Saint Death

  Sometimes people smugglers walk right past his shack, feet away, hissing instructions to the pollos—the “chickens” hoping for a better life somewhere else. And he hears trucks and Jeeps out in the desert, their engines revving. It’s such a cheap-looking piece of sand, in the day. Only at night is it clear that this is very expensive dirt. That this scrubby land is something valuable, and being fought over. This fact is often confirmed by the sounds of voices, shouting, panicking. Gunfire. Single shots from pistols. The repeated stutter of automatic rifles. Arturo sees lights sometimes: floodlights on the Jeeps of narco gangs, the flashing blues and reds of police trucks, the regular cops or Migra, the patrols hunting immigrants. He’s heard American voices once in a while, crackling and hissing over radios just yards from where he sleeps, though because he speaks almost no English he never understands.

  And everyone has seen the remains of nights like that, the mornings after. Kids come and stand around the bodies, looking on in the way that only little kids can, looking on blankly, understanding nothing. Arturo remembers one morning when he saw a gaggle of children standing around the remains of a necklacing: someone executed by a burning tire forced around their chest and arms. The kids just stared, until their mothers arrived. Then they stood and looked too.

  It could be something elaborate like that, it could be just a single bullet; either way, these are the things that happen in the desert at night.

  And is it better, Arturo has wondered, to be a fly who spends the whole of its short life banging against a closed window, buzzing crazy, buzzing, buzzing until its life runs out and it drops to the windowsill, slowly twitching, or to be a fly who finds an opening, a gap in the window frame, and flies out to who knows where? Who knows what?

  * * *

  Arturo pulls his grimy T-shirt off and drops it on the dirt floor, then lies on his bed. His shoulders ache so badly they burn. He feels nothing else, can think of nothing else, but slowly, eventually, his body eases, and with it, his thoughts turn outside of himself. José was in fine form today; within five minutes he managed to complain both about the heat and the fact that winter is coming, something Arturo is equally well aware of. Already the nights are cold, and he will have to find an extra blanket or two somewhere. He has a kind of stove he made from an empty oil drum and a length of plastic pipe for a chimney, which pokes through his roof. Most of the time he has little to burn on it, and even when he does, it doesn’t work very well. On the rare occasions he does get it fired up strongly, the plastic pipe is liable to melt and toxic black smoke churns into the room, choking him. There are holes in the corrugated tin that’s stretched over his packing crate roof, and he could do with fixing it on a little better too. Nails driven through bottle caps make cheap rivets, but they wear loose in the end.

  He should cook something. Soon. He should get up and get a drink. He doesn’t. He’s thinking about Gabriel, at the ironmonger, wondering what he’d done, though he knows that’s a stupid thing to wonder. No one deserves to be dragged out of their home in broad daylight, taken away from their family. But he’d done something—said something, been somewhere, just plain done something that someone else with guns didn’t like. He might show up again, but Arturo doubts it. And if he does show up, he’ll show up dead. The best to be hoped for is that it will be a swift ending.

  He can forget Gabriel, and he does, quickly, because he’s seen it often enough, but he cannot forget that narco, the one driving the pickup, pointing an imaginary gun at him, mouthing something at him, mouthing something, but what? He tries to replay it in his head to see if he can see the words falling from his lips, but he can’t. All he can see is the half-tattooed face, laughing, laughing, laughing, and all he can feel is that fingertip, pressing into his forehead, hard.

  * * *

  We are alone, everywhere!

  Everywhere alone, and our solitude is all the greater for the knowledge that we have been abandoned in the wide desert of the world, abandoned by uncaring gods, deaf to our cries and blind to our devotions.

  We, the people of these gods, we are torn from the womb of the world, and so, desperate for reunion, we wander. We have wandered far from the dark caves where once we huddled around a fire, for warmth, for protection. Hermanos. And wandering far, or staying near, one thing alone is true: each of us dies the death he is looking for.

  * * *

  LA HORA DE LA HORA

  I want to destroy something, Arturo thinks, as he lies on his bed. And if I cannot destroy something, then I want to create something. It’s time. It’s time.

