Muckers (11 page)

Tony kept him still as long as he could, but I just stood there frozen like one of those people buried alive in Pompeii, eating away too much time figuring on a pass, so the Badger wriggled a hand loose and got me. Reached out for my ankle and down I went. The ball did, too. Cruz pounced on it and made a nice recovery, but not before swearing in Spanish and bucking like the rodeo ponies waiting on the sidelines for the game to finish.

The guys were all joking on the bus ride home, with Coach calling the win a “squeaker” like some muddy pig had just made it through the gate in the nick of time. And when he thought all the others had fallen asleep, Coach asked how things were going with me. I didn’t know what to say, so I just looked out the window. But then I wanted to ask Coach the very same thing whenever we got to a stop and he squinted like it was painful to watch the light changing from red to green.

That was six hours ago—we didn’t get back home until past midnight. Now it’s not even seven o’clock on a Saturday morning, but me, Cruz, and Rabbit are meeting in the back of Ernie’s garage so no one will see what we’re up to. Looks like it took another crack from a blast. I lean against the shed and wait for them to get here with the supplies we’ll stash inside.

Ernie will be here in half an hour so I’m starting to get nervous, plus the garage sits below the Sacred Heart of Mary, where Father Pierre gives the Mexican Mass at seven. But it’s stupid that I’m starting to feel found out before we’ve even done anything. I mean, all Cruz wants us to do is hike up to the H and write HELLO on the hill. It should get a good rise out of the kids, and they ought to have one, after knowing they might end up at Cottonville next year. And it’s not like it’ll last for more than a few months or anything. It’s only whitewash. We paint the H every year.

“Hey, Ugly, I need some help,” Cruz says. He’s coming up the hill with the burros and snapping his gum. “There’s two cans of paint on this one, and brushes on Kissy,” he says, untying the flour sacks from the saddles.

“You seen Rabbit?” I ask, not wanting to leave room for any talk of the game. I open the shed and clear a spot on a rickety shelf for the paint. There isn’t much space for
anything else in here, with Ernie’s motorcycle and the stacks of magazines he doesn’t want customers seeing.

“Still at the bakery filling his face,” Cruz jokes. “One day he’ll be a blimp, I swear.”

I hold up a magazine—the one featuring a naked girl on the cover with a Valentine box over her privates. “Guess you’ll just have to give him one of your girls, then,” I say, showing Cruz the cover. He tells me he’s seen better than February ’49.

“What about you?” he asks, pointing to my hair. “If you don’t dye those carrots, you’ll stay a virgin, too, no?”

“What’s wrong with red hair?”

“Orange hair.”

“Kiss my ass.”

“So they’re here!” Rabbit pokes his head inside. “Your dad say anything about the burros?”

Cruz shrugs and hands Rabbit a can of paint.

“How old are these?” Rabbit asks, swirling the can around. “They’re so lumpy you can’t even shake ’em.”

“What do you know about paint, Rabbit? It’s not a ball of dough.”

“I don’t roll the dough—I get the
ingredients
for the dough,” Rabbit says, shaking his head. “So, did you get any sleep after what happened in the game last night, Red?”

“Oh, here we go,” Cruz says. “Rabbit being an expert on a game he never played.”

“I see things,” Rabbit says. “You’re in it, so you can’t.”

“And you better not write about Ugly freezing up either.”

“I didn’t freeze up. I was reading the field.”

“Oh yeah? What do you call
this
?” Cruz jokes, pretending like he’s the Tin Man who just ran out of oil midstride. “Don’t matter. It takes a lot more than that to make them
win against us, no? You can throw anything in your sleep, Ugly—better than all those quarterbacks we play. Nobody can stop us.”

“Everybody can be stopped,” Rabbit says. “You just have to keep pushing until they notice you.”

“Not this year. They’ll be talking about the Muckers in Phoenix and Tucson soon,” Cruz says.

I don’t want to think that far ahead yet—it’s already ten to seven—so we take the burros and make the trek past the Ruffner mansion and down to the cemetery at the bottom of the Gulch, where they’ll graze in the Barrio by the graves all day before we pick them up. Which will be in about fifteen hours.

