— Listen, pendejo. You might be the devil, but you can just fuck off. No boots, no deal. And if you tell me one more time that I’ve lost it, I’m gonna kick your ass.
15
— Don’t exaggerate, my love.
— But it’s true, Paulino, you even owed your ass to that card shark.
— Not really.
— A saint must have intervened.
— Don’t blaspheme, my love. When it comes to gambling, this comes with the territory.
— Oh Paulino, you’ve lost it. He took even the shirt off your back and left us homeless, propertyless, and corridoless. And then, suddenly, without an argument, he takes off. He left without so much as a raincheck. That had to have been because of a saint’s intervention.
— Cross yourself, my love. Cross yourself. What’s important is that you no longer have to give that card shark anything. Not him or anyone else.
— Paulino.
— Huh?
— So I’m not going to the Valentín Elizalde dance anymore?
— Well, no.
— Paulino.
— Huh?
— Take me.
— No, no way. What the hell would I do at that faggot’s dance anyway?
— Oh Paulino. Then give me permission to go.
— No.
— Listen, I’m not going alone. My sister will chaperon. C’mon. Why not. Nothing’s gonna happen.
— How do you know, my love? No. I forbid you from going to the dance. I fear for you. The devil could be anywhere.
16
— The Grand Marquis.
— Which?
— The Grand Marquis.
— No, let’s go in the truck.
— Why.
— He’ll get suspicious. When he doesn’t see the gray car, he’ll know we’re headed for the dance. Better a cab.
— Oh, sister, you’re getting like Paulino. You’re losing it. If you don’t smoke, you don’t imagine things. If we take a cab, then we’re admitting to the crime.
— So then we walk?
— What? You’re crazy.
— It’s at the Terraza Riviera. It’s close by.
— No. We’re going in the Marquis, and we’re gonna floor it.
— I’m afraid. If your husband catches us, he’s gonna make mincemeat out of us. I can’t take the thought of going to the hospital. Not even with the money I left in Houston.
— Don’t be so dramatic. He’s never gonna find out. And I don’t think he’ll be that mad even if he does.
— And what if something happens?
— What could possibly happen? Who’s even gonna notice two little cowgirls in that multitude?
17
— Forgive me, Paulino.
— Don’t get upset, my love.
— The doctor said I didn’t have to stay in the hospital even one day. These are second-degree burns. I can heal at home.
— Don’t get yourself all worked up. Rest.
— Paulino. Forgive me.
— I forgive you. But rest, rest. Don’t get worked up, my love.
— How could I know that man with the hat from the dance had a tail of fire?
— What did he look like?
— Normal. Wore boots and a piteado belt with a twenty-centimeter buckle.
— What was his name?
— I don’t know. He didn’t tell me his name. He just approached me and asked me to dance. By the second song, my body was burning wherever he squeezed me.
— But you went on. Why didn’t you call for help?
— I did. I screamed at the top of my lungs. That was after I saw his feet. They weren’t human. He had a goat’s hoof and a rooster’s foot.
— Holy shit.
— Men in hats pulled their guns and shot at him. But nobody saw where he went. The devil showed up just to roast me and disappear.
— It’s okay, my love. It’s over.
— Paulino.
— Huh?
— Now you can write me a corrido. I was in all the newspapers. Antes muerta que sencilla: The Devil Invited Her to Dance.
— I’ll write it for you, my love.
— Paulino.
— Huh?
— A while ago there was a nurse who came through here wearing boots like the ones you’re looking for.
— Oh yeah. I saw them in a store window on my way to the hospital.
— They’re selling them again?
— Yeah. The store clerk told me they were making them again.
— So why didn’t you buy a pair? You wanted them so much.
— I lost it, my love. You already knew I lost it.
Juan Salazar’s Dealer
For Pedro Rodríguez, El Viejo Cuervo
— Dealers are only good for only one thing: breaking your heart.
— Into a thousand pieces.
— Oh, and composing corridos.
Juan Salazar, the most outstanding exponent of the narcocorrido, watched the lights of the New York subway with tenderness. The wee hours had left a string of bad luck in Times Square. They scurried past like scorpions, sparkling with rats and homeless paranoids. Notwithstanding the norteño singer’s aplomb (signified by his Chesterfield coat, hat, and boots), the junkies would scrape together any little thing they could off the street for the love of smack. Heroin is always a tough love.
— Damn him. He seemed trustworthy.
— I warned you, Juan, said Herbert Huncke. That little dealer was all talk.
With the tenacity that the gold bracelet and Terlenka outfit allowed him, a languid Juan Salazar shoved his partner aside, staying faithful to the whim of the tracks.
Without a glance at the drag queens, sotol still in hand (just in case), he felt a blue centrifugal lash at the back of his knees: It was withdrawal. But he didn’t give up waiting for the dealer who would never come; he just remained indifferent, like a dove in the meadow.
— He’s not coming, Juan. The dealer’s not coming.
The performer of Cuatro Lágrimas felt his belt ease out of the loops on his jeans and slither like a snake in the sand. He wasn’t afraid. He already knew that all the bullfights and cockfights taking place in the station were products of his withdrawal. The addict’s own sweat would slow the passenger cars, and he would mentally transport himself to all those crazy, intrepid comings and goings with his arm around The Cowboy Bible, looking for the complete dealer.
His regression was contaminated by theories from bar stories about San Pedroslavia. A magical land. Endless drugs. Everyone a dealer. Super cheap heroin. Dissolute and feverish, Juan Salazar would keep his promise to move to Mexico. To settle in San Pedroslavia and benefit from the open heroin traffic.
— The dealer’s not coming, Juan. We can still make the exchange at the pharmacy. Let’s go before it gets dark.
Huncke was also going through his own struggle with cold turkey. He said withdrawal was like chewing a flavorless gum. The junky’s waning quarter would soon become a full moon, and the station would fill with Aztec vampires just for him. But Juan Salazar remained unmoved, even after he understood how the exchange with the fraudulent pharmaceuticals worked. The only way to unload that Star.380 was to trade it to a dealer for thirty-five doses of heroin.
He’d been trying to unarm himself for a year. He’d drunk countless beers in his attempts to get rid of the pistol. No one would take it. The gun had acquired a rep as a bad omen. He went everywhere with the Star.380, and in the process became known for carrying it in a shoebox under his arm. He couldn’t give it away, not even at a pawnshop.
— Juan, for the tenth time. The dealer blew you off. He’s not coming.
— Juan, for the sicketh dulleth time. The dealer’s a blow off. He’s not coming, not coming, not coming… The phrases echoed in his head like the sound of the alto sax with his norteño group.