Table of Contents
posted by Walter Moore at 10:45 AM
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Part 1: The Border
The bullets tumbled heavy, bright spinning gold, as Lobo Valdez dropped them one by one into the slick brown river.
"They probably think I'm tossing coins into the water", he thought. He hoped. Stupid to get this close and risk doing time over some extra bullets forgotten in his pocket. He had never done time on the Mexican side before.
Lobo watched the ripples slide under him as he leaned against the metal bars of the International Bridge. Laredo, Texas to the right of him, with short intent people walking his way clutching plastic bags of goods or else wheeling them along in little carts. Nuevo Laredo to his left, with customs, and the biggest Mexican flag he'd ever seen overhead. A sweet untreated sewage smell—no, nobody over there would give him grief about littering in the Rio Grande.
The bullets were out of sight forever. Lobo straightened up, and walked left along the bridge, past the plaque at the halfway mark, into Mexico.
"Lobo" hadn't always been his name. His mother had named him "Jason", as if to pick something that no one on his father's side could pronounce properly: "Yay-son, Yay-son, you talk Spanish like you got a potato in your mouth, Yay-son."
Her name for him didn't stick—by grade school everyone knew him as "Lobo", "Wolf"—people thought it was because of his slanted blue eyes. But there were kids all up and down the border with blue eyes. He was the only Lobo.
Even Marisol called him Lobo, not Jason. Always had. He remembered how she said it, months ago: "Lobo, I'm late, I'm in trouble."
Lobo used his eyes and his height as he walked through the pedestrian tunnel at the Mexican end of the bridge and went past the first of the border guards, deliberately turning his face towards the man. Lobo made the officer remember him as a tall curious Gringo, another white boy looking for fun and trouble. He knew that back on the U.S. side they were going nuts looking for a Hispanic male, age mid-twenties, fleeing on foot.
"Fleeing", that implied scared. Lobo was sauntering now, walking easy. Looking for a phone to call Marisol.
He had been bugging out earlier today, though. Anybody would have. There he had been, awake after a bad night, sitting in his Toyota pick-up. Too amped to sleep. Thinking about smoking a cigarette, and he didn't need that habit again. The truck smelled like shit, literally. Like some dog took a dump inside the cab. There was nothing on his shoes either. He had checked. Nothing to do but roll down the window and let the cool morning air come in.
And just when he'd been on the edge of relaxing, Lawson had to show up.
Lobo guessed the dude's name was Lawson. That's what it said on the name-tag of his dark blue cop uniform. Big buzz-cut red-head recruiting-poster dude bending in the window all smug, like some clever big brother, saying "Hey, amigo, this isn't the place for that", and then before Lobo had a chance to process how he felt about being Lawson's "amigo", this guy's eyes got all big and his mouth was popping open and closed like a big cop goldfish, and Lobo didn't even remember lifting the Beretta 9mm Army-issue pistol, didn't know what he was going to do with it, frankly, didn't even remember he'd been holding it in his hand.
("Don't ever let anybody get too close to you when you're using this Beretta", Yankee had said behind the pawnshop, "If they mash back on the barrel like this... it won't fire".)
Maybe Lawson knew about Berettas—maybe he was a dumb-ass rookie—Lobo had never seen him before. Whatever the reason, he started reaching in, snatching, grabbing at the pistol, getting a sweaty grip on Lobo's hand. Lobo jerked back and that's when thunder blasted in both his ears and one of the cop's severed fingers thumped him across the upper lip.
Lawson fell back out of the truck window screaming. Lobo dropped the Beretta on the floor-board and twisted the ignition key until it broke off in his hand and cut the knuckle of his thumb on the jagged brass sticking out of the steering column.
The little truck's engine had fired up though, and Lobo rammed it into reverse and took his left foot off the clutch and gassed it with his right. The Toyota flew backwards, and then Lobo got smacked in the back of the head.
He shook off his daze and heard silence—the truck was stalled dead—the tailgate was bent where it had mashed into the cop car parked right behind it. The dead-end alley left him no other way out.
Lobo rolled on the oil-smelling gravel as he tripped on his way out of the cab. Lawson the cop was huddled against the cinderblock wall holding his left hand, face pale, eyes wide staring at Lobo, snarling, "I'll kill you, you bastard, I'll fucking kill you!"
Lobo whipped up his hand to shoot Lawson again before the cop could draw, but Lobo's hand was empty, the Beretta was gone, and blood was all over his fingers.
The cop stopped yelling for a second and let go of his mangled left hand, reaching for his belt.
Lobo ran. He ran out of the alley past the cop car, skin crawling, waiting for the bullet to hit his back. The screaming feeling jerked him left, then left again. He sprinted through a parking lot, then came onto Santa Maria Avenue.
A kid on a porch saw him and laughed. "Don't run. Walk. Walk." Of course. Lobo walked, wiping his right hand clean on his black t-shirt. On the shirt, not the jeans. Think. Think.
Lobo slid into the bathroom at the Greyhound station under the big municipal parking garage and splashed cold clean water over his face and hands. Think. The Toyota's plates, insurance card, fingerprints all over that Beretta. A cop. You just shot a cop. A cop who is already calling it in on the radio. You're dead meat.
And only six blocks from Mexico.
All the way up to the turnstile at the bridge Lobo had stared at the back of the head of the woman in front of him. She had a red hair-clamp. He chewed gum. He didn't actually have any gum, but it was an old ritual, the chewing, it calmed him and made him look very bored and boring.
It was while reaching in his pocket for the 50 cents change to walk across the bridge that he had felt the extra bullets. The American border cop was looking at a stalled car out in the traffic lanes as Lobo walked past, trembling.
But that was all 20 minutes ago on the other side now. In Texas, they were hunting for Jason Valdez the presumed-armed-and-dangerous. Here, he was John Doe Gringo, tourist.
"Prescription? Prescription? You need prescription? Fun? You want a girl?"
Lobo wanted a phone. He stepped into an alcove and checked his wallet—a ten and two ones—a few coins. The store took his American money for a phone card. He imagined the conversation he would have, Marisol would be somewhere in Monterrey trying to do three different things as she picked up her ringing cell phone, then when she heard his voice she'd look to the side and switch to English to show off and mess with her grandmother's head, as if the old woman couldn't decipher Marisol's come-and-get-it teasing tones. He'd get her to work it out with her brother Juan: A place to lay low, new ID, maybe put him on the Belize end of things for a while until they figured out what to do. Think.
Lobo dialed Marisol's number. The recorded voice in Spanish said the phone was out of its service area at the moment.
Lobo walked a bit and decided to use the credit card. At a teller machine two blocks west of Guerrero Avenue, he punched in the pin number written on the back of the plastic card, and a Mr. Leonard Wilkins of Plantersville, Alabama was recorded as withdrawing the maximum, a 2,000 peso cash advance. Not much, about 200 bucks American, but still plenty to get to Monterrey and Marisol, to eat, hole up, and think.
Home
Next
"They probably think I'm tossing coins into the water", he thought. He hoped. Stupid to get this close and risk doing time over some extra bullets forgotten in his pocket. He had never done time on the Mexican side before.
Lobo watched the ripples slide under him as he leaned against the metal bars of the International Bridge. Laredo, Texas to the right of him, with short intent people walking his way clutching plastic bags of goods or else wheeling them along in little carts. Nuevo Laredo to his left, with customs, and the biggest Mexican flag he'd ever seen overhead. A sweet untreated sewage smell—no, nobody over there would give him grief about littering in the Rio Grande.
The bullets were out of sight forever. Lobo straightened up, and walked left along the bridge, past the plaque at the halfway mark, into Mexico.
"Lobo" hadn't always been his name. His mother had named him "Jason", as if to pick something that no one on his father's side could pronounce properly: "Yay-son, Yay-son, you talk Spanish like you got a potato in your mouth, Yay-son."
Her name for him didn't stick—by grade school everyone knew him as "Lobo", "Wolf"—people thought it was because of his slanted blue eyes. But there were kids all up and down the border with blue eyes. He was the only Lobo.
Even Marisol called him Lobo, not Jason. Always had. He remembered how she said it, months ago: "Lobo, I'm late, I'm in trouble."
Lobo used his eyes and his height as he walked through the pedestrian tunnel at the Mexican end of the bridge and went past the first of the border guards, deliberately turning his face towards the man. Lobo made the officer remember him as a tall curious Gringo, another white boy looking for fun and trouble. He knew that back on the U.S. side they were going nuts looking for a Hispanic male, age mid-twenties, fleeing on foot.
"Fleeing", that implied scared. Lobo was sauntering now, walking easy. Looking for a phone to call Marisol.
He had been bugging out earlier today, though. Anybody would have. There he had been, awake after a bad night, sitting in his Toyota pick-up. Too amped to sleep. Thinking about smoking a cigarette, and he didn't need that habit again. The truck smelled like shit, literally. Like some dog took a dump inside the cab. There was nothing on his shoes either. He had checked. Nothing to do but roll down the window and let the cool morning air come in.
And just when he'd been on the edge of relaxing, Lawson had to show up.
Lobo guessed the dude's name was Lawson. That's what it said on the name-tag of his dark blue cop uniform. Big buzz-cut red-head recruiting-poster dude bending in the window all smug, like some clever big brother, saying "Hey, amigo, this isn't the place for that", and then before Lobo had a chance to process how he felt about being Lawson's "amigo", this guy's eyes got all big and his mouth was popping open and closed like a big cop goldfish, and Lobo didn't even remember lifting the Beretta 9mm Army-issue pistol, didn't know what he was going to do with it, frankly, didn't even remember he'd been holding it in his hand.
("Don't ever let anybody get too close to you when you're using this Beretta", Yankee had said behind the pawnshop, "If they mash back on the barrel like this... it won't fire".)
Maybe Lawson knew about Berettas—maybe he was a dumb-ass rookie—Lobo had never seen him before. Whatever the reason, he started reaching in, snatching, grabbing at the pistol, getting a sweaty grip on Lobo's hand. Lobo jerked back and that's when thunder blasted in both his ears and one of the cop's severed fingers thumped him across the upper lip.
Lawson fell back out of the truck window screaming. Lobo dropped the Beretta on the floor-board and twisted the ignition key until it broke off in his hand and cut the knuckle of his thumb on the jagged brass sticking out of the steering column.
The little truck's engine had fired up though, and Lobo rammed it into reverse and took his left foot off the clutch and gassed it with his right. The Toyota flew backwards, and then Lobo got smacked in the back of the head.
He shook off his daze and heard silence—the truck was stalled dead—the tailgate was bent where it had mashed into the cop car parked right behind it. The dead-end alley left him no other way out.
Lobo rolled on the oil-smelling gravel as he tripped on his way out of the cab. Lawson the cop was huddled against the cinderblock wall holding his left hand, face pale, eyes wide staring at Lobo, snarling, "I'll kill you, you bastard, I'll fucking kill you!"
Lobo whipped up his hand to shoot Lawson again before the cop could draw, but Lobo's hand was empty, the Beretta was gone, and blood was all over his fingers.
The cop stopped yelling for a second and let go of his mangled left hand, reaching for his belt.
Lobo ran. He ran out of the alley past the cop car, skin crawling, waiting for the bullet to hit his back. The screaming feeling jerked him left, then left again. He sprinted through a parking lot, then came onto Santa Maria Avenue.
A kid on a porch saw him and laughed. "Don't run. Walk. Walk." Of course. Lobo walked, wiping his right hand clean on his black t-shirt. On the shirt, not the jeans. Think. Think.
Lobo slid into the bathroom at the Greyhound station under the big municipal parking garage and splashed cold clean water over his face and hands. Think. The Toyota's plates, insurance card, fingerprints all over that Beretta. A cop. You just shot a cop. A cop who is already calling it in on the radio. You're dead meat.
And only six blocks from Mexico.
All the way up to the turnstile at the bridge Lobo had stared at the back of the head of the woman in front of him. She had a red hair-clamp. He chewed gum. He didn't actually have any gum, but it was an old ritual, the chewing, it calmed him and made him look very bored and boring.
It was while reaching in his pocket for the 50 cents change to walk across the bridge that he had felt the extra bullets. The American border cop was looking at a stalled car out in the traffic lanes as Lobo walked past, trembling.
But that was all 20 minutes ago on the other side now. In Texas, they were hunting for Jason Valdez the presumed-armed-and-dangerous. Here, he was John Doe Gringo, tourist.
"Prescription? Prescription? You need prescription? Fun? You want a girl?"
Lobo wanted a phone. He stepped into an alcove and checked his wallet—a ten and two ones—a few coins. The store took his American money for a phone card. He imagined the conversation he would have, Marisol would be somewhere in Monterrey trying to do three different things as she picked up her ringing cell phone, then when she heard his voice she'd look to the side and switch to English to show off and mess with her grandmother's head, as if the old woman couldn't decipher Marisol's come-and-get-it teasing tones. He'd get her to work it out with her brother Juan: A place to lay low, new ID, maybe put him on the Belize end of things for a while until they figured out what to do. Think.
Lobo dialed Marisol's number. The recorded voice in Spanish said the phone was out of its service area at the moment.
Lobo walked a bit and decided to use the credit card. At a teller machine two blocks west of Guerrero Avenue, he punched in the pin number written on the back of the plastic card, and a Mr. Leonard Wilkins of Plantersville, Alabama was recorded as withdrawing the maximum, a 2,000 peso cash advance. Not much, about 200 bucks American, but still plenty to get to Monterrey and Marisol, to eat, hole up, and think.
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posted by Walter Moore at 10:41 AM
Part 2: The Checkpoint
Lobo was hungry. He went back onto Guerrero Avenue and ordered a three-piece meal at the KFC across from the park. The chicken was crispier and tasted better than the KFC's back on the U.S. side. Lobo wondered why that was and carefully wiped his fingers with a napkin. Then he wadded the greasy napkin around Mr. Leonard Wilkins' credit card and stuffed it and the empty styrofoam mashed-potato container into the paper bag with the chicken bones. He slipped it all into the fast-food trash container with the sticky swinging door.
Lobo went outside, crossed the street to the side with the park, and walked past the shoeshine stands and popsickle carts. He always loved the dark sweet smell of the shoeshine stands. He could see the long white moorish arcade of the Mirador building across the little park and all the various Bluebird buses for in-town routes lined up in front of it. Lobo picked one with "Central" lettered in white on its windshield, gave the driver coins for four and a half pesos, and sank down in a plastic bucket seat halfway back.
He wished a guitarist would climb on at one of the stops and play a song. He wanted to hear music. He had a coin ready. Instead, a man in a purple shirt got on and passed around flyers with pictures of Buddha on them, gave a little talk as the bus careened around the streets, then took up all the flyers again except for one lady's who smiled and gave him a coin.
