Free The Cowboy Bible and Other Stories by Carlos Velázquez Page B

gonna come running like Chabelo to offer you a gift in exchange for your soul?
    —Why not? Everybody has their thing. There’s Cojo Martínez’s valseada , who spent twenty years in a wheelchair and, after just one little chat with the devil, was busy showing off the two dancing legs she got for her engagement ring.
    —Oh Paulino. You’ve lost it. You’ve got brain freeze. That’s material for corridos. That only happens in corridos. Paulino, corridos are not the same as real life.
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    —For two nights, I stood and screamed and screamed but the devil didn’t show.
    —By yourself, Don Paulino?
    —By my lonesome. And I went through four packs of cigarettes.
    —And tequila?
    —Two kilos of help. It’s goddamn chilly trying to conjure up the devil out there in the open. Actually, pour me another. A double. What do you mean which one, dummy—the same one Pedro Infante drinks! Tradicional.
    —Ah, I see, Don Paulino. You’ve completely lost it. Everybody knows the devil sidles up a street in Cerro de la Cruz at midnight. You just make yourself known and, if there’s a line, don’t get in it. You present your credentials—Old Man Palvino, corridos composer—and state your case.
    —Imagine. And here I’ve been warming up.
    —Is it true you’re gonna sell your soul to the devil?
    —Of course not, dummy. If I did, then where would my corridos come from?
    —So what are you gonna offer him?
    —A pedicure for his rooster foot and a horseshoe for his goat’s foot.
    —Ah, sure, Don Paulino, always kidding around.
    —Don’t doubt me, güey. I’m gonna make him swallow something that’s not gonna come back up. My sorrel horse. The most beautiful of all my mares. His eyes are gonna pop out. He’s gonna accept the deal. He’s gonna accept because no one—not even the devil—has ever had such a beautiful mare.
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    —Who goes there?
    —Me.
    —Ah, you. Don Paulino. How are you?
    —As good as when I killed the deceased.
    —So you’re over your drunkenness?
    —Come now, it’s not like it’s contagious.
    —What brings you around these parts?
    —I’ve come to sell you my soul.
    —No, no, no, not in your condition. You’re wasted.
    —Well, I’ve been partying, buddy.
    —Yes, I see, but I don’t make deals like that. Wait till it passes and when you’ve got your senses, then come back.
    —No, just this once. While I’m stoked. Whatever’s gonna happen, let it happen. Why make me come and go senselessly?
    —Paulino, you don’t understand, you’ve lost it. How many times have you offered me your soul? And each time, you’re drunk as a skunk. Go home. Sleep it off, like you always do. Come back sober. You know I won’t bargain otherwise. No deal.
    —What a fag of a devil you are. Just once. I won’t regret it. Don’t they always say kids and drunks always tell the truth. Goddamn grouchy old man.
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    —Next.
    —Good evening.
    —Ah, it’s you, Paulino. How are you doing?
    —Fresh. Sober. Bathed.
    —Now then. What’s your business?
    —I’ve come to sell you a mare at a loss for a pair of Cowboy Bible boots.
    —Not interested. Next.
    —She’s a breed. Pure blood. Look how haughty she is.
    —Yes, I see she’s a blueblood, but I’m not good with animals or plants. It’s just gonna die on me.
    —Then I offer you my soul.
    —It doesn’t interest me either.
    —Then my song royalties.
    —I’m immune to norteño music. I don’t like corridos or norteño music.
    —I’ve got nothing else. I have nothing else with which to entice you.
    —Yes, you do: your wife.
    —You’re out of your mind, man. If my wife finds out I’m trafficking with her soul, she’d kill me.
    —I’m not interested in her soul. I just wanna sleep with her one time.
    —You’re hopeless, man. You’re twisted. She’d never accept. And she’d murder me first.
    —Insist. Insist until you convince her.
    —Don’t count on it. If I even mention it, the least that will happen is that she’ll have me