By Tommy Villalobos
Chapter 9
Ernie, first of the newly formed Doña Risna groupies to arrive at the meeting place, stood looking out at the garden lit by landscape lighting. He saw little but schemed much. He was on the verge of living a life he knew he always deserved. The clock struck one and he figured he was one-step closer to that deserving moment. Nothing could stop the moment. He was shuffling items of potential purchase through his mind, which included Stuart Hughes suits, five star eateries and luxury resorts around the globe. He wondered at the fact he had not seated himself in front of a computer and started exercising his new purchasing power.
Big moments bring big emotions. He leaned his trembling elbows on logic, concluding that his caretaker, Lydia, would not be prowling about at night. He knew that she valued her beauty sleep as a grizzly its hibernation. Still, the possibility was there knowing her capable of rising from the dead, when that occasion should arrive, if something moved her to a Lazarus moment. As the time came for the abduction of the animals of interest, his insubstantial body was involuntarily squirming here and there like an amateur belly dancer stirred into a dancing frenzy by an audience’s whoops.
The door opened without a sound and Pete entered without sound. She walked spiritedly yet quietly. She was Mark Sanchez coming up to the line of scrimmage. She was ready for audibles and safety blitzes. Petra Simala felt she was born for the challenges the night offered.
“¡Oye! ¿Cómo va?” she said with her voice level dial on High. In response, Ernie leaped and performed a fouetté turn that would have drawn the envy of a prima ballerina at the Vaganova Ballet Academy.
“¡Órale! You made my heart bounce around my chest, esa,” he said finishing his pirouette with a flourish. His eyes were finding it a challenge to stay in their respective sockets and the ground felt as if he were in the midst of at least a 6.1. “I didn’t think you did things like that.”
“Like what?”
“Sneaking up on someone and then scare them out of their chones.”
“But this is such a big night, dude. I’m excited to be alive and well in City Terrace.”
“Well, you almost made me dead in City Terrace with your grito at this hour. I think my heart stopped and had trouble restarting. ¿Y Doña Risna?”
“Oh, she’ll be shimmering in.”
“She’s already ten minutes late.”
“What’s ten minutes next to a load of chips?” said Pete as she went up close to him. She looked into the garden. “What were you thinking that you didn’t even notice I barged into the room? Happy thoughts, I hope. The future is bright. Even the flowers in the garden seem to be brighter. Look at the evening dew dancing off the Amaryllis petals under Lydia’s phony lights. Look at the spikey stamens of the bottlebrush. They’re radiant like pulsars from the far reaches of the heavens. ‘By length, I mean duration; theirs endured Heaven knows how long—no doubt they have never reckoned—’”
“¡Hijo, Pete!”
“Now’s not the time for poesy, eh? The mood is not quite right? Como dices. Pero, you have to admit it now seems a wondrous world that awaits us, flimsy garden and all. The stars all aligned to perfection. Our barrio is in that alignment. Let me tell you more, Ernie. No matter what you think, what you say, the glories of the universe are there every night, waiting for our tired eyes to behold. Keep that in mind. How come you’re floating around like a feather in front of a snoring politician? ¿Qué te pica? Are you having second thoughts? Misgivings? ¿Tienes miedo?”
“I need a trago.”
“Don’t. Hey, Jimmy,” Pete said as the door again swung open. “You have to help me with Ernie’s head which has gone south on us. His own shadow is giving him the creeps.”
Jimmy looked at Ernie as he would a whimpering puppy. His nerves were down to their threads, as well. He felt their exploits might make the crime section of his former newspaper, the Los Angeles Daily Times. He had reported on other’s crimes with the professional aloofness of a reporter, feeling superior to the poor souls who were dragged away by the arm of the law. Now he may be sharing skid marks and cells with them.
He also harbored notions that Lydia would pop up around every corner. After all, this was her house. Why should she not pop up here and there like a rabbit surveying its patch? She had obvious affection for her pets and it would be understandable that an excitable woman like Señora Telliz would expose her retractable claws to protect them and their whereabouts. He admired her fiery way of handling the smallest obstruction to her perceived road to happiness.
In the newspaper business, he had run into some full-time female hissers and kickers, but all would appear comatose next to Lydia Simala Telliz. She was the diva of tongue lashers and vase hurlers.
“Where’s Doña Risna,” he asked with a croak, for his throat felt as dry as if it crawled through the better part of the Sonora desert.
