Playing for the Devil's Fire. Phillippe Diederich

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СКАЧАТЬ Gaby, bought material there to make their quinceañera dress. My father always said Don Bonifacio had a sweet deal. Unless people were willing to make the trip to Toluca, they had to buy from Don Bonifacio.

      “Check it out.” Zopilote pointed to the girls with his beer. “Here they come, Boli. Get smart.” He stepped away from the wall and squinted. “Ay güey, that one looks like Ximena.”

      It was. Ximena Mata and her best friend Regina Martínez and three other girls from the secundaria. Ximena was a princess. She never braided her hair like the other girls. She kept it loose so it sailed across her face whenever the wind blew. She had high cheekbones and sleepy eyes. I swear that was what drove us all crazy. That, and how she wore her stockings rolled down and always kept her uniform blouse unbuttoned down to the middle of her chest.

      “That Ximena’s a real doll,” Zopilote said. “Look at how she swings her hips when she walks. “Qué nalgas, no?”

      Then we heard the pounding of a deep bass at the opposite end of the street. A late model black Ford Expedition Max with pitch-black windows and spinning silver rims was coming slowly down the hill.

      Zopilote gawked. “That’s a fine truck right there. One day I’m gonna get one just like that, but red with gold rims. Or a pickup.”

      The sound of the cumbia got louder as it got closer. When it passed, the bass shook all the windows on the street.

      “For real, cabrón. You all think I’m wasting my time, but I’m making friends in important places. That’s how it’s done. You’ll see.”

      I had never seen the truck in town before. As a matter of fact, only Don Bonifacio had one like it, but his was a Suburban. It was green and old and he didn’t even drive it anymore. This was a brand new Ford with California plates and wide, low profile tires. It was so low to the ground, the bottom almost scraped against the cobblestones. When it reached the girls, it stopped. The girls pushed each other and laughed, covering their mouths with their hands. Ximena smiled. She never smiled.

      “I bet you they pick up those whores,” Zopilote said.

      The girls jostled and giggled, but Ximena was a statue, staring straight at the side of the truck. I wished to God I could see who was inside. The whole scene made my stomach shrink.

      Then the Expedition started moving again. The girls made a tight circle and watched it bounce slowly down the hill.

      “Pinches putos,” Zopilote said. “If I had a troca like that, I’d be taking those girls on a joyride to the countryside.” He took a long drink of the big bottle and moved his hips forward and back a couple of times. “You know what I mean?”

      “Who was that?”

      “Who cares?”

      The girls split up. Ximena and Regina started up the hill toward us.

      “My father says the new highway’s going to change our little town,” Zopilote went on because that was what he did. He talked and talked and didn’t care if anyone listened. “As a matter of fact, my jéfe says he’s going to expand the restaurant and might even open a hotel right there where the new highway meets the road into town. But don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.” He took another long pull at the bottle. “It’s a time of prosperity. If we play it right, we’re gonna be rich. You’ll see, cabrón. Pretty soon you’ll see me in a new troca just like that one. Or maybe a better one Ya verás.”

      Regina held on to Ximena’s arm as they came up the block. Both girls were older, seventeen. Regina was friends with my sister Gaby. She was talking, but Ximena didn’t seem to be listening. Ximena was like that. She had this look as if she couldn’t be bothered with what was happening around her, but not in a bad way. It was as if she belonged in a different world and was waiting for life to take her there.

      I had a thing for Ximena. I’d had it for a couple of years, ever since I was in fifth grade and she was in ninth. We were paired together on a school-wide history project about the Niños Héroes. When the teacher complimented us and named our group one of the winners, Ximena turned in her seat and locked eyes with me. I smiled. She kissed the palm of her hand and blew, sending that invisible kiss straight to my heart.

      “They’re coming.” Zopilote was all excited. “You know Ximena has a badass crush on me. She’s just a little shy.”

      Regina waved as they crossed the street. “Hola, Boli.”

      “What’s up?” I said. “It’s nice that they gave us some time off to mourn el profe, no?”

      “Can you believe it? Pobrecito.” Regina covered her mouth. “Gaby said you were there when they found his head.”

      “It was pretty gross.”

      Ximena turned her eyes away. She reminded me of a cat.

      Regina said, “He was my favorite teacher.”

      “Who was that in the troca?” Zopilote asked.

      Regina shrugged. “A couple of guys.”

      “¿Gringos?”

      “No, qué va.”

      “It had California plates.”

      “I didn’t notice,” Regina said. “They said they’re from Uruapan.”

      “Yeah, I bet,” Zopilote said.

      “What are you saying?”

      “Ya, it’s not your fury I want, mi amor.” Zopilote pressed the beer bottle against his chest. “It’s your love.”

      “I’d rather be dead,” she said.

      I laughed. Ximena rolled her eyes. Regina released her arm. Ximena walked into the store.

      “Don’t be cruel,” Zopilote said.

      Regina turned to me. “Why do you hang out with this idiot?”

      “I’m not. I’m waiting for Mosca.”

      “Maybe we’ll see you later,” she said. “Tell your sister I said hello.”

      Zopilote watched her go into the store. “She likes me.”

      “You’re crazy, güey.”

      “You’re too young to understand these things.”

      “Seriously, pinche Zopilote. It’s like you live in your own world.”

      “Chill out, Boli. When you’re ready to learn about life, let me know. I’ll be happy to give you lessons. Gratis.”

      Then the girls came out of the store. Zopilote and I watched Ximena’s smooth brown calves shining in the sun as they walked up the street.

      A few minutes later, Mosca showed up.

      “What happened? Where’s your box?” I asked.

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