Lobo put his money back in his pocket. He wanted to hear music.
He didn't see the neighborhoods the bus was now puttering through. He was in the past. He was holding Marisol again while she cried and said, "You're not like the other guys, Lobo, they would all be yelling and calling me a liar, saying no way, the baby wasn't theirs."
"It's all right, Marisol, it's all right, you're my girl, you're my girl, we'll be a family now."
Marisol had quieted down and stopped whimpering, just looking into the distance. He had held her shoulders and tucked his chin over her back, breathing as they sat there.
He rode the city bus out to the "Central de Buses" at the south edge of town, the large bus station from which all the long-distance routes took off. The place was like a miniature airport, with gift-shops and small restaurants. Across the street among the stalls and small scrappy shops, Lobo wandered, thinking. He bought a blue bath towel at one place, and they put it in a plastic tote-bag for him.
Lobo walked back over to the "Central de Buses", his plastic bag swinging from his hand. Innocent men go shopping for mundane items. The bag in his hand made him almost invisible.
There was one problem with getting down to Monterrey: Any bus going there would stop at the 20 kilometer border-zone check-point. Lobo didn't have his passport or his 180-day pass, and even if he did, they could be on the look-out for him by now.
But the check-point cops didn't stop every bus. They didn't have time. They would only be stopping some, preferably the ones most likely to have foreigners on them. The big luxury "Ejecutivo" buses with refreshments and stewardesses. The "Primera Clase" ones too. And since they couldn't even stop all of those, they probably wouldn't bother with an economy-class backroad-bandit, some old Bluebird filled with people poor enough that saving three dollars for taking twice as long to get there was a good deal.
"Economico, to Monterrey," said Lobo in Spanish to the Estrella Blanca clerk sitting under the giant green-and-white star logo.
It was leaving in 5 minutes, no time to try to call Marisol again. Lobo went through the gate and suddenly remembered the customs check inside the bus station: Ahead of him there was a chipped yellow traffic signal set chest-high, with a button to push underneath it. Three cops sat on the table next to it, watching him.
Lobo walked up to the traffic signal and pushed the cold metal button.
Green.
Don't run, walk, walk.
Lobo followed a family out to the loading bay at the end where the Economico bus was supposed to be waiting. The grandmother was tiny and sun-burnt black, the mother was medium in all ways, and the teenage daughter was long-legged and pale from lounging about indoors.
Lobo laughed when he saw the bus: It was a huge new Mercedes, palest green, with seats like the first-class section on an airliner. An Ejecutivo-class aristocrat of a bus, pressed into last-minute service on the dirt-cheap start-and-stop enonomy routes.
They sat on the bus for a few minutes feeling the faint hum as the engine idled, then the driver climbed in and backed it out without a word. Videos advertising the Universidad Nacional Autonoma de Mexico played on the little TV screens over the seats as the bus glided past dusty junkyards and raw new elementary schools to the edge of the scrubby desert. Then there was a sort of a rolling stop at the 20 kilometer checkpoint before Lobo even noticed they were there, and without even a word from the cops, the bus was off the main highway and sailing down a two-lane backroad.
Lobo was free, and headed towards Marisol.
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Lobo went outside, crossed the street to the side with the park, and walked past the shoeshine stands and popsickle carts. He always loved the dark sweet smell of the shoeshine stands. He could see the long white moorish arcade of the Mirador building across the little park and all the various Bluebird buses for in-town routes lined up in front of it. Lobo picked one with "Central" lettered in white on its windshield, gave the driver coins for four and a half pesos, and sank down in a plastic bucket seat halfway back.
He wished a guitarist would climb on at one of the stops and play a song. He wanted to hear music. He had a coin ready. Instead, a man in a purple shirt got on and passed around flyers with pictures of Buddha on them, gave a little talk as the bus careened around the streets, then took up all the flyers again except for one lady's who smiled and gave him a coin.
Lobo put his money back in his pocket. He wanted to hear music.
He didn't see the neighborhoods the bus was now puttering through. He was in the past. He was holding Marisol again while she cried and said, "You're not like the other guys, Lobo, they would all be yelling and calling me a liar, saying no way, the baby wasn't theirs."
"It's all right, Marisol, it's all right, you're my girl, you're my girl, we'll be a family now."
Marisol had quieted down and stopped whimpering, just looking into the distance. He had held her shoulders and tucked his chin over her back, breathing as they sat there.
He rode the city bus out to the "Central de Buses" at the south edge of town, the large bus station from which all the long-distance routes took off. The place was like a miniature airport, with gift-shops and small restaurants. Across the street among the stalls and small scrappy shops, Lobo wandered, thinking. He bought a blue bath towel at one place, and they put it in a plastic tote-bag for him.
Lobo walked back over to the "Central de Buses", his plastic bag swinging from his hand. Innocent men go shopping for mundane items. The bag in his hand made him almost invisible.
There was one problem with getting down to Monterrey: Any bus going there would stop at the 20 kilometer border-zone check-point. Lobo didn't have his passport or his 180-day pass, and even if he did, they could be on the look-out for him by now.
But the check-point cops didn't stop every bus. They didn't have time. They would only be stopping some, preferably the ones most likely to have foreigners on them. The big luxury "Ejecutivo" buses with refreshments and stewardesses. The "Primera Clase" ones too. And since they couldn't even stop all of those, they probably wouldn't bother with an economy-class backroad-bandit, some old Bluebird filled with people poor enough that saving three dollars for taking twice as long to get there was a good deal.
"Economico, to Monterrey," said Lobo in Spanish to the Estrella Blanca clerk sitting under the giant green-and-white star logo.
It was leaving in 5 minutes, no time to try to call Marisol again. Lobo went through the gate and suddenly remembered the customs check inside the bus station: Ahead of him there was a chipped yellow traffic signal set chest-high, with a button to push underneath it. Three cops sat on the table next to it, watching him.
Lobo walked up to the traffic signal and pushed the cold metal button.
Green.
Don't run, walk, walk.
Lobo followed a family out to the loading bay at the end where the Economico bus was supposed to be waiting. The grandmother was tiny and sun-burnt black, the mother was medium in all ways, and the teenage daughter was long-legged and pale from lounging about indoors.
Lobo laughed when he saw the bus: It was a huge new Mercedes, palest green, with seats like the first-class section on an airliner. An Ejecutivo-class aristocrat of a bus, pressed into last-minute service on the dirt-cheap start-and-stop enonomy routes.
They sat on the bus for a few minutes feeling the faint hum as the engine idled, then the driver climbed in and backed it out without a word. Videos advertising the Universidad Nacional Autonoma de Mexico played on the little TV screens over the seats as the bus glided past dusty junkyards and raw new elementary schools to the edge of the scrubby desert. Then there was a sort of a rolling stop at the 20 kilometer checkpoint before Lobo even noticed they were there, and without even a word from the cops, the bus was off the main highway and sailing down a two-lane backroad.
Lobo was free, and headed towards Marisol.
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posted by Walter Moore at 10:37 AM
Part 3: The City
Sabinas Hidalgo was the first town they stopped in, a huddle of one and two-storey square buildings painted light blue, yellow, or off-white, tucked in the fold of a river-valley after about an hour of pan-flat desert. Lobo ran off of the big Mercedes bus with its locked bathroom, relieved himself in the echoing cinder-block restroom inside the bus station, and called Marisol again as the bus driver sat down to a plate of carne guisada at a nearby table.
The recorded voice said her phone was still out of the service area. Damn, she must be sleeping off a night of partying at her brother's club, El Escarabajo. No telling.
Farther on, Lobo was dozing through a children's movie about some man and his young daughter hiding an elephant in their apartment. The movie's credits had been in something that looked like German, and the actors all looked sort of German too. It was all dubbed into Spanish so who knows. Lobo had wanted a good action flick, but he got this elephant thing instead. Several children behind him were entranced by the antics of the huge beast and the child-actor's attempts to cope.
The day Marisol had come back from visiting her friends in Austin, Lobo knew what she had done. He didn't need to hear her say, "I'm not pregnant anymore." Lobo had been carrying a photo around in his head for the past couple of months. It was a picture of him helping a little boy or girl balance on a pony's saddle, at some ranch out in the country. It was more than a photo, he could smell the animal, feel the hot sky overhead.
This photograph had vanished with her words.
She had kept talking that day, he heard her mention family members' names, something about a trust fund, he didn't really listen to any of it. He'd sipped his beer and noticed that her body was beautiful, like a statue.
No, he wasn't mad. It was nothing.
The bus passed several people walking who waved, and then the driver stopped. The people came hustling up to the bus, breathless, and the first man up the steps said, "Are you going to Cienega Flores?"
"Si," and the driver waved them all on, laughing, chattering. The first man stood next to Lobo and said, "This seat is free, right?" with a smile and red-rimmed eyes. Lobo scooted over. The man smelled of old sweat, of hiking down a desert road for hours.
On the TV screen overhead, the elephant was crapping all over the apartment. The desert-walking man was absorbed in the picture, looking at images from a distant rainy land.
Fifteen minutes later the driver had dropped all the new people off at various places in some little town. Then the bus was in the outer suburbs of Monterrey, looking like a prosperous American city after the tiny villages they'd been seeing. The bus puttered past shopping centers and blocks of newer houses. Once Lobo looked at a street-sign when they were waiting at a stop-light and realized he was within a few blocks of Marisol's family house. No point getting out though—this late in the day Marisol wouldn't be there, but her grandmother would—that bitch hated Lobo.
No, when Lobo saw Marisol, he wanted it to be in his hotel room. He got horny thinking about it, and shifted in his seat, daydreaming.
Lobo saw the Hotel Delta off to the left as the bus pulled into the Monterrey station. Rooms by the hour, he could pick up a cheap hooker in one of the nearby working-man's bars and bang her up there if Marisol wanted to play all hard to get hold of.
No. He couldn't do that to his girl. Besides, he didn't want to blow too much of his cash before he hooked up with her brother Juan.
Lobo sat on the bed in his room at the Hotel Nuevo Leon, a couple of blocks on the slightly better side of the bus station. He held the phone and listened to the recorded voice, again.
He woke up on top of the bed still wearing his clothes. The afternoon light was turning grey outside the window. He heard faint car horns and an occasional shout. He was hungry.
Lobo pissed into the seatless toilet. Maybe he should have sprung for a nicer hotel up in the Zona Rosa. He ran more water over his cut thumb and decided to go out instead of trying Marisol again on the room's phone.
He walked over to the Cuauhtemoc subway station, climbed stairs past old men and women selling nuts and dulces, and took the train over to the Padre Mier stop. He climbed up the long stairs towards the dark metallic blue patch of sky and emerged in the middle of the downtown crowds.
The streets here always reminded him of a modern version of those old movies about New York, where every sidewalk is packed and taxis blare their horns. In the distance, the jagged peak of the Cerro Silla, "Saddle Mountain," was black against the haze.
He turned into the Zona Rosa, a large pedestrian area of ritzy stores and boutiques, Latin techno music shaking his bones as he walked past their open fronts. Lobo preferred the classier displays at the older stores like Casa Moreno, where he eyed a sharp suit. Soon, yes, soon.
For now, he ate a hotdog at a stand, a sort of Polish sausage on a bun, split open with white cheese melted inside the grilled meat, green peppers and onions on the side with mustard. He bought a large plastic bottle of Coke to wash it down, and the cook's wife didn't have change for Lobo's 200 peso note. He stood by the stand and ate his hotdog while she fetched money from a neighboring toy store.
Marisol would complain about the taste of those onions on his breath. Where the hell was she? Lobo used a phone next to a hat-seller's stand while young couples glided past holding hands on both sides of him. Still no answer.
Lobo decided he was going about this backwards. Marisol was for fun. Her brother Juan was for business. And right now he needed to get his head straight and take care of business. He counted his cash and came up with 1,400 pesos and change. About $140 American. He stuck a 200 peso note in his front pocket and put the rest back in his wallet.
The first taxi driver didn't know how to get to El Escarabajo. Lobo tried a second one standing by his parked cab, who started out drawing a blank, but when Lobo said, "It's over across the big ridge called Loma Larga," the man perked up: "It's over on Lazaro Cardenas, right?"
"Yeah, yeah. That's right. That's the street."
Lobo and the driver got into the cab, and drove south.
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The recorded voice said her phone was still out of the service area. Damn, she must be sleeping off a night of partying at her brother's club, El Escarabajo. No telling.
Farther on, Lobo was dozing through a children's movie about some man and his young daughter hiding an elephant in their apartment. The movie's credits had been in something that looked like German, and the actors all looked sort of German too. It was all dubbed into Spanish so who knows. Lobo had wanted a good action flick, but he got this elephant thing instead. Several children behind him were entranced by the antics of the huge beast and the child-actor's attempts to cope.
The day Marisol had come back from visiting her friends in Austin, Lobo knew what she had done. He didn't need to hear her say, "I'm not pregnant anymore." Lobo had been carrying a photo around in his head for the past couple of months. It was a picture of him helping a little boy or girl balance on a pony's saddle, at some ranch out in the country. It was more than a photo, he could smell the animal, feel the hot sky overhead.
This photograph had vanished with her words.
She had kept talking that day, he heard her mention family members' names, something about a trust fund, he didn't really listen to any of it. He'd sipped his beer and noticed that her body was beautiful, like a statue.
No, he wasn't mad. It was nothing.
The bus passed several people walking who waved, and then the driver stopped. The people came hustling up to the bus, breathless, and the first man up the steps said, "Are you going to Cienega Flores?"
"Si," and the driver waved them all on, laughing, chattering. The first man stood next to Lobo and said, "This seat is free, right?" with a smile and red-rimmed eyes. Lobo scooted over. The man smelled of old sweat, of hiking down a desert road for hours.
On the TV screen overhead, the elephant was crapping all over the apartment. The desert-walking man was absorbed in the picture, looking at images from a distant rainy land.
Fifteen minutes later the driver had dropped all the new people off at various places in some little town. Then the bus was in the outer suburbs of Monterrey, looking like a prosperous American city after the tiny villages they'd been seeing. The bus puttered past shopping centers and blocks of newer houses. Once Lobo looked at a street-sign when they were waiting at a stop-light and realized he was within a few blocks of Marisol's family house. No point getting out though—this late in the day Marisol wouldn't be there, but her grandmother would—that bitch hated Lobo.
No, when Lobo saw Marisol, he wanted it to be in his hotel room. He got horny thinking about it, and shifted in his seat, daydreaming.