  He gets no further than this, does not begin to unravel the logic of these illogical thoughts, for as he stares at the ceiling, he hears a car outside. A car outside is not enough to draw his attention; what draws his attention is that the car has stopped, right outside his shack.

  Still lying down, he lifts a corner of cardboard where it has come free from the packing crate wall. The only person he knows with a car is José. He has four or five beat-up old wrecks, only one of which will be working at any given time, and this car, which has stopped outside, is not one from his boss’s current collection. It’s a white Ford, sunk on its heels, almost dead.

  Arturo can’t make out who’s driving it, not at first, but then he sees the door open, and out of it, as if he were here yesterday, steps Faustino.

  —¡Cabrón!—says Arturo, under his breath. He sits up, pulling his dirty shirt back on, and then Faustino is already slapping his hand on the roof.

  —¡Hey! ¡Chingada! ¿You in there?

  Arturo wants to say no. ¡No! I’m not here. ¿And anyway, where the hell have you been all year?

  But he doesn’t. And the door, which is the door of some old closet and has no lock, is opening.

  Faustino steps inside.

  —¡Sure, just come on in!—Arturo says, and he tries to say it like he’s mad, but then, Jesus, it’s Faustino! It’s Faustino! And he starts laughing, unable to stop himself.—¡I might have had a girl in here!

  Faustino stands there, laughing too.

  —First time for everything. ¿Right, cabrón?

  Arturo tells him to shut up and then he tells him to come right in and sit down, and Faustino walks over, his hobble just as obvious as it always was, his head nearly scraping the roof. He doesn’t sit.

  Arturo waves a hand at him.

  —¿Have you grown, vato? You were always so skinny.

  Faustino stares at Arturo.

  Arturo stares at Faustino, wondering who’s going to talk about it first. And if it’s Faustino, what he’s going to say. But Faustino just stands there, like he was here yesterday, like he was here this morning, saying nothing. Arturo can see he’s changed. Faustino’s wearing a long-sleeved flannel shirt, but the cuffs are rolled up a ways and Arturo can see there are tattoos on his arms. He had no tattoos before. Arturo cannot make out what they are. The shirt looks like it’s pretty damn new, and he wears it open over a white T-shirt. And Arturo has noticed the Nike Cortezes on Faustino’s feet. Well, he thinks, if you’re going to have only one and a half feet, you may as well put them in some fucking fine shoes.

  Still, Faustino stands. He stands, and there’s something else about him. There’s a bigger change than all these clothes, than the fact that he has enough cash to run a car, even if it’s a piece of crap.

  Arturo sees the earth tremble under Faustino’s one and a half feet. His legs plant themselves into the ground as if they go way underground, miles down, so that as he leans forward slightly, ducking under the roof, there is no danger he will fall. He is rooted. Something has erupted, something has given him power. Something from the old land has come to dwell in Faustino, investing him with force, a force so powerful the very ground trembles, the air shakes around him.

  Now, the smile slips from Faustino’s face, slowly, slowly, and as it does, Arturo’s gaze falls on the webbing belt around his old friend’s waist. There’s a Catrina there, a gaudy Catrina skull for the buckle, grinning back at him.


  —Well—says Arturo.—Quite the cholo now. ¿Eh, cabrón? One thing: that buckle is re-gacho.

  Faustino’s smile is long dead. He takes two strides over and hits Arturo on the side of the head.

  Arturo lurches sideways on the bed, more stunned than hurt, at least for now, and stares back at Faustino, who’s glaring at him like an animal. Then Arturo throws himself at him and they fight, collapsing into a struggle, scrabbling at each other, as Arturo shouts—¿Where were you, chingada? ¿Where have you been all damn year?

  Faustino doesn’t answer. They wrestle some more; they fight like little kids, panting hard, arms flailing and fists making bad blows that hurt all the same.

  Then Faustino, who’s not as skinny as he once was, rolls Arturo onto his back, and as he does, Arturo’s hands knock against something heavy and hard on Faustino’s back.

  An automatic pistol falls onto the dirt floor.

