“You’re late!” cried Vamenos, but stopped. The spell could not be broken.
“Somebody tell me,” said Martínez. “Who am I?”
He moved in a slow circle through the room.
Yes, he thought, yes, it’s the suit, yes, it had to do with the suit and them all together in that store on this fine Saturday night and then here, laughing and feeling more drunk without drinking as Manulo said himself, as the night ran and each slipped on the pants and held, toppling, to the others and, balanced, let the feeling get bigger and warmer and finer as each man departed and the next took his place in the suit until now here stood Martínez all splendid and white as one who gives orders and the world grows quiet and moves aside.
“Martínez, we borrowed three mirrors while you were gone. Look!”
The mirrors, set up as in the store, angled to reflect three Martínezes and the echoes and memories of those who had occupied this suit with him and known the bright world inside this thread and cloth. Now, in the shimmering mirror, Martínez saw the enormity of this thing they were living together and his eyes grew wet. The others blinked. Martínez touched the mirrors. They shifted. He saw a thousand, a million white-armored Martínezes march off into eternity, reflected, rereflected, forever, indomitable, and unending.
He held the white coat out on the air. In a trance, the others did not at first recognize the dirty hand that reached to take the coat. Then:
“Vamenos!”
“Pig!”
“You didn’t wash!” cried Gómez. “Or even shave, while you waited! Compadres, the bath!”
“The bath!” said everyone.
“No!” Vamenos flailed. “The night air! I’m dead!”
They hustled him yelling out and down the hall.
Now here stood Vamenos, unbelievable in white suit, beard shaved, hair combed, nails scrubbed.
His friends scowled darkly at him.
For was it not true, thought Martínez, that when Vamenos passed by, avalanches itched on mountaintops? If he walked under windows, people spat, dumped garbage, or worse. Tonight now, this night, he would stroll beneath ten thousand wide-opened windows, near balconies, past alleys. Suddenly the world absolutely sizzled with flies. And here was Vamenos, a fresh-frosted cake.
“You sure look keen in that suit, Vamenos,” said Manulo sadly.
“Thanks.” Vamenos twitched, trying to make his skeleton comfortable where all their skeletons had so recently been. In a small voice Vamenos said, “Can I go now?”
“Villanazul!” said Gómez. “Copy down these rules.”
Villanazul licked his pencil.
“First,” said Gómez, “don’t fall down in that suit, Vamenos!”
“I won’t.”
“Don’t lean against buildings in that suit.”
“No buildings.”
“Don’t walk under trees with birds in them in that suit. Don’t smoke. Don’t drink—”
“Please,” said Vamenos, “can I sit down in this suit?”
“When in doubt, take the pants off, fold them over a chair.”
“Wish me luck,” said Vamenos.
“Go with God, Vamenos.”
He went out. He shut the door.
There was a ripping sound.
“Vamenos!” cried Martínez.
He whipped the door open.
Vamenos stood with two halves of a handkerchief torn in his hands, laughing.
“Rrrip! Look at your faces! Rrrip!” He tore the cloth again. “Oh, oh, your faces, your faces! Ha!”
Roaring, Vamenos slammed the door, leaving them stunned and alone.
Gómez put both hands on top of his head and turned away. “Stone me. Kill me. I have sold our souls to a demon!”
Villanazul dug in his pockets, took out a silver coin, and studied it for a long while.
“Here is my last fifty cents. Who else will help me buy back Vamenos’s share of the suit?”
“It’s no use.” Manulo showed them ten cents. “We got only enough to buy the lapels and the buttonholes.”
Gómez, at the open window, suddenly leaned out and yelled. “Vamenos! No!”
Below on the street, Vamenos, shocked, blew out a match and threw away an old cigar butt he had found somewhere. He made a strange gesture to all the men in the window above, then waved airily and sauntered on.
Somehow, the five men could not move away from the window. They were crushed together there.
“I bet he eats a hamburger in that suit,” mused Villanazul. “I’m thinking of the mustard.”
“Don’t!” cried Gómez. “No, no!”
Manulo was suddenly at the door.
“I need a drink, bad.”
