The Last Hustle

Prologue

Mexico, 1980

In the early evening, just after supper time, the young women of Compestella come to the square. The women are unmarried and they come with a momma or younger brother or sister to stroll about the square in their shawls and long skirts. Walking slowly and regally they pass through the circles of dusty yellow light, past the solid wooden benches, then aro8nd the statue in the center of the square upon whose base young boys, wide eyed and solemn, sit with legs dangling. Then back again and around again.

The air is heavy and warm, just beginning to cool. Tobacco smoke is mingled with the tang of the Hibiscus flowers and the dusty smell of dry earth. The branches of the hibiscus trees that frame the square bend heavily, thick and full with leafy blackness, their brilliant red flowers muted, blending into the dark leaves.

The voices of the women are subdued, rich and soft like distant music with hints of laughter and intimacy. On the benches the still, dark, spectators rarely speak; a few words, a nod, the lighting of another cigarette. Even the usually boisterous teen age boys are quiet. They stand against the trees and talk in near whispers, shifting their weight from one leg to the other, hands thrust deeply into the pockets of their jeans. Posing and eager they look and comment, nudge and tease.

Like actors consciously ignoring an audience the women stop to talk; a shoulder is thrust back, a shawl adjusted, a head angled down toward a younger brother. Their movements have a practiced deliberation; the hands never flutter but move with a sure and precise grace. And then the turning to bless us with the briefest sideways glance.

My friend Diaz calls it, the parade of the little momas, There is an air of ceremony to it, they might have come from church, after the wafer and wine, after the genuflections and the holy water, to participate in this other, older, ceremony.

The church at the north end of the square is brown stone, solid and square with a heavy iron fence and gate. Diaz tells me it is the second oldest Christian church in Mexico. Diaz has not gone to church in years and dislikes the clergy. they suck the marrow from the bones of the poor. Yet he still seems proud of the church, because it is old and it is in his village.

Will you be gone a long time? Diaz offers me a cigarette and the match flares in the darkness. At the end of the bench an elderly couple get up and begin to walk towards the center of the square. The woman’s arm is comfortably entwined with the man’s. The sky has changed from dark blue to purple black and a few faint stars are visible.

I try to remember the bright, harsh lights of gambling casinos and shopping malls, of bustling downtown avenues. I shrug my shoulders. A few months at least. I have to make some money. In truth I do not know if I will be back.

We’ll go to Maria’s then? She’s made food.

Of course, I wouldn’t miss it for anything.

The parade of the little mommas is over. The square is dark and quiet, only a few black silhouettes remain on the benches. Most of the people are gone, disappeared into the dark streets and into the houses marked off from the blackness by squares of yellow window light.

After a while we too leave. Almost the last to go we walk down the main street of Compestella, Avenue August 15th, to the Taberra Morena, the Brown Cafe. The night is all around us, soft and still, with the faint music of the dance hall coming to us. It is old American rock and roll, the familiar rhythms and words an echo of another time and place.

As far as I can tell the Brown Cafe has no formal name, certainly there is no sign, inside or out, stating a name. Perhaps in the bureaucracy of licensing and taxation it has a name, possibly something grand and romantic, but it is always referred to simply as the Brown Cafe.

The outside of the cafe is painted a pale, unhealthy shade of brown trimmed with peeling black enamel. Inside one wall is white the other three a dark lime green, The only decorations are signs for beer, brandy, and tequila, and one picture; a travel poster, unframed, that shows ruins and a deep blue sky.

There are five tables in the cafe, square wooden tables covered with yellow oilcloth worn white in spots. The chairs are of all sorts and sizes, some from old kitchen sets with chrome legs and patched plastic coverings and these are the most comfortable, the other chairs are wooden, square cut and solid.

Mostly the Brown Cafe sells beer and brandy, some tequila and some coffee. The brandy is brandy in name only, it is cheap and potent and tastes like a mixture of cheap wine and straight alcohol. In a glass case there are buns, some sweet pastries, and a type of spicy, cold sausage. There is no menu for the owner is not particularly interested in selling food, however if you ask he will make you a small meal or snack depending on what he has on hand,

I often go to the Brown Cafe alone, often at supper time when I will eat with the owner or with his beautiful daughter who works in the cafe, Knowing that my Spanish is not that good they speak to me in a slow and deliberate manner and listen intently when I speak. They politely seek my opinion on various matters and weigh my responses carefully and respectfully as befits how they see me, as a mature man who has traveled much and seen much

One reason we often go to this cafe is because the waitress, the daughter of the owner, is an incredible beauty. She is so wonderful to look at it is hard not to stare at her, and she is as beautiful the fiftieth time you see her as the first. I wonder if you lived with her, were married to her, how long it would before you could go beyond the beauty, or if you ever could.