Lobo saw the Hotel Delta off to the left as the bus pulled into the Monterrey station. Rooms by the hour, he could pick up a cheap hooker in one of the nearby working-man's bars and bang her up there if Marisol wanted to play all hard to get hold of.
No. He couldn't do that to his girl. Besides, he didn't want to blow too much of his cash before he hooked up with her brother Juan.
Lobo sat on the bed in his room at the Hotel Nuevo Leon, a couple of blocks on the slightly better side of the bus station. He held the phone and listened to the recorded voice, again.
He woke up on top of the bed still wearing his clothes. The afternoon light was turning grey outside the window. He heard faint car horns and an occasional shout. He was hungry.
Lobo pissed into the seatless toilet. Maybe he should have sprung for a nicer hotel up in the Zona Rosa. He ran more water over his cut thumb and decided to go out instead of trying Marisol again on the room's phone.
He walked over to the Cuauhtemoc subway station, climbed stairs past old men and women selling nuts and dulces, and took the train over to the Padre Mier stop. He climbed up the long stairs towards the dark metallic blue patch of sky and emerged in the middle of the downtown crowds.
The streets here always reminded him of a modern version of those old movies about New York, where every sidewalk is packed and taxis blare their horns. In the distance, the jagged peak of the Cerro Silla, "Saddle Mountain," was black against the haze.
He turned into the Zona Rosa, a large pedestrian area of ritzy stores and boutiques, Latin techno music shaking his bones as he walked past their open fronts. Lobo preferred the classier displays at the older stores like Casa Moreno, where he eyed a sharp suit. Soon, yes, soon.
For now, he ate a hotdog at a stand, a sort of Polish sausage on a bun, split open with white cheese melted inside the grilled meat, green peppers and onions on the side with mustard. He bought a large plastic bottle of Coke to wash it down, and the cook's wife didn't have change for Lobo's 200 peso note. He stood by the stand and ate his hotdog while she fetched money from a neighboring toy store.
Marisol would complain about the taste of those onions on his breath. Where the hell was she? Lobo used a phone next to a hat-seller's stand while young couples glided past holding hands on both sides of him. Still no answer.
Lobo decided he was going about this backwards. Marisol was for fun. Her brother Juan was for business. And right now he needed to get his head straight and take care of business. He counted his cash and came up with 1,400 pesos and change. About $140 American. He stuck a 200 peso note in his front pocket and put the rest back in his wallet.
The first taxi driver didn't know how to get to El Escarabajo. Lobo tried a second one standing by his parked cab, who started out drawing a blank, but when Lobo said, "It's over across the big ridge called Loma Larga," the man perked up: "It's over on Lazaro Cardenas, right?"
"Yeah, yeah. That's right. That's the street."
Lobo and the driver got into the cab, and drove south.
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posted by Walter Moore at 10:14 AM
Part 4: El Escarabajo
They sped past the dry river bed. "It's either no water, or too much," said the driver. Lobo looked across at him and nodded. Lobo liked taxi drivers.
The man continued: "So, are you down here on vacation, or do you work here?"
"A little of both. Monterrey's a good town," said Lobo.
"Well, we need to get you a good girl, get you to stay."
"I've got one here, if she'll ever pick up the phone."
"Damn," said the driver, "What is it with women? You come all this way to see her, and she won't answer? I'd be on that machine yelling: 'Hey, slut! Pick up the goddam phone and talk to me!'"
"Yeah..."
"Hey, you ought to do fine here. You speak really good Spanish for a Gringo. Here, take my card, call me up when you need a ride back to the airport."
"Sure thing."
"Here you go—El Escarabajo—you want me to wait for you?"
"Huh?"
"You want me to wait, here, outside?"
"No, no... I'll just call you when I'm ready to go, to go back to the airport."
El Escarabajo was actually three nightclubs in one, built in tiers into the side of a hill. Lots of pink neon and bluish glass brick, it had the feel of a fancy health spa minus the weight machines or half the lightbulbs.
Lobo went into the largest of the clubs, the upper one. Mario was working the bar, wearing a black toboggan cap and a t-shirt with "El Escarabajo" scrawled in red. Several assistants were putting bottles of beer into coolers by the bar and pouring buckets of crushed ice over them.
Mario looked at Lobo: "Hey, it's the big guy! What do you want to drink?"
"A Sol. You seen Juan?"
"Not yet. He doesn't work tonight, but you may catch him down in the Karaoke bar later."
"Is he there now?"
"I haven't seen him."
Lobo sipped his beer and watched the room fill with people. Mostly groups of attractive 20-somethings, University students dressed casually but well. It cost even more to go to school here than in the States.
Rich kids, he thought. Customers. He smiled.
After a few minutes, Lobo left the empty bottle on the counter and went down to the Karaoke bar. A manager he didn't know greeted him. "Hello, my friend, what can I get you to drink?"
"What you got?"
"Vodka, rum, whiskey, tequila..."
"I am in Mexico."
"Tequila it is. I'll make you a drink, it's very salty, you drink a sample, and if you like it, I'll make you a big one."
"This is good—what do you call this?"
"A 'Paloma'. Here, we'll make you a big one."
"Hey look," said Lobo, "Maybe you've seen Juan? Or Marisol?"
"Not tonight, maybe they'll be in later..."
"Yeah, well, my name is Lobo. They know me. I'm Marisol's boyfriend, el Gringo. Except she won't answer the phone."
"Marisol won't answer her phone? That doesn't sound like her."
"Exactly. But even more, I need to talk to Juan."
"Sure, yeah. Hey, excuse me..."
The manager walked back into the office. A minute later he came back to the bar and said, "I just called Juan for you, he said to tell you he is happy that you are here, and he asked you to stay and enjoy some free drinks on him until he can get over here, OK?"
"Thanks, first good news all day."
Sweet. Lobo was in. There would be work, a new ID, anything he needed. This was a good town to lay low in.
As a rule, back in Texas, Lobo avoided any bar that had karaoke, drunk office workers mangling classic rock hits that he didn't like even when performed by competent musicians. Still, he liked sitting in this part of El Escarabajo. The songs they played were mostly top-40 Mexican ballads that he'd never listened to before, and the girls who got up on stage to sing them were beautiful in the smoky light.
Right now, four young women were up there together singing off-key to a salsa beat, drunk, smiling, stepping in time to the music while they watched the lyrics on the prompter. Then at an instrumental break in the singing, they all four raised their right hands over their heads and twirled.
Adorable, every single one of them. Marisol had looked like that the night he'd first seen her, singing up on that little stage with her head thrown back, smiling. When the song had finished, she'd stepped down, caught her foot on something, and had stumbled into him as he stood there watching her. He had kissed her right at that moment.
Not long after that, she'd gotten pregnant. Then she'd had the abortion. He had been empty. But they had kept seeing each other, slowly at first, and it had been a new start.
She would come down to Laredo from Monterrey every weekend. Against Lobo's protests, she bought tampons and kept them under his sink.
Lobo had forgotten that the tampons were there, until one day he was looking for his needle-nose pliers, and they weren't in the drawer, they weren't in the tool-box, weren't under the sink either, but he could swear that unopened box of tampons had been there for more than 2months.
Marisol had blushed and smiled and looked off to the side when he had mentioned it.
Right now Lobo felt a sudden queasiness. He walked over into the tiny mens' room and felt a gag coming on, but his stomache settled before anything came up. He checked his hair in the mirror, then went back into the bar and ordered more complimentary tequila.
Lobo looked up from his third or fourth drink and didn't know how much time had passed. Some guys had come in and were sitting with the girls who had been singing. One couple was making out a few feet away. The manager was saying something to Lobo, but all Lobo knew was that suddenly he was going to puke for sure. He thrust through the crowd to get to the bathroom, bumping chairs and table edges along the way.
The door was locked. Somebody's voice came from within. Lobo knew he only had a few more seconds before he threw up. The latch to the "damas" restroom was locked as well. He turned and walked quickly to the exit, jaw clenched tight. He took a sharp right along the front of the building, starting to stoop and hold his hand over his mouth as he rapidly duck-walked into a tiny alley, not so much a passage as a gap between the front of El Escarabajo and another building.
Lobo braced his shoulder against the gritty blocks of the wall and jerked as he heaved up all the drinks. An air-conditioner hummed nearby, pumping out warm damp air.
Lobo wiped his face and spat several times. He brushed the back of his hand on his forehead and felt sweat. Christ, he had gotten out just in time. It could have been worse—he could have had the shits.
Juan would be here any minute. Lobo stood up straight and brushed himself off, rubbed his mouth and chin one more time, and walked back out front. He decided to stretch and breath a little of the clean night air before going back in. Maybe he'd switch to Coaca-Cola, something in those drinks didn't go down right. Everybody would think he'd just stepped out, nobody saw him puke, except maybe those two taxi drivers standing next to their cabs at the edge of the parking lot.
"Taxi, sir?" said one.
"No thanks,” said Lobo. He looked at the driver's cigarette with its wisp of smoke and breathed in through his nose.
"Something bad to drink? You OK now sir?"
"Yeah... One drink too many."
"You got to be careful, sir..."
The taxi drivers turned their heads as the truck drove into the lot, and Lobo followed their gaze. It was a dark blue pick-up truck with police markings and a black roll-bar. Two men were riding in the back wearing dark blue coveralls and ballcaps, cradling bull-pup assault rifles across their knees. Their faces were hard. The truck pulled right up in front of the entrance to the Karaoke bar and the two men in back swung their polished combat boots over the side and jumped out while two others got out of the cab. They didn't flash the lights or give any warning. They just walked right in, guns angled slightly down, knees bent just a little.
Lobo turned to the driver who was holding the cigarette: "I need a taxi."
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The man continued: "So, are you down here on vacation, or do you work here?"
"A little of both. Monterrey's a good town," said Lobo.
"Well, we need to get you a good girl, get you to stay."
"I've got one here, if she'll ever pick up the phone."
"Damn," said the driver, "What is it with women? You come all this way to see her, and she won't answer? I'd be on that machine yelling: 'Hey, slut! Pick up the goddam phone and talk to me!'"
"Yeah..."
"Hey, you ought to do fine here. You speak really good Spanish for a Gringo. Here, take my card, call me up when you need a ride back to the airport."
"Sure thing."
"Here you go—El Escarabajo—you want me to wait for you?"
"Huh?"
"You want me to wait, here, outside?"
"No, no... I'll just call you when I'm ready to go, to go back to the airport."
El Escarabajo was actually three nightclubs in one, built in tiers into the side of a hill. Lots of pink neon and bluish glass brick, it had the feel of a fancy health spa minus the weight machines or half the lightbulbs.
Lobo went into the largest of the clubs, the upper one. Mario was working the bar, wearing a black toboggan cap and a t-shirt with "El Escarabajo" scrawled in red. Several assistants were putting bottles of beer into coolers by the bar and pouring buckets of crushed ice over them.
Mario looked at Lobo: "Hey, it's the big guy! What do you want to drink?"
"A Sol. You seen Juan?"
"Not yet. He doesn't work tonight, but you may catch him down in the Karaoke bar later."
"Is he there now?"
"I haven't seen him."
Lobo sipped his beer and watched the room fill with people. Mostly groups of attractive 20-somethings, University students dressed casually but well. It cost even more to go to school here than in the States.
Rich kids, he thought. Customers. He smiled.
After a few minutes, Lobo left the empty bottle on the counter and went down to the Karaoke bar. A manager he didn't know greeted him. "Hello, my friend, what can I get you to drink?"
"What you got?"
"Vodka, rum, whiskey, tequila..."
"I am in Mexico."
"Tequila it is. I'll make you a drink, it's very salty, you drink a sample, and if you like it, I'll make you a big one."
"This is good—what do you call this?"
"A 'Paloma'. Here, we'll make you a big one."
"Hey look," said Lobo, "Maybe you've seen Juan? Or Marisol?"
"Not tonight, maybe they'll be in later..."
"Yeah, well, my name is Lobo. They know me. I'm Marisol's boyfriend, el Gringo. Except she won't answer the phone."
"Marisol won't answer her phone? That doesn't sound like her."
"Exactly. But even more, I need to talk to Juan."
"Sure, yeah. Hey, excuse me..."
The manager walked back into the office. A minute later he came back to the bar and said, "I just called Juan for you, he said to tell you he is happy that you are here, and he asked you to stay and enjoy some free drinks on him until he can get over here, OK?"
"Thanks, first good news all day."
Sweet. Lobo was in. There would be work, a new ID, anything he needed. This was a good town to lay low in.
As a rule, back in Texas, Lobo avoided any bar that had karaoke, drunk office workers mangling classic rock hits that he didn't like even when performed by competent musicians. Still, he liked sitting in this part of El Escarabajo. The songs they played were mostly top-40 Mexican ballads that he'd never listened to before, and the girls who got up on stage to sing them were beautiful in the smoky light.
Right now, four young women were up there together singing off-key to a salsa beat, drunk, smiling, stepping in time to the music while they watched the lyrics on the prompter. Then at an instrumental break in the singing, they all four raised their right hands over their heads and twirled.
Adorable, every single one of them. Marisol had looked like that the night he'd first seen her, singing up on that little stage with her head thrown back, smiling. When the song had finished, she'd stepped down, caught her foot on something, and had stumbled into him as he stood there watching her. He had kissed her right at that moment.
Not long after that, she'd gotten pregnant. Then she'd had the abortion. He had been empty. But they had kept seeing each other, slowly at first, and it had been a new start.
She would come down to Laredo from Monterrey every weekend. Against Lobo's protests, she bought tampons and kept them under his sink.
Lobo had forgotten that the tampons were there, until one day he was looking for his needle-nose pliers, and they weren't in the drawer, they weren't in the tool-box, weren't under the sink either, but he could swear that unopened box of tampons had been there for more than 2months.
Marisol had blushed and smiled and looked off to the side when he had mentioned it.
Right now Lobo felt a sudden queasiness. He walked over into the tiny mens' room and felt a gag coming on, but his stomache settled before anything came up. He checked his hair in the mirror, then went back into the bar and ordered more complimentary tequila.
Lobo looked up from his third or fourth drink and didn't know how much time had passed. Some guys had come in and were sitting with the girls who had been singing. One couple was making out a few feet away. The manager was saying something to Lobo, but all Lobo knew was that suddenly he was going to puke for sure. He thrust through the crowd to get to the bathroom, bumping chairs and table edges along the way.
The door was locked. Somebody's voice came from within. Lobo knew he only had a few more seconds before he threw up. The latch to the "damas" restroom was locked as well. He turned and walked quickly to the exit, jaw clenched tight. He took a sharp right along the front of the building, starting to stoop and hold his hand over his mouth as he rapidly duck-walked into a tiny alley, not so much a passage as a gap between the front of El Escarabajo and another building.
