New Border Voices: An Anthology

From Mariguano: A Novel

From Mariguano: A Novel JUAN OCHOA I have a family—mom, dad, brothers, a sister—just like everyone else. I’m raised in a decent house that doesn’t tolerate foul language or lies, and I have to take my plate to the sink after I eat. But I also have my Old Man and his clica. When I was thirteen, my Old Man taught me how to drive, take tequila shots, and shoot out of a moving vehicle, all in one sitting. My dad’s not the only one teaching me things, though. I have five or six guys around at all times making sure I get things straight. Whenever we get a big score, I have to sit in a hotel room with one of my Old Man’s men counting the money over and over. I complained once and el Chaparro said, “Chato, someday you’ll do a deal and not go crazy and try to grab more than your share because your dad was smart enough to make you sick of counting money.” I learn all kinds of things from these guys, like always be wary of the kindness of strangers, and never trust a guy who says, “Trust me.” I know better than to front something that I can’t afford to lose, and I’ll never steal or put the finger on anyone. Just that alone is enough to keep a guy alive for a long time, but I can figure out other things, too. I’ve learned to read a newspaper better than a stockbroker. I know that if there’s an article about someone losing a load or getting busted, I’ll be holed up somewhere waiting by the phone for at least two calls: one from the guy wanting to arreglar la bronca, fix the problem, and get out of jail and another from some cop looking to sell a load cheap. I know that if there’s an article announcing a new comandante coming to town we’ll be throwing a party complete with mariachis and whores to baptize President Reagan’s newest godson—that’s what my Old Man calls cops, ahijados de Reagan. I can tell if I’m going to be holed up waiting for a phone call or getting laid that day just by reading the headlines. In the summer of 1983, the story taking up all the headlines has nothing to do with us, but I learn a lot from it anyway. There are two major newspapers in Reynosa. La Prensa is owned and edited by Don Félix Tarta. Don Beto Garrado publishes El Mañana and an evening edition called La Tarde. Don Félix also owns a radio station. Each paper dedicates a few columns to editorials denouncing its rival as an amarillista rag. El Mañana is supposedly more powerful than La Prensa, but I really can’t see how since everyone in town buys both papers and believes neither one. ♦ ♦ ♦ From Mariguano: A Novel ♦ 121 Don Beto and Don Félix are also rivals in the public transport business. Each man owns a line of peseras. Peseras are like little buses that take people all around town for a peso. Only they’re not buses. They’re beat-up cargo vans with shitty tires and even shittier brakes. There are no seats in these vans other than the driver’s. Passengers sit on milk crates that topple over every time the driver takes a sharp turn. All of Don Beto’s vans are painted yellow. Don Félix’s vans are also yellow but with a red stripe, so they’re called franja rojas. The drivers of the yellow vans are having a war with the drivers of the franja roja vans over the routes they drive; the newspapers call it La Guerra de las Peseras, the Pesera Wars. Each side claims that the other is cutting into their fares. Vans are getting burned out left and right. Lately, you can’t open a newspaper without seeing the picture of a driver who’s been beaten or shot to death next to a torched van. The Pesera Wars are selling a lot of newspapers. Mom, Dad, Danny, and I have been staying at the Hotel El Camino for most of the summer. Mom and my Old Man stay in room 324 and Danny and I are in 325—mom says it doesn’t look right for kids to be alone...