Carlos Velázquez - The Cowboy Bible and Other Stories

— Pedro.

— Yes, Juan.

— I need two grams of heroin. But I don’t have the money to pay you.

— Juan, you know… it’s business.

— I brought this. He showed him the Star.380.

— That changes things. Given that, we don’t have to take the usual steps.

— Juan handed Pedro the gun, wrapped in a handkerchief and still warm from the shot that had killed John Vollmer, then took the drug and made his way down the dirty boulevard. Pedro Rodríguez stayed in his room, scratching. The itching was so intense that all through the wee hours the only sound on the streets was that of his nails on his skin.

The Cowboy Bible

At the station, the commissioner reprimanded two of his agents.

— What’s this about you refusing to arrest Pedro Rodríguez?

— We’ve heard stories, commissioner.

— Damn.

— They say he’s a nahual .

— What’s that?

— A witch. An Indian witch who can transform himself into a bird, bubble, fire, coyote, or whatever he wants.

— Those are stories told by ignorant people. Do you think this is a movie? Pedro Rodríguez is nothing more than an insignificant dealer.

— They say they’ve seen him shoot with a Cowboy Bible.

— Don’t be ridiculous. A Cowboy Bible? So, what then, he uses a guitar to cut onions?

— Commissioner…

— Don’t commissioner me. You two get out of here and get that asshole by whatever means necessary.

— Don’t make me lose my patience. Just confess, Mr. Juan Salazar. What did you do with the gun that killed your lover? asked the commissioner.

— I already told you. I gave it to Pedro Rodríguez.

— For the last time, Mr. Juan Salazar: Do you know where to find Pedro Rodríguez?

Juan Salazar was detained at Lecumberri for only thirteen days. He was released on bail. Court costs were $2,312. His attorney, Bernabé Jurado, charged $2,300 for his services, $300 of which were used to bribe the boys in ballistics. When they couldn’t find the murder weapon, Jurado substituted a Smith & Wesson for the Star.380 so as not to delay the proceedings. The whole story about the William Tell game was proven false. The version presented in court asserted that Juan Salazar was cleaning his weapon. The gun accidentally fell to the floor and fired. The bullet entered the victim’s forehead without premeditation.

John Vollmer was buried in grave #1018-A in the Panteón Americano.

Pedro Rodríguez was listening to the blues on his old record player when they rang the doorbell of his attic room. He thought about the cops, he thought about the dogs, and he thought about Juan Salazar. With the needle still hanging off his arm, he got up to see who it was. It was nobody. And before some Yankee showed up with his imported boner, insisting on trading it for drugs, he grabbed the Star.380 and went out on the streets.

He arrived at the Laguna Coliseum in time for the second fight. That night, there was a mask vs. hairpiece match between Santo’s Son and Menace Jr. He bought some snacks and a Victoria beer. When it came time for the superdeluxe semifinal, after he’d had four beers, he saw a narc guarding the men’s bathroom. A second stood at the door, and a third roamed the general ring area.

With the gun tucked into his pants waist, he made his way to the rudos dressing room. A fourth narc intercepted him. All four patted him down, but they didn’t find the gun. In its place, badly hidden in his pants, they found a Cowboy Bible. After searching his attic room and driving him around in an old Dodge for two hours with his head between his legs, Pedro Rodríguez still didn’t reveal the whereabouts of the Star.380. He also couldn’t explain how he’d come upon The Cowboy Bible. They took him cuffed to the station. The gun was never found.

The beating ended at five in the afternoon. Two police thugs had been cracking him from eleven in the morning on, hoping he’d let loose the 411 on the gun’s whereabouts. Disconcerted by his stubborn silence, they dropped him back in his cell so that after a brief rest and a chat, he’d recover his ability to feel pain, so that he wouldn’t forget what it felt like, so that he wouldn’t miss it.

At seven they brought him dinner. It was already dark because of the summer change in time zones. He could hear music coming from the central plaza. He’d be transferred to Lecumberri the next day. The torture sessions left him exhausted, and he fell asleep with his eyes fixed on the wall.

Some goings-on in the cell woke him up. When he was sleeping, he dreamed of saxophones: tenors, altos, sopranos. He imagined the band’s revelry, he even thought he heard When the Saints Go Marching In. But the noise in the cell wouldn’t let him concentrate on the melody. He imagined the cops would be coming back for another round. What are they waiting for, he asked himself. But it wasn’t them. He remembered the dogs. He was sure it was the dogs, but he refused to look.

He kept his face to the wall. He heard a voice in his head, and he was afraid. There they are again, the voice said. Because of the din, he assumed the dogs were playing around. The voice spoke again: There they are again, and those bastards don’t understand. Pedro Rodríguez turned to look. They weren’t dogs but men, and they had gathered in a circle like a group of boys kicking around a ball on fire. He got up from the cot and moved to the center of the circle.

How can I be afraid of them, if they’re a part of me, he said, as if he was talking back to the voice inside him. Then the one hundred and seventeen men all began to jump inside him with a long wail.

The guards on duty woke from the riot.

— Go get him, the new guy’s acting out. Quick, before he hangs himself.

But when the guards on duty looked through the bars, they didn’t see the prisoner. The lock was still locked. The only thing in the cell was a snake that glittered like a cowboy belt.

— Look, partner. A snake.

— Kill it, kill it. Shoot it, you dummy. It’s a Masticophis flagellum. They nest in houses.

They pulled out their guns and opened fire on the snake that slithered and crawled, slithered and crawled, slithered and crawled. When they were sure it was dead, the opened the cell door, but there was absolutely no trace of the creature. In its place they found only a piteado belt shot through with bullet holes.

Emilio says to The Cowboy Bible, You can consider this goodbye. With what’s due you, you can restart your life. I’m going to San Francisco, with the one who’s everything to me.

Four shots were heard. The Cowboy Bible had killed Emilio. The police found only a discarded gun. No one heard anything ever again about the money or The Cowboy Bible.

Later, at dawn, she told me:

— You’re a loser, Old Paulino. You’re not at all affectionate. You know who was sweet to me?

— Who?

— The Cowboy Bible. He really knew how to make love.

Born in Coahuila, Mexico, in 1978, CARLOS VELÁZQUEZ is the author of story collections Cuco Sánchez Blues (2004), La Biblia Vaquera (named one of the books of the year by Reforma in 2009), and La marrana negra de la literatura rosa (2010). He received the Premio Nacional de Cuento Magdalena Mondragón and has been anthologized in El Fondo de Cultura Económica’s Anuario de poesia mexicana 2007 .

Born in Havana, Cuba, ACHY OBEJAS has written fiction, poetry, and journalism. She is the author of five books, including three novels: Days of Awe, Memory Mambo , and Ruins . Her poetry chapbook, This Is What Happened in Our Other Life , was both a critical favorite and a bestseller. She is trained as a journalist and has worked in the alternative press, including In These Times , where she writes a monthly column, and the Chicago Tribune . A translator between Spanish and English, she translated into Spanish Junot Díaz’s The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao and This Is How You Lose Her and into English such contemporary Latin American writers as Rita Indiana, F. G. Haghenbeck, and Wendy Guerra. She is the recipient of a USA Ford Fellowship, a Woodrow Wilson Visiting Fellowship, a team Pulitzer Prize for the series “Gateway to Gridlock” while at the Tribune , a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship in poetry, the Studs Terkel Journalism Award, and a Cintas Foundation Fellowship. She is currently the Distinguished Visiting Writer at Mills College in Oakland, California.