Playing for the Devil's Fire. Phillippe Diederich
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shrugged and clapped his hands. “Ándale. Stop wasting my time. Let’s get back to work. Fetch me the flour and some water.”
I took one of the big sacks of flour from the side and dragged it on the floor.
Lucio helped me lift it to the counter. We poured the flour, the eggs, and the cinnamon and baking powder into one of the big mixers. When Lucio turned it on, he bobbed his head up and down and gyrated his hips, dancing to the sound of the mixer’s motor.
Later, my parents arrived at the panadería. We had just pulled out the bolillos from the oven and placed them on the cooling racks. Lucio was preparing conchas. I rolled a rack of bolillos into the store. I wanted to see what was going on. Enrique Quintanilla’s wife Yolanda and Rocío’s father Ignacio were with them. I placed the rack of bolillos by the bin in the center of the store, but my father waved me away. “I’ll take care of that. Go help Lucio. Stay in the back.”
I did as I was told. Lucio was busy spreading icing on the little mounds of dough for the conchas. I turned back and pushed the door open just a little. The rack of bolillos blocked most of my view, but I could see my father leaning against the counter. He was looking at my mother. She was on the other side by the register with Gaby. I couldn’t see Don Ignacio’s large body or Yolanda.
“Absolutely useless.” It was Ignacio’s deep voice. “That man’s an embarrassment to Izayoc.”
“He never had to do anything,” my father said. “He’s just a figurehead.”
“True,” Ignacio said, “but it doesn’t solve anything.”
“I just want to know that something is being done.” Yolanda moved forward. I could see her black blouse. She set her purse on the counter blocking my view of Gaby. “They haven’t even found my husband’s body, por el amor de Dios.”
“What we need is professional law enforcement, someone who has experience with this kind of thing.” My father leaned forward and massaged his temples. “We cannot allow this to go on.”
“Absolutely,” Ignacio said.
“This is exactly why Enrique and I left Acapulco in the first place,” Yolanda said. “Things there were so bad, you couldn’t go out anymore. You couldn’t trust anyone. Not even your friends.”
“Savages,” Ignacio said.
My mother waved across the counter. “It will be the death of this country.”
“We need to stop them.” Ignacio’s voice filled the store. I looked back to see if Lucio had heard, but he was busy, leaning over the table taking care of the sweet rolls, painting them with piloncillo honey.
An old lady and her teenage daughter walked into the store. Everyone fell silent.
“Buenos días,” she said. Her daughter picked out one of the big round trays and a pair of tongs.
“Buenos días, Señora Velasco.” My mother smiled and touched Gaby’s shoulder. She went around the counter to help them.
“My condolences, Yolanda,” the woman said.
When the old lady and her teenage daughter left, my mother glanced at my father. “We can’t just stand by—”
“Please.” My father ran his hand through his hair. He bowed and stooped as if he’d dropped something on the floor. “We all agree, Carmen. The question is how—”
“In Acapulco,” Yolanda said, “no one did anything about it.”
“But we can’t fight them ourselves,” Ignacio said.
My mother caressed the back of Gaby’s hair. “Think of the children.”
Ignacio turned away. My mother grabbed his arm. “I’m sorry, Ignacio, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s not your fault, Carmen.”
My father said something I couldn’t hear, but suddenly Ignacio stepped back and pointed at him. His voice boomed,
“And who’s to say they’re any better than that idiot, Pineda?”
“We could also reach out to Senator González Parral.”
“Alfonso, por favor. They’re all crooked.” Ignacio smacked the counter with the palm of his hand. “Every single one of them.”
“Entonces,” my father turned. “What would you suggest?”
“My daughter’s dead. She was my only daughter, not my—”
“Ignacio!” My father glanced at my mother and back at Ignacio. He reached out and his hand disappeared behind the rack of bolillos. He said something to Ignacio I didn’t get. I pushed the door open a bit more. They leaned closer together. Their voices were small.
“…outside help…”
“…a peaceful town….”
“…our problems…the federal police…Toluca.”
Then Yolanda began to weep. My mother pulled a box of tissues from under the counter.
A man and a woman walked in and everyone paused. The man tipped his hat at my parents and waited by the door, looking up and down the street, like he was keeping guard. The woman took a tray and tongs and filled a tray with bolillos from the bin, which was weird because anyone else would have taken the fresh ones from the rack.
She walked up to the counter.
My mother smiled. “Buenos días.”
The woman nodded. My mother rang her up and Gaby put the bolillos in a brown paper bag. The woman stepped outside and marched up the street. The man followed her.
“I’ve never seen them before.” My father stepped outside and looked up the street. Then he walked slowly back to the counter. “I know everyone who comes here. We cannot let this happen to our town.”
His tone reminded me of when Enrique Quintanilla would lecture us in the parade grounds at school, the big flag dancing and waving with the wind, red and green against the blue of the sky, making flapping sounds like applause. I don’t remember exactly what el profe said, but we all swelled with pride. I remember feeling then that—no matter what—Izayoc was my home. It was the place I would defend with everything I had, the same way the Niños Héroes had defended Chapultepec Castle and the honor of the Republic.
My father said, “I’ll go to Toluca in the morning. I’ll get help. I’ll alert the federal police and Senator González Parral.”
“It’s worth a try,” Yolanda said.
“But no one must know what we’re doing,” my father said.
Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. Lucio was standing behind me. He gestured with his hand for me to get back, then pulled the door closed.
“What?”
He pointed at the sacks of flour. “We have to stack them and clean this pigsty.”
“But—”
“Otherwise we’ll have rats.”
“Or mice,” I said because six months ago when the panadería was closed, my father decided it was time to get rid of the mice in the bakery. We came in after mass and tucked our pants into our boots and began removing the sacks of flour one by one. At first we only saw a mouse or two scurrying for cover. They were the dark gray ones that are like field mice and not ugly like the big brown rats we see in the garbage dump or the open sewers in the neighborhoods on the other side of the highway. We removed things one at a time. The mice seemed to multiply as they lost their hiding places. Pretty soon there had to be hundreds of them running around with no place to go. We stomped them, Lucio and my father whistling and yelling the