The Cowboy Bible and Other Stories (8 page)

—Yes, you do: your
wife.

—You’re out of your mind, man. If my wife finds out I’m trafficking with her soul, she’d kill
me.

—I’m not interested in her soul. I just wanna sleep with her one
time.

—You’re hopeless, man. You’re twisted. She’d never accept. And she’d murder me first.

—Insist. Insist until you convince
her.

—Don’t count on it. If I even mention it, the least that will happen is that she’ll have me diagnosed as senile and put me in diapers and never let me out of her sight for the rest of our lives.

A play in one act

Characters: The devil and Old Man Paulino

A country road, a tree. Dusk. Paulino, sitting on the ground, is filling a tank. He’s exhausted and making a big effort, using both hands. He pauses, so tired, rests, pants, sighs. Repeats same gestures.

Enter The Devil (the audience applauds).

—Where’d it happen?

—In Mole’s
bar.

—Oh Paulino, if you’re always losing it, why’d you
bet?

—Then what, my
love?

—No, Paulino. I’m not some song lyric. You’re not gonna use me as currency with some card shark.

—But if you don’t agree, we’ll never have another meal at El Rey del Cabrito. It’s not even one night, my love. He’s a good person.

—Doesn’t matter how decent. You think I’m in condition to be traded like peanuts?

—Well, the debt would be covered that way. He’d even owe me something.

—Paulino, tell me the truth. How much did you
lose?

—Everything.

—Even the Nativity?

—Yes, even those plaster figurines.

—They’re porcelain.

—Whatever. Assholes, those damn figurines.

—You’re sick, Paulino. I refuse to sleep with a stranger just to fix your mess. I’m outta here. I’m going to my mother’s. I wanna divorce.

—And what will you get out of that? I don’t have a thing. Not the ranch or the rights to my songs, not even my gray hairs. But if instead you calm down and throw down with that card shark for a few, then it’s like nothing ever happened.

—Paulino, tell me the truth. How much did you
lose?

—Everything. Even the dirt under my nails.

—Well. Fine. I’ll let you twist my arm. But to be clear I’m doing it only to keep us out of the poorhouse. Things are gonna change in this house. And you tell that man there’s no guarantee I’m gonna give him my body. Make it very clear all I’ll accept is an invitation to Valentín Elizalde’s dance. Then we’ll
see.

—Don’t come to me now with sob stories out of Vicente Fernández movies, Paulino. Gambling debts are matters of honor. Don’t act like a
fool.

—I’ve kept my end of the deal. The rest is up to you, pendejo.

—Don’t be a
fool.

—I did my part. She’ll go with you to the dance. It’s up to you to get her in
bed.

—I said no, Paulino. Until your wife comes to me you’re not gonna wear Cowboy Bible boots. Those were the terms.

—The only term and condition I value is that of the north. The norteño condition. The way all the guys who get tangled in these agreements refuse to furrow their brows. Damn devil, that’s why I liked
you.

—Oh, Paulino. You’ve lost it. Over and over. Wait a while and you’ll have your boots at dawn. And I’ll bring your woman back to you all happy happy. Content. Well taken care
of.

—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.

—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.

—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?

—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.

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.

—It’s impossible to get rid of this thing, isn’t
it?

—And to think you traded a typewriter for
it.

Juan Salazar Pro, realizing that getting rid of the pistol was impossible in New York, decided to head to Mexico. Perhaps in San Pedroslavia it would not be so difficult to unload the gun. After all, what difference did it make if San Pedroslavia didn’t turn out to be the paradise he imagined and was instead just another ruse? I can always come back to nourish my post-norteño condition on the streets of Manhattan, he thought.

—Huncke, let’s
go.

—And the dealer,
Juan?

—I’m going to Mexico. To San Pedroslavia.

—And the dealer? We’re not waiting for him anymore,
Juan.

—Huncke. Let’s go. Let’s get out of here. Let’s get out of here, because that dealer’s not coming.

Written on a wall in an unorthodox script with El Oso shoe polish was, The only way to get drugs is to
be
the drug. Pedro Rodríguez, an expert on norteño music, was sleeping in his attic room on Coahuila Street. An occasional session musician who imitated Chet Baker’s norteño-ness, he had begun to shoot up heroin. His musical instrument was The Cowboy Bible.

The phrase on the wall had been pirated from a little book of poems by Jack Kerouac, Heroin is for Pain. There was a Juan Salazar LP on the record player. With that voice that always seems on the verge of breaking, the Nuevo León native was singing Lights of New York. Pedro Rodríguez had resisted becoming his dealer. But his credit was worthless in San Pedroslavia. The only way to surround himself with drugs was to sell
them.

When the needle on the record player changed positions, it cut the drug’s sweet effect off from Pedro Rodríguez’s body. He immediately fell into a state of cold turkey. He opened his eyes and a pack of dogs like a roving mob showed up next to his bed. The vertigo he’d experience trying to get off the mattress made him much more anxious than the pain in his joints. The certainty that the dogs would tear him apart kept him clinging to the wall by his fingernails.

Terrified, he brought his face over to the edge of the bed. He ascertained that the dogs were running around. Rabid dogs. More than a hundred of them. With fear in his eyes, and his eyes on the very rim of the mattress, Pedro Rodríguez emitted an extraordinary shriek, and then, one by one, the one-hundred-seventeen dogs jumped into his chest with all the contractions that foreshadowed a spasm. When he swallowed the last animal, it was nighttime and the Juan Salazar LP was playing over and
over.