“Manulo, there’s wine here, that bottle on the floor—”
Manulo went out and shut the door.
A moment later Villanazul stretched with great exaggeration and strolled about the room.
“I think I’ll walk down to the plaza, friends.”
He was not gone a minute when Domínguez, waving his black book at the others, winked and turned the doorknob.
“Domínguez,” said Gómez.
“Yes?”
“If you see Vamenos, by accident,” said Gómez, “warn him away from Mickey Murrillo’s Red Rooster Café. They got fights not only on TV but out front of the TV too.”
“He wouldn’t go into Murrillo’s,” said Domínguez. “That suit means too much to Vamenos. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt it.”
“He’d shoot his mother first,” said Martínez.
“Sure he would.”
Martínez and Gómez, alone, listened to Domínguez’s footsteps hurry away down the stairs. They circled the undressed window dummy.
For a long while, biting his lips, Gómez stood at the window, looking out. He touched his shirt pocket twice, pulled his hand away, and then at last pulled something from the pocket. Without looking at it, he handed it to Martínez.
“Martínez, take this.”
“What is it?”
Martínez looked at the piece of folded pink paper with print on it, with names and numbers. His eyes widened.
“A ticket on the bus to El Paso three weeks from now!”
Gómez nodded. He couldn’t look at Martínez. He stared out into the summer night.
“Turn it in. Get the money,” he said. “Buy us a nice white panama hat and a pale blue tie to go with the white ice cream suit, Martínez. Do that.”
“Gómez—”
“Shut up. Boy, is it hot in here! I need air.”
“Gómez. I am touched. Gómez—”
But the door stood open. Gómez was gone.
Mickey Murrillo’s Red Rooster Café and Cocktail Lounge was squashed between two big brick buildings and, being narrow, had to be deep. Outside, serpents of red and sulphur-green neon fizzed and snapped. Inside, dim shapes loomed and swam away to lose themselves in a swarming night sea.
Martínez, on tiptoe, peeked through a flaked place on the red-painted front window.
He felt a presence on his left, heard breathing on his right. He glanced in both directions.
“Manulo! Villanazul!”
“I decided I wasn’t thirsty,” said Manulo. “So I took a walk.”
“I was just on my way to the plaza,” said Villanazul, “and decided to go the long way around.”
As if by agreement, the three men shut up now and turned together to peer on tiptoe through various flaked spots on the window.
A moment later, all three felt a new very warm presence behind them and heard still faster breathing.
“Is our white suit in there?” asked Gómez’s voice.
“Gómez!” said everybody, surprised. “Hi!”
“Yes!” cried Domínguez, having just arrived to find his own peephole. “There’s the suit! And, praise God, Vamenos is still in it!”
“I can’t see!” Gómez squinted, shielding his eyes. “What’s he doing?”
Martínez peered. Yes! There, way back in th
e shadows, was a big chunk of snow and the idiot smile of Vamenos winking above it, wreathed in smoke.
“He’s smoking!” said Martínez.
“He’s drinking!” said Domínguez.
“He’s eating a taco!” reported Villanazul.
“A juicy taco,” added Manulo.
“No,” said Gómez. “No, no, no …”
“Ruby Escuadrillo’s with him!”
“Let me see that!” Gómez pushed Martínez aside.
Yes, there was Ruby! Two hundred pounds of glittering sequins and tight black satin on the hoof, her scarlet fingernails clutching Vamenos’s shoulder. Her cowlike face, floured with powder, greasy with lipstick, hung over him!
“That hippo!” said Domínguez. “She’s crushing the shoulder pads. Look, she’s going to sit on his lap!”
“No, no, not with all that powder and lipstick!” said Gómez. “Manulo, inside! Grab that drink! Villanazul, the cigar, the taco! Domínguez, date Ruby Escuadrillo, get her away. Ándale, men!”
The three vanished, leaving Gómez and Martínez to stare, gasping, through the peephole.
“Manulo, he’s got the drink, he’s drinking it!”
“Ay! There’s Villanazul, he’s got the cigar, he’s eating the taco!”
“Hey, Domínguez, he’s got Ruby! What a brave one!”
