Lucas Barrón, aka Dirty. Bar owner and thirty-third degree Mason, (York) and uncle to the listener. Corpulent, as we say in Spanish, congenitally red-faced, in his mid-sixties and, to quote him, “No, not quite as strong as an ox, anymore, but more intelligent, at this stage.” The listener was baptized at Our Lady of Mercy Church by the informant and by the woman who shared everything with him for over forty years of marriage, the listener’s aunt: Doña Socorro. The informant, and not as a by the way, is a staunch supporter to Jehu Malacara.
Friends, you say? Which ones? Look here, you’re old enough to know better: friends disappear, they die off, they move on and away, and as sometimes happens, they’re no longer friends. You sure you got all that? And if you’re talking about those women, forget it. For-get-it.
Listen, Becky knew those women in those clubs, but did she have friends there? No. Friends are something else. I happen to think that it’s difficult for a woman to have men friends and I certainly think it’s hard for certain women to form strong friendships with other women. There are exceptions to everything, got to be. Hell, what kind of a world would this be without exceptions?
But those women, those clubby types, they may have been friends to each other, but the question remains: where was Becky in all of this? Where did she fit in? Mexican girls have other problems …
Ha! Listen, that one of our girls, una chica nuestra, wants to go to college, to a university, what usually happens? First off, who and what does she think she is? She must be one of those who don’t like men. What kind of a father, a mother, allows a daughter to go off, away from the Valley? They’ll say she’s crazy, some screw loose somewhere. How many times have I heard people say that? In this bar? Jesus …
No, I admit it isn’t as bad as all that now, today, Thank God, but even today, right now, you can still hear it. God, yes. There’s a lot of ass-holish raza, out there. Oh, and wait a minute, let me add that she damn well better not try to be anything else other than a grade-school teacher. She better not go earn a living at the Klail-Enterprise as a reporter or at the Jonesville Courier or something like that. A piss ant teacher, you slut, ’cause that’s where you belong … Sure. And some of their own brothers say that. Maybe not slut or whore, but it’s the idea. So, too often, even if just once, too, some women will never forgive other women. Why, they’re just like men, yeah. Sure, it’s sad, but it’s the damned truth, too.
Oh, and you know what they also say? It’s because we were raised that way, to think that way. Well, that’s not the whole damned truth, no sireee. In Becky’s case it was an entirely different matter, and that was the best stroke of luck ever. An only daughter, somewhat well-off by Valley standards, and since her mother, Elvira Navarrete, was a bit pushy, it was she who saw to it that Becky went off to college. To get married up there …
Enough to make you stop drinking … But what a drubbing Elvira took on that one. Becky wised up a bit, didn’t she? Oh, sure she married, was almost forced to. The usual, you know … Although, in her case, she was married off to a perfect idiot. She married that son of Angustias Leyva and Nemesio Escobar. Poor quality semen on both sides, and that’s for starters.
That marriage was nothing, you understand? Nothing special. A common, ordinary marriage: money was spent, pictures taken and posed for all over the place, newspaper stories, and from there, to raise a family. Like I said, common, everyday. But then, not only common and every day, it was sad, too.
But look at how things stand now. That drop of water falls hard and steady, long enough, that rock’s gonna crack eventually. Got to. And in this case, the divorce had nothing to do with money, or the lack of it, no. Not at all. Nothing on that account. Becky sharpened up, and she got the living scare of her life to see herself at her age anchored to that Fat Zero. Jesus …
And remember the pharmacist, Olivia San Esteban? Applies to medical school? Why, even her own brother, Martín, yeah … badmouthed her, and maybe not directly, but to be sure, he was against the idea. What a crock! But typical, typical.
And you remember Socorro Tuero? Named for your aunt … What did she do? Studied to be a vet, graduated from Up North, and God Almighty, she almost starved to death here, in the Valley, ’cause those jackasses didn’t know what to do with a woman who could treat cows and horses. Poor kid left the Valley at a hundred-miles an hour. Had to. Moved Up North. Houston, some place. Took Socorro some twelve damned years to get back here. Toughened her up, too.
