The Last Pachuco...

"Vuela amor, vuela dolor
Y no regreses a un lado
Ya vete de flor en flor
Seduciendo a los pistilos..."
- Mana, Mariposa Traicionera

By DUARDO PAZ-MARTINEZ
The Paz Files

BROWNSVILLE, Texas - It was morning. Henry Zepeda rolled out of bed and headed home. Sleepy Sara faced the far wall, perhaps dreaming fairy tale images of the previous night. It had been a wild one, the cumbia dancing followed by the drinking followed by the crazy lovemaking. Sara liked to think she was his princess; Henry thought he was her panther - a Macho on the planet to spread his love. She rousted just enough to hear the engine in his pickup roar to life. Sara rolled over on her back and stared at the overhead fan, the one with a single blade, the result of a fit of anger from her boyfriend, Henry.

She was pregnant, only Sara had yet to tell Henry. He was known in town as "Champagne," and she knew he'd not take the news well. Henry had no job and supported himself by setting-up old timers in billiard games at his favorite bar, Las Tres Lichas Lounge. That reputation as a pool shark and ladies man he wore on his sleeves would clash with the idea of fathering a child. Sara had seen him with kids. He'd seemed a good man around them. But she was unsure about Henry having his own brat, his own, as they said in the barrio, Esquinkle. Sara cleared his nostrils and then rose from the saggy bed to turn off the damaged fan. She smiled at seeing it beat itself to a stop. it was abitch, she told herlsef, living atop this goddamned tire repair shop, second floor to a business that threw noise at her all day long.

In the kitchen, she turned on the light, connected the coffee pot and then reached for the half-gone loaf of bread. She'd throw a pair of slices in the rusting toaster and grab some butter from the aging fridge. Breakfast would be quick. She was due at Walmart in a half-hour; there, she would spend the day working in the shoe department, helping a steady line of mommies and their annoying kids. It was a job. She beat feet for the shower, took a short one, and then threw on her work uniform before walking down the wooden stairs to the parking space where her battered Buick rested between a pickup full of used tires and a motorcycle belonging to one of the mechanics. Work would be boring, but she needed the paycheck.

That evening, after she'd fixed Henry a plate of mole enchiladas, Sara gave him the news.

No one ever knew what happened to Henry "Champagne" Zepeda. He'd left Sara's apartment in a good mood, or so she thought. He'd said he had a name for the baby: Lazlo, if the kid was a boy, and Perla, if it was a girl. Sara had laughed at both suggestions, thinking of others she thought would be better. The pickup had roared off in a cloud of dust, but she'd thought nothing of it. Henry had a flair for the dramatic. He called all his shots on the pool table and praised bar waitresses in the manner of a Pope praising nuns. Sara had been at the apartment's front window when Henry had downshifted and angled a turn toward town.

There were rumors that Henry had split to avoid getting married and raising a child. Others said he'd been offed by a gang of elderly men he'd beaten in the billiard games, those people saying a search of the Rio Grande bottoms likely would yield his body. Still others said Henry had simply left town, left it after taking his share of local women. Sara had delivered the baby on a hot, steamy night with the aid of a midwife. The kid was now nine years old.

In any case, Henry Zepeda never came home again...

- 30 -