Zia Summer, Rio Grande Fall, Shaman Winter, and Jemez Spring Page 27

  “Which is?”

  “Getting into affecting the soul, laying a curse on a person. A person can fly or the soul can fly, and it can change into an animal form. In Mexico it’s called the nagual. Lorenza believes you can change form, you can change into that animal—”

  Sonny sat up straight. A large car had just turned into the parking lot. Just as the conversation was getting juicy a large wine-colored Oldsmobile parked near the back door of the bar. A man got out, looked around, nodded. A heavyset man followed, then a woman. They walked quickly into the bar.

  “Turco?” Rita asked.

  “Yup. Vamos.” Sonny got out and opened Rita’s door. He thought of carrying his pistol, but that wasn’t the kind of confrontation he was looking for. And anyway a dope dealer would smell a gun a mile away.

  The bar was packed when Sonny and Rita entered. Ladies’ night and a dance contest, a hundred bucks to the winners, had drawn out the Mexican workers. In their just-pressed jeans, cowboy shirts, and hats, men swirled around the floor with dark-haired morenitas in bright dresses. The juke box was blasting a Mexican ranchera. The mood was lively, happy.

  Sonny and Rita edged their way to the bar. Sonny knew the owner from his old days in the South Valley. Mama Lucy had been a state legislator for years but retired to run the bar. “I didn’t really change careers,” she liked to joke. “In Santa Fe we met at the Bull Ring or Pink Adobe,” she said, naming two well-known watering holes where lawmakers cut deals over margaritas.

  “Lots of margaritas and lots of promises,” Mama Lucy boasted, “same as here,” and she would point at her Granada clientele. “Except here the boys drink beer.”

  “Hey, Sonny, long time no see,” the stout señora said with a smile. “How’s it goin’?”

  “Can’t complain. You remember Rita,” Sonny answered. He ordered two beers and looked past the dancers to a booth at the back. Turco and his woman had settled down; their driver and bodyguard, a thin old pachuco left over from the fifties, stood near the door. Turco would have a drink, then move on. Sonny had to move fast. “And you?” he asked Mama Lucy when she returned with the beers.

  “Same old thing.” She shrugged and wiped the bar. The song had ended; there was a break as the dancers walked back to their tables.

  “Come on, Lucy, how can it be the same old thing if there’s an army in town and Turco’s sitting in your back booth?” Sonny tested her.

  “He pays for his drink like anybody else,” Mama Lucy shot back. “Don’t come around here looking for caca, Sonny! The caca’s in the North Valley. I hope you keep it up there.” Her expression sobered and her eyes narrowed. She didn’t appreciate Sonny snooping, that was clear.

  “Nothing’s clean,” Sonny countered. He glanced at Turco’s booth. “Not as long as pushers like Turco sit in your place.”

  “I got nothing to do with that business!” she replied angrily. “As far as I’m concerned, people like Turco are parasites. Right now the parasite had fastened itself to the Granada Bar, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it. The sooner he moves out, the happier I am.” She added, “I hope the damn mafia does get his ass.”

  “I gotta talk to him,” Sonny said and placed his half-empty beer on the bar. Mama Lucy reached out and grabbed his arm as he began to stand up.

  “Don’t try anything funny, Sonny. I don’t want fights, and I don’t want my place torched.”

  “Relax.” Sonny pushed her hand away. “I came to dance, not to fight.” Sonny smiled and grabbed Rita as the next ranchera blasted from the jukebox. He pulled her onto the dance floor and twirled her around the floor, stomping to the beat of the music, dazzling the other dancers who joined them. Loud cries of “Ajuas!” filled the smoky bar.

  “We’re gonna take the prize!” Rita shouted, enjoying the fast step. When they neared Turco’s booth, she realized what Sonny had in mind. Sonny had swirled her toward Turco’s booth, stopped suddenly in front of his cousin, who hadn’t yet spotted him. Sonny smiled and reached forward to grab Turco’s hand before the big man could draw back.

  “Hey primo, cómo ’stás?” Sonny greeted Turco.

  Turco’s eyes narrowed as he peered at Sonny. He was a barrel-chested man, thick, dressed in a snappy wine-colored suit, flashy. His dyed black hair was sleeked back with a shiny pomade, his face dark and pockmarked.

