Playing for the Devil's Fire. Phillippe Diederich
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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.
“I’m done.” Mosca nodded at Zopilote. “There was a group of men drinking at El Gallo de Oro. I shined all their boots. A hundred pesos.”
“You’re rich, enano,” Zopilote said.
“Who’s talking to you, pinche puto?”
“It’s a free country, no, güey?”
“So I’m free to break your face?”
Zopilote laughed. “You and what army, pendejo?”
Mosca stepped back and raised his fists. “Bring it on.”
I’d been friends with Mosca since the second grade. I’d never seen him back down from a fight. Most of the time he won, but sometimes he lost. He wasn’t a troublemaker. But for some reason, maybe because he was short or just because he was Mosca, people liked to pick on him.
“Come on.” I grabbed his arm. “I’ve wasted enough time here.”
“No, Boli.” Zopilote set his beer bottle on the ground. “Let him try, see how he likes it.”
We walked away.
“Chicken.”
We stopped. “Watch out,” I said. “I’ll let him go.”
Zopilote raised his fists. “I’m not afraid of him.”
“Just pray I don’t find you walking alone when Boli’s not there to save your ass,” Mosca said.
“I didn’t ask him for help.” Zopilote curled his fingers and waved his hand in an obscene gesture. “Mocos güey.”
Mosca tore away from me and charged. Zopilote’s face twisted. He jumped back. Mosca stopped and laughed. “Yeah, that’s what I thought, cabrón.”
“Guess what?” Mosca said as we walked away. “They put up new posters for the feria announcing the wrestling.”
“For real?”
“They’re all over the wall of the old brick factory.”
“So who’s coming?”
“El Zorrillo de León, Subministro Fox, Ruddy Calderón. And guess who else?”
“Don’t tell me.”
“El Hijo del Santo!”
“Bullshit.”
Mosca crossed his thumb over his index finger and kissed it.
Last year at the fair, the wrestling matches had been a joke.
All the wrestlers were nobodies, amateurs from the provinces. But now it was not only El Zorrillo de León, but also Ruddy Calderón. And El Hijo del Santo. That