Made her better than tough, ’cause toughness wears out with time. Made her independent, and that’s harder to get rid of than live-in in-laws. God, yes. Impossible. Okay, say she’d’ve stayed here? What then? Oh, sure: go to work for the KBC. She’d done that, she would’ve sunk like a shrimper in a hurricane … Gone, and to the bottom, too. Became, made herself independent. And that’s exactly what Olivia San Esteban wanted to do.
No, no doubt about it. This Valley of ours can be a pure-dee-mean sonofabitch, like your Dad used to say. Remember? And the Valley’s unforgiving, too. And forget the Anglos on that score; the raza itself can stick it to you like a choya cactus patch.
All right, try this one: there’s Angela Vielma; she lives with Rafe Buenrostro’s sister-in-law. What do you say to that? Angela has talent, brains, and she’s no stranger to party politics. She’s been a lawyer, for what? Ten years? Fifteen?
And she’s a Vielma, all right: high forehead, eyes darker than the ace of spades, and a good, loyal, smile. And she paid for her own education, too. That was a hard-working family, and money didn’t rain down on them. The U.S. Army money for Pepe Vielma’s death in Korea was something Angela didn’t touch. That’s right. She didn’t think the money was dirty, no. She just thought the money should go to her mom and dad. That’s what Angela is made of.
Well, it took her longer to finish than most, but when she made herself a lawyer up at Austin, the Vielmas gave her the money from the Army insurance. They’d saved it. That’s what Pepito Vielma would have done, they said.
Did you know that your cousin Jehu was over there? Jehu Malacara once told me that his cousin Rafe was right there when Pepe Vielma died in Korea. Artillery fire, according to Jehu. This is some country we live, isn’t it? Jesus.
So … don Prudencio Vielma and his wife had saved the insurance money, and that’s how Angela got her start. About five years after Angela had been practicing the law and living with her folks, she bought herself a house and that’s when Rafe’s sister-in-law moved in.
Ha! Did those two give enough reasons for people to talk? But the talk didn’t last long. Two unmarried women, oh, yes, and people who’ll talk on anything and for no reason, well, they talked. Opened fire on them, they did. Then they got bored. Jesus …
First of all, whose business was it? Bunch-a-goddam snoops, that’s what. Put-your-nose-up-somebody’s-ass type of people, that’s who. Got nothing better to do.
Well, the very same damn thing happened in Becky’s case when she drop-kicked that damfool Ira Escobar. Right away: it was this, that, the same old crap. Why, to hear people talk, a stranger to the Valley would think we were a population of saints here. Jesus …
And then, Becky went to work for Viola Barragán. To earn a living, for Christ’s sake. And let me ask you this: Who the hell’s business was that? What did people want, anyway? Did they want her to stay at home all day long? Was that it? Well, they’re crazy as hell is all I got to say. She’s a doer, she’s educated … she’s active. Is it crime to earn a living, dammit?
And what about Viola and her business? Drugs? Smuggling? Viola is tough in business, and so am I, ’cause there’s no second place in the business. That’s right. And this too is the truth: Viola’s got a couple of things up her sleeve: she’s honest, and she’ll drive the hardest bargain ever, but her checks don’t bounce. And when it comes to honradez, honor, I’ll stick by her up until the day someone can prove she’s otherwise. Up to that time, my word stands.
I’ve known Viola’s father since the ’20s, when they got here, one hand in front and one in back, as we say. That’s all they could call their own. Telésforo Barragán, without one word of English in his head, without knowing even one person in all of Klail, he came here with his wife, Felicitas Suris de Barragán, and Viola, a baby in her father’s arms … And to work, goddammit.