Juan Salucita Salazar settled on Orizaba Street, #210-8, in San Pedroslavia. Huncke, who was an old hand at extraditions and had burglary charges pending, had decided to stay with Bill Garver and rejected outright the move to Mexico. Juan Salucita arrived accompanied by another Juan, John Vollmer, a beat poet. And a junky too. Metrohomosexual. The singer’s lover.

It was no secret Vollmer was a fag. Ross Russell had revealed it in the unauthorized biography of the singer,
Salucita Lives: The High Life and Hard Times of Juan (an implosition) Salazar
(Charterhouse, New York, 19—). It’s a common quality assigned to mythic characters. His legend has a place in eternity. There shouldn’t be any other readings of Juan Salazar’s genius, just those that reflect his revolutionary contributions to the world of music. Reputable critics such as Charles Delaunay, Ted Gioia, Joachim Berendt, and Leonard Feather have defended his sexual preference by citing the creativity of his norteño improvisations. The fascination with Juan Salazar, aside from his being a jazzman committed to amarillo, is the allegory that produces his art. The pride of the post-norteño condition is its violent, sexist, and senseless character, almost like hip hop’s. The allegory lies in the fact that, in a macho society, a fag would, under his lice-egg leather boots, wear pink polish on his toenails and still be the object of so much masculine admiration. Juan Salazar is a bebop norteño transgressor.

San Pedroslavia coincided with the epistemology of bar stories. The healthy atmosphere surrounding the daily routine of heating up spoonfuls of drugs helped Juan form a new quintet with local musicians. The problem of the pistol remained—struck by a case of nerves, Juan Salazar couldn’t say farewell to it—but he had a possible buyer: Pedro Rodríguez, a dealer famous for wearing a piteado belt with a steel buckle. He’d heard he could find him at the Laguna Coliseum, the old Sports Palace, a wrestling arena.

To get the drug, Pedro Rodríguez had to give up his Cowboy Bible. He traded it at a flea market. They tossed it into a corner with an accordion and a bajo sexto. He invested the money in heroin, which he hid in Nescafé jars between the dogs and the
bed.

He began dealing by the balloonful, but that quantity was too expensive for junkies, who barely live day-to-day. The solution rested with
chinches
: single doses. But the profits were limited. San Pedroslavia is a City of Vice, and every three houses somebody offers you drugs. If you don’t want to bother, you can go straight to a shooting gallery where, for twenty pesos, you stretch out your arm, they apply a tourniquet, and the dealers themselves inject you. While the others dealt via windows, Pedro Rodríguez used the old mule system. He’d deliver the drugs straight to the home. His clientele were the addicts who didn’t want to move. They were few in number. Nonetheless, there were enough earnings so he’d never lack his own personal spoonful.

Pedro Rodríguez was a huge wrestling fan. Each Sunday, he’d go to the Laguna Coliseum. He was a rudo. His father had been a wrestler: The Blue Shadow. He lamented having lost The Cowboy Bible. The wrestling arena made him remember. It was there he found The Cowboy Bible, abandoned, broken, worn; a musician had stepped all over it after having traveled with it under a train seat. In the end, if they haven’t been destroyed, instruments should be pawned or sold to get drugs.

—Thank you very much. Luis Ernesto Martínez on the saxophone. Dr. Benway on drums. Clark-Nova on the bajo sexto. Dave Tesorero on accordion.

—On the mic: Juan Salazar.

The Bunker, a blues bar, was oversold. The crowd could not accept that the band was not coming back for a second encore. Juan Juan Juan, screamed the pickpockets, always among the most passionate fans. Pedro Rodríguez had a seat at the third table. He knew the group wasn’t coming back onstage when he saw a tech guy approaching him. He got up to go with him back to the dressing room, but some staff guy said, Not here. Juan’s waiting for you at this address and handed him a piece of paper with directions.

The info on the napkin didn’t indicate 210-8 Orizaba Street. Instead, there were directions to a bar called The Other Paradise. The place was sordid, and the clientele was subdued. It was a junky bar, with a dirt floor and wooden tables. The bar was on the left. The curtain to the bathroom was made from long strips of matchbox tops threaded together. In the back, near the jukebox, a concrete stairway led to the second floor.

Pedro Rodríguez entered the bar and took a seat at a table facing the back. There were only three customers. Two at one table were getting ready to shoot up. The other guy muttered before a bottle of sotol. Ten minutes went by and the bartender still hadn’t offered him a drink.

He was about to order a Superior beer when Juan Salazar appeared at the top of the stairs. The bar lighting changed. Everything became a sandy color: the bar, the barman, Juan Salazar’s
tie.

He began to descend the stairs, and time turned to rubber. Pedro Rodríguez sensed something different in his walk. He thought maybe it had something to do with the exaggerated care he was taking in coming down, but no. It was confirmed when he arrived on even ground. He was walking stiffly. Each step was in the form of a square. Every two steps, he’d change directions. He seemed more like a car trying to park than a man approaching his destination. He seemed indecisive. Pixelated. Yes, a pixelated Juan Salazar was nearing his table.

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.