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
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