Playing for the Devil's Fire. Phillippe Diederich

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СКАЧАТЬ I kept working at a furious pace, leaning into the shoe, smacking the rag and running it back and forth along the back, sides and top of the sneaker. I was sweating. I dropped the rag and grabbed the brush without missing a beat. I was non-stop, my hands moving so fast I couldn’t even see them. Then someone said something about the girls Joaquín had in Uruapan, and everyone laughed.

      “You talk a lot of shit, carnal,” Piolín said.

      “It’s true. Right, Joaquín? Remember that short girl. She dyed her hair blond and was trying to show off, saying she was a gringa or something?” the man said.

      Joaquín laughed. “You remember the strangest things, pinche Barajas.”

      “And the strangest girls,” Piolín said. “Remember Ursula? She wanted Joaquín so bad, she said she would do anything.”

      Barajas whistled. “That’s how God makes them, no?”

      “And what about in Houston?” Joaquín said. “La Tania whatshername.”

      They laughed. I looked at Ximena. She was looking away from them like she didn’t care. Then Joaquín took her chin in his hand and turned her face so they were eye to eye, lips to lips. “But don’t worry your pretty little face, mi amor,” he said softly. “None of them compare to you. It’s only you and me now.” He turned to his friends. “You get that, pinches putos?”

      They all nodded and their laughter died away real fast. Ximena grinned. Regina stepped back and leaned against the truck. Somehow I had this feeling that she too wanted to escape, only she didn’t know how.

      “What are you looking at?” Joaquín barked.

      “Nothing,” I said. “I’m done.”

      Joaquín inspected the Nikes. “Not bad. Are they real clean?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Really clean?”

      “As clean as they’re going to get,” I said.

      “Clean enough to lick?”

      Regina stared at me, her eyes wide. Afraid. Ximena was the way she always was, sad, disinterested. Waiting.

      “I guess,” I said.

      “Then do it.”

      “Do what?”

      “Lick them, cabrón.”

      I forced a smile.

      “¡Ándale, güey!”

      I put my brushes and grease away in the box.

      “You wanna get paid, no?” His friends surrounded me, all of them looking down. Behind them, Regina shook her head, her lips forming a silent no.

      I closed my box and stood.

      “What’s this?” Joaquín pushed his chest out, his hands resting on the sides of his waist.

      My skin was on fire. I leaned down to grab my box, but Joaquín pushed his foot down on it.

      “What do you say?”

      I straightened up, swallowed hard. Held it down. “About what?”

      “About cleaning my boots, cabrón.”

      I looked at Ximena, at Regina.

      “Don’t look at them. Look at me.” Joaquín poked me on the chest with his finger. “What do you say?”

      “Nothing.”

      A couple of his friends laughed. “Ya, chíngatelo, Joaquín.”

      “No.” He raised his hand. “What do you say?”

      “I don’t know.” I was a raging inferno. “What do you say?”

      “Me?” he grinned. “I’d say, how much?”

      “How much what?”

      “How much do I owe you, cabrón?”

      Everyone exploded in laughter.

      “Thirty for the two,” I said without missing a beat.

      He pulled out his wallet and held out a hundred-peso bill.

      “I don’t have change,” I said.

      “Keep it.”

      I stared at the folded bill pressed between his long fingers embellished with golden rings. Every single voice in my head told me not to take it. Then he dropped it. I watched it float to the ground like a kite in a windless day. It landed between his shoe and my box.

      He smiled. Then I glanced at Ximena, standing beside him, looking at me with her sad cat eyes. I hated her. I hated her more than anything in the world. No. I hated Joaquín more.

      One of the men smacked Pedro on the back. “Come on, turn that shit on the stereo off and call the musicians over. We need a good song.”

      “Yeah, el corrido de Joaquín Carrillo.”

      “You wish,” Pedro waved to the musicians at the end of the plaza.

      I glanced at the hundred pesos and back at the men. I was invisible again. Only Regina was looking at me. She nodded and mouthed the words: Take it.

      I picked up my box, grabbed the money and walked away. I kept walking all the way to my house, the hundred-peso bill crumpled in my fist. I kept seeing Ximena and Joaquín. I was burning out of control. I wanted to hurt. Kill.

      When I turned on my street, Chapopote came trotting toward me, his sloppy tongue dangling from the side of his mouth, his tail wagging. I ran at him and kicked him in the side with all my rage. He yelped and ran off. I chased him, my shoeshine box rattling against my side. I couldn’t catch him. I unlocked the gate and set my shoeshine box outside the front door.

      The light in the living room was on. My parents! I ran inside thinking of the surprise in my mother’s face, her eyes, her smile. But it was only my abuela and Jesusa watching the stupid novela.

9.

      On Sunday morning Abuela, Gaby and I went to church. At one time, maybe like two hundred years ago, the church must have been a grand old place. It had been built with huge volcanic rock and the wall behind the altar was like a pirate’s treasure, all gold and jewels. But the pews were scratched up and the ceiling and walls were stained from leaks and mildew.

      The church was crowded. All the places in the front were taken so we had to sit near the middle, which was great. With my parents, we always sat in the front. I hated that. Father Gregorio had a way of making eye contact with me whenever he talked about good and evil. I knew he was addressing everyone, but it always felt as though СКАЧАТЬ