Playing for the Devil's Fire. Phillippe Diederich

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      Mosca took off toward Los Pinos restaurant. I slung my box over my shoulder and walked around the plaza, my eyes down, scanning the ground looking for shoes to shine. It’s not about dirty shoes because you’ll never find dirty shoes on a Friday or Saturday night. It takes an eye, and it takes experience. You just have to be on the lookout for the expensive shoes. You have to read people, find the person who’s begging for a shine but doesn’t know it yet. Sometimes a guy who’s making the moves on a girl will get his shoes shined just to show off. Insecure guys who walk too fast will get their shoes shined because they want to look like they’re doing something, like they have some place to go. It’s all about personality. When you recognize one, you have to move in with confidence—but not too aggressive. Sometimes you just make eye contact and nod at the shoes. Sometimes you ask if they want a shine. Sometimes, with the right person, you can just set your box down and, almost automatically, they’ll set a boot on your box. No words.

      As the evening turned to night, families and old people and most of the peasants trickled away and were replaced by a crowd of young men and women. Lovers embraced on benches. A few conjuntos strolled along, looking for customers. Accordions and guitars filled the gaps of conversations and laughter. Later, after the cantinas closed, it would be men alone or in pairs, drunk, swaying, singing their pain into the night.

      I stopped by a group of teenagers hanging around one of the planters. They were passing around a bottle of Anis Mico and getting cocky. I moved on. When I came around the corner across the street from the municipal building, I saw Ximena and Regina with a group of men. Everything about them screamed money: hats, sharp clothes, gold chains and bracelets, boots made of fine skins—shark, snake, caiman. And real Nikes.

      I was too close to turn away. I lowered my head and walked quickly, but when I looked up Regina locked eyes with me. “Boli.” She stepped away from the group. “Where you off to?”

      “You know, working.”

      “No news of your parents?” she asked quietly.

      I shook my head.

      “I’m really sorry. But I’m sure they’ll turn up soon, no?”

      “Sure. I hope so.”

      “Is Gaby okay? I’ve tried calling her like a million times.”

      “She’s busy with the panadería.”

      “Caray, I don’t even know what to say. I can’t imagine—”

      I forced a smile. “It’s okay.”

      “¡Ey!” It was the same man who’d been sitting behind Pineda’s desk. Joaquín. “Bring the boy over.”

      I wanted to walk away, but I also wanted to stay. I wanted to be close to Ximena. I wanted to know what she saw in this guy—the big gray truck? The polo shirt with NEW YORK in big letters? The tiny gold AK-47 hanging from a chain around his neck?

      “He’s working,” Regina said.

      “Can he talk?” Joaquín asked.

      “I can talk,” I said.

      Ximena leaned against Joaquín, her cheek resting on his shoulder. My heart did a dance.

      “I know you.” Joaquín waved his finger at me. “Pineda’s office, no?”

      I nodded.

      “Did you find your mami?”

      I shook my head.

      “What a shame.”

      Regina stared at me. She looked worried.

      “Entonces, you’re doing the shoe shine thing, ¿o qué?”

      “That’s right.” I glanced at his shoes, Nikes with no laces.

      “No. I don’t need one, but you know who does—Piolín.” He waved his friend forward and pushed him toward me. “Piolín, get a shine on those crusty boots of yours, cabrón.”

      Piolín was Pedro, the one who had been wearing the black leather jacket in Pineda’s office. He looked older than Joaquín. He was skinny and ugly. He wore a silk shirt that had the Mexican seal of the eagle eating the serpent, a big cowboy hat and a giant gold belt buckle embossed with the image of a Cuerno de Chivo. His boots were of multiple leathers, all exotic. I had never seen such fancy boots.

      “You got the clear stuff?” Pedro asked.

      I nodded and set my box down.

      He placed his boot on the platform at the top of the box. “You better not mess’m up, cabrón.”

      Joaquín laughed. “Ese Piolín. He paid fifteen hundred dollars for those stupid boots.” Then he addressed me. “You think they’re worth it?”

      I nodded and squatted in front of my box. I took out my creams, cloths and brushes, and got to work. I applied a thin coat of clear cream to the boot. Because of the different colors and leather, I couldn’t use any color, just the clear. I worked quickly. When I was done, I tapped at the bottom of the toes and started on the other.

      Someone made a joke about when they were in the plaza in Uruapan.

      Regina looked at me with an expression I couldn’t place: pity, sadness. She was difficult to read. Ximena too. I guess that’s the thing about girls: mystery.

      I worked the rag over and around the boot, giving it a nice clean shine. Then I brushed it lightly with my best brush. I tapped his foot and looked up.

      Pedro glanced at the boots and grinned. “Ay cabrón, they’re like new.”

      Everyone stopped talking. Joaquín examined the boots. “Not bad. Now let’s see how you do with these.” He set one of his Nikes on top of my box. “Make them sparkle.”

      I had never shined sneakers. I had no idea how to start. They were fake leather and plastic. I knew some of the other shoeshine boys in town used paint to work on them, but I didn’t have any paint.

      “Andale, güey. What are you waiting for?”

      I pulled out the clear and got to work. Everyone came around to watch. Ximena placed her hands around Joaquín’s shoulders. I was their entertainment. I had no clue if the shoe would shine or turn dull, because sometimes the grease can scratch the plastic, leaving it cloudy. If that happens the shoes are ruined for sure. You can never fix that. But I had to do something. I applied the clear, just a light coat. I worked quickly, dabbing grease, rubbing it onto the shoe, spreading it over the white parts of the sneaker. I focused on that. There was nothing else. Ximena was not there. It was just this Nike shoe and the boom of the music in the stereo of the truck blending with the conjunto at the other end of the plaza and all the laughter. I thought of the tickets to the wrestling. With every stroke of my hand and the smack of the rag, I thought of El Hijo del Santo. I kept saying it to myself: Santo, Santo. Santo. That was it for me. After I earned enough for the wrestling tickets, I was going to quit shining shoes. I wanted to get out, escape.

      I glanced at Ximena, at СКАЧАТЬ