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“Especially the women.”
Godoy smiled. He was enjoying his little adventure among the ruffians. “Let’s get some more beer.”
Jesse led them into another cantina, passing by one called El Longbranch, where loud, heavy beat hip-hop music came from the open door. “What’s wrong with that one?” Godoy asked.
“Owner’s a badass.”
“I thought everybody here was a bad man.”
“That one’s a step above. We don’t need his kind of attention tonight. Besides, the beer’s cheaper over here.”
Johnny led them into the next bar through old batwing doors. Felipe thought he’d stepped into a western movie. The floor was packed dirt. There was a small crowd at the bar and tables, the men wearing western hats in various stages of newness, the women dressed in slinky red and black outfits slit up to the hip. At least half of the men were openly carrying weapons. A few even wore old gunfighter rigs with single-action Colts.
Felipe couldn’t stop staring. Johnny maneuvered them to a back table and ordered a round of beers from a hard-looking waitress in a red tube top and stained black micro-mini. As she walked away, Felipe noticed she was barefoot, with callused feet and dirt up to her ankles.
They sat in the bar and drank for another hour, listening to conversations around them and watching people come and go. Felipe was feeling no pain when they rose to leave. Johnny was almost at the door when there was a scuffle at one of the tables. Felipe and the brothers watched as a drunken man with a long black beard held onto the waitress’s arm and tried to pull her onto his lap. She told him to let go two times, and when he didn’t, she lashed out with a straight razor and cut him left and right across the upper arm. The man yelled and grabbed the cuts as blood flowed down and splatted on the dirt floor. As he bent over, gripping his arm, the waitress wiped the blade of her razor on the back of his shirt, then folded it and slid
it into the elastic waist of her mini-skirt. She walked over to another table and took their order. The other patrons resumed talking as the wounded man staggered toward the door. Jesse said, “Let’s get out of here before he bleeds on us,” and they walked into the crowded street.
During the next three hours they talked to a number of people, and no one had seen a little Indian girl. Felipe was fading fast, and he finally asked, “Wha’, what time is it?”
Jesse looked at his watch and said, “One-thirty.”
Felipe said, “That’s enough. Let’s go home, look again tomorrow.”
“Nah, we got a better idea, got a good place to check.”
Godoy thought a moment, “Okay, lead on.”
The brothers led Felipe far down the street to a brightly lit, facade-fronted building with a blue neon sign that read Hartbrak Hotel. Oldies rock and roll played so loud it vibrated the front window.
Felipe squinted at the glowing, buzzing sign. The blue was so intense it seemed to fuzz the air. He said, “That’s not how you spell heartbreak.”
“They got a good deal on it in Chihuahua City,” Jesse said, as he led them inside. The inside was a long rectangle, with a raised stage at the far end. Felipe noticed the floor was carpeted, but it felt like dirt underneath. Several people did double takes as the Barbosas led the way through the tables before stopping at one near the stage. Two men at the next table greeted the brothers with handshakes. This was an older crowd, sprinkled with a few young people, but most in their forties and fifties, and some looking like they were in their sixties or even seventies. Most of them had weapons, Felipe noticed.
Jesse said, “I’m gonna go backstage, visit with the star.” He left as Felipe ordered a round of drinks. Backstage, Jesse walked through canyons made of stacked boxes and across wires lying on carpet until he came to a door with a star on it. He knocked and a voice asked, “Quien es?” With an Elvis accent.
Jesse answered in English, “It’s Jesse Barbosa.”
The door opened and Jesse stepped in, saying, “Yo, Elvis.”
This Elvis was six and a half feet tall and dressed in a threadbare white, rhinestone decorated jumpsuit with waist-length cape attached to the shoulders. His hair was jet-black, except for the white half-inch at the roots that made the lacquered pompadour and ducktails look like a plastic helmet on his head. He had no sideburns, but other than that, it looked like the seventies Elvis’s hairdo. Hundreds of colored rhinestones made winking patterns across the suit’s chest, arms, back, cape, legs and stomach. It would have been even brighter, except for the hundred or so empty sockets where rhinestones were missing. Elvis would have been imposing but for the fact that he weighed one-forty. He was Ichabod Crane-skinny, except for his stomach, which was a nice, protruding pumpkin shape at the beltline.
Elvis pointed at Jesse’s forehead-covering blond wig and gave him a thumbs-up sign of approval, “Way tah make a statement, man,” he gave Jesse a hug and said, “Come in, have a seat.” Jesse was delighted. Every word sounded exactly like The King in one of his great movies like Clambake or Kissin’ Cousins. Jesse watched as Elvis went to the small fireplace and plucked out several pieces of charcoal from the dead ash. He took them to a bowl on the coffee table and crushed them into a powder with a metal spoon, then took a large dollop of vaseline from a nearby jar and plopped it into the bowl, stirring as he talked. “Good tah see yah, man. How’s that brother of yours?”
“He’s fine. We’re here for your show. Brought our boss along, told him you were the best.”
“Thaynk yew, thaynk yew verruh much.” Elvis finished stirring, then took two fingers and dipped out a healthy glob of the black mix. He had slight palsy, and his shaky finger drew a wiggly sideburn down to his jawline. He did the same to the other side, then dipped out several more dollops to get enough mixture to cover the sideburn area in a thick, dark coat and even up the look. “What da yah think, hoss?” As he turned his head left and right for Jesse to see, the overhead light reflected off the sideburns like truck mirrors.
“Looks natural as hell to me, E.”
“Good, thass what ahm lookin’ for. Need tah please the fans, yah know.” Elvis touched up his hair and said, “Glad yah came by, man. Ah’ll sing somethin’ speshul for yawl tonight.”
“Thanks. Oh, do you mind if we crash in the shed out back tonight?”
“Naw, man, help yourself. Hang loose,” he gave Jesse the Hawaiian hand sign for it.
***