A shadow bulked through Murrillo’s front door, traveling fast.
“Gómez!” Martínez clutched Gómez’s arm. “That was Ruby Escuadrillo’s boy friend, Toro Ruíz. If he finds her with Vamenos, the ice cream suit will be covered with blood, covered with blood—”
“Don’t make me nervous,” said Gómez. “Quickly!”
Both ran. Inside they reached Vamenos just as Toro Ruíz grabbed about two feet of the lapels of that wonderful ice-cream suit.
“Let go of Vamenos!” said Martínez.
“Let go that suit!” corrected Gómez.
Toro Ruíz, tap-dancing Vamenos, leered at these intruders.
Villanazul stepped up shyly.
Villanazul smiled. “Don’t hit him. Hit me.”
Toro Ruíz hit Villanazul smack on the nose.
Villanazul, holding his nose, tears stinging his eyes, wandered off.
Gómez grabbed one of Toro Ruíz’s arms, Martínez the other. “Drop him, let go, cabrón, coyote, vaca!”
Toro Ruíz twisted the ice cream suit material until all six men screamed in mortal agony. Grunting, sweating, Toro Ruíz dislodged as many as climbed on. He was winding up to hit Vamenos when Villanazul wandered back, eyes streaming.
“Don’t hit him. Hit me!”
As Toro Ruíz hit Villanazul on the nose, a chair crashed on Toro’s head.
“Ai!” said Gómez.
Toro Ruíz swayed, blinking, debating whether to fall. He began to drag Vamenos with him.
“Let go!” cried Gómez. “Let go!”
One by one, with great care, Toro Ruíz’s banana-like fingers let loose of the suit. A moment later he was in ruins at their feet.
“Compadres, this way!”
They ran Vamenos outside and set him down where he freed himself of their hands with injured dignity.
“Okay, okay. My time ain’t up. I still got two minutes and, let’s see—ten seconds.”
“What!” said everybody.
“Vamenos,” said Gómez, “you let a Guadalajara cow climb on you, you pick fights, you smoke, you drink, you eat tacos, and now you have the nerve to say your time ain’t up?”
“I got two minutes and one second left!”
“Hey, Vamenos, you sure look sharp!” Distantly, a woman’s voice called from across the street.
Vamenos smiled and buttoned the coat.
“It’s Ramona Álvarez! Ramona, wait!” Vamenos stepped off the curb.
“Vamenos,” pleaded Gómez. “What can you do in one minute and”—he checked his watch—“forty seconds!”
“Watch! Hey, Ramona!”
Vamenos loped.
“Vamenos, look out!”
Vamenos, surprised, whirled, saw a car, heard the shriek of brakes.
“No,” said all five men on the sidewalk.
Martínez heard the impact and flinched. His head moved up. It looks like white laundry, he thought, flying through the air. His head came down.
Now he heard himself and each of the men make a different sound. Some swallowed too much air. Some let it out. Some choked. Some groaned. Some cried aloud for justice. Some covered their faces. Martínez felt his own fist pounding his heart in agony. He could not move his feet.
“I don’t want to live,” said Gómez quietly. “Kill me, someone.”
Then, shuffling, Martínez looked down and told his feet to walk, stagger, follow one after the other. He collided with other men. Now they were trying to run. They ran at last and somehow crossed a street like a deep river through which they could only wade, to look down at Vamenos.
“Vamenos!” said Martínez. “You’re alive!”
Strewn on his back, mouth open, eyes squeezed tight, tight, Vamenos motioned his head back and forth, back and forth, moaning.
“Tell me, tell me, oh, tell me, tell me.”
“Tell you what, Vamenos?”
Vamenos clenched his fists, ground his teeth.
“The suit, what have I done to the suit, the suit, the suit!”
The men crouched lower.
“Vamenos, it’s … why, it’s okay!”
“You lie!” said Vamenos. “It’s torn, it must be, it must be, it’s torn, all around, underneath?”
“No.” Martínez knelt and touched here and there. “Vamenos, all around, underneath even, it’s okay!”
Vamenos opened his eyes to let the tears run free at last. “A miracle,” he sobbed. “Praise the saints!” He quieted at last. “The car?”
