabbit hole and it didn’t matter anymore.
His refrigerator emptied out, though he was barely aware of eating. He lived with a stranger who was only home when he was out. Things would move or get broken or just disappear and Kelly had no memory of how or why. This would bother him when he was straight again, but not right now. Just a few days more and he would be ready to start fresh. How many days it had already been, he wasn’t sure.
Kelly wandered into the living room. He knew it was morning because the sun was coming up behind the GM maquiladora. Something beeped at him. He was bleary and the room was unfocused. He smelled musk and rot and his mouth tasted foul. A red light blinked on his answering machine. Kelly watched it and the machine beeped and he put things together.
Messages reeled off, but they were less interesting than the beep and the blinking light. Kelly rummaged in the refrigerator for something to eat. He found only half a stick of butter, so he sucked it like an ice pop. Paloma talked to him through the little speaker. Hearing her voice made him feel angry, but whether at her or at himself, Kelly didn’t know, and not knowing made him angrier.
“Bullshit fuck,” Kelly told his empty apartment. He had a mouthful of butter. His stomach rolled over.
Walking from room to room was a trial. Kelly was exhausted already. He slumped onto the couch, the last of the butter softening in his hand while Paloma kept talking and talking and wouldn’t shut up. This wasn’t forever and Kelly didn’t need her riding his ass to quit. Anyway, there was using and there was addicted and he knew the difference between them. Was he talking out loud?
