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Jesse rejoined his brother and Felipe at the table and noticed they were two beers ahead of him. He yelled at the waitress and ordered another round, then leaned toward them and said, “You’re in for a treat tonight. He looks great!”
The lights dimmed at that time and a man at the back of the room climbed on a ladder and flashed a Q-beam spotlight on the center of the stage. A voice came over the loudspeaker saying in English, “Ladies and Gentlemen! Back by popular demand from his sellout show in Las Vegas, let’s give a great big hand for Elvis Guzman!”
The six-piece band in the corner started up a squawky rendition of Rollin’ on the River and Elvis entered the building. Felipe stopped in mid-swallow as he saw the caped figure stride on-stage. Elvis entered quickly, jerking across the stage in what Felipe guessed was a martial arts kata, except the tall man couldn’t kick higher than his thigh and he moved as if his knees were arthritic.
“Awesome, uh?” asked Jesse.
Felipe thought this Elvis was built like a soda straw with a grape tied to it. “I’ve never seen anything like him,” he said, and took another drink. As Felipe set his glass on the table, Elvis finished his routine and dropped to one knee, holding out his cape like wings. He hit a little hard and keeled to one side before catching himself with a hand. A blue rhinestone popped from his cape and bounced high off the stage to plink into Felipe’s half-full beer glass.
Felipe watched the yellow bubbles fizz off the blue stone and said, “My god,” as a black, crusty flake lifted from the center facet and floated to the top.
Jesse slapped him on the back and said, “A personal souvenir from The King himself. Ain’t you the lucky one!” The other beers arrived then, and Felipe slid the one with the stone as far away as he could. He drank half the new beer in two large swallows before he calmed down and looked again at the stage.
Elvis Guzman returned to his feet and started into a rendition of Don’t Be Cruel, followed by Do the Clam, and Return to Sender. He was good, but had to work at it to gloss over the band’s sour notes. He kept the tempo up with snapping fingers and clear vocals.
The show lasted two hours, and Godoy was impressed. Elvis even pointed their table out and said, “This song’s for mah friends here.” It was Big Boss Man. The finish was, I Did It My Way.
As the Q-beam went off, Jesse asked, “What’d you think?”
“I was pleasantly surprised.”
“Good. We can look around a little more, and E said we could crash out back if we needed to. It’d save us from having to drive through OJ tonight.” They rose from their table and left as two female strippers started their act on stage, complete with the attentive Q-beam man.
***
Anda stood on the hill and looked down into the lights and noisy crowds in the streets of Outlaw Road. She was so emotionally and physically tired she could hardly stand, and she was scared of the people in the town. But Bobby had said to go there, to someone named Mingo Cruz. This she would do for him, and she would tell this Cruz what had happened and how Bobby died.
She walked straight down the side of the steep hill, and her thighs quivered with the effort. At the outskirts, Anda picked her way through twisted automobile skeletons, piles of tin cans and other lumps of rusted metal refuse. She stopped in the shadow at the edge of the main street. Anda was self-conscious about wearing only a blouse. The boisterous crowd, she noticed, was almost all male. Her legs would be visible to everyone. She pulled down on the bottom of the blouse, but it barely covered. If she raised her arms, her sex would show. Well, she would have to keep her arms down. There was nothing else to do, but do it. She had to find Mingo Cruz. Anda took a tired breath and stepped into the street.
The bars were bustling, and light came from the windows, along with the sounds of Mexican music. There were cars parked in haphazard clumps along the street. Old derelicts parked beside new Jeep Cherokees and Jaguars, a John Deere tractor with the plow still attached was next to a dark green Mercedes, and on the other side of the car was a Kodiak four-wheeler with two rifle scabbards tied to a homemade roll bar.
Passed-out drunks littered the walkways and the street. Occasionally someone would drag an inert body to the side so they could move their car. Anda saw one woman arguing with a well-dressed man in a white, flat-brimmed hat. Anda hurried past and saw the man punch the woman in the face and drag her into an alley, still hitting her.
Drunks and dopers filled the streets. All had bottles and tipped them up frequently. Others on the street were morose and sullen, and a few stared glassy-eyed at nothing. Vendors sold beer and whiskey out of tubs and carts, while others sold drugs and hand-rolled cigarettes whose pungent smoke-smell filled the air. Anda recognized it as mota.
Anda maneuvered through the crowd, hoping to find someone she could ask about Mingo Cruz. Occasionally a drunk would try to put his arm around her, exclaiming, “A tiny one!” or, “What legs!” or, “How pretty!” One man even tried to plant a sloppy kiss on her, but Anda dodged away and he staggered on.
She stopped at the third bar on the street and peered inside at the bright light and the crowd of younger looking men and women dancing to heavy beat music with English words, when a hand gripped her shoulder and pulled her backward against a muscular body.
The man circled one massive arm around her waist and picked her up to nuzzle her neck with his stubbly face. “Ahh, little one. I saw your legs and had to see them up close.” He ran one rough hand up her thigh, and she tried to kick free. He chuckled, “Yes, I
think you’ll do fine for tonight.”
Anda struggled, but the man was big and strong. She tried to break his grip, but the forearm was as thick as her thigh, and the corded muscles under the heavily tattooed skin were like steel cables. Other people moved away, leaving a cleared area around them. The man raised his free hand to feel of her small breasts and muttered, “Yess.” When he tried to touch her face, Anda caught his thumb in her mouth and bit down as hard as she could.
The man yelled and jerked his hand free, almost pulling out Anda’s front teeth. “You little whore!” He growled, then threw her hard against the doorframe. Anda ricocheted off the frame and slid across the floor of the room, knocking down two people before crashing into several stools and coming to rest against a brass foot rail at the bottom of the bar.
Anda was dazed and sat up slowly. The floor had cleared, with the dancers now backed against the walls. Then the man, the enormous man with huge shoulders and tiny waist, came through the door. He looked at her with mean eyes and said, “I’m going to use you up, then kill you and feed you to the rats.” He started toward her, flexing his hands.
Anda could think of only one thing to do. She took a deep breath and yelled as loud as she could, “MINGO CRUZ!” The man stopped, and the crowd shifted their feet. She heard someone walking around the side of the bar.
He came into view, wiping his hands on a towel. He was young, looking no older than the boys Anda had seen near a school in Batopilas, and his orange hair and baggy clothes made him look like an orphan wearing someone’s hand-me-downs. He looked at her, curious. “You called my name,” he said.
The big man said, “She’s mine! I saw her first.”
The young man held up his hand to indicate Just a moment, then turned his attention to Anda. “Do I know you, little one?”
“You are called Mingo Cruz?”