Lobo braced his shoulder against the gritty blocks of the wall and jerked as he heaved up all the drinks. An air-conditioner hummed nearby, pumping out warm damp air.
Lobo wiped his face and spat several times. He brushed the back of his hand on his forehead and felt sweat. Christ, he had gotten out just in time. It could have been worse—he could have had the shits.
Juan would be here any minute. Lobo stood up straight and brushed himself off, rubbed his mouth and chin one more time, and walked back out front. He decided to stretch and breath a little of the clean night air before going back in. Maybe he'd switch to Coaca-Cola, something in those drinks didn't go down right. Everybody would think he'd just stepped out, nobody saw him puke, except maybe those two taxi drivers standing next to their cabs at the edge of the parking lot.
"Taxi, sir?" said one.
"No thanks,” said Lobo. He looked at the driver's cigarette with its wisp of smoke and breathed in through his nose.
"Something bad to drink? You OK now sir?"
"Yeah... One drink too many."
"You got to be careful, sir..."
The taxi drivers turned their heads as the truck drove into the lot, and Lobo followed their gaze. It was a dark blue pick-up truck with police markings and a black roll-bar. Two men were riding in the back wearing dark blue coveralls and ballcaps, cradling bull-pup assault rifles across their knees. Their faces were hard. The truck pulled right up in front of the entrance to the Karaoke bar and the two men in back swung their polished combat boots over the side and jumped out while two others got out of the cab. They didn't flash the lights or give any warning. They just walked right in, guns angled slightly down, knees bent just a little.
Lobo turned to the driver who was holding the cigarette: "I need a taxi."
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posted by Walter Moore at 10:12 AM
Part 5: Nelly
Lobo sat shotgun in the shiny green taxi, and the driver gunned it out into the street.
"Where you wanna go, friend?"
"The Hotel Nue—" Lobo caught himself before he said the entire name of the dump he was staying in down by the bus station, the Hotel Nuevo Leon.
"The hotel WHAT?"
Lobo eyed the radio. "Bus station."
"Sure thing." The cabdriver picked up his mike and keyed it. A woman's voice crackled. He spoke. "Espinosa. Central de Buses."
She crackled back something, the driver said "Bueno," then picked up speed again, taking the eastern route around Loma Larga, the big ridge that separated El Escarabajo from the rest of Monterrey.
Lobo thought back to Marisol. When she had admitted that she was pregnant again, and that this time she was going to have the baby, he had stood taller. He would show them all what a man was.
After the ultrasounds, old aquaintances would look at him twice when he would walk into a room. A light was shining inside of him that the others could see. He would have a beer, then leave the bar sober. He would see a little girl looking at a toy store window, and he would smile, connected to her.
Lobo leaned back in the taxi seat with his feet braced against the floorboard to stop his legs from shaking. He relaxed them when one leg felt like it was going numb, then tensed them again. It was something to do.
He spoke to the driver: "Say... you can't give me one of those cigarettes, can you?"
The man gave the pack a flick, and after Lobo took one of the extended cigarettes, the driver popped up a flame on a Bic lighter, never once slowing down around the curves.
Something wasn't right. El Escarabajo was supposed to be a safe place where the cops didn't come barging in. Juan had an understanding with the right people, it was all business. And even if he had not, his customers were not people to be bothered by armed goons busting in—sure, they might be clueless little college kids—but their dads were things like judges or politicians or factory owners. Even in the states the cops used a light hand on people like that, and power was far more raw and honest here.
No, the cops wouldn't have come... unless Juan had called them himself. That didn't make sense either—Lobo had no doubt that the Laredo cops had some kind of brothers-in-law-enforcement deal going with the Mexicans. Neither side would let somebody like Lobo just go around popping cops. But who was that cop, that Lawson dude back in Laredo, who was he to Juan? Nobody. And he wasn't even dead. Well, probably not. And even if he was, who else tipped off the Monterrey cops that Lobo was in El Escarabajo, so that they would know to go there?
Lobo couldn't see the trap, but he could smell it.
The taxi pulled up in front of the huge Monterrey bus station. Lobo paid and tipped the man, then crossed a lane of traffic and went in the door of the station. He chose a snack vendor at random and strode casually towards the stand, looking at his watch. He waited in line between two other people, then looked at his watch again, and left the line to go walk out a different exit to the street.
The taxi he had arrived in was long gone. Lobo walked back across the busy four-lane street that felt like a tunnel with the exposed subway line overhead and disappeared into the red-fronted Gigante supermarket.
Lobo roved around in the meat section. He was hungry enough, he felt like buying some hamburger meat and eating it raw. He's heard they ate it like that, over in Germany or Europe or one of those countries. This was the first time it had ever seemed like a good idea, but he was worried about the state of his stomach.
He picked up a box of saltines and a liter bottle of water and went through the check-out line with its maniacally quick and efficient clerk. She had tired eyes and a dingy red apron. She's just going to get more tired, thought Lobo.
Marisol. His girlfriend's name popped into his head. She was the last card he had left to play. Even if her brother was rotten, he had to trust her.
There was plenty of time left on his calling card. Lobo dialed her number from the pay-phone inside the entrance to the Gigante, standing close to the phone with his crackers and his water in a plastic bag crackling on the floor in front of his feet.
The phone was ringing on the other end, and he waited for the recorded message to start again.
Instead, she picked up.
Lobo jumped forward, talking, blurting out: "Marisol! It's me, Lobo, listen, it's serious, I need—"
"Lobo? Lobo? Who is this?"
Lobo hung up the phone, picked up his bag, and walked out on the sidewalk. He turned right and walked along the tunnel formed by stands selling belts, purses, toys, and by the awnings overhead. He had to step over a small Indian woman looking up at him while her child lay against her leg. He took the box of saltines out of the bag and dropped them on the sidewalk next to her without pausing to listen or turning to see. He rounded the corner to the right again, walking up the dark narrow street to the Hotel Nuevo Laredo. He uncrumpled the bag from around the water bottle and let the light flimsy plastic drift down behind him, idly fiddling with opening the bottle.
He stopped and hurled the bottle across the street. Thoomp. It hit on the side of a parked car. Lobo cursed as walkers in the shadows sing-songed back:
"FUCK!"
"...guey... calmate, guey..."
"calmese, calmese..."
"guey..."
It had been a man's voice on Marisol's phone. No wonder she'd been avoiding him, it was the oldest story in the book.
Lobo stood next to the building breathing deeply. He could see the Hotel Nuevo Leon a couple of blocks ahead on the left. Closer to him was a corner popsicle stand of the La Michoacana franchise and, closer yet, some kind of bar with hand-lettered red words against lemon-red paint, lit up by exposed yellow light bulbs.
"Hey friend," said the man in the door of the bar. "You look like you could use a drink. American, yes? You come drink with me?"
Lobo crossed the street and walked inside. There were several wobbly tables, and the man led him to one and had him sit down. In the back of the bar were stairs going up into the darkness, and a stage where a drummer and a guitarist haphazardly backed up the vague singing of a tall light-haired man.
The doorman leaned over the table. "What to drink", he said in English, "You like beer?"
"Yeah," replied Lobo in the same language, "a Sol."
"And girl? You maybe like girl? One girl? Two girl?"
"Why the hell not. Yeah. Girl. One. One girl. Bargain plan."
The doorman spoke rapidly to another stocky man in a white dress shirt, who then leaned and spoke to a woman in a blue jeans-dress, and then they both bustled her over to sit in the spare seat beside Lobo.
"See? Girl!"
Lobo leaned back, put his arm around the back of her chair, and looked her over. Medium-length dark hair with a light-brown highlight in it, a round, almost oriental face, no Playboy Centerfold maybe but nice proportions peaking through that dress. Not bad, not bad.
She smiled and said, "Hello. Do you speak Spanish? I don't speak English."
"Yeah, Spanish is fine."
"Good. Hello. My name is Nelly. And you?"
"Jason."
"Pleased to meet you, Yay-son."
The doorman walked: "Another beer, sir? Something for the lady?"
"Sure man. Yeah. One for me, and whatever she's drinking." Lobo knew he was most likely buying a 5 dollar Coca-Cola for the woman. Fine. Let her have two if she wanted.
Nelly said, "OK. Now we have met, we must arrange what we will do, where we will go, and how much it will cost."
"How much is it?"
"Do you have your own room?"
"Yeah."
"How far is it?"
"Right next door, the Nuevo Leon."
Nelly thought about that, and looked at Lobo's dirty black t-shirt. "Well, it normally costs 1,500 pesos."
150 bucks. "Get outta here", said Lobo in English.
"Pardon?"
"No way, 1,500."
"You can put it on your credit card."
"I lost my credit card."
Nelly sipped her orange-juice-and-orange-juice through a straw, then looked off to the side. The stocky man in the white shirt was watching them, his chin lifted up.
Lobo said, "I'll give you 400 pesos, and you get it when I say we're done. You need to take my offer, or I'm going to get up and walk out and then your pimp will kick your ass for running off business."
Lobo felt sure of his bargaining position and fairly noble as well. Forty bucks, that was a week's wages to some of these little factory-town girls.
Nelly took another sip. "I don't usually do this for just anybody, but you seem nice. I could go with you for 600. But just regular sex, no funny stuff."
"No funny stuff, sure," said Lobo, "And you don't run out the door to leave the first time I come, no, you stay and do it twice if I feel like it. And then you get the money, 500."
"...OK..."
"Let's go."
"Well, I have to get 200 right now just to leave the building. You can pay the other 300 when we are done. But for me to go, you must pay at least 200 at the bar."
Lobo stood, and Nelly went with him to the bar and explained the deal. Lobo paid the 200 for her to leave, plus the bill for the drinks. The drink prices must have seemed daringly high for this neighborhood, but they almost made him laugh, the half-heartedness of the mark-ups. Then every man who wasn't a customer came running up saying, "Propina, propina", nickle-and-diming him for tips.
Finally, he was out in the street walking towards the hotel with Nelly warm against his side. She felt like Marisol. Lobo leaned over to kiss her, and she drew back and looked at him. They stood without a word, then started walking again.
In his room, Nelly turned and looked at him. "Do you have anything to drink?"
"Like what?"
"A little wine, a whiskey, or just a bottle of water."
"No."
"Can you order something for me from the downstairs desk?"
"No. Here's a glass..." He went to the sink, "... and water."
"Thank you. Now, will you let me use your shower?"
"Suit yourself."
Nelly closed the bathroom door, and Lobo heard the ring of the curtain pulling closed, the splattering of the shower. He picked up the untouched glass of water and sipped it. Marisol had never been able to handle the idea of drinking tap-water either. Lobo whistled air out between his teeth and gulped down more water. He heard the shower stop, and kicked off his shoes and socks, undid his jeans and let them drop, followed by his underwear.
Nelly walked out of the bathroom wrapped in his new blue towel, her hair pinned up. She started rooting in her purse, talking to him: "Do you have condoms?"
"Don't you?"
"I think so, yes, come here... now, what is this?" She winked, taking hold of his erection poking out from under the hem of his t-shirt. "What is this?"
"It means I'm ready to fuck you," murmured Lobo.
"I don't like that word. You shouldn't say that word. I'd rather you said you wanted to 'take' me."
"Fine. Let's 'take'."
"Here," she said, "Lie on your back, here on the bed."
She got him ready with a minimum of effort, then climbed on top of him. She was pretty with nothing on, and she rocked smoothly back and forth with him inside her.
Lobo realized they had been going at it for a couple of minutes and all that time he had been day-dreaming about something else, he couldn't remember what. Nelly had her eyes closed, leaning over him, he was hard, but he felt less than if he had been watching a porno tape.
Lobo rolled her over on her side, held her tight with his arms around both shoulders, and sped up the rhythm of his hips so he could go ahead and come.
They lay there side-by-side for a minute before she spoke: "So why are you in Monterrey?"
"I needed to find my girlfriend."
"Why?"
Lobo didn't answer, instead he slipped an arm behind her, and brushed his hand over her breast.
"So, your girlfriend, I guess you didn't find her?"
"She wouldn't pick up the fucking phone."
"She's probably got another guy,” said Nelly, twisting a little up against him.
"Yeah, maybe she does."
He smelled the perfiume on her shoulder while he caressed both breasts with his hands.
"Maybe," she said, "Maybe she's just really stupid."
Lobo rolled her over onto her back and got on top of her, weight on his knees and elbows, his legs between hers, kissing her dark brown nipples. It was the first time she had moaned, and she kept moaning as he did it. He moved up to kiss her neck under her ear, along her jugular, nipping it with his teeth. His new erection brushed against her, and she stopped him just long enough to reach a hand into her purse on the nightstand and change the condom, then she lifted her legs a bit and he was inside her again, this time totally concentrated in the moment, full of strength and energy.
Nelly whispered, "take me take me take me" in time to his ear.
Then she broke rhythm and tensed up, and he came.
"Are you sleepy?" she said, sitting up next to him.
"Hmm?"
"I said, are you sleepy, Yay-son?"
"No. I'm not sleepy."
"Well, you looked like you were asleep."
Lobo sat up in the bed next to her and yawned.
She said: "You told me about your girlfriend. Now I'll tell you about my boyfriend. ere's his picture."
Lobo took the creased picture, a scanned photo on printer paper of a fair-haired man with a slight pot-belly under his pastel blue golf shirt, 40-ish, bright white wall behind him and a cloudless sky above.
"His name is Dan. He's a Gringo, like you. This job, I meet Americans, Russians, French, even Chinese.... ugh. Dan is nice, and slender, like you, and kind to me. He is from Miami, and everytime he comes to Mexico, he comes to see me, and he is the only one I see for however long he is here. He speaks good Spanish, his wife back in Miami is Puerto Rican."
"What is he, rich?"
"It has nothing to do with money. I always forget about the money when I am with Dan. I go out with him because I love him. He said that, some day—"
"—some day he'll leave his wife in Miami and stay here with you in Monterrey," Lobo butted in.
"Well, they have problems, and, when we are together he, he knows at least I love him... and he is thinking of moving his main office here, so when that happens..."
"Ha!" barked Lobo. "I saw that shit-hole you work in! Even if Daaa-aaan," he sang the name, "comes down here, I can tell you, you better not get your hopes up—he'll have some little princess of a mistress that he can take out in public and impress the other high-class people."
Nelly's mouth dropped open. "Why are you saying that to me? That's not nice, that's cruel, you were so nice a minute ago..."