Telésforo kept books and accounts, he taught at the Mexican schools we built, and he farmed, too. And he worked in the worst job there is: uprooting mesquite trees. Try that for exercise … Whatever there was, there he’d go. The thing to do was to work, to bring food home. And how did Viola come out from all that? Ha!
You and I are related, we’re family; so, family aside, I’m willing to beat the living shit out of any mortal who says, dare says it, I swear, a single, solitary word against the Barragáns. If Viola hired Becky it was based on Becky’s talents, and that’s a freezing fact. Oh, she’d’ve kept Becky out of friendship to Elvira, but without responsibilities … that kind of thing. We all do that, to help somebody out … But she earns her keep, she does.
Now here, in this cantina of mine, people talk, and that’s why God invented cantinas. That some double-barreled jackass like Emilio Tamez comes and says what he says, or some C.P.A., some Certified Political Asshole like Polín Tapia comes here and talks, that’s okay, too. A place is a place and your uncle runs a bar here, not a church.
But there’s a limit, you can’t cross a certain line, and all of us know it when we reach drinking age in a cantina. That line gets crossed, and I take over. That’s why I own this place, by God.
They want to bad mouth Jehu, and they do so, that’s one thing. But for them to say it to Jehu’s face, that’s something different. No sir. Something like that can cause a fight in here. Jehu’s got an education, but he won’t run.
But why worry? There’s no more than two balls hanging between Tapia and Tamez; they wouldn’t dare …
As for Jehu, he’ll put up with a lot, but let’s face it, he’s not Jesus Christ. I mean, he doesn’t have all the patience in the world. So, those who talk can go right ahead, but they got to remember what they’re in for …
Jehu doesn’t give a damn if someone says something about him. They just better not say it to his face. Think about that. He has a very good idea of who he is and gossip or rumor are just that and nothing more to him. But, as I said, people better not get the idea that he’s going to spend his life crossing and uncrossing his arms. That he won’t act. Oh, no. The biggest water tower in the world gets filled up and spills over, and that’s a big truth.
Let me put it this other way, why do you think that neither Emilio Tamez nor Polín Tapia come in here when Jehu’s at the bar or having a beer in that booth there? Or look to this: Why do they settle up, pay, and get the hell out when he comes in? Well? I said they were assholes, I didn’t say they were fools.
If they were fools, they’d be picking some of their teeth off the sawdust, ’cause that’s where they’d land after Jehu got through with them. Jehu likes a good joke, and he’ll put up with a bunch-a-shit just like anybody else, but there is a limit.
Now that he’s married, he won’t fight, I mean, he’s got to set an example for Becky’s kids, his kids … It doesn’t look right, does it? Made himself into a man, that boy. Fearless, and that’s the frightening kind
You don’t know this story. Once, and Jehu was just a kid of eleven or twelve, no more than that, he killed a rabid dog. By himself. Went out in the middle of Klail Boulevard, a .22 in hand, and bam! A little later, but this you do know, when the late Baldemar Cordero killed Ernesto Tamez? It happened right here, in my place. This place. Well, right there, not two feet from that table there.
Around that time, Jehu was working at his uncle Andrés’s gaming house. And Andrés used to rent the back of my place here, and that’s where the gambling took place, right by that unpaved alley back there.
Young Cordero knifed Neto Tamez, but after long provocation and to hell with what Judge Phelps said then or says now. Right here, look. See? Neto Tamez fell right there, and he fell screaming like a new born. A minute or two later, here comes Jehu by the back way with a bag full of money he’d carried over from the gaming house and told me to keep it for his Uncle Andy.
Jehu didn’t say a word then … He saw Balde, knife in hand, who was walking toward the door, and then Jehu threw a glance at Ernesto Tamez.
It’s too goddam bad to be a kid and to have to see that kind-a shit, but he didn’t say a word, like I said. He looked at me for a while and then a few seconds later he lifted the bag and said: “Dirty, here’s a bag of money from Uncle Andy.”