“She’s coming,” said Pete. “Her destiny lies with nosotros.”
Ernie made a sound resembling a camel with smoker’s cough.
“It looks like she is following a different destiny now. The minutes tick away and she might as well be back in that pueblo in Mexico flipping corn tortillas. You keep saying, ‘Ah, here she is,’ but I don’t see her. I’m going across the street to her house to see if she’s hiding under her bed, or her house. She’s a pain, always has been. If that’s the kind of old Mejicanas they’re putting out now, Mexico needs another revolution.”
He darted from the room and Pete shook her head like a battle-scarred boxer whose son declared his intention to become a maître d'.
“Ernie gets all emotional.”
“I think his reaction is justified,” said Jimmy. “I feel like bawling myself.”
Pete now grunted as if Jimmy had invited her to join him in a bawling jam.
“You men, what’s happened to your backbone? You see El Cucuy in every shadow and under every rock. Break a beer bottle at the neck, drink the contents, fling the bottle and let out a grito. Everything is going to be fine. Where’s your machismo, hombre?”
“Okay, my machismo is still in its developmental stage. And I feel like weeping a bit. In a manly way, but weeping is the only word that comes to mind. And I not only see El Cucuy lurking in shadows, but La Cosa Mala, The Thing, the Werewolf, Dracula, Blacula and Jason. I believe in diversity, even in my sustos. What if your awesome Mejicana is a no show?”
“She’ll be here.”
“What if she can’t steal the beasts?”
Pete felt like belting out a laugh, a risa to end all risas. She reported on the trial of one of the most meticulous people ever to orchestrate the taking of animals from their natural habitats, whether in the depths of a steamy jungle, high on some frigid mountain cliff or in the middle of a baking desert. The D.A. felt no polar bear, green viper or blue whale was safe from her fingertips and presented his case in such manner.
“She can snap them up before they know what hit them. She’s a first rate animal ladrona. You should have read my news story. I couldn’t find enough adjectives to describe her exploits. She got negative bravos from all news sources. Jimmy, stop being a whirligig. Siéntate.”
“¿De veras?”
“Raise my right hand and hope to prosper.”
“You really believe in her, don’t you?”
“I’d trust her on any job where a crooked mind and speedy hands were called for.”
Jimmy appeared appeased, the fear dissipating from his countenance.
“Pete, you always make me feel better. I feel like I’ve been sitting on my abuelita’s lap getting a pep talk.”
“Très bien.”
“You know, you don’t normally link traditional Mejicanas with international crime operations. That’s why I held reservations. I thought all abuelita types were preoccupied with was to go around saying, ‘¡Estate quieto!’ ‘Deja eso, ya,’ ‘Cállate la boca,’ ‘Cómo me duele mi espalda,’ and ‘Ya cuándo me muero, vas a ver.’ Never pictured one engaging in an international black market operation trading in exotic creatures. But if you vouch for the old chick, I got no problem. I feel a personal economic recovery coming on.”
“Let’s go dancing in the streets, singing about our coming economic recovery. Bailed out by a Grand Mejicana.”
“A merry duet. Pete, you know about mujeres and the care and feeding of, right?”
“I’ve been around one or two.”
“They like a bato with energetic cash flow, right?”
“Pulsating a toda madre.”
“And they like movers and shakers. A man who sticks his legs into his pants with ganas. A good, old-fashioned chingón. Agreed?”
“Agreed. Women find responsibility sexy.”
“So, if Doña Risna steals those animales and Ernie forks over thousands, if not millions, to us if we extort any and all documents from Lydia, and I become a big-time agent with several caruchas, a gigantic chante, and enough money to make any colchón soft and comfortable, it should change things. ¿Qué te parece? Con Margarita, I mean. Will she look at me differently?”
“She’ll jump into your brazos, and say, ‘My dude, mi bato, my homie, my knight, mi hombre, let’s go shopping.’”
“That’s what I thought. I’m aiming for that response from her. But we need Doña Risna for it all to happen.”
“Nobody else will do.”
“Without Doña Risna, we’re lost, sunk, crushed, frozen, done for, and thwarted.”
“Immobilized to the max.”
“So, after all this neat analysis, dónde a la fregada está la vieja? Hey!” said Jimmy, breaking current form as the door creaked open.