"That's got nothing to do with it, whether I'm nice or not. Can't you see that you dreaming about this guy is a waste of time? It's a joke!"
Lobo saw that her eyes were suddenly dark and shining, wetness starting down over her cheek bones. He went on: "Oh yeah, Nelly, you of all people ought to be a little more realistic. A hooker who believes in fairy-tales! Dan's probably already got a mistress, and he just sneaks off to see you whenever she's busting his balls or when she's on the rag! He knows you're not going to give him any shit, you've got nowhere else to go, and you're all in looo-ooove..."
She was sobbing out loud now, just a little. Lobo assumed it was from sadness. Her voice caught in rhythm to her breathing as she said: "Why are you treating me like this? Why are you so cruel? Do you hate me? Do you think I'm stupid? You have no right! Don't you care? I was nice to you!"
"Shit," said Lobo. He was already walking to the bathroom, scratching his bare ass and peeling off the condom, dropping it on the carpet for the maid to clean up. He didn't need this female bullshit. He just needed to piss.
Nelly yelled from behind him: "Now I see why your girlfriend ran off with another guy! Good for her! I hope she's fucking him right this minute, he has to be a better man than—"
Lobo stopped at the bathroom door and slowly turned around. He was quiet and barely breathing, and when Nelly saw his eyes she choked off whatever insult she had been about to toss off next. She huddled on the bed, small. She knew that something horrible was going to happen next, and there was no escape. She was lost in those strange blue eyes that were towering over her.
Time had stopped for Lobo, and he considered his options with mathematical clarity. He could have his hands on her throat whether she fought back or not, and then choke her or snap her neck. But that would lead to complications. He could just punch her off the bed or throw her down the stairs. That wouldn't make it necessary to deal with a dead body, but she'd probably run straight to her bar all bruised and bloody, and then the pimps would be bugging him for compensation for damaged goods.
No, considered tactically, there was nothing to be gained by retaliating against this smart-mouth slut, this nobody. At least she had sense enough to shut the hell up. Now to get rid of her.
"Nelly," said Lobo, watching her with a crooked smile while reaching into his pants on the floor and pulling a 200 peso note from his wallet, then holding it up next to his face, "Here is the rest of your money. I am going to go take a piss, and if you and all your shit are not out of here when I come back out of the bathroom, I am going to grab you by your hair like this—" he clenched his fingers on the back of an imaginary head "—and I will pound your pretty little face into that wall there until your nose is broken flat, and then you will be so fucking hideous that you will have to make a living giving blow-jobs from underneath a table."
"200? You still owe me 300!"
"Your nose," said Lobo, "broken flat."
Nelly froze. He turned and went to piss.
Lobo half-listened to her scuttling around behind him in the room. Good, she knew he meant business. That was how you had to be. He was just too damn nice to Marisol, that had been the problem.
When Lobo was finished in the bathroom, he went back out. Nelly was gone, probably getting dressed down in the stairwell. The image of that was funny. It served her right, though; some people, it was so clear how they brought their shitty lives down on themselves.
Lobo wasn't the least bit sleepy now. He felt really good. Hell, he might even go pick up another girl a little later. He took a shower and dried himself with the damp towel that Nelly had used, then got dressed again. He felt like a walk and some food and another drink.
Something would turn up. He was starting to feel at home here.
He started whistling. It was a happy little tune.
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"Where you wanna go, friend?"
"The Hotel Nue—" Lobo caught himself before he said the entire name of the dump he was staying in down by the bus station, the Hotel Nuevo Leon.
"The hotel WHAT?"
Lobo eyed the radio. "Bus station."
"Sure thing." The cabdriver picked up his mike and keyed it. A woman's voice crackled. He spoke. "Espinosa. Central de Buses."
She crackled back something, the driver said "Bueno," then picked up speed again, taking the eastern route around Loma Larga, the big ridge that separated El Escarabajo from the rest of Monterrey.
Lobo thought back to Marisol. When she had admitted that she was pregnant again, and that this time she was going to have the baby, he had stood taller. He would show them all what a man was.
After the ultrasounds, old aquaintances would look at him twice when he would walk into a room. A light was shining inside of him that the others could see. He would have a beer, then leave the bar sober. He would see a little girl looking at a toy store window, and he would smile, connected to her.
Lobo leaned back in the taxi seat with his feet braced against the floorboard to stop his legs from shaking. He relaxed them when one leg felt like it was going numb, then tensed them again. It was something to do.
He spoke to the driver: "Say... you can't give me one of those cigarettes, can you?"
The man gave the pack a flick, and after Lobo took one of the extended cigarettes, the driver popped up a flame on a Bic lighter, never once slowing down around the curves.
Something wasn't right. El Escarabajo was supposed to be a safe place where the cops didn't come barging in. Juan had an understanding with the right people, it was all business. And even if he had not, his customers were not people to be bothered by armed goons busting in—sure, they might be clueless little college kids—but their dads were things like judges or politicians or factory owners. Even in the states the cops used a light hand on people like that, and power was far more raw and honest here.
No, the cops wouldn't have come... unless Juan had called them himself. That didn't make sense either—Lobo had no doubt that the Laredo cops had some kind of brothers-in-law-enforcement deal going with the Mexicans. Neither side would let somebody like Lobo just go around popping cops. But who was that cop, that Lawson dude back in Laredo, who was he to Juan? Nobody. And he wasn't even dead. Well, probably not. And even if he was, who else tipped off the Monterrey cops that Lobo was in El Escarabajo, so that they would know to go there?
Lobo couldn't see the trap, but he could smell it.
The taxi pulled up in front of the huge Monterrey bus station. Lobo paid and tipped the man, then crossed a lane of traffic and went in the door of the station. He chose a snack vendor at random and strode casually towards the stand, looking at his watch. He waited in line between two other people, then looked at his watch again, and left the line to go walk out a different exit to the street.
The taxi he had arrived in was long gone. Lobo walked back across the busy four-lane street that felt like a tunnel with the exposed subway line overhead and disappeared into the red-fronted Gigante supermarket.
Lobo roved around in the meat section. He was hungry enough, he felt like buying some hamburger meat and eating it raw. He's heard they ate it like that, over in Germany or Europe or one of those countries. This was the first time it had ever seemed like a good idea, but he was worried about the state of his stomach.
He picked up a box of saltines and a liter bottle of water and went through the check-out line with its maniacally quick and efficient clerk. She had tired eyes and a dingy red apron. She's just going to get more tired, thought Lobo.
Marisol. His girlfriend's name popped into his head. She was the last card he had left to play. Even if her brother was rotten, he had to trust her.
There was plenty of time left on his calling card. Lobo dialed her number from the pay-phone inside the entrance to the Gigante, standing close to the phone with his crackers and his water in a plastic bag crackling on the floor in front of his feet.
The phone was ringing on the other end, and he waited for the recorded message to start again.
Instead, she picked up.
Lobo jumped forward, talking, blurting out: "Marisol! It's me, Lobo, listen, it's serious, I need—"
"Lobo? Lobo? Who is this?"
Lobo hung up the phone, picked up his bag, and walked out on the sidewalk. He turned right and walked along the tunnel formed by stands selling belts, purses, toys, and by the awnings overhead. He had to step over a small Indian woman looking up at him while her child lay against her leg. He took the box of saltines out of the bag and dropped them on the sidewalk next to her without pausing to listen or turning to see. He rounded the corner to the right again, walking up the dark narrow street to the Hotel Nuevo Laredo. He uncrumpled the bag from around the water bottle and let the light flimsy plastic drift down behind him, idly fiddling with opening the bottle.
He stopped and hurled the bottle across the street. Thoomp. It hit on the side of a parked car. Lobo cursed as walkers in the shadows sing-songed back:
"FUCK!"
"...guey... calmate, guey..."
"calmese, calmese..."
"guey..."
It had been a man's voice on Marisol's phone. No wonder she'd been avoiding him, it was the oldest story in the book.
Lobo stood next to the building breathing deeply. He could see the Hotel Nuevo Leon a couple of blocks ahead on the left. Closer to him was a corner popsicle stand of the La Michoacana franchise and, closer yet, some kind of bar with hand-lettered red words against lemon-red paint, lit up by exposed yellow light bulbs.
"Hey friend," said the man in the door of the bar. "You look like you could use a drink. American, yes? You come drink with me?"
Lobo crossed the street and walked inside. There were several wobbly tables, and the man led him to one and had him sit down. In the back of the bar were stairs going up into the darkness, and a stage where a drummer and a guitarist haphazardly backed up the vague singing of a tall light-haired man.
The doorman leaned over the table. "What to drink", he said in English, "You like beer?"
"Yeah," replied Lobo in the same language, "a Sol."
"And girl? You maybe like girl? One girl? Two girl?"
"Why the hell not. Yeah. Girl. One. One girl. Bargain plan."
The doorman spoke rapidly to another stocky man in a white dress shirt, who then leaned and spoke to a woman in a blue jeans-dress, and then they both bustled her over to sit in the spare seat beside Lobo.
"See? Girl!"
Lobo leaned back, put his arm around the back of her chair, and looked her over. Medium-length dark hair with a light-brown highlight in it, a round, almost oriental face, no Playboy Centerfold maybe but nice proportions peaking through that dress. Not bad, not bad.
She smiled and said, "Hello. Do you speak Spanish? I don't speak English."
"Yeah, Spanish is fine."
"Good. Hello. My name is Nelly. And you?"
"Jason."
"Pleased to meet you, Yay-son."
The doorman walked: "Another beer, sir? Something for the lady?"
"Sure man. Yeah. One for me, and whatever she's drinking." Lobo knew he was most likely buying a 5 dollar Coca-Cola for the woman. Fine. Let her have two if she wanted.
Nelly said, "OK. Now we have met, we must arrange what we will do, where we will go, and how much it will cost."
"How much is it?"
"Do you have your own room?"
"Yeah."
"How far is it?"
"Right next door, the Nuevo Leon."
Nelly thought about that, and looked at Lobo's dirty black t-shirt. "Well, it normally costs 1,500 pesos."
150 bucks. "Get outta here", said Lobo in English.
"Pardon?"
"No way, 1,500."
"You can put it on your credit card."
"I lost my credit card."
Nelly sipped her orange-juice-and-orange-juice through a straw, then looked off to the side. The stocky man in the white shirt was watching them, his chin lifted up.
Lobo said, "I'll give you 400 pesos, and you get it when I say we're done. You need to take my offer, or I'm going to get up and walk out and then your pimp will kick your ass for running off business."
Lobo felt sure of his bargaining position and fairly noble as well. Forty bucks, that was a week's wages to some of these little factory-town girls.
Nelly took another sip. "I don't usually do this for just anybody, but you seem nice. I could go with you for 600. But just regular sex, no funny stuff."
"No funny stuff, sure," said Lobo, "And you don't run out the door to leave the first time I come, no, you stay and do it twice if I feel like it. And then you get the money, 500."
"...OK..."
"Let's go."
"Well, I have to get 200 right now just to leave the building. You can pay the other 300 when we are done. But for me to go, you must pay at least 200 at the bar."
Lobo stood, and Nelly went with him to the bar and explained the deal. Lobo paid the 200 for her to leave, plus the bill for the drinks. The drink prices must have seemed daringly high for this neighborhood, but they almost made him laugh, the half-heartedness of the mark-ups. Then every man who wasn't a customer came running up saying, "Propina, propina", nickle-and-diming him for tips.
Finally, he was out in the street walking towards the hotel with Nelly warm against his side. She felt like Marisol. Lobo leaned over to kiss her, and she drew back and looked at him. They stood without a word, then started walking again.
In his room, Nelly turned and looked at him. "Do you have anything to drink?"
"Like what?"
"A little wine, a whiskey, or just a bottle of water."
"No."
"Can you order something for me from the downstairs desk?"
"No. Here's a glass..." He went to the sink, "... and water."
"Thank you. Now, will you let me use your shower?"
"Suit yourself."
Nelly closed the bathroom door, and Lobo heard the ring of the curtain pulling closed, the splattering of the shower. He picked up the untouched glass of water and sipped it. Marisol had never been able to handle the idea of drinking tap-water either. Lobo whistled air out between his teeth and gulped down more water. He heard the shower stop, and kicked off his shoes and socks, undid his jeans and let them drop, followed by his underwear.
Nelly walked out of the bathroom wrapped in his new blue towel, her hair pinned up. She started rooting in her purse, talking to him: "Do you have condoms?"
"Don't you?"
"I think so, yes, come here... now, what is this?" She winked, taking hold of his erection poking out from under the hem of his t-shirt. "What is this?"
"It means I'm ready to fuck you," murmured Lobo.
"I don't like that word. You shouldn't say that word. I'd rather you said you wanted to 'take' me."
"Fine. Let's 'take'."
"Here," she said, "Lie on your back, here on the bed."
She got him ready with a minimum of effort, then climbed on top of him. She was pretty with nothing on, and she rocked smoothly back and forth with him inside her.
Lobo realized they had been going at it for a couple of minutes and all that time he had been day-dreaming about something else, he couldn't remember what. Nelly had her eyes closed, leaning over him, he was hard, but he felt less than if he had been watching a porno tape.
Lobo rolled her over on her side, held her tight with his arms around both shoulders, and sped up the rhythm of his hips so he could go ahead and come.
They lay there side-by-side for a minute before she spoke: "So why are you in Monterrey?"
"I needed to find my girlfriend."
"Why?"
Lobo didn't answer, instead he slipped an arm behind her, and brushed his hand over her breast.
"So, your girlfriend, I guess you didn't find her?"
"She wouldn't pick up the fucking phone."
"She's probably got another guy,” said Nelly, twisting a little up against him.
"Yeah, maybe she does."
He smelled the perfiume on her shoulder while he caressed both breasts with his hands.
"Maybe," she said, "Maybe she's just really stupid."
Lobo rolled her over onto her back and got on top of her, weight on his knees and elbows, his legs between hers, kissing her dark brown nipples. It was the first time she had moaned, and she kept moaning as he did it. He moved up to kiss her neck under her ear, along her jugular, nipping it with his teeth. His new erection brushed against her, and she stopped him just long enough to reach a hand into her purse on the nightstand and change the condom, then she lifted her legs a bit and he was inside her again, this time totally concentrated in the moment, full of strength and energy.
Nelly whispered, "take me take me take me" in time to his ear.
Then she broke rhythm and tensed up, and he came.
"Are you sleepy?" she said, sitting up next to him.
"Hmm?"
"I said, are you sleepy, Yay-son?"
"No. I'm not sleepy."
"Well, you looked like you were asleep."
Lobo sat up in the bed next to her and yawned.
