Playing for the Devil's Fire. Phillippe Diederich
letters? The tiny gold AK-47 hanging from a chain around his neck?
“He’s working,” Regina said.
“Can he talk?” Joaquín asked.
“I can talk,” I said.
Ximena leaned against Joaquín, her cheek resting on his shoulder. My heart did a dance.
“I know you.” Joaquín waved his finger at me. “Pineda’s office, no?”
I nodded.
“Did you find your mami?”
I shook my head.
“What a shame.”
Regina stared at me. She looked worried.
“Entonces, you’re doing the shoe shine thing, ¿o qué?”
“That’s right.” I glanced at his shoes, Nikes with no laces.
“No. I don’t need one, but you know who does—Piolín.” He waved his friend forward and pushed him toward me. “Piolín, get a shine on those crusty boots of yours, cabrón.”
Piolín was Pedro, the one who had been wearing the black leather jacket in Pineda’s office. He looked older than Joaquín. He was skinny and ugly. He wore a silk shirt that had the Mexican seal of the eagle eating the serpent, a big cowboy hat and a giant gold belt buckle embossed with the image of a Cuerno de Chivo. His boots were of multiple leathers, all exotic. I had never seen such fancy boots.
“You got the clear stuff?” Pedro asked.
I nodded and set my box down.
He placed his boot on the platform at the top of the box. “You better not mess’m up, cabrón.”
Joaquín laughed. “Ese Piolín. He paid fifteen hundred dollars for those stupid boots.” Then he addressed me. “You think they’re worth it?”
I nodded and squatted in front of my box. I took out my creams, cloths and brushes, and got to work. I applied a thin coat of clear cream to the boot. Because of the different colors and leather, I couldn’t use any color, just the clear. I worked quickly. When I was done, I tapped at the bottom of the toes and started on the other.
Someone made a joke about when they were in the plaza in Uruapan.
Regina looked at me with an expression I couldn’t place: pity, sadness. She was difficult to read. Ximena too. I guess that’s the thing about girls: mystery.
I worked the rag over and around the boot, giving it a nice clean shine. Then I brushed it lightly with my best brush. I tapped his foot and looked up.
Pedro glanced at the boots and grinned. “Ay cabrón, they’re like new.”
Everyone stopped talking. Joaquín examined the boots. “Not bad. Now let’s see how you do with these.” He set one of his Nikes on top of my box. “Make them sparkle.”
I had never shined sneakers. I had no idea how to start. They were fake leather and plastic. I knew some of the other shoeshine boys in town used paint to work on them, but I didn’t have any paint.
“Andale, güey. What are you waiting for?”
I pulled out the clear and got to work. Everyone came around to watch. Ximena placed her hands around Joaquín’s shoulders. I was their entertainment. I had no clue if the shoe would shine or turn dull, because sometimes the grease can scratch the plastic, leaving it cloudy. If that happens the shoes are ruined for sure. You can never fix that. But I had to do something. I applied the clear, just a light coat. I worked quickly, dabbing grease, rubbing it onto the shoe, spreading it over the white parts of the sneaker. I focused on that. There was nothing else. Ximena was not there. It was just this Nike shoe and the boom of the music in the stereo of the truck blending with the conjunto at the other end of the plaza and all the laughter. I thought of the tickets to the wrestling. With every stroke of my hand and the smack of the rag, I thought of El Hijo del Santo. I kept saying it to myself: Santo, Santo. Santo. That was it for me. After I earned enough for the wrestling tickets, I was going to quit shining shoes. I wanted to get out, escape.
I glanced at Ximena, at Regina. She turned away. Then one of the men said, “¡Ey! He’s checking out your girl’s legs, Joaquín.”
Everything stopped. The men who’d been in the background moved closer. I kept working at a furious pace, leaning into the shoe, smacking the rag and running it back and forth along the back, sides and top of the sneaker. I was sweating. I dropped the rag and grabbed the brush without missing a beat. I was non-stop, my hands moving so fast I couldn’t even see them. Then someone said something about the girls Joaquín had in Uruapan, and everyone laughed.
“You talk a lot of shit, carnal,” Piolín said.
“It’s true. Right, Joaquín? Remember that short girl. She dyed her hair blond and was trying to show off, saying she was a gringa or something?” the man said.
Joaquín laughed. “You remember the strangest things, pinche Barajas.”
“And the strangest girls,” Piolín said. “Remember Ursula? She wanted Joaquín so bad, she said she would do anything.”
Barajas whistled. “That’s how God makes them, no?”
“And what about in Houston?” Joaquín said. “La Tania whatshername.”
They laughed. I looked at Ximena. She was looking away from them like she didn’t care. Then Joaquín took her chin in his hand and turned her face so they were eye to eye, lips to lips. “But don’t worry your pretty little face, mi amor,” he said softly. “None of them compare to you. It’s only you and me now.” He turned to his friends. “You get that, pinches putos?”
They all nodded and their laughter died away real fast. Ximena grinned. Regina stepped back and leaned against the truck. Somehow I had this feeling that she too wanted to escape, only she didn’t know how.
“What are you looking at?” Joaquín barked.
“Nothing,” I said. “I’m done.”
Joaquín inspected the Nikes. “Not bad. Are they real clean?”
“Yeah.”
“Really clean?”
“As clean as they’re going to get,” I said.
“Clean enough to lick?”
Regina stared at me, her eyes wide. Afraid. Ximena was the way she always was, sad, disinterested. Waiting.
“I guess,” I said.
“Then do it.”
“Do what?”
“Lick them, cabrón.”
I forced a smile.
“¡Ándale, güey!”
I put my brushes and grease away in the box.
“You wanna get paid, no?” His friends surrounded me, all of them looking down. Behind them, Regina shook her head, her lips forming a silent no.
I closed my box and stood.
“What’s this?” Joaquín pushed his chest out, his hands resting on the sides of his waist.
My skin was on fire. I leaned down to grab my box, but Joaquín pushed his foot down on it.
“What do you say?”
I straightened up, swallowed hard. Held it down. “About what?”
“About cleaning my boots, cabrón.”
I looked at Ximena, at Regina.
“Don’t look at them. Look at me.” Joaquín poked me on the chest with his finger.