“Oh shit,” Cruz shouts.

He just stepped in some. Carl Purdyman’s cows must’ve wandered down here overnight. There’s cow patties everywhere.

“Ever notice that the dung’s mostly around the tombstones?” Rabbit says, careful not to step on any of the drying brown clumps.

“Ever notice that this town is full of shit?” Cruz fires back. “In the streets it’s the burros and in the graves it’s the damn cows! And since when do you go calling shit ‘dung,’ Rabbit?”

I know they’ll be arguing all morning about what to call the crap spread over the cemetery, so I say, “Meet you guys back here tonight.” I start work at eight and practice is at twelve-thirty.

By the time I climb up the hill and reach the Copper Star, my letterman’s jacket’s soaked right through. The blinds in the restaurant are drawn this early in the day, but Cruz’ll be there later working the pool tables—maybe even giving a lesson, though the only ones who can afford them these
days are the prostitutes who still work the Cribs behind the theater. Cruz says the older ones are the biggest tippers, so he doesn’t mind when they get too close.

The sun’s bearing down on me so hard along Main that I strip to my undershirt, but it isn’t helping. Any minute now the sun will flatten me into the ground like a heel pounding in a tin can. Then I’ll melt into a gooey cow patty. And Cruz will step on me, just before he runs out of oil.

I decide the only way to stop my frightening imagination is to get a copy of the
Verde Miner
from Benny at the diner.

WEEKEND EDITION

Muckers Nip Prescott

Hatley squeaked out a 19–14 win over Prescott last night at the fairgrounds, overcoming a sluggish start that saw the Muckers trailing 14–6 at halftime. Cruz Villanueva, the swivel-hipped wingback, saved the game with a spectacular 53-yard touchdown run in the fourth quarter.

Hatley quarterback Red

Elks Warned of Creeping Communism, p.2

O’Sullivan kept his accurate throwing arm under wraps most of the game, often underthrowing his receivers. The result was a pair of interceptions that killed potential scoring drives.

Halfback Lupe Diaz scored the Muckers’ first TD on a 6-yard run in the second quarter. He had set up the score with a 42-yard gallop on the previous play. In the third quarter, Nick Managlia reeled off an 18-yard run into pay dirt that sliced the Prescott lead to 14–13.

“Our defense and our running
game were very good tonight,” said Coach Ben Hansen, whose boys are now 2–0. “We’re fortunate for that, because our passing game was not at its best.”

SOCIAL NEWS & ARRESTS

—After the defendant requested a change of venue to Cottonville, the jury there found
Peter Zolnich
, owner of Pete’s Tavern, guilty of simple assault in the sawed-off-pipe attack involving Ronaldo Managlia. Zolnich was sentenced to 60 days in jail. He’ll serve his time in the temporary jail in the basement of the Sacred Heart of Mary.

—Horatio “Peach” Kellerman
, melon farmer, was taken to the miners’ hospital after experiencing digestive trauma. His condition is unknown at this time.

—The Sacred Heart of Mary
will hold a fund-raiser on Mexican Independence Day to collect money to repair the roof leak.
Father Pierre
expects all children to attend and try their luck at cracking open the candy-filled piñata with his cane.

* * *

NOON

I’d rather be spending the end of my shift thinking about Angie and that swim, but Ernie’s got me on a call. I turn onto Gomez Street and see Father Pierre’s Buick straightaway. It’s definitely upside down this time, with two of the tires spinning on silver spokes like pinwheels caught by the afternoon wind. Looks like it was parked at La Paz Grocer, then it cut loose and rolled, crashing through the iron railing but stopping short of Miller’s storefront window. The grille’s butted up against the window ledge with the roof blocking the alleyway below like a saggy tarpaulin, though you can still get down the stairs to the basement of the furniture store.

“Holy shit,” Cruz says, walking past on his way to practice. “Would you look at the
santos
! They’re still lined up in a row.”

He points to Mother Mary clinging headfirst to the dash, then makes the sign of the cross. “You’d think they’d go running when they could,” he says. “And how’d Father Pierre get the money for a new Buick, anyway, when he took that vow of poverty?”

