The Flecha Azul bus to Tecopalpa pueblo clattered up an hour late to the empty stretch of highway where Pepe Flores was waiting.
Stepping over city merchandise (lengths of pipe, coils of bright rope and barbed wire), Pepe dropped into a torn seat. He didn't like going to Tecopalpa. He always came away sure he'd paid too much and received too little. Squinting, Pepe sorted through the mental list of things he had to do. Most important: Buy medicine for his wife, begin fulfilling his promesa to the Church's santitos, get a foot valve, two hacksaw blades and a claw hammer.
Before that, he had to find who would give him the most pesos for the 50-dollar bill hidden in his trousers. His first son, Salvador, who worked "on the other side," had sent the money home with Pepe's primo segundo who'd just lost his job in construction. Medicine was very dear. He mentally thanked his son again for the money.
In Tecopalpa, Pepe went into the "El Cantaro" cantina. Lalo, the cantinero, said he didn't believe in 50-dollar bills. A man urinating against a short irrigated tile wall in the middle of the room, spoke up. He wore shiny slippers and floppy brown slacks. His shaved head was shiny. "Twelve to the dollar." He took out a roll of bills.
Pepe turned to the door. "In Guadalajara, they pay thirteen, some pay more."
"That's the tele talking," the man said. "Only a fool would pay thirteen."
At the pueblo's only bank, the manager frowned at Pepe's old-time sombrero and shredded huaraches. "We don't know yet what the peso's going to be."
A liquor deposito offered the same. At the harness-maker's they offered just 12.00. The pharmacy that sold Mica's medicine was known to be pinch-fisted. Pepe tried the lumber yard and the funeral parlor without any luck.
Next, he went into Tecopalpa's ancient Franciscan Church. Making good on his promesa, he was sure, would encourage the santitos to lend him a hand. He'd made a vow three months ago when his wife was so sick with the bilis, a bad liver fever, he thought she would die.
If the local curer's remedy had worked he wouldn't be here trying to outfox slick pueblo folks, he told the wooden figure of the Savior, for whom his first son was named. Nonetheless, Pepe thanked all the santitos for Mica's slow recovery, asking that the town doctor's odd medicine keep up its good work.
At the tlapaleria they weren't exchanging money. After much haggling, he got a pichancha for his well, one hacksaw blade and a 20-ounce nail driver fitted on a hefty handle of 3/4 inch of pipe, all for the slimmest amount of credit he could wrangle. Back on the street, he tried to guess how much he needed for the medicine, and to trim his debts. To help with such calculations, Pepe stepped into the cantina's shade and asked Lalo for a cañito of cheap mezcal. "Put it on my list," he said.
"I guess you've seen they aren't giving Guadalajara rates out here, old man." The bald dandy, sipping an iced drink, grinned.
Pepe spat on the floor. At 63, he didn't like being called an old man. Pepe downed his mezcal. "When the banks and changing houses lock up tomorrow, this billete will be worth more than thirteen pesos for every dollar," he said, not knowing a thing about what he was saying, and went for the door.
"Hyuu! This is a hardheaded old man." The cocktail drinker followed him, whispering, "My name is Alfonso Mendez, and I'll give you 12.80 pesos for every dollar you have."
The santitos, Pepe thought, smoothing out the wrinkled fifty dollar bill on the counter with his hammer, asking Lalo to help him with the calculations.
After much figuring, money changed hands. Pepe shoved the hammer in his belt and hurried to buy Mica's medicine before Mendez changed his mind. He got 24 yellow compromidas, and went to the church to thank the santitos, especially the Virgen de Guadalupe. La Morena was dark-skinned like Pepe, his family and most of his friends. He knew she was the most trustworthy.
Taking the back entrance out of the church, he paused to make sure he had everything. All this commercial activity made his mind wavery.
At the corner of his eye, he saw movement along the church wall. Two lithe forms came toward him. Though tall, they were boys really, maybe 17, 18.
"Your pesos, old man, or I'll slice you from crown to balls." The one dressed dark as Satan pointed an expensive-looking knife at Pepe's nose.
Pepe squinted down the empty back street. "It's true, joven, that fortune gives her hand to the daring man."
"No old-time sayings, viejito," said the other. "Just your money."
"Bueno." Grunting, Pepe bent, clumsily spilling his purchases.
His knees popped as he lurched out of his crouch, the big hammer swinging, sending the blade flashing high into the sunlight. He lashed wildly crosswise, slashing the claws into the youngster's arm, then whipped the cheek of the hammer to the other boy's temple. Both kids went down. Pepe kicked the pieces of the knife into the bushes.
Shaking, he waited for what was next.
One thief cradled a bleeding arm. The other's eyes fluttered.
"Chinga," he said. They looked down the dusty lane. At the corner sat a shiny black car. As the thieves hurried to climb in it, Pepe thought the driver looked like Mendez.
Inside the church, Pepe knelt so he could talk to both the Savior and the Indian-faced santita. "Gracias, Lady of Tepeyac," he said to the Virgin. "Many thanks for making me fast enough to beat those kids. They'd have taken even the medicine, damn their pale pueblo skins."
He dipped his head at the white figure on the cross. "No offense, Jefecito." Pepe grimaced. "Anyway, Señor and Dark-Faced Mother, thank you for saving this day and maybe my life, too, no? And make it so Mica gets better and that these pesos last a long time." He crossed himself and left to pay galling debts.
In the clattering homeward-bound Flecha Azul bus, Pepe held Mica's medicine, the pichancha and hacksaw blade under one arm, the fist in his pocket gripping a roll of pesos. Across his knees he held the hammer that the santitos had showed him was as fine a weapon as a good tool. A nail-driver and a defense against mangy fiends God for some reason gave the shape of cunning dandies.