She said: "You told me about your girlfriend. Now I'll tell you about my boyfriend. ere's his picture."
Lobo took the creased picture, a scanned photo on printer paper of a fair-haired man with a slight pot-belly under his pastel blue golf shirt, 40-ish, bright white wall behind him and a cloudless sky above.
"His name is Dan. He's a Gringo, like you. This job, I meet Americans, Russians, French, even Chinese.... ugh. Dan is nice, and slender, like you, and kind to me. He is from Miami, and everytime he comes to Mexico, he comes to see me, and he is the only one I see for however long he is here. He speaks good Spanish, his wife back in Miami is Puerto Rican."
"What is he, rich?"
"It has nothing to do with money. I always forget about the money when I am with Dan. I go out with him because I love him. He said that, some day—"
"—some day he'll leave his wife in Miami and stay here with you in Monterrey," Lobo butted in.
"Well, they have problems, and, when we are together he, he knows at least I love him... and he is thinking of moving his main office here, so when that happens..."
"Ha!" barked Lobo. "I saw that shit-hole you work in! Even if Daaa-aaan," he sang the name, "comes down here, I can tell you, you better not get your hopes up—he'll have some little princess of a mistress that he can take out in public and impress the other high-class people."
Nelly's mouth dropped open. "Why are you saying that to me? That's not nice, that's cruel, you were so nice a minute ago..."
"That's got nothing to do with it, whether I'm nice or not. Can't you see that you dreaming about this guy is a waste of time? It's a joke!"
Lobo saw that her eyes were suddenly dark and shining, wetness starting down over her cheek bones. He went on: "Oh yeah, Nelly, you of all people ought to be a little more realistic. A hooker who believes in fairy-tales! Dan's probably already got a mistress, and he just sneaks off to see you whenever she's busting his balls or when she's on the rag! He knows you're not going to give him any shit, you've got nowhere else to go, and you're all in looo-ooove..."
She was sobbing out loud now, just a little. Lobo assumed it was from sadness. Her voice caught in rhythm to her breathing as she said: "Why are you treating me like this? Why are you so cruel? Do you hate me? Do you think I'm stupid? You have no right! Don't you care? I was nice to you!"
"Shit," said Lobo. He was already walking to the bathroom, scratching his bare ass and peeling off the condom, dropping it on the carpet for the maid to clean up. He didn't need this female bullshit. He just needed to piss.
Nelly yelled from behind him: "Now I see why your girlfriend ran off with another guy! Good for her! I hope she's fucking him right this minute, he has to be a better man than—"
Lobo stopped at the bathroom door and slowly turned around. He was quiet and barely breathing, and when Nelly saw his eyes she choked off whatever insult she had been about to toss off next. She huddled on the bed, small. She knew that something horrible was going to happen next, and there was no escape. She was lost in those strange blue eyes that were towering over her.
Time had stopped for Lobo, and he considered his options with mathematical clarity. He could have his hands on her throat whether she fought back or not, and then choke her or snap her neck. But that would lead to complications. He could just punch her off the bed or throw her down the stairs. That wouldn't make it necessary to deal with a dead body, but she'd probably run straight to her bar all bruised and bloody, and then the pimps would be bugging him for compensation for damaged goods.
No, considered tactically, there was nothing to be gained by retaliating against this smart-mouth slut, this nobody. At least she had sense enough to shut the hell up. Now to get rid of her.
"Nelly," said Lobo, watching her with a crooked smile while reaching into his pants on the floor and pulling a 200 peso note from his wallet, then holding it up next to his face, "Here is the rest of your money. I am going to go take a piss, and if you and all your shit are not out of here when I come back out of the bathroom, I am going to grab you by your hair like this—" he clenched his fingers on the back of an imaginary head "—and I will pound your pretty little face into that wall there until your nose is broken flat, and then you will be so fucking hideous that you will have to make a living giving blow-jobs from underneath a table."
"200? You still owe me 300!"
"Your nose," said Lobo, "broken flat."
Nelly froze. He turned and went to piss.
Lobo half-listened to her scuttling around behind him in the room. Good, she knew he meant business. That was how you had to be. He was just too damn nice to Marisol, that had been the problem.
When Lobo was finished in the bathroom, he went back out. Nelly was gone, probably getting dressed down in the stairwell. The image of that was funny. It served her right, though; some people, it was so clear how they brought their shitty lives down on themselves.
Lobo wasn't the least bit sleepy now. He felt really good. Hell, he might even go pick up another girl a little later. He took a shower and dried himself with the damp towel that Nelly had used, then got dressed again. He felt like a walk and some food and another drink.
Something would turn up. He was starting to feel at home here.
He started whistling. It was a happy little tune.
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posted by Walter Moore at 10:11 AM
Part 6: El Puto
Lobo bounced out into the street, still whistling, and started to go to the right, back towards the bar where he had met Nelly, but after two steps he turned and headed the other way, into a part of Monterrey he didn't know as well.
He tried not to think about the guy answering Marisol's phone. OK, so she couldn't be trusted. Fine. He was a realist, and after Nelly, they were even. He would find the guy and take care of business, but he wasn't going to get all weepy. Besides, she was having his kid. That was permanent, he was part of the family now, forever.
There would be time to sort out this business with her and her brother Juan. Lots of time.
He had walked only a couple of blocks when he saw a sign bathed in orange light that said "Pub Geronimo". He went closer and saw through the window that it looked like a decent bar, much less cheesy than that pitiful whorehouse down the street.
Lobo walked in and took his place at the long bar. There was American cowboy-movie stuff all over the walls, busts of Indian chiefs, pictures of John Wayne in a stetson, bows and arrows, a dartboard down at the end. It was all panelled in a light brown wood. There were several men in nice jackets leaning on the bar or sitting on the stools, and two bartenders joking around. One man looked at Lobo's t-shirt and jeans, and then nodded when he saw that Lobo was looking back.
The nearer of the two bartenders had a bright alert manner. He jerked his head toward Lobo and said: "Everything OK, boss? Can I get you a drink?"
"Yeah... I'll take a Sol."
"Right away boss. Hey boss, where you from?"
Lobo sipped his beer and then he said: "I'm from China."
Several of the customers turned and looked at him, mouths open. "You are Chinese?" the nearest man said.
"Well, I'm from China, so of course I'm Chinese."
The nearest man broke out in laughter, and the rest went along with him. He was in his 50's or early 60's, gray hair pomaded back old-style. "Carlito, get my Chinese friend a tequila, and give me one too! Chinese—I like that. My name is Guillermo."
"Lobo. Pleased to me you."
"Equally. You have a Chinese name as well," grinned Guillermo, and he shook Lobo's hand. They lifted the shots of tequila, and Guillermo toasted: "To China! To Chairman Mao!"
Guillermo continued: "So, seriously, you came down here from the States because of your job? Good Spanish, by the way."
"More like I'm looking for work."
"A Gringo who came to Mexico for a job? That's crazy. Still, I'll keep you in mind. You come here, you'll always find me."
"Cool."
The rounds came fast, and Lobo ordered drinks in his turn for Guillermo and two of the other men. His vision was blurring as the other men settled their tabs. Guillermo patted him on the shoulder as he left, saying: "You're a good guy. Whenever you want to find me, you come here."
Lobo was left alone sitting on a stool at the bar, with a couple of guys at the other end having their own conversation, and the weary bartenders polishing glasses.
This was good. Lobo had the feeling that this Guillermo dude was a potential hook-up for some kind of job, he seemed OK. Lobo would come down here tomorrow and drink some more, see what he could find out.
The alert bartender was sliding a cash register ticket in front of Lobo. Damn, he'd ordered more drinks than he thought, that stuff added up quick. Well, he had the cash.
He checked his other back pocket. His wallet wasn't there either. His wallet was gone, who the hell took his wallet—
"That fucking whore!" he roared in English. "That lying, stealing-ass whore!"
"What's that, boss? What's going on? That's what you drank, the bill is right."
"I know the bill—I know—it—look, this whore stole my money. My wallet is gone, I have to go get it—"
"Whoa whoa whoa boss, you have to pay this first."
The other bartender came up, nodding towards Lobo. "What's going on with him? What's the problem?"
"He says he can't pay."
"The fuck he can't. He can drink, he can pay... what did he get?"
"Nine tequilas, he was buying shots for Guillermo and them, and a Sol."
"Hey, Mr. China, my friend, did you order 10 drinks in my bar when you've got no money?"
Lobo said, "I got money—I had money. I had money until that fucking whore robbed me."
"What'd he say?"
"He said a whore took his money. I showed him the bill, and then he started talking about some whore."
"Hey friend, you see any whores in here? I'm tired of this story. I work here every night, you think I never hear this kind of shit? You better give me my damn money, I'm not playing, I'm not telling you again!"
Lobo put down his shot-glass. "OK, OK, I'm going to give you the money, right now."
He stood up off his stool, slid his hand into the pocket where his wallet should have been, then turned and slammed out the door.
He knew he only had a few seconds before they were out after him. He twisted quick around the street corner and slammed up flat against a recessed door. It helped that there was no street light right here. He heard curse a few yards away, and saw in his mind what they were seeing: four dark empty streets with no movement on them, no clue where he went, and a bar still open with customers sitting near the cash register.
He didn't move for a good minute, but he didn't dare stay either in case they called the cops. He eased out of his doorway and took off at a slow walk, taking a roundabout way back to the place where he had picked up Nelly. He had a thing or two to show her and those small-time pimps.
It was quiet in front of the whorehouse, but the doorman was still there, the music was coming out faintly.
Lobo thought of Nelly sitting inside with his wallet, all the little pimps and hookers laughing about how she tricked him. He twitched his right hand and wished he still had the Beretta, but there was one thing he had learned the hard way in the past, and that was if you couldn't make somebody do something without a gun, then you probably couldn't do it even if you had one. He was ready, he was going to get all his money back, and some extra. He had reach and weight on those guys, and what was more, they didn't know he was headed their way.
He walked slowly towards the door. The man standing there looked at Lobo and then turned inside and gestured. Probably telling Nelly to hide, thought Lobo. He didn't give a damn, if he got any interference from this guy he'd kick his shit and scoop out the till in a matter of seconds.
The stocky man in the white dress shirt stepped out and stood next to the doorman. He crossed his arms and looked at Lobo with a patient, almost sad expression.
Lobo stopped a few feet from the men and sized them up. He was a foot taller than either of them, and a lot more muscular. This was going to go his way. Lobo spoke in a hard, even voice to the men: "You remember me. I don't want trouble. You don't want trouble. Your whore stole my money. Now, this is not the day to be fucking with me. You know that. Let's make it simple: I want my wallet back, and every centavo that was in it, 3,000 pesos."
The two men looked at him for a few seconds, and then White Shirt said to the doorman: "Do you know this guy?"
The doorman shrugged. White Shirt said, "Sir, I'm sorry somebody robbed you, that's really sad. But it wasn't us. We've never seen you before."
"You little son of a bitch," muttered Lobo in English, breathing in deep.
"Oh, 'son of bitch', oh, I know some English, is that a polite word, Gerolamo?" said White Shirt.
"No, Mr. Garcia, it's an insult," said the doorman.
White Shirt stepped down from the door into the street, stopping within arm's length of Lobo. He said, "I think maybe I do remember you now, because you have very bad manners. I remember I was nice to you, and I introduced you to a girl, our best girl, and now she is crying because you scared her. I think you said you were going to break her nose. Yes, I remember you now. And here you are again, in front of my bar. Do you apologize? No. You call me a thief in front of my people, and then you call me 'son of bitch', maybe you think you can say that and nothing happens?"
Lobo shifted from foot to foot. He sensed others gathering in the shadows of the street, but he kept his eyes on the hands of the stolid little man in front of him. Lobo suddenly felt sober and exposed. No backing down now though: "I want my fucking money."
"Your 'fucking money', big man? I don't have your 'fucking money'. But I tell you what, big man, you're pretty tough, right? You like to break noses, right? I tell you what, me, and you. We'll fight. You want to hit me, right? If you can break my nose, I'll give you 3,000 pesos, and we'll be even. What do you think?"
Lobo knew there were at least three other men in the street with them, not counting the doorman. He could hear the scrape of their shoes on the asphalt as they stood, waiting.
Lobo said, "You talk some tough shit, old man, when you've got a bunch of guys to back you up."
"I don't talk shit, big man." He shouted to the men: "All of you! Nobody helps me! If the Gringo knocks me out, you give him 3,000 pesos from the bar and let him go!"
"There," he continued to Lobo in a soft voice, "It's just you and me. Like you said, I'm an old man. This should be easy for you, like beating up a girl."
Lobo stared at the man.
White Shirt kept talking: "Trust me, you and me. Nobody else. You heard what I told them. You have my word, my honor. Do you know what honor is, Gringo?"
Lobo tensed, breathing.
"I think he's scared, Mr. Garcia!" shouted one of the men.
"I think you're right. He smells scared. Are you scared, big man?"
"He's all talk, Mr. Garcia! He's just a puto!"
"Is that so, big man, are you a puto, a faggot?"
"Fuck you!" said Lobo.
"Fuck me? No, you can't even fight me. But I just thought of how you can make some money—I don't mind if you are a puto, I can get you some work, you'll make good money sucking on—"
Lobo punched quick as a snake, his right fist flying up from the hip square into the man's nose, but it kept going, throwing him off balance because the man's head wasn't there anymore, then a blow to the stomach hammered Lobo's breath out of his body and doubled him forward and a split-second later another punch to the right kidney sent him slamming head-first onto the street. He gagged and tried to breathe, tried to draw up his knees to cover his nuts and stomach. He felt a pressure on his neck but couldn't see through his tears.
"There, big man, you see? My boot is on your throat. I can kill you if I want. But I think maybe now you know that I am not a thief, that you are sorry you ever insulted me. Is this so?"
Lobo gagged, wheezing for air.
"Good, big man, I'm happy to see that you learned some manners." White Shirt then spoke to someone else: "Get him out of here. He's bad for business."
"You want us to—"
"No. We don't know him. Just take him somewhere."
Someone was grabbing him by the armpits, and Lobo heard the creaking metal squeak of a car door opening.
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He tried not to think about the guy answering Marisol's phone. OK, so she couldn't be trusted. Fine. He was a realist, and after Nelly, they were even. He would find the guy and take care of business, but he wasn't going to get all weepy. Besides, she was having his kid. That was permanent, he was part of the family now, forever.
There would be time to sort out this business with her and her brother Juan. Lots of time.
He had walked only a couple of blocks when he saw a sign bathed in orange light that said "Pub Geronimo". He went closer and saw through the window that it looked like a decent bar, much less cheesy than that pitiful whorehouse down the street.