“You swore!” Frankie Tucker gasps, pointing at Cruz. “In front of the Madonna and Saint Christopher.” Frankie’s an altar boy in training.

The kids have formed a semicircle around me, Cruz, and the empty Buick, the bigger ones holding up the smaller ones so they can get a better look inside. Faye Miller’s kid, Samuel, is standing back from the rest, looking timid and rubbing at his freckles.

“Yeah, well, don’t be getting any ideas,” Cruz tells Frankie. “And don’t be late for practice, Ugly.” He punches me in the shoulder, timing his jab as I bob up from an eyeball inspection of the car. Nothing’s leaking. I’m guessing the radiator’s okay even though I can’t get to the cap—no steam’s coming off the hood. Father Pierre’s rosary is tangled up around the steering wheel, but that’s about it.

“You know how many Hail Marys you gotta say so you won’t burn in hell?” Frankie says, but Cruz is already climbing the hill. “And even if you don’t get hell, it’s near as hot up in Purgatory.”

Cruz turns and grins. “Can’t be any hotter than it is in Hatley,” he shouts, thrusting his helmet into the burning sun. “I’ll tell Coach it was an emergency, Ugly.”

“Sure he’s not in there?” Frankie asks me.

“Nah.” I shrug. “The car’s empty.”

“So we still gotta go to Mass on Sunday?”

“Looks like it.”

Some of the kids boo. A handful of their haltered burros, sweaty from the heat, crane their necks to get a lick at the garbage the wheels picked up from La Paz’s.

Faye Miller comes out of the furniture store and shakes her head. “Did Father Pierre’s car hit anyone on the way down this time?” she asks.

Frankie points to Leon Brewer, huddled up and crying in the corner of Miller’s stairwell. His striped T-shirt’s streaked with blood and I can see that his forehead’s been cut.

“You okay?” I ask him, ducking onto the stairs.

Leon tightens the grip on his knees and nods.

“Joey went to get his ma,” Frankie says.

“Samuel, get me a washcloth from the store,” Faye tells her son. The cut’s clotting up on Leon’s forehead, but Faye brushes back his bangs anyhow.

Leon smiles, tracing the number on my jersey. “Seven,” he says. “That’s
my
age.”

“Then it’s got to be lucky, doesn’t it?” I tell him. “We’ll win the next game for sure.”

Leon stretches out his legs and smiles.

“Anything broken?” I ask.

He points to his burro, hopping around in a circle on the sidewalk above us, favoring the right foreleg.

“We were coming back from a swim in the river,” Leon says, “and Bear got hit.”

“Leon!” Mrs. Brewer cries out. “My baby!”

“He’s okay,” Faye tells her.

Clipping down the stairs, Mrs. Brewer examines Leon’s cut, then eyes the overturned Buick. “Oh, thank goodness it was Father Pierre’s car, or Leon could’ve been killed!”

* * *

I don’t share the town’s view of the Father, and Cruz doesn’t, either. Cruz says if you’re a Mexican you’re not supposed to doubt God, though. That a parish priest is His anointed ambassador, or the go-between—like a shift boss—working in the middle of the Lord and the rest of us. That’s why Father Pierre can get away with anything. Ernie isn’t Mexican but feels the same way—he’ll say this call’s on the house. Something about it being like giving God a bill.

“My burro!” Leon wails. His lower lip quivers as Faye leads the Brewers into the furniture store.

“I’ll bring him by,” I say. The Brewers’ house is on the way to the field. But I’m not sure what to tell Ernie about the Buick. It could be a straight tow, or we could lose more than a fender if it takes a nosedive as we haul it out. Either way, I’ve got to get to practice.

“He’s coming!” Frankie shrieks, his breath blowing shallower. The younger kids aren’t sure what to do—Father Pierre’s all nice when you’re little, but just wait till you become an altar boy (or choose football over Mass) and get conked on the head with his cane.

The yelping from Father Pierre’s dogs comes lightning quick, riding the wind in angry bursts, first one and then the other a split second later. They keep echoing each other, picking up speed and tumbling loose as red rock down Nefertitty Hill.