Playing for the Devil's Fire by Phillippe Diederich

Author:Phillippe Diederich
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781941026311
Publisher: Cinco Puntos Press

When I opened my eyes, it was late afternoon. The ice had melted and left a cold wet spot on the side of my pillow. But at least my face felt better.

I went to the shed. Chicano was gone.

“Abuela?” I cracked opened the door to her room.

“Look.” She pointed to the window. “Look at all the freighters. They say a hurricane is headed our way. They are all coming in to port. Have you ever seen such a stunning sight?”

“What happened to Chicano?”

“They say we might have to evacuate.”

I went out. Chapopote came running behind me. There was no trace of Chicano at the plaza. I headed up Avenida de la Merced toward El Gallo de Oro. I’d found him there once. I might find him there again.

Two blocks up, I noticed a crowd outside Paco’s Tacos. People were spilling out onto the street, jostling to look inside. My stomach twisted. Gaby, I thought, dead and naked like Rocío Morales. I ran in and burrowed my way between the people. It was Chicano. He was sitting at a table eating tacos and drinking a beer.

“What are you doing? I said.

He gestured to his plate. “I was told they make the best tacos al pastor. Not bad.”

“Why did you leave?”

“I had to go.”

“Why?”

He set his taco on the little plastic plate. “I missed my fight in Toluca. I went to check on a bus to Querétaro. I have to work, hijín.”

“But you can’t go.” I had an idea, an image of Chicano facing Pineda, asking questions and getting answers. Real answers. Behind me, the crowd pushed in. No one spoke. They were like sheep, staring quietly at the luchador in his red mask and blue and white cape.

“I know.” He took a long sip of beer. “I got rolled last night. I lost my bag with all my cash.”

“So you’re staying?”

He shook his head. “I need to get my manager to arrange for a bus ticket.” He glanced past me. The people pressed forward. “Unless someone gives me some cash.”

“But you can’t go. I need your help. Please.”

“I have a schedule to keep.” He dabbed two spoonfuls of salsa on his taco, picked it up between his thick fingers and took a huge bite. “Querétaro,” he said with his mouth full. “Then San Luís and Monterrey.”

“No, no. Please. What about my parents?”

“What about them?”

“You have to help me find out what happened to them.” It came out just like that, without thinking. “Please.”

Chicano finished his taco and shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

I told him about my parent’s disappearance.

“That’s for the police, no?” He leaned back in his chair, sucked the ends of his fingers and wiped his hands with a napkin. “Don’t pull me into your fantasies, okay? I’m sorry about your jefes. But no one can beat these guys, not the president and his army. Not even the gringos. I can’t help you.”

“But you can. Santo made a difference—”

“Those are movies, hijín. Seriously, you need to get real.

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