  “Good to see you, ese,” Sonny said, keeping hold of Turco’s hand and pushing Rita into the seat opposite Turco and his woman.

  “Órale.” Turco smiled. He turned to his lady, a dark, attractive Mexicana, and explained, “Es primo.”

  “Quieres arm wrestle?” Sonny asked.

  Turco had a reputation as one of the best in the South Valley and with his broad chest, it was easy to understand why. Turco’s body and face were like a chiseled Olmec statue, thick and ominous.

  “No, chale.” Turco pulled back, and Sonny let go of his hand.

  “This is my lady friend, Rita,” Sonny said.

  Turco glanced at Rita, nodded.

  “Buenas noches,” Sonny said to Turco’s woman. The woman smiled. “Buenas,” she replied, the Juárez accent clear. She was a border woman, tough enough to survive along the margin, or with dope dealers.

  Just like Camela la Tejana of corrido fame, Sonny thought. They came across with their men, survived the double-crossing business, moved from one dealer to another, and eventually began to do business on their own.

  Sonny turned and waved at the bar. “Hey, how about a round?”

  Turco looked at his woman. “Por qué no?” she said.

  Turco’s man at the door had moved forward, but when Turco shook his head, he relaxed and moved back.

  “So how you been, prim?” Sonny asked.

  Turco shrugged. His eyes looked tired, his face haggard. “Pura joda,” he said in a weary voice, glancing at the dancers on the floor, meaning life was hard, pura caca since the Juárez boys put a price on him. He was running and he was tired.

  “Y tú, qué quieres?” He knew Sonny wanted something. Sonny had never given him the time of day, never would, but still, they were cousins and he had to treat him like familia.

  “I need information, about Gloria.…”

  Turco shrugged.

  “Who killed her?” Sonny asked.

  “Fuckin’ Dominic!” Turco answered.

  “Come on, Frank’s a numero uno cabrón, but a murderer? No.”

  Turco pursed his fat lips, then stroked his thin mustache. He knit his brow, making his Olmec face darker, his dark eyes studying Sonny. There was nobody he could trust, not even the woman sitting at his side.

  “You asked me, so I told you. I think Dominic would kill his own jefita for ten bucks. Es un puto!” He spit out the words with disgust.

  “You went to see Gloria just before she was killed,” Sonny tested.

  Turco didn’t reply. He glanced at Rita, then back at Sonny. Beads of perspiration broke on his forehead, glistening in the strobe lights from the dance floor.

  “You needed money.” Sonny probed deeper.

  “I don’t know anything about her money.” Turco laughed hoarsely deep in his thick throat. “But I wish I had some of it. Eh, honey?” he said to the woman at his side.

  “Claro.”

  “It wasn’t Dominic,” Sonny persisted.

  “Pues, you think me?” Turco whispered. “You think I would kill my carnala?”

  His words were menacing, Rita thought. She put her arm through Sonny’s and shivered, even though the bar was warm with stale air and sweating dancers.

  “Well, did you go see her?” Sonny asked.

  Turco tensed. “Qué chingaos te importa?” he said angrily, then calmed himself as dancers nearby turned to look at him. “I didn’t kill her, ese. But I should have. She was no good. Married the big man and forgot her familia. I was in the joint when the jefito died. She didn’t even bury her father. What kind of daughter is that?” Turco said bitterly.

  Sonny felt his jaws tighten, his t
eeth grit. The sons-of-bitches had tormented Gloria, and they expected kindness in return? He felt like reaching across the booth and strangling Turco, reminding him that it was he and his father who had ruined Gloria’s life. But it wouldn’t do any good. Gloria had written them off a long time ago, and so would he. He only wanted information; then if the mafia scored on Turco, he would dance at his funeral.

  Turco stroked his hair, leaned close, and whispered. “She got too good for her people. She sold out. Got what she deserved, so don’t come around asking questions, primo. You want to know who killed her, talk to Dominic. Or talk to Morino. Yeah, the pinche was shacking up with her. She turned out to be a puta.”

  “Puta!” Sonny blurted and grabbed at Turco’s wrist. Anger seethed in his blood; he felt Turco flinch.

  “Sí! She was Morino’s puta!”

  “A puta who had the money you needed, cabrón!”

