The Adventures of Don Roberto

Chapter 4 The Skull of Pancho Villa I got over being mad at Roberto, and we talked late into the night. He told me that everyone in his family was doing well. He said that his mean old aunt who used to whip us all the time had finally moved to town. However, in the backyard of her new house was a damn weeping willow tree, just like the one out on the farm --the one we had to pick a switch from so she could whip us with it. Roberto thought it was a purchasing requirement for the new house in town. He laughed and said she probably made his uncle drive all over town looking at houses, and that was the first thing she looked for --no willow tree, no sale! Just about an hour before midnight, our jug ran dry and our fire was low on fuel. He looked at me and said, “How far does a man have to go to wet his whistle around here?” I told him of a cantina a couple of miles down the road on the edge of town. I looked up on the little hill above the house, saw his Ford pickup truck, and said, “I can show you where it is, but I don't have any money.” Roberto said, “Chapo, you could be standing at a phone booth with a hundred dollars in your pocket and ask to borrow a quarter.” Then he said it was his treat, so we tiptoed to his pickup, careful not to wake Rosa. We were a quarter of a mile down the road before he turned on the headlights. I turned on the radio to listen to some music and the next thing I knew we were pulling off the road and driving up to the cantina. As we pushed through the swinging doors, we saw a big black man standing behind the counter. Roberto was a good-sized fellow himself, so he just bellied up to the bar and looked the big black man in the eyeball. In English, he asked the big man for a couple of beers. But the big man didn't answer and didn't serve us the beers. They just stood there for a minute, looking each other in the eyeball. I whispered to Roberto, “Ask him again, but this time ask him in Spanish. I'm not so sure he speaks English.” So in Spanish, Roberto said, “I am sorry, please excuse my manners. You're the first black man I ever saw speak Spanish. I meant no harm. Please, how about a couple of beers for Chapo and me here, and let me buy you one.” The big man turned and got three beers from behind the counter, but said nothing. He set one in front of Roberto and slid one down to the end of the bar to me, since I had put some distance between us. Roberto asked him how much he owed him, and the man said four dollars. Roberto put a five-dollar bill on the counter. The big man went to the cash register and returned with a silver dollar in his hand. He looked Roberto in the eyeball and at the same time held the edges of the silver dollar between his thumb and first finger and mashed real hard. It was fast and it made a snapping sound. At first I thought he had broken his fingers, but the silver dollar had folded in half, like a clamshell. That's when I realized the sound I had heard was the metal slapping together as it snapped shut. The big man tossed the bent coin to Roberto. He picked up what used to be a silver dollar and tossed it to me, which turned out to be a good throw, because if I had been any farther from them I would have been in the parking lot on my way home to Rosa, which is exactly where I should have been right then. Instead of leaving, I'll be damned if that crazy gringo didn't notice something on a shelf behind the big man. Sitting in front of the mirror was a big glass box, about twelve inches by twelve inches --inside the box was a human skull. Roberto asked, “What the hell is that thing?” The big man never stopped looking at Roberto in the eyeball. He just gestured over his huge shoulder with his thumb. He picked up the beer Roberto had bought him and bit off the metal bottle top with his teeth. I thought to myself, You're going to be the last gringo that came in here asking questions. Get in the pickup, you fool! But the big man just said, “It's the skull of Pancho Villa,” and then laughed out loud, showing a wide gap between his front teeth. Roberto laughed with him then said, “That's a good one, amigo, but really --what the hell is it?” The big man had not yet taken his eyes off Roberto. He said, “I told you. That is the skull of Pancho Villa.” Then he gave us a history lesson. He said that Pancho Villa retired in 1920 and was killed three years later while sitting in his car in Parral, Chihuahua. The assassins were never arrested, even though a Durango politician named Jesus Salas Barraza publicly claimed credit for the deed. “But who knows” he said, “Pancho had robbed and plundered on both sides of the border. Many people had motive to kill him.”