Lobo walked in and took his place at the long bar. There was American cowboy-movie stuff all over the walls, busts of Indian chiefs, pictures of John Wayne in a stetson, bows and arrows, a dartboard down at the end. It was all panelled in a light brown wood. There were several men in nice jackets leaning on the bar or sitting on the stools, and two bartenders joking around. One man looked at Lobo's t-shirt and jeans, and then nodded when he saw that Lobo was looking back.
The nearer of the two bartenders had a bright alert manner. He jerked his head toward Lobo and said: "Everything OK, boss? Can I get you a drink?"
"Yeah... I'll take a Sol."
"Right away boss. Hey boss, where you from?"
Lobo sipped his beer and then he said: "I'm from China."
Several of the customers turned and looked at him, mouths open. "You are Chinese?" the nearest man said.
"Well, I'm from China, so of course I'm Chinese."
The nearest man broke out in laughter, and the rest went along with him. He was in his 50's or early 60's, gray hair pomaded back old-style. "Carlito, get my Chinese friend a tequila, and give me one too! Chinese—I like that. My name is Guillermo."
"Lobo. Pleased to me you."
"Equally. You have a Chinese name as well," grinned Guillermo, and he shook Lobo's hand. They lifted the shots of tequila, and Guillermo toasted: "To China! To Chairman Mao!"
Guillermo continued: "So, seriously, you came down here from the States because of your job? Good Spanish, by the way."
"More like I'm looking for work."
"A Gringo who came to Mexico for a job? That's crazy. Still, I'll keep you in mind. You come here, you'll always find me."
"Cool."
The rounds came fast, and Lobo ordered drinks in his turn for Guillermo and two of the other men. His vision was blurring as the other men settled their tabs. Guillermo patted him on the shoulder as he left, saying: "You're a good guy. Whenever you want to find me, you come here."
Lobo was left alone sitting on a stool at the bar, with a couple of guys at the other end having their own conversation, and the weary bartenders polishing glasses.
This was good. Lobo had the feeling that this Guillermo dude was a potential hook-up for some kind of job, he seemed OK. Lobo would come down here tomorrow and drink some more, see what he could find out.
The alert bartender was sliding a cash register ticket in front of Lobo. Damn, he'd ordered more drinks than he thought, that stuff added up quick. Well, he had the cash.
He checked his other back pocket. His wallet wasn't there either. His wallet was gone, who the hell took his wallet—
"That fucking whore!" he roared in English. "That lying, stealing-ass whore!"
"What's that, boss? What's going on? That's what you drank, the bill is right."
"I know the bill—I know—it—look, this whore stole my money. My wallet is gone, I have to go get it—"
"Whoa whoa whoa boss, you have to pay this first."
The other bartender came up, nodding towards Lobo. "What's going on with him? What's the problem?"
"He says he can't pay."
"The fuck he can't. He can drink, he can pay... what did he get?"
"Nine tequilas, he was buying shots for Guillermo and them, and a Sol."
"Hey, Mr. China, my friend, did you order 10 drinks in my bar when you've got no money?"
Lobo said, "I got money—I had money. I had money until that fucking whore robbed me."
"What'd he say?"
"He said a whore took his money. I showed him the bill, and then he started talking about some whore."
"Hey friend, you see any whores in here? I'm tired of this story. I work here every night, you think I never hear this kind of shit? You better give me my damn money, I'm not playing, I'm not telling you again!"
Lobo put down his shot-glass. "OK, OK, I'm going to give you the money, right now."
He stood up off his stool, slid his hand into the pocket where his wallet should have been, then turned and slammed out the door.
He knew he only had a few seconds before they were out after him. He twisted quick around the street corner and slammed up flat against a recessed door. It helped that there was no street light right here. He heard curse a few yards away, and saw in his mind what they were seeing: four dark empty streets with no movement on them, no clue where he went, and a bar still open with customers sitting near the cash register.
He didn't move for a good minute, but he didn't dare stay either in case they called the cops. He eased out of his doorway and took off at a slow walk, taking a roundabout way back to the place where he had picked up Nelly. He had a thing or two to show her and those small-time pimps.
It was quiet in front of the whorehouse, but the doorman was still there, the music was coming out faintly.
Lobo thought of Nelly sitting inside with his wallet, all the little pimps and hookers laughing about how she tricked him. He twitched his right hand and wished he still had the Beretta, but there was one thing he had learned the hard way in the past, and that was if you couldn't make somebody do something without a gun, then you probably couldn't do it even if you had one. He was ready, he was going to get all his money back, and some extra. He had reach and weight on those guys, and what was more, they didn't know he was headed their way.
He walked slowly towards the door. The man standing there looked at Lobo and then turned inside and gestured. Probably telling Nelly to hide, thought Lobo. He didn't give a damn, if he got any interference from this guy he'd kick his shit and scoop out the till in a matter of seconds.
The stocky man in the white dress shirt stepped out and stood next to the doorman. He crossed his arms and looked at Lobo with a patient, almost sad expression.
Lobo stopped a few feet from the men and sized them up. He was a foot taller than either of them, and a lot more muscular. This was going to go his way. Lobo spoke in a hard, even voice to the men: "You remember me. I don't want trouble. You don't want trouble. Your whore stole my money. Now, this is not the day to be fucking with me. You know that. Let's make it simple: I want my wallet back, and every centavo that was in it, 3,000 pesos."
The two men looked at him for a few seconds, and then White Shirt said to the doorman: "Do you know this guy?"
The doorman shrugged. White Shirt said, "Sir, I'm sorry somebody robbed you, that's really sad. But it wasn't us. We've never seen you before."
"You little son of a bitch," muttered Lobo in English, breathing in deep.
"Oh, 'son of bitch', oh, I know some English, is that a polite word, Gerolamo?" said White Shirt.
"No, Mr. Garcia, it's an insult," said the doorman.
White Shirt stepped down from the door into the street, stopping within arm's length of Lobo. He said, "I think maybe I do remember you now, because you have very bad manners. I remember I was nice to you, and I introduced you to a girl, our best girl, and now she is crying because you scared her. I think you said you were going to break her nose. Yes, I remember you now. And here you are again, in front of my bar. Do you apologize? No. You call me a thief in front of my people, and then you call me 'son of bitch', maybe you think you can say that and nothing happens?"
Lobo shifted from foot to foot. He sensed others gathering in the shadows of the street, but he kept his eyes on the hands of the stolid little man in front of him. Lobo suddenly felt sober and exposed. No backing down now though: "I want my fucking money."
"Your 'fucking money', big man? I don't have your 'fucking money'. But I tell you what, big man, you're pretty tough, right? You like to break noses, right? I tell you what, me, and you. We'll fight. You want to hit me, right? If you can break my nose, I'll give you 3,000 pesos, and we'll be even. What do you think?"
Lobo knew there were at least three other men in the street with them, not counting the doorman. He could hear the scrape of their shoes on the asphalt as they stood, waiting.
Lobo said, "You talk some tough shit, old man, when you've got a bunch of guys to back you up."
"I don't talk shit, big man." He shouted to the men: "All of you! Nobody helps me! If the Gringo knocks me out, you give him 3,000 pesos from the bar and let him go!"
"There," he continued to Lobo in a soft voice, "It's just you and me. Like you said, I'm an old man. This should be easy for you, like beating up a girl."
Lobo stared at the man.
White Shirt kept talking: "Trust me, you and me. Nobody else. You heard what I told them. You have my word, my honor. Do you know what honor is, Gringo?"
Lobo tensed, breathing.
"I think he's scared, Mr. Garcia!" shouted one of the men.
"I think you're right. He smells scared. Are you scared, big man?"
"He's all talk, Mr. Garcia! He's just a puto!"
"Is that so, big man, are you a puto, a faggot?"
"Fuck you!" said Lobo.
"Fuck me? No, you can't even fight me. But I just thought of how you can make some money—I don't mind if you are a puto, I can get you some work, you'll make good money sucking on—"
Lobo punched quick as a snake, his right fist flying up from the hip square into the man's nose, but it kept going, throwing him off balance because the man's head wasn't there anymore, then a blow to the stomach hammered Lobo's breath out of his body and doubled him forward and a split-second later another punch to the right kidney sent him slamming head-first onto the street. He gagged and tried to breathe, tried to draw up his knees to cover his nuts and stomach. He felt a pressure on his neck but couldn't see through his tears.
"There, big man, you see? My boot is on your throat. I can kill you if I want. But I think maybe now you know that I am not a thief, that you are sorry you ever insulted me. Is this so?"
Lobo gagged, wheezing for air.
"Good, big man, I'm happy to see that you learned some manners." White Shirt then spoke to someone else: "Get him out of here. He's bad for business."
"You want us to—"
"No. We don't know him. Just take him somewhere."
Someone was grabbing him by the armpits, and Lobo heard the creaking metal squeak of a car door opening.
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posted by Walter Moore at 10:09 AM
Part 7, Conclusion: Loma Larga
The men picked Lobo up and pushed him into the back seat of a car. Two of them got in the back with him, one on each side. As soon as they pulled away, they started pounding on Lobo with their fists, first blinding him with blows to his face then gagging him with shots to his stomach when he made the mistake of blocking his head. He hunched forward convulsively, and one of the men pinned him down like that while the other one walloped his back. He couldn't breathe.
The driver turned on the radio, blasting that sort of polka-beat music from the speakers that Lobo had always hated. He'd always called it "nacho-dip music," it made him think of tourist-traps where White people would get trashed on margaritas at lunch.
Lobo was halfway passed out, they had eased up some on the pounding so long as he didn't try to talk or move, just an occasional whack to the ribs or kidneys. Their hands must have been sore. The music bounced along in a staccato beat, whining nasal lyrics sing-songing up and down.
God, how Lobo hated that nacho-dip music.
“Quit hitting him I said!"
"What the hell do you care, Rupert? You like this pendejo now?"
"Fuck him. It's my car, ass-hole. You hit him too much, he's gonna puke blood in my car."
They threw him out of the car onto the street, and then pulled away. Lobo lay there for a minute getting the feel of the asphalt on his cheek and palms, tasting the blood in his mouth.
It could have been worse.
He dragged himself into a sitting position. At least his legs felt OK. His side hurt whenever he breathed. His teeth were bloody, a split lip, but his nose and eyes felt OK. There'd be bad bruises, but not much worse.
Fucking pussies. He would have been dead if they'd had any balls.
At least his legs felt OK. He looked around the neighborhood. He had no idea where this street was. It was a third-world dream of shaky home-made houses with rebar sticking out of the tops of buildings, tires stacked on the flat roofs.
Lobo guessed he was in some raw section of town on the outskirts of the city, he figured those guys ditched him out here just so somebody local could enjoy finishing him off.
Lobo stood up. He didn't feel faint, and that surprised him.
So. The cops were after him, Marisol and Juan had turned traitor, and he was broke, with some new enemies, in a town way down in Mexico. There was nothing to do but hide. The States weren't safe, Monterrey sure wasn't safe. He had to get out of town before the cops noticed him. Beat all blue like this and stinking, they'd notice him. Lobo decided to head for the countryside. He wasn't afraid of the country like some people were. There would be farms.
He wondered what time it was. His watch was missing now too. He guessed it must be three or four in the morning.
Lobo started shuffling uphill, on crooked empty streets past blind shuttered windows. Somewhere up this hillside, he knew the town would peter out into squatters' shacks, tents even. He'd seen them before and started to see them again as the streets changed into irregular steps, the houses became huts, with corrugated metal roofs held down by large rocks, and water dripping from rusty pipes.
Cats scuttled away as Lobo climbed past their sleeping places. He ignored them, sniffing, searching for any sign of chickens.
After about a half-hour's climb, the ground leveled off and opened up. It was a large garbage dump. Lobo thought he heard pigs. He picked his way through the rotting filth, and soon he stood at the other edge of the cleared area.
But instead of seeing the blackness of open country, he found himself looking at the twinkling of more street lights in a valley down below. He backtracked through the dump and stared back in the direction from whence he'd come, which he now knew to be north.
Lobo knew where he was now. He wasn't anywhere near the edge of Monterrey yet. On the contrary, this hill he was on was Loma Larga, the big ridge near the middle of things, and north of him was downtown, all lit up even at this hour in a grid pattern. South of here would be the new part of town, stretching for miles, with back-stabbing Juan's El Escarabajo night-club somewhere among its broad, open streets. If he were to go down there, he'd stand out like a leper at the beach during Spring Break.
Up here in this shanty-town on Loma Larga, he was in as much of a prison as he'd ever been—safe from the cops, maybe—but unable to slip out unnoticed.
Lobo sat down where he could see the downtown, the cathedral, that big orange monument thing, the new hotels rising up. That big building with the Coca-Cola sign was next to where he used to catch movies with Marisol.
He felt around him on the damp ground. Old cans, loose bricks, rags, something slimy that smelled like rotten cabbage. There wouldn't be any bottles even, those would all get scrounged for deposits.
Well, a piece of brick would do. It was hefty, with a jagged end.
Lobo put his head in his hands. Think, think. He heard the footsteps coming up behind him, and he sat up straight, listening, palming the piece of broken brick.
A reedy voice scraggled out at him: "Jose... hey... Jose..."
"What do you want?"
"Damn, guey, you scared me—hey, you're not Jose..."
"No."
Lobo could barely make out a skinny man with bushy hair who looked young. He had the goofy smile and vague manner of a glue-sniffer, and Lobo untensed. Huffers like this guy were the lowest of the low—they'd get that smile after hours of sucking down fumes from paint, gasoline, any kind of solvents—goofy, and usually harmless too.
Lobo lowered the brick out of sight. The young man sat down next to him and said, "This is the nicest view of the city...uh... Are you a Gringo?"
"Yeah. That's Mr. Gringo to you."
"Mr. Gringo... huh huh huh... It's a nice view of the city... you see the brewery there and the cathedral there and the palace..."
"Look," Lobo interrupted, "That's nice, but I personally don't give a fuck about the cathedral or any of that shit."
The young man seemed to concentrate and said "Are you in trouble, guey? Are you hungry? I got some friends, they'll give you some breakfast, help you out..."
When Lobo didn't respond, the young man reached out and shook Lobo's shoulder, saying "Hey, you OK? Hey..."
"Don't touch me, you goddam faggot," snapped Lobo, smacking away the man's hand.
"Hey... I just... I just..."
"Fuck you," snarled Lobo, turning his head to face the man as he cursed him.
The young man peered at Lobo's face: "Hey, somebody fucked you up, guey... I got some friends, they'll clean you up, they always look out for me..."