“Hit and run.” Gómez suddenly remembered and glared at the empty street. “It’s good he didn’t stop. We’d have—”
Everyone listened.
Distantly a siren wailed.
“Someone phoned for an ambulance.”
“Quick!” said Vamenos, eyes rolling. “Set me up! Take off our coat!”
“Vamenos—”
“Shut up, idiots!” cried Vamenos. “The coat, that’s it! Now, the pants, the pants, quick, quick, peones! Those doctors! You seen movies? They rip the pants with razors to get them off! They don’t care! They’re maniacs! Ah, God, quick, quick!”
The siren screamed.
The men, panicking, all handled Vamenos at once.
“Right leg, easy, hurry, cows! Good! Left leg, now, left, you hear, there, easy, easy! Ow, God! Quick! Martínez, your pants, take them off!”
“What?” Martínez froze.
The siren shrieked.
“Fool!” wailed Vamenos. “All is lost! Your pants! Give me!” Martínez jerked at his belt buckle.
“Close in, make a circle!” Dark pants, light pants flourished in the air.
“Quick, here come the maniacs with the razors! Right leg on, left leg, there!”
“The zipper, cows, zip my zipper!” babbled Vamenos. The siren died.
“Madre mía, yes, just in time! They arrive.” Vamenos lay back down and shut his eyes. “Gracias.”
Martínez turned, nonchalantly buckling on the white pants as the interns brushed past.
“Broken leg,” said one intern as they moved Vamenos onto a stretcher.
“Compadres,” said Vamenos, “don’t be mad with me.” Gómez snorted. “Who’s mad?”
In the ambulance, head tilted back, looking out at them upside down, Vamenos faltered.
“Compadres, when … when I come from the hospital … am I still in the bunch? You won’t kick me out? Look, I’ll give up smoking, keep away from Murrillo’s, swear off women—”
“Vamenos,” said Martínez gently, “don’t promise nothing.”
Vamenos, upside down, eyes brimming wet, saw Martínez there, all white now against the stars.
“Oh, Martínez, y
ou sure look great in that suit. Compadres, don’t he look beautiful?”
Villanazul climbed in beside Vamenos. The door slammed. The four remaining men watched the ambulance drive away.
Then, surrounded by his friends, inside the white suit, Martínez was carefully escorted back to the curb.
In the tenement, Martínez got out the cleaning fluid and the others stood around, telling him how to clean the suit and, later, how not to have the iron too hot and how to work the lapels and the crease and all. When the suit was cleaned and pressed so it looked like a fresh gardenia just opened, they fitted it to the dummy.
“Two o’clock,” murmured Villanazul. “I hope Vamenos sleeps well. When I left him at the hospital, he looked good.”
Manulo cleared his throat. “Nobody else is going out with that suit tonight, huh?”
The others glared at him.
Manulo flushed. “I mean … it’s late. We’re tired. Maybe no one will use the suit for forty-eight hours, huh? Give it a rest. Sure. Well. Where do we sleep?”
The night being still hot and the room unbearable, they carried the suit on its dummy out and down the hall. They brought with them also some pillows and blankets. They climbed the stairs toward the roof of the tenement. There, thought Martínez, is the cooler wind, and sleep.
On the way, they passed a dozen doors that stood open, people still perspiring and awake, playing cards, drinking pop, fanning themselves with movie magazines.
I wonder, thought Martínez. I wonder if—Yes!
On the fourth floor, a certain door stood open.
The beautiful girl looked up as the men passed. She wore glasses and when she saw Martínez she snatched them off and hid them under her book.
The others went on, not knowing they had lost Martínez, who seemed stuck fast in the open door.
For a long moment he could say nothing. Then he said:
“José Martínez.”
And she said:
“Celia Obregón.”
And then both said nothing.
He heard the men moving up on the tenement roof. He moved to follow.
She said quickly, “I saw you tonight!”
He came back.
“The suit,” he said.
“The suit,” she said, and paused. “But not the suit.”
“Eh?” he said.
She lifted the book to show the glasses lying in her lap. She touched the glasses.