He sat down across from him, but his image seemed to be experiencing some sort of interference. It was as if his signal was getting lost. His tie resembled transistors. Behind him, the linked bottle-top curtain at the front door clattered when a customer entered the bar. They got up and started up to the second floor. Pedro Rodríguez couldn’t recall if the singer had said a single word.
John Vollmer was waiting for them in a little room. There was a Cowboy Bible in the corner. Pedro Rodríguez took it out of its case and began to play a polka. He paused to present his newest album. John Vollmer asked him how long he’d been playing. Since I was a boy. Juan would love to ask him to join the quintet but, unfortunately, they had a complete group; if the current guy screwed up though, they’d contract Pedro. Juan prepared the drug, and all three shot up.
When the drug’s intensity began to fade, John Vollmer and Juan Salazar began to fuck. Pedro Rodríguez remained on a rocking chair by himself. Given his position, he couldn’t see them, but he could hear them moaning. He looked under the rocker and saw them. He saw the dogs. They were there. It couldn’t be. I’m not cold turkey. This isn’t my room. He leaned down again and recognized his bed, the phrase written on the wall. The dogs were organizing a hunt.
When the lovers finished fucking, the dogs overpowered Pedro Rodríguez.
— It’s time for the William Tell routine.
The apartment where Juan Salazar was unbuttoning his jacket was in the Monterrey Building. The meeting was to celebrate their recording of Mi último refugio with a string accompaniment. The boys in the band, the sound engineers, and a marquis, who, it was rumored, was after the singer’s bones, were toasting with Torrecillas sotol.
— It’s time for the William Tell number, Juan Salazar said again.
He was drunk, and the first thing every norteño in love wants to do once they’re intoxicated is prove what a good shot they are. He left his jacket on the couch, rolled up his sleeves, loosened his tie, and undid the safety on the Star.380. John Vollmer raised a half-full glass of sotol and coyly placed it on his head. The singer stepped back about two or three meters and aimed.
He pulled the trigger and fired. Both the glass and John Vollmer fell to the floor. Turning in concentric circles on top of the blue tiles, the glass revealed itself intact. A puddle of blood emerged on John Vollmer’s forehead. With tears on his face, Juan Salazar bent down to his lover. Juanito, Juanito, talk to me, talk to me, don’t die, Juanito, don’t die. The game had gone wrong. John Vollmer was dead. The bullet wound sparkled on his forehead.
Pedro Rodríguez woke up with half his body spilling out from under the blankets. There were no dogs in the room. The sun indicated it was noon. It was Botanus time. Plenty to be thankful for. The desert’s caress could be felt at about forty-two degrees Celsius in the shade.
It may have been inappropriate, but he wanted to eat. With blurred vision, hair on end and shaky hands, he managed to make it to the fridge. The first thing he swallowed was a jar of mayo. Without checking the expiration date, without a clue as to how long it had been there, he spooned it with his finger without a thought. Then he opened a can of Brunswick sardines, which he could tell by the smell had aged well beyond four weeks. Then he went on to a jar of Valentina sauce. Down to the bottom. For dessert, he had a first-aid gel he found in the freezer.
Still hungry, he directed himself to the bathroom, with the idea of drinking Vaseline, but the chill kept him from it. Trembling, he closed his eyes and crouched by the wall. A blanket, he cried. Someone give me a blanket! His screams were useless. Damn dogs. There was no one in the room who could offer him shelter. Just him and those forty-two degrees. A blanket! I’m dying from the cold. And so, trembling and naked, he fell asleep. With no one to help him, he couldn’t even cover himself: He was too far from the bed.
With the shoebox under his arm, Juan Salazar entered the building. He rang the attic-room doorbell. Pedro Rodríguez opened the door. His skin had red splotches all over it. Scotland.
— Pedro.
— Yes, Juan.
— I need two grams of heroin. But I don’t have the money to pay you.
— Juan, you know… it’s business.
— I brought this. He showed him the Star.380.
— That changes things. Given that, we don’t have to take the usual steps.
— Juan handed Pedro the gun, wrapped in a handkerchief and still warm from the shot that had killed John Vollmer, then took the drug and made his way down the dirty boulevard. Pedro Rodríguez stayed in his room, scratching. The itching was so intense that all through the wee hours the only sound on the streets was that of his nails on his skin.
The Cowboy Bible
At the station, the commissioner reprimanded two of his agents.
— What’s this about you refusing to arrest Pedro Rodríguez?
— We’ve heard stories, commissioner.
— Damn.
— They say he’s a nahual.
— What’s that?
— A witch. An Indian witch who can transform himself into a bird, bubble, fire, coyote, or whatever he wants.
— Those are stories told by ignorant people. Do you think this is a movie? Pedro Rodríguez is nothing more than an insignificant dealer.
— They say they’ve seen him shoot with a Cowboy Bible.
— Don’t be ridiculous. A Cowboy Bible? So, what then, he uses a guitar to cut onions?
— Commissioner…
— Don’t commissioner me. You two get out of here and get that asshole by whatever means necessary.
— Don’t make me lose my patience. Just confess, Mr. Juan Salazar. What did you do with the gun that killed your lover? asked the commissioner.
— I already told you. I gave it to Pedro Rodríguez.
— For the last time, Mr. Juan Salazar: Do you know where to find Pedro Rodríguez?
Juan Salazar was detained at Lecumberri for only thirteen days. He was released on bail. Court costs were $2,312. His attorney, Bernabé Jurado, charged $2,300 for his services, $300 of which were used to bribe the boys in ballistics. When they couldn’t find the murder weapon, Jurado substituted a Smith & Wesson for the Star.380 so as not to delay the proceedings. The whole story about the William Tell game was proven false. The version presented in court asserted that Juan Salazar was cleaning his weapon. The gun accidentally fell to the floor and fired. The bullet entered the victim’s forehead without premeditation.
John Vollmer was buried in grave #1018-A in the Panteón Americano.
Pedro Rodríguez was listening to the blues on his old record player when they rang the doorbell of his attic room. He thought about the cops, he thought about the dogs, and he thought about Juan Salazar. With the needle still hanging off his arm, he got up to see who it was. It was nobody. And before some Yankee showed up with his imported boner, insisting on trading it for drugs, he grabbed the Star.380 and went out on the streets.
He arrived at the Laguna Coliseum in time for the second fight. That night, there was a mask vs. hairpiece match between Santo’s Son and Menace Jr. He bought some snacks and a Victoria beer. When it came time for the superdeluxe semifinal, after he’d had four beers, he saw a narc guarding the men’s bathroom. A second stood at the door, and a third roamed the general ring area.