  Arturo sees it, and immediately stops struggling. Faustino thumps Arturo once more, but meekly; the fight has gone from them, and so he stops too, and sits up, pushing his hand back through his hair. Arturo stares at the gun, then he stares at his friend.

  —¿What the hell?

  Faustino doesn’t answer. He gets off his friend, picks up the gun and tucks it down the back of his jeans, as if it were the habit of a lifetime. Then he sits on the bed. Then he starts crying.

  Arturo has never seen Faustino cry. Not in all their years as brothers in the colonia. Not in all their time, despite everything they’ve seen, despite everything that’s happened to them, Faustino was always the calmer one, always the wiser one.

  Arturo doesn’t know what to do, what to say. Finally, he thumps his friend’s knee with a gentle fist.

  —¿Vato, what’s wrong?

  Faustino’s holding his head.

  —I’m in trouble. I’m in big trouble. Jodido.

  Arturo doesn’t say anything.

  Now, the world shakes again, but it is not Faustino who is shaking the world. It is the world shaking him, shaking them both. Deep down in the soil of the desert, deep down in the old rocks of the earth, things that have been true since Man first erected a totem and worshipped it are about to rise out of the ground and swallow them both, unless they can cheat their way out of it, though that will mean cheating truth itself, and meanwhile, the air in the shack vibrates with the buzzing of flies stuck against the walls, trying to escape, trying to find a crack in the cardboard through which to wriggle out.

  —¿So? ¿What happened?

  Faustino stares at the ground, saying nothing. Arturo sits back on the floor, uneasy.

  —Come on, carnal, it can’t be so bad.

  It’s a dumb thing to say. Faustino lifts his head and the look on his face reminds Arturo of a time, long ago. They’d hitched a ride into Juárez, looking for fun, messing around, and at the end of the day they’d climbed onto the roof of a massive warehouse by the railroad tracks. They’d looked out across the whole damn city, and then they’d stood at the edge, daring each other to go closer to the drop. They got closer and closer, urging each other on, calling each other names, until finally, with their toes hanging into space, they’d realized it wasn’t a game anymore. That’s the look he sees now, on Faustino’s face.

  Arturo tries again to reach his friend. He gets off the floor and sits next to Faustino on the bed, Faustino, with his new shoes and expensive clothes.

  —¿Cabrón, what are you?

  —Soy un halcón.

  A falcon. His best friend has become a lookout for a gang.

  —¡Meirda! ¿Who for?

  —There’s a new pandilla. Los Libertadores. On the west side of the city. In Chaveña. That’s where I live now.

  —¿In Chaveña?

  Faustino nods, says nothing.

  —But falcons are just kids, vato. They don’t give guns to—

  —I’m not a kid. I—

  Arturo cuts him off.

  —I was going to say they don’t give guns to falcons.

  —I’m more than a falcon. I run this bunch of kids. The boss gave me a gun. Keep them in order. Know I’m in business. ¿Right? My boys keep an eye on things in the street. They see anything, they tell me and I tell El Carnero.

  —¿Who’s El Carnero?

  —The boss. His real name is Eduardo Cardona, but they call him El Carnero. Because of the way he fights. Like a ram.

  Faustino taps the top of his head.

  —¿So you work for the cartel?

  —¡No! No, cabrón, I’m not dumb. I work for Los Libertadores.

  —¿Yeah? ¿And who do they work for?

  Faustino hesitates, then mumbles—They’re with Barrio Azteca.

  —¡And they work for the cartel! You’re right. ¡Que esta jodido!

  —No, no. That’s not the problem. Life’s good. I got money. A car.

  —¿Yeah? ¿Life’s good? ¿So why are you crying like a little kid?

  Faustino doesn’t even react to the insult. He wipes his face and tries to look Arturo in the eye, but finds he can’t, not right now.

  —I borrowed some money.

  —¿I thought you said you had money?

  —I mean serious money. El Carnero gave me a stash to look after. A big stash. I don’t know why. I figured he wanted to keep it away from the rest of his gang …

  —¿And?

  —And I borrowed some of it.