It was, however, not the missing vieja, but Margaret who came through the doorway. She was appealing, wearing a blue dressing gown over eggshell colored pajamas and gold sandals with raised heels. Any other time, Jimmy’s eyes would have danced like Gabriel Iglesias’ eyes after spotting an unguarded, triple-layered cake. He looked at her with disappointment for not being the Grand Mejicana who ripped off apes dangling from jungle vines.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said.
“And ‘Oh’ to you too,” said Margaret. “¿Y Doña Risna?”
Pete, too, was disappointed.
“You should be in bed and dreaming about love and marriage,” she said. “I’ve heard enough queries regarding the whereabouts of one Doña Risna.”
“Sí, mi sargento, but I’m here, so let me stay.”
“Well, I don’t want you to get used to roaming about at all hours, becoming a vagabunda. Sit down and stay out of the way. Or, better yet, go bake some cookies.”
“Cookies after all the grub you ate at that dinner?”
“I always want galletas,” said Pete. Her mind returned to grinding out evaluations. She stared at Margaret as if she were the subject of a possible story on wayward young women or, at least, confused ones.
“An eye-catching pipsqueak, ain’t she, Jimmy? Check out those pouty yet kissable lips.”
“Noted.”
‘Gracias, Tía Pete. Makes my millennium that you described then ordained the employment of my lips.”
Jimmy could not resist. The disappointment of not seeing Doña Risna, the supreme animal snapper, come through the door had abated. He now imagined Margaret and him, after some little squabble that comes with all marriages, sitting in their very own sala, she wearing those same pouty yet kissable lips.
“What a woman!” he was inspired to say. “Woman? No mere mortal woman, but a small serving of heaven. A spirit in human form. Venus, Helen of Troy and Yvonne Delarosa all in one neat package.”
“What lovelorn Jimmy is trying to mutter,” explained Pete, “is that you are a knockout and should be on every cover of Latina magazine. Mere words are not enough to encompass any feeble attempt to fashion an adept description of your physical attributes. We need a symphony written for you. A painter commissioned to detail your matchless features. Jimmy, I bet you would not hesitate to travel the world telling folks about her singular beauty.”
“Wouldn’t stop until every person was properly informed.”
“Those lips, that nose, such eyes, and throw in that brow, could launch a thousand lowriders.”
“Each vehicle packed with homies.”
Margaret sat down in a chair facing the garden, throwing her head back in exact duplication in form as Lydia, her mother. And like her Tía Petra, she was rough and ready, confident of the ensuing project, not overly concerned like the two timorous fellows.
“I hope you two have stopped verbalizing my countenance and—”
“Stop?” said Pete. “How can there be an end to such an undertaking? The Oxford English Dictionary, the big, fat one, is wanting in providing the lexicon needed to touch on your features. Look at her profile, Jimmy. Such a visage belongs in marble resting on a pedestal and sitting pretty in some museum. Nay, not just any museum, but the Louvre.”
Jimmy gave an eager nod.
“That’s the first thing that would strike an art collector—that profile obviously suggested by the seraphim hovering above The Throne. ‘Golly!’ that collector might cry out, rubbing his or her eyes for his or her second look.”
“And den’, and den’?” said Margaret.
“Jimmy feels faint every time he sees that profile,” said Pete. “He is the picture of helplessness, breaking out in a fever and laid up for days. Wonder it hasn’t happened here.
“¿Qué hubo, Ernie? Where was she hiding?”
Ernie entered, appearing more out of sorts than ever. The continuing absence of the Grand Mejicana was starting to wear on his mind although Lydia would say it had long worn away.
“She’s vanished into thick air. She’s not in her house. Where can the woman be?” He ended with a now familiar leap, his face corpse like. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“A spooky noise. At the puerta. Someone or something walking in the garden.”
“It’s okay, Ernie,” said Pete. “It has to be Doña Risna. She’s the only one not present. Betcha a dollar. Sí es Doña Risna,” she finished with a flourish of her hand as the dignified and august figure materialized from a dark shadow of the garden. “Buenas noches,” Pete said.
“Buenas noches, Señorita,” said the Grand Mejicana.
To be continued…
Tommy Villalobos, who lives in Northern California, is taking the plunge with Somos en escrito by submitting his first novel for publication in serial form (think Carlos Dickens without the pence per word). His droll humor and keen eye for the Chicanan cultura paint in rapid strokes caricatures that only an abuelita could love but imbue his obras with a loving warmth as well. Let’s continue to read along as Lipstick con Chorizo unfolds.