Playing for the Devil's Fire - Phillippe Diederich

Скачать книгу

      

      Playing for the Devil’s Fire. Copyright © 2016 by Phillippe Diederich. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in case of brief quotations for reviews. For information, write Cinco Puntos Press, 701 Texas, El Paso, TX 79901 or call at (915) 838-1625.

      First Edition 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

      LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

      Names: Diederich, Phillippe, 1964- author.

      Title: Playing for the Devil’s Fire / by Phillippe Diederich.

      Description: First edition. | El Paso, TX : Cinco Puntos Press, [2016] |

      Summary: Thirteen-year-old Boli lives in a small pueblo near Mexico City, a landscape destroyed by drug crime, where one day a severed head is found in the plaza, then Boli’s parents leave town and are not heard from, then a washed out masked wrestler turns up and Boli hopes to inspire the luchador to set out with him to find his parents.

      Identifiers: LCCN 2015024951 | ISBN 9781941026311(e-book)

      Subjects: | CYAC: Coming of age—Fiction. | Criminals—Fiction. | Mexico—Fiction. |

      BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Violence.

      JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Drugs, Alcohol, Substance Abuse.

      JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Emigration & Immigration. | JUVENILE FICTION / People & Places / Mexico.

      Classification: LCC PZ7.1.D54 Pl 2016 | DDC [Fic] —dc23

      LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015024951

      Book, illustration and cover design by Antonio Castro H.

      FOR FINN

      Contents

       Chapter 10

       Chapter 11

       Chapter 12

       Chapter 13

       Chapter 14

       Chapter 15

       Chapter 16

       Chapter 17

       Chapter 18

       Chapter 19

       Chapter 20

       Chapter 21

       Chapter 22

       Chapter 23

       Chapter 24

       Chapter 25

       Chapter 26

       Chapter 27

       Chapter 28

       Chapter 29

       Chapter 30

       Chapter 31

       Chapter 32

       Chapter 33

       Acknowledgements

       Glossary

      It was a hot Sunday morning when we discovered the severed head of Enrique Quintanilla propped on the ledge of one of the cement planters in the plaza.

      Father Gregorio had just finished mass. His congregants shuffled slowly out of Nuestra Señora del Socorro. The men, dressed in pressed polyester slacks and shirts and shiny cowboy boots, put on their western hats and gathered in groups while the women waited under the ovals of shade cast by the small bay trees near the fence.

      Mosca, Pepino, and I ran to the opposite side of the church where the ground wasn’t paved and the hard dirt was perfect for playing marbles. Mosca had been bragging all morning about the devil’s fire marble he’d won the day before from some kid in his neighborhood. The devil’s fire was a legend—el diablito rojo. None of us had ever seen a devil’s fire marble before. I thought it was a myth, one of those lies older kids tell to tease the younger ones. But Mosca was one of the best marble players in Izayoc. And he wasn’t a liar. If he said he’d won a devil’s fire, it had to be true. I wanted to see it. Pepino wanted a chance to win it.

      Mosca was my best friend. His real name was Esteban Rodríguez, but he was short and tough and fast and had big round bug eyes like a fly. That’s how he got the nickname. He didn’t always come to church because he didn’t have a mother and his father left town after the brick factory closed, crossing over to el Norte. Now he worked at a meat plant in Kansas.

      Pepino moved quickly around Mosca and patted my shoulder. “Make your line, Boli.”

      That’s what they called me: Boli. It’s short for bolillo. Since my parents own a bakery, I guess it makes sense. I don’t mind. It’s better than my real name Liberio, which is so old fashioned.

      I marked a straight line on the dirt with the heel of my shoe. Pepino tore a branch from a bush and started to draw a circle, but Mosca stopped him. “I’m not playing for the diablito rojo. Just so you know.”

      Pepino dropped the stick. “You chicken or what?” He was older than Mosca and me. He had bushy eyebrows and small eyes and a big fat nose like a potato, but we called him Pepino, I’m not sure why. He didn’t play marbles anymore. I guess he was coming out of retirement because of the devil’s fire.

      “No chingues,” Mosca said. “I’ll play, but I’m holding on to the diablito for a while.”

      I couldn’t blame Mosca. I’d hold on to it too, maybe forever. When you won a marble like that, you had to hold on to it for a bit, let the news spread. How else were you going to build a reputation?

      “Entonces,” Pepino said. “At least let us see it, no?”

      “It’s in my house.”

      “Liar.”

      That’s when we heard a woman scream.

      We ran to the front of the church. The men were making their way across the street to the plaza. The street vendors had abandoned their carts at the center of the square and gathered around one of the planters that divided the plaza into the shape of a cross. The

Скачать книгу