You beat that? Tough little piece-a shit … But he’s been like that ever since he was a kid. A good kid, too, and so much so that when don Manuel Guzmán went for him to don Celso Villalón’s ranch … what? You didn’t know this? Well, he did; Manuel went to pick up Jehu at the goat ranch so he’d register in school, and Jehu lived with don Manuel and doña Josefa for some time. He sure did. Manuel, in peace now resting, used to burst out laughing when he’d talk about it. He’d say: “That so-and-so will never be president of this country ’cause he’s a mexicano, but he sure as hell isn’t going to die of hunger either. Not him. He ever gets an education in him, people would do well to bet on him. There’s some good blood there.”
And Manuel was right, wasn’t he? And now, Jehu married to Becky Escobar, well, not Escobar anymore, she’s a Malacara now. One of us … And Jehu did get a little money when don Víctor Peláez died years back, two-hundred dollars, a gold watch with fob, and a Stetson.
I took the money and straight into the bank during the four years of high school, Jehu’s army service, and then four years up at the University. The money grew some, not much; I then borrowed money against it, and bought him two lots with it. As Jehu says, “I work at the Bank so I can keep my eye on the money Dirty put there in my name.” He’s a good cabrón …
But Jehu’s always been respectful, and helpful, but he won’t come up to you walking with his hat in his hand. He’s very Malacara … My father, you know, got to know Jehu’s great-great-grand-father, don Braulio Tapia. Balls? Like a bull’s, a man among men and the poorest of the poor. Hombría, manliness. All of the Malacaras have been fine husbands with one exception, my compadre Andrés Malacara who was a chaser. Jehu chased, too, but he was single. But, when they settle down, they settle down, and they won’t set eyes on another woman.
Yes. He did the right thing in marrying Becky Navarrete—Caldwell. Jehu will know how to be a good father to Becky’s children. You’ll see.
Becky es persona according to Viola Barragán and Viola’s not the type to go around throwing away money, words, or compliments. And she knows what she’s talking about.
This bar and the two lots on either side and the one across the street, the one Urban Renewal came and leveled all to Hell … all of that property belonged to me. It belongs to Viola now. And the day I die, the I.R.S. is going to get Ned-shit from me. Damned people’ve diddled me enough during my lifetime … Sure. Becky took care of the paper work. Ha! Leave it to Becky is what Viola said. How about that? That damfool Escobar had no idea who he’d married. No idea. Damfool thought he was riding some broken-down mare … Wrong as always, that boy.
Now. When I die, it’s adiós to the Aquí me Quedo. This cantina, which I owned and operated in four, five places in town, but always with the same name, will die and the name with it, when I die. That’s right. Just as soon as Ramón Rosales loads me up on one of his hearses, Viola’s going to put up a big brick building on all three lots. An old folks home. Air conditioning. Heat. Lights. Three or four floors or more, whatever the money I’m leaving gives for that. A well-made building is what Viola wants. Brick, not no goddam hollow cement crap. Brick, and with air conditioning, like I said. And heat. Yeah.
It’s a good idea, and people will live with dignity, con dignidad. Oh, I know there’s some Anglos who stick their old folks in homes, and shoot, some Anglo folk in Klail don’t even know where their kids live. But the Anglos will live there, too. They’re going to live in my monument, ’cause that’s what Becky calls it. So those old Anglos, abandoned some of them, are going to have to live with la raza under the same roof. That, too, is Becky’s idea. She’s got some idea, she has …
Well, I say it’s time for a Buddy Watson. What? No, no, it’s still my bar, and in my bar, I pay; family or not. Well, is a Budweiser okay or do you like Ess-litz?
After the one beer, my uncle Lucas went behind the counter and pulled several Closed notices; he passed two of them for me to hang outside of the Aquí me Quedo cantina: Closed. Death in the Family.
After this, Lucas Barrón took the listener by the elbow, out the door, and to dinner.