  —¿How much?

  —A thousand.

  Arturo stares at Faustino, speechless. It’s not possible that this is happening. This is Faustino. This is goofy little Faustino, and they used Anapra as a playground, and yes, the women were going missing then a lot, but Arturo and Faustino were just little kids and they still found a way to be little kids, despite all the disappearances, and all the horror. Now Arturo realizes something, something his friend didn’t say …

  —¿You mean pesos, right? A thousand pesos.

  Faustino shakes his head and Arturo feels the horror rising inside him.

  —¿Dollars?—Arturo asks, his voice lifting.—¿You borrowed a thousand gringo dollars from your jefe? ¿And he gave it to you?

  —He doesn’t know I took it.

  —You’re dead.

  —I know.

  —¿So why did you do it?

  —Never mind that. I took the money because I needed it. I really needed it. And I thought I had time to get it back. I could have done that; there are things you can do.

  Arturo doesn’t want to know what he means by that, but there’s no time to wonder anyway; Faustino is still talking.

  —El Carnero said he’d come for his stash in two weeks. That was a week ago.

  —¿So?

  —So I got a message this morning. He’s coming for it tomorrow. I don’t have it, vato. I don’t have it. And he’s coming tomorrow night, some time after nine. There’s something else.

  —¿What?

  —I think the whole deal was a setup. A test. To see if I could look after the cash. You don’t know what he’ll do to me if his twenty grand is light.

  Arturo shakes his head. He knows as well as anyone what they’ll do to Faustino. He’s seen them in the street; the bodies. Or hanging from the overpass, with bits missing. Messages cut into their now-dead skin, messages of warning and hate.

  —¿Faustino?

  Faustino looks up.

  —No offense. ¿But what the hell are you doing here? Arturo waves a hand angrily at his shack, and at the nothing that is in it.

  —¿Does it look like I have a thousand dollars to give you? You’d be better off asking some of your new rich friends.

  —Believe me, I already tried that.

  The way he says it, Arturo feels the insult. Anywhere but here, anywhere but here. Anyone but Arturo.

  —I already asked everyone I can ask without getting killed. That’s why I’m here. You have to help me, carnal, you have to help me.

  Arturo shakes his head, and mutters under his breath.

  —Cabrón.

/>   Faustino nods.

  —I know I am. But I’m begging you.

  Arturo hangs his head. He gets off the bed, and goes to the unlit gas lamp that hangs off a bent nail in the center of the ceiling. He sits down again next to Faustino and, setting the battered and rusting lamp on his knee, unscrews the base where the gas canister fits. Tucked in around the tiny gap between the canister and the base, Faustino sees pale green money.

  —I hide this here—Arturo says.—No one’s going to steal this piece of shit.

  He slides the money out and then sets the lamp down, flattening the notes, counting them. He hands them to Faustino.

  —¿That’s it?

  —That’s it. That’s all there is. I promise you. Fifty dollars.

  Faustino gives the money back to Arturo.

  —That’s not why I came.

  —¿No? ¿Then why?

  Faustino points at the upturned box that is Arturo’s table. Sitting on top of it is Arturo’s destiny, and it is this destiny that Faustino is pointing at: a pack of cards. A pack of cards for playing calavera.

  Arturo understands what he means.

  —No. You’re joking.

  —You can do it. I know you can. That’s how you earn your living. ¿Right?

  —I play for pesos. Not dollars. Pesos. I play kids on street corners and I go to El Diván and play their dumb dads. For pesos. I earn my living by hauling crap for José.

  —¿Yeah? ¿And how often do you work there? ¿And how much does he pay you? I know you make more from calavera than you do working for José. There’s this game, Arturo. Every night they play at this club in Chaveña. For dollars. Big dollars. I know you can do it. I’ve won there, sometimes, and you, you’re way better than me. You can do it, vato. I know you can do it.

  Arturo holds the money out toward Faustino.

  —Take it. If you’re lucky and you beg hard enough you can find the rest of it by tomorrow.

  Faustino shakes his head.

  —Keep it. You’ll need it to get into the game.