  “What money?” Turco replied, twisting his arm out of Sonny’s grip. Then he hissed. “Don’t play with me, Sonny. You know I’m in trouble! She said she would help. Yeah, the Jap was going to raise the money! But she didn’t deliver! She kept it! I hope she burns in hell!” Both stood, and Turco’s bodyguard drew close.

  “She didn’t deliver?” Sonny asked, feeling a tremble pass through his body. Was Turco telling the truth?

  Turco cursed in Sonny’s face. “The puta could’ve saved my ass! But she wouldn’t! I’m glad she’s dead!” He took his woman’s arm and they went quickly out the back door, slamming it behind them.

  “Damn him!” Sonny cursed and drove his fist into the table. He had come close to hitting Turco, taking him on for calling Gloria a whore, exploding with the frustration he felt. But Rita was with him, and the bodyguard opening up in the small, crowded bar would have meant danger for everyone.

  “Ah, shit.”

  Rita touched him, and he turned to look at her. “Don’t let a pinche like that get the best of you.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. I wish I could’ve killed him.”

  “He’s a mal hombre,” Rita said, a sigh of relief escaping her lips.

  Sonny looked at her. She looked pale. He held her close. “You okay?”

  “I almost peed in my panties.” She laughed. “And his woman? Híjola, I thought pachucas like her went out of style in the forties.”

  “They’re both creeps from the past.”

  “Was he telling the truth?”

  “Gloria was kind. Maybe she could forgive even what they did to her. Maybe she did say, ‘I’ve got the money. Come for it.’ There is no other reason I can think of for Turco to show up at Gloria’s after all the years.”

  “And Turco goes, but there is no money and he kills her.… But then why make a scene at the funeral?”

  “Turco can’t go out of the barrio without being spotted. He moves from bar to bar, five minutes here, five there. He drives a big car, but he sleeps in the crummy back rooms of tecatos who will put him up for the night, the same dopesters he’s afraid might finger him. He can’t trust anyone. He has to keep on the move. The Mexican mafia wants their money and he doesn’t have it. He turns to Gloria, there’s a promise, or at least he thinks she will help.… But she didn’t have the money for him. He flies into a rage, kills her … later he thinks it should be easy to blame Frank.”

  “But Turco’s probably not into draining blood.”

  “Right.” Sonny paused. “I guess he could’ve hired someone—”

  “But it keeps coming back to Frank,” Rita whispered.

  “Yeah.”

  “Or Morino.”

  “Did she have the money?”

  “That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”

  Both grew silent. “So what do we do now?”

  “We dance,” he said, and he pulled her out onto the dance floor and held her tight as they swept back and forth to the tune of a Flaco Jiménez ranchera. “Forget Turco and Raven and Dominic and Morino!” he shouted. “Ajua!”

  The others in the bar also felt the urge to dance freely. Turco was gone and the entire bar breathed a sigh of relief. Now it was time to enjoy the dance; no need to worry a gunfight might break out.

  The dance turned into a wild, foot-stomping fiesta that lasted far into the night. Rita and Sonny competed for the dance prize, showing their stuff, moving up in points when “La Bamba” was played, moving down when a young couple did a polka that drew applause from all.

  Hours later when they stumbled out of the bar, Sonny felt exhilarated. He enjoyed dancing, and Rita was a perfect partner. Her body fit his, he led her with slight touches, and because she was a good dancer, she was continually improvising, adding slight variations to the old steps. Other men watched with admiration when she danced, and that made Sonny feel good.

  “We need to do this more often,” he said as they walked to the truck. The cool summer-night air was bracing, a relief after the hot bar and dancing.

  “Where to?” he asked, leaning to kiss her ear.

  “Stay with me tonight.” Rita snuggled against him.

  “Not too tired?”

  “Hey, you got the pump primed, Mr. Baca, now draw the water.”

  “Pues, vamos!” He laughed.

  To hell with the Zia curse; tonight he would make love to Rita. Taking the night off to dance had been good, just what he needed. Good medicine.

  “Beautiful night,” Sonny said as he drove into Rita’s driveway and parked. Overhead the sparkle of the Milky Way lit up the dark sky, and around them the valley air was alive with the summer drone of cicadas in the trees.

  “I feel rain on the way.”

  “Want to sleep on the porch?” she asked. “We can bring the roll-away out.”

  Sonny kissed her. “Anywhere,” he said as he fumbled for buttons on her blouse. “Now. Here.”