He reached out, brushing Lobo's face with his fingertips as he gestured, misjudging the distance.
"Fuck you, faggot!" bellowed Lobo as the brick was rebounding backwards from the young man's skull before he even realized he had struck him, then the man was rolling backwards and Lobo was on his feet, kicking and stomping him wherever there was an opening as the stricken man twisted and writhed. Only when Lobo almost tripped did he realize he had been screaming as he attacked the man, the echo came back from across the dump.
Lobo stopped for a second, out of breath. The young man was rocking back and forth on the ground, moaning, holding his head. Lobo threw the brick against his shoulder, gave him another kick, and said in English: "Get the fuck away from me. Get out, get out."
Then he kicked the young man several more times as he crawled away whimpering in that broken reedy voice of his. His weakness made Lobo want to keep hurting him, but at the same time he was very tired. He let the man crawl off into the darkness of the dump, then he walked back to his spot and sat down again, breathing a deep sigh.
Christ, that felt good. His ankles and toes hurt from some of the wilder kicks he'd dished out, but it still felt good. Lobo idly considered going back and finding the young man, wherever he'd crawled off to, and kicking him into a broken-bone coma. But it wasn't worth the effort. Anyway, he'd already busted that weaslely little huffer up good enough that he'd just slide down the hill and die. Lobo thought of some little kid opening the front door in a few hours to go to school and finding that mangled piece of shit on the stoop, flies buzzing, choked blue on his own vomit, or dead from internal injuries.
Lobo chuckled.
He relaxed then. He'd just done a public service for his new neighborhood. Sure, that huffer had friends. So he said. Not the kind of friends who would ever come try and avenge him. Still, just in case, Lobo pawed around some more and easily found another broken brick. In the daylight he'd get something better. The garbage dump must be a treasure-trove of makeshift weapons, splintered hunks of wood with nails poking out, rusty iron bars, shattered glass or lengths of pipe, all sorts of things you could use to murder a man here. Lobo felt secure.
He watched over the peaceful city.
For once, he could just sit and think. All this running and fighting the last 24 hours had kept him from thinking.
Marisol had been his big hope for changing the way he was. He had known where he was headed without her. Months back, when she had told him she was pregnant, for the first time ever he had a map, a plan. Then after the abortion, it was as if it had never been.
The sky lightened a bit to the east.
Then the second time she got pregnant, and swore she'd have it, he'd given it everything he'd had.
It was so hard to remember things sometimes. Lobo knew it was because he could make himself forget things he didn't want to see again. His mom's trailer with the cheap panelling you could split with a fist. Cousins backing away wide-eyed after a game had gone too far. And that jail, he could really block that memory out, of when he'd been 18 and skinny and cocky and the cops said he'd resisted, so they put him in with—with those—the bastard cops had laughed, he could hear their self-conscious chuckling between his screams.
No. It was good to forget bad things. Lobo couldn't look at those things again.
The round white moon rose over the Cerro de la Silla and picked out every detail around him with sharp blue lines, and Lobo remembered his last night with Marisol.
He saw her anxious face again as she begged for his understanding, they were sitting in the cab of his Toyota pickup there in the alley in Laredo. He remembered understanding what she meant just a moment too late, "I just couldn't let you go around thinking that you were the father..."
It wasn't that the words weren't clear, it was just that they would slip out of his head before he could put them together again, and he saw her face again, smiling for a second as it was lit orange from beneath by the muzzle-blast of the Beretta, then her moans and convulsions that took forever to end while he sat there frozen next to her with the pistol in his hand.
He saw his truck as it must have looked to Lawson the cop, two young lovers out parking, trespassing perhaps...
Marisol hadn't answered her phone a single time he'd tried to call since he'd come to Mexico. She couldn't. All day long she'd been on a table in a morgue in Laredo. He knew that.
He knew that.
Lobo slowly started shaking, and he slumped backwards into the trash. He lay there sobbing, moaning, laughing a forgotten prayer: "Oh God oh God forgive me God..."
The prayer rang false. He was alone. He sniffled a bit, then tried the words again: "Oh God…"
It was no good. Lobo kept crying, but it wasn't for Marisol. It wasn't for the baby, hell, the kid wasn't even his. He was crying for himself.
He had deserved so much better.
Lobo was still sobbing and and trying to pray a few minutes later. He wondered if God heard him. Lobo certainly never heard the footsteps, several sets of footsteps, coming from the same direction that the injured young man had crawled away, creeping like hunters, coming carefully, stealthfully, and with cold deadly intent.
THE END
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The driver turned on the radio, blasting that sort of polka-beat music from the speakers that Lobo had always hated. He'd always called it "nacho-dip music," it made him think of tourist-traps where White people would get trashed on margaritas at lunch.
Lobo was halfway passed out, they had eased up some on the pounding so long as he didn't try to talk or move, just an occasional whack to the ribs or kidneys. Their hands must have been sore. The music bounced along in a staccato beat, whining nasal lyrics sing-songing up and down.
God, how Lobo hated that nacho-dip music.
“Quit hitting him I said!"
"What the hell do you care, Rupert? You like this pendejo now?"
"Fuck him. It's my car, ass-hole. You hit him too much, he's gonna puke blood in my car."
They threw him out of the car onto the street, and then pulled away. Lobo lay there for a minute getting the feel of the asphalt on his cheek and palms, tasting the blood in his mouth.
It could have been worse.
He dragged himself into a sitting position. At least his legs felt OK. His side hurt whenever he breathed. His teeth were bloody, a split lip, but his nose and eyes felt OK. There'd be bad bruises, but not much worse.
Fucking pussies. He would have been dead if they'd had any balls.
At least his legs felt OK. He looked around the neighborhood. He had no idea where this street was. It was a third-world dream of shaky home-made houses with rebar sticking out of the tops of buildings, tires stacked on the flat roofs.
Lobo guessed he was in some raw section of town on the outskirts of the city, he figured those guys ditched him out here just so somebody local could enjoy finishing him off.
Lobo stood up. He didn't feel faint, and that surprised him.
So. The cops were after him, Marisol and Juan had turned traitor, and he was broke, with some new enemies, in a town way down in Mexico. There was nothing to do but hide. The States weren't safe, Monterrey sure wasn't safe. He had to get out of town before the cops noticed him. Beat all blue like this and stinking, they'd notice him. Lobo decided to head for the countryside. He wasn't afraid of the country like some people were. There would be farms.
He wondered what time it was. His watch was missing now too. He guessed it must be three or four in the morning.
Lobo started shuffling uphill, on crooked empty streets past blind shuttered windows. Somewhere up this hillside, he knew the town would peter out into squatters' shacks, tents even. He'd seen them before and started to see them again as the streets changed into irregular steps, the houses became huts, with corrugated metal roofs held down by large rocks, and water dripping from rusty pipes.
Cats scuttled away as Lobo climbed past their sleeping places. He ignored them, sniffing, searching for any sign of chickens.
After about a half-hour's climb, the ground leveled off and opened up. It was a large garbage dump. Lobo thought he heard pigs. He picked his way through the rotting filth, and soon he stood at the other edge of the cleared area.
But instead of seeing the blackness of open country, he found himself looking at the twinkling of more street lights in a valley down below. He backtracked through the dump and stared back in the direction from whence he'd come, which he now knew to be north.
Lobo knew where he was now. He wasn't anywhere near the edge of Monterrey yet. On the contrary, this hill he was on was Loma Larga, the big ridge near the middle of things, and north of him was downtown, all lit up even at this hour in a grid pattern. South of here would be the new part of town, stretching for miles, with back-stabbing Juan's El Escarabajo night-club somewhere among its broad, open streets. If he were to go down there, he'd stand out like a leper at the beach during Spring Break.
Up here in this shanty-town on Loma Larga, he was in as much of a prison as he'd ever been—safe from the cops, maybe—but unable to slip out unnoticed.
Lobo sat down where he could see the downtown, the cathedral, that big orange monument thing, the new hotels rising up. That big building with the Coca-Cola sign was next to where he used to catch movies with Marisol.
He felt around him on the damp ground. Old cans, loose bricks, rags, something slimy that smelled like rotten cabbage. There wouldn't be any bottles even, those would all get scrounged for deposits.
Well, a piece of brick would do. It was hefty, with a jagged end.
Lobo put his head in his hands. Think, think. He heard the footsteps coming up behind him, and he sat up straight, listening, palming the piece of broken brick.
A reedy voice scraggled out at him: "Jose... hey... Jose..."
"What do you want?"
"Damn, guey, you scared me—hey, you're not Jose..."
"No."
Lobo could barely make out a skinny man with bushy hair who looked young. He had the goofy smile and vague manner of a glue-sniffer, and Lobo untensed. Huffers like this guy were the lowest of the low—they'd get that smile after hours of sucking down fumes from paint, gasoline, any kind of solvents—goofy, and usually harmless too.
Lobo lowered the brick out of sight. The young man sat down next to him and said, "This is the nicest view of the city...uh... Are you a Gringo?"
"Yeah. That's Mr. Gringo to you."
"Mr. Gringo... huh huh huh... It's a nice view of the city... you see the brewery there and the cathedral there and the palace..."
"Look," Lobo interrupted, "That's nice, but I personally don't give a fuck about the cathedral or any of that shit."
The young man seemed to concentrate and said "Are you in trouble, guey? Are you hungry? I got some friends, they'll give you some breakfast, help you out..."
When Lobo didn't respond, the young man reached out and shook Lobo's shoulder, saying "Hey, you OK? Hey..."
"Don't touch me, you goddam faggot," snapped Lobo, smacking away the man's hand.
"Hey... I just... I just..."
"Fuck you," snarled Lobo, turning his head to face the man as he cursed him.
The young man peered at Lobo's face: "Hey, somebody fucked you up, guey... I got some friends, they'll clean you up, they always look out for me..."
He reached out, brushing Lobo's face with his fingertips as he gestured, misjudging the distance.
"Fuck you, faggot!" bellowed Lobo as the brick was rebounding backwards from the young man's skull before he even realized he had struck him, then the man was rolling backwards and Lobo was on his feet, kicking and stomping him wherever there was an opening as the stricken man twisted and writhed. Only when Lobo almost tripped did he realize he had been screaming as he attacked the man, the echo came back from across the dump.
Lobo stopped for a second, out of breath. The young man was rocking back and forth on the ground, moaning, holding his head. Lobo threw the brick against his shoulder, gave him another kick, and said in English: "Get the fuck away from me. Get out, get out."
Then he kicked the young man several more times as he crawled away whimpering in that broken reedy voice of his. His weakness made Lobo want to keep hurting him, but at the same time he was very tired. He let the man crawl off into the darkness of the dump, then he walked back to his spot and sat down again, breathing a deep sigh.
Christ, that felt good. His ankles and toes hurt from some of the wilder kicks he'd dished out, but it still felt good. Lobo idly considered going back and finding the young man, wherever he'd crawled off to, and kicking him into a broken-bone coma. But it wasn't worth the effort. Anyway, he'd already busted that weaslely little huffer up good enough that he'd just slide down the hill and die. Lobo thought of some little kid opening the front door in a few hours to go to school and finding that mangled piece of shit on the stoop, flies buzzing, choked blue on his own vomit, or dead from internal injuries.
Lobo chuckled.
He relaxed then. He'd just done a public service for his new neighborhood. Sure, that huffer had friends. So he said. Not the kind of friends who would ever come try and avenge him. Still, just in case, Lobo pawed around some more and easily found another broken brick. In the daylight he'd get something better. The garbage dump must be a treasure-trove of makeshift weapons, splintered hunks of wood with nails poking out, rusty iron bars, shattered glass or lengths of pipe, all sorts of things you could use to murder a man here. Lobo felt secure.
He watched over the peaceful city.
For once, he could just sit and think. All this running and fighting the last 24 hours had kept him from thinking.
Marisol had been his big hope for changing the way he was. He had known where he was headed without her. Months back, when she had told him she was pregnant, for the first time ever he had a map, a plan. Then after the abortion, it was as if it had never been.
The sky lightened a bit to the east.
Then the second time she got pregnant, and swore she'd have it, he'd given it everything he'd had.
It was so hard to remember things sometimes. Lobo knew it was because he could make himself forget things he didn't want to see again. His mom's trailer with the cheap panelling you could split with a fist. Cousins backing away wide-eyed after a game had gone too far. And that jail, he could really block that memory out, of when he'd been 18 and skinny and cocky and the cops said he'd resisted, so they put him in with—with those—the bastard cops had laughed, he could hear their self-conscious chuckling between his screams.
No. It was good to forget bad things. Lobo couldn't look at those things again.
The round white moon rose over the Cerro de la Silla and picked out every detail around him with sharp blue lines, and Lobo remembered his last night with Marisol.
He saw her anxious face again as she begged for his understanding, they were sitting in the cab of his Toyota pickup there in the alley in Laredo. He remembered understanding what she meant just a moment too late, "I just couldn't let you go around thinking that you were the father..."
It wasn't that the words weren't clear, it was just that they would slip out of his head before he could put them together again, and he saw her face again, smiling for a second as it was lit orange from beneath by the muzzle-blast of the Beretta, then her moans and convulsions that took forever to end while he sat there frozen next to her with the pistol in his hand.
He saw his truck as it must have looked to Lawson the cop, two young lovers out parking, trespassing perhaps...
Marisol hadn't answered her phone a single time he'd tried to call since he'd come to Mexico. She couldn't. All day long she'd been on a table in a morgue in Laredo. He knew that.
He knew that.
Lobo slowly started shaking, and he slumped backwards into the trash. He lay there sobbing, moaning, laughing a forgotten prayer: "Oh God oh God forgive me God..."
The prayer rang false. He was alone. He sniffled a bit, then tried the words again: "Oh God…"
It was no good. Lobo kept crying, but it wasn't for Marisol. It wasn't for the baby, hell, the kid wasn't even his. He was crying for himself.
He had deserved so much better.
Lobo was still sobbing and and trying to pray a few minutes later. He wondered if God heard him. Lobo certainly never heard the footsteps, several sets of footsteps, coming from the same direction that the injured young man had crawled away, creeping like hunters, coming carefully, stealthfully, and with cold deadly intent.
THE END
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posted by Walter Moore at 10:08 AM
About Me
- Name: Walter Moore
- Location: Birmingham, Alabama, United States
The man behind the 0.7 mm gel pen
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Previous Posts
- Table of Contents
- Part 1: The Border
- Part 2: The Checkpoint
- Part 3: The City
- Part 4: El Escarabajo
- Part 5: Nelly
- Part 6: El Puto
- Part 7, Conclusion: Loma Larga
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