Diaz has a running joke with her in which he asks her father for her hand in marriage making all sort of ridiculous promises. She laughs shyly and is a little charmed. I have the feeling she does not know how beautiful she is. The father laughs too and carries on the joke but I sense that he does not like this kind of talk about his daughter.

Diaz is thirty-five, twelve years longer than I am, and he plays in a mariachi band. They play when and where they can, so his living is pretty much hand to mouth, The band is volatile, always changing; members leave, new ones join, there are quarrels and crises. There is almost always, with a sigh and a shrug, trouble in the band.

Although not good son-in-law material Diaz is well liked. He is a charmer and thought of as sophisticated and as a lady’s man, although his reputation for the latter far outweighs the facts. Also he has traveled, not just to Guadalajara and to Mexico City but he lived for six years in the United States.

There are three other customers in the cafe, regulars that I have seen there before They laugh softly at the running joke then quietly talk among themselves. I am conscious of the music from the dance hall, a slow ballad popular three or four years ago.

Just before we finish our beer Diaz tells the owner that I am leaving the next day.

Only for a few months I’m coming back.

We should have found him a good woman then he would have stayed. Diaz says

When we are leaving and I am paying the bill I buy a round for the owner and the three regulars. To be drunk after I am gone, it is the custom where I come from.

Outside the night air is cool and the sky is filled with stars, the music from the dance hall is louder and I stop by the door to listen. The tequila has given me a feeling of looseness and of anticipation as though I was on the verge of something, some great truth or adventure. But it is always just beyond me, just missed,, gone by in the turning of a head, lost in the dark night.

I sit down on the steps. I want to hear the music. I say to Diaz.

Sitting in the bright doorway of the dance hall there is this feeling, for just the briefest moment, but it fills me and I sit, poised and alert, like a bird with its head cocked hearing something we can never hear. Time stops and I wait, wanting to laugh, to walk forever. It comes from the great black sky. The million stars, from the dark quiet trees and beyond them the back desert, from the music and underneath the music the soft laughter and Spanish voices. It comes from Diaz and the night, the great huge night, a night so enormous as to be unimaginable. The song ends but I don’t want to leave so we sit and quietly smoke our cigarettes. Diaz asks, a little shyly.. Do you want to bring someone?

No, its all right. I get up. A good night to be with friends, but first we need to get some liquor.

We go to a small shop that sells liquor and cigarettes and I buy bottles of brandy and tequila, some beer, and for me Kaluha and condensed milk. That is my drink in Mexico, equal parts Kaluha, tequila, and condensed milk.

After the first hour the party is mostly a blur; a jumble of toasts, hugs and handshakes, of jokes and promises to return. Music is played, some of it dedicated to me, I even attempt a couple of dances with Maria.

Then, almost quickly, the party is almost over, the songs have become sad, some people are sleeping, some have left. I am afraid to get out of my chair because I know the room will spin. Roberto and I are talking but his words are slurring and he is talking too quickly so it is hard to follow him. His wife is curled up beside him, knees pulled up, her head nestled against his shoulder. She seems to be asleep but every now and then she opens her eyes and murmurs something to him. A man is playing a guitar and a young woman is sitting on the floor singing a sad song about a lover dying in a war or a revolution and something about a flower. I want desperately to sleep and must fight to keep my eyes open.

After a while Robert and his wife leave and I keep slipping into half sleep. I am afraid that if I sleep I will miss my bus which is due at eight o’clock. Already the sky has become lighter. My watch says six twenty and the next time I look it is seven fifteen sand the sky is bright. I wake Diaz up to say good-bye but he says he will come with me, as I knew he would, to wait by the highway for the bus

Outside the sunlight is bright and hard, hurting my eyes and increasing the throbbing in my head. I fumble for my sunglasses. My legs are weak and walking is an effort, I am still a little drunk.

At the highway we sit under a tree to wait for the bus. There is not much to say, Diaz comments that it was a very good party and I ask him how long the band will be in Guadalajara. After that we wait in silence.

The bus is ten minutes late but finally we see it, a small moving spec on the highway coming out of the hills to the east. We stand together at the side of the road and when the bus shudders to a stop, all dust and heat and noise, we smile and shake hands.

Take care of yourself.

Always, and you too.

Always.

Chapter 1

The donut shop was a replica of a thousand others; shiny, easy to clean plastic made