  “Sonny,” she protested weakly, “you want my vecinos to say I’m a bad woman? Come inside.”

  “The neighbors are asleep,” he laughed as he jumped out of the truck. “I can’t wait!”

  As he stepped around the truck to open her door, he stopped cold. A rank odor filled the air, a bad animal smell. He felt his desire go cold, and an old instinct for survival take its place. Goosebumps covered his arms and neck; his senses felt the first shot of adrenaline. Someone had been here; there was threat in the air.

  “Ugh, what smells?” Rita asked.

  He looked around. The house was quiet, dark. The street was deserted; none of the neighbors stirred. The evil smell permeated the still night air. Sonny thought of his pistol, but that would only frighten Rita.

  “Stay in the truck,” he said as he walked toward the porch carefully. The odor grew stronger, a rancid smell.

  “What is it?” Rita called.

  “Don’t know.” He stepped on the porch. The wooden floor creaked. “Hit the lights,” he told Rita, and she flipped on the headlights. Sonny stood stunned for a moment. There, hanging from a porch beam, illuminated by the light of the truck, were what looked like two small sacks, dripping wet with blood.

  24

  Sonny cursed. Some sonofabitch had nailed the balls of a goat or a ram to the porch. Judging from the wet blood and smell, the testicles had been hung only minutes ago.

  “Don’t get out,” he told Rita as he returned to the truck.

  “What is it?” Rita asked. She was frightened.

  He explained as calmly as he could, and took a pair of old leather gloves from behind the seat. Then he went back to the porch and yanked the balls off the beam. Disgusted, angry, and shaken at the thought that somebody could do such a dirty thing, he thought briefly of flinging the mess out into the street. No, that wouldn’t do. He went back to the truck and tossed the smelly sacs in an old cardboard box on the bed of the truck, then the gloves.

  “I can’t believe it.” Rita shuddered. “Should we call the sheriff?”

  Sonny leaned against the truck. He thought he was going to throw up. “Just kids,” he tried to reassure her.

&nb
sp; “No, a warning,” she answered.

  “Yeah.” They wanted him to know Rita was vulnerable. “I’ll check the house. You stay here. Keep the doors locked.” He took her keys, let himself in, and cautiously went from room to room, but he knew he wouldn’t find anyone. Whoever left the warning was long gone.

  “Looks okay.” He waved from the porch, and Rita joined him. “You look it over. I’ll clean up here.”

  She entered the house. He took the hose and washed the porch where the blood had dripped, cleaning away the disgusting smell. When he was finished, he went in and washed his hands in the kitchen sink.

  “How does it look?” he asked.

  “Fine. Doors are locked, nothing touched. They didn’t come in the house, but—”

  He held her. “I’m sorry this happened. I should have known they’d be following me. You’re okay, just stay in the house. If you see or hear anything, call me right away.”

  “And you?”

  “Gotta get rid of the mess,” he explained. He needed help, and he thought of don Eliseo. He kissed her lightly. “Get some sleep. Maybe it was just kids doing something crazy.”

  “Kids don’t castrate animals for kicks,” she said, but she added, “I’ll be okay.”

  “Don Eliseo will know,” he said. It was all he could think of. The old man would know what to do.

  He gave her a reassuring embrace. “I’ll call you in the morning, amor,” he said and went out. He waited outside the door until she locked it. From inside she blew him a kiss.

  He drove home, and as he expected, don Eliseo was sitting beneath the alamo. Two shadows moved around the small fire don Eliseo had going: don Toto and doña Concha. They waved as Sonny drove up. In the flickering flames of the fire, the three figures were three gnomes; just the three welcome duendes Sonny needed.

  The smell of dry cow dung smoldering to keep the mosquitoes away touched Sonny’s nostrils as he got out of the truck. The scent of the manure burning in the hot coals was a pleasant incense filtering through the summer night.

  When don Eliseo’s wife was alive, the neighbors used to gather on summer evenings under don Eliseo’s tree to tell stories. They told the old cuentos of the people, folktales brought by their ancestors from Spain and Mexico into the Río Grande valley. They talked about their children, marriages and deaths, the local politics, and their crops. Los vecinos. Neighbors. For centuries the community was a vecindad in which people took care of each other. Now don Eliseo’s wife was dead, and except for don Toto and doña Concha, all the old neighbors were dead or gone to nursing homes.