A fear came over each of us guys, and we had to get out as fast as possible. Whoever it was would be coming into view soon, and we knew whoever it was would have violence and fire in its eyes. First, Bobby went up so fast I couldn’t believe it, and he grabbed my hand as I went up next. I waited on the top rung of the ladder for Blackie as he made his way up and out. We grabbed the ladder and hauled our asses out of there. We ran across the river, up the riverbank, and out to the swampy area, hurling the ladder into the tall reeds that surrounded the pond.
As we went back to get our bikes by the riverbank, all the while not taking our eyes off the dance hall ahead, we briefly told the three who went out first of what we heard. They didn’t know whether to believe us or to pass it off as one of our typical pranks. You can pop the clutch while revving your engine in a car, and you will be able to burn rubber or peel out, as it is also called, but not on a bicycle. So would I be stretching the truth to claim that on that day, I was the first guy to peel out on a bicycle? Of course, it was on dirt, but that was no small feat either.
It was dusking up, and it signaled the normal time for us guys to head to our respective homes. We agreed that after dinner, we would meet up in front of the firehouse and go over all the stuff that had happened.
I was starving at this particular dinner. I guess this was because I had burned a ton of calories getting the hell scared out of me and operating on full adrenaline overload. My mom noticed something different too; she noticed that my cockiness was gone and that there was a newfound air of humility radiating off my aura.
It was pork chop night, and I lit in to ’em like an inmate at San Quentin. My ration was two chops normally, which I practically inhaled while asking for another, while licking the grease from my fingertips.
“No more second helpings for you, because the remaining chops are for your brother who has to work late,” my mother reported. I was still hungry. (Lightbulb moment!)
My aunt who lived a block away was a sucker for any of my shenanigans—this because I was her pet—so off I rode to her house. It just so happened that dinner was being served as I arrived, and like all good Mexican aunts, they refuse to accept no for an answer when they invite you to eat. She made the best enchiladas and beans, so of course, I filled the rest of my belly till I felt a swelling in my jeans.
My uncle asked me about the body we had found; he hadn’t seen me since all those events happened and had to get the blow by blow from me. He had read in the newspaper about us boys finding the body and followed the case as it proceeded from day to day. He did add something else I hadn’t known; he also knew the man at the mill whom my father was acquainted with. He had lost touch with that man, just like my father, when the poor guy lost his daughter some seven years ago and moved away. Feeling satisfied and my hunger sated, I bid my aunt and uncle goodbye and thanked them for their hospitality.
Racing over to the firehouse, I rolled up and plopped myself down on the grass, too full to move. Tommy and Rene were there first, due to the fact that they lived across the street from the station.
The other three guys eventually showed up, and we formed a circle seated on the lawn. Each of the three of us, who were inside at the time, were stepping on one another’s accounting of what happened. There were a lot of shut-ups and “Let me tell it” comments, each interrupting who was talking at the time, till finally it was agreed that I should tell the story.
As I questioned everyone as to who had canvassed the entire interior of the dance hall and explored every closet, nook, and cranny, it was unanimous among the six of us that each one of our group had a look at the whole place, and nothing was left undiscovered.
So what was that slamming door from? Was someone in the building with us? All we could agree on was that whatever it was, it couldn’t be good and it wouldn’t be something we wanted to look into further. As we recounted the experience to the other three guys who didn’t hear the slamming, we did so with a conviction that made believers out of them. They could tell by the pitch in our voices that this was the real deal and not another one of the pranks we frequently played on one another.
None of us would ever go in the building again; we wouldn’t get near the place if the sun started going down. All that we would do now was gather information about this new mystery that now gripped each of our lives. We couldn’t tell any of the parents, because imagine the can of worms that would open.
“What in the world were you idiots thinking by breaking into that old building? Don’t you know you could go to jail? Ay dios mio!” (That’s OMG in Spanish.)
Well, we didn’t want any of that, so mum was the word among my fellow felons—no parent shall be made aware of those events.
We had to run it by somebody though, but who could we trust?
In the end, we just kept our mouths shut for the next two years. We continued playing in the brick pits daily and carried on as normal, wondering what it was that day in the old dance hall.
Chapter 8
My New Friends
My father had clients down in Mexico who would come up to enjoy some R & R in Tucson. One man in particular, whom my dad was practically brothers with, came to visit toward the end of that summer. His name was Jorge, and he told me to call him uncle. The minute I saw him, he would instruct me to run and get my bank. He would then stuff bills in it and any change he had at the moment. I came to love this man along with his beautiful wife, Lorenza. They had become very well-to-do now, as Jorge had come from poor means. He grew up running the streets barefoot with my dad, and the two had remained friends throughout the years.
On this trip, he brought his two sons, George and Albert, with George, the older of the two boys, being my age. There was an immediate click with young George, and instant friends we became. His English was nonexistent, and my Spanish was just enough to get us rolling. Little brother Albert had to come with us wherever we went, but it wasn’t so bad after a while. We needed a foil for our jokes, and he was glad to have the privilege of being able to tag along. They stayed at a nice motel with a pool, and that was where we promptly headed, making a bond that I’ll never forget.
My dad was born in Hermosillo, Sonora, Mexico. It lies about a hundred miles south of the Arizona border. As a kid, he was shuffled around to many relatives until he ended up in Tucson at age nineteen. Many of the friends from his youthful years in Mexico ended up financially well-heeled, starting businesses and having a strong entrepreneurial drive. My dad, having been raised in the States and forced to learn English, became an invaluable asset. Through my father, they learned the American way. They were introduced to state-of-the-art equipment and marketing practices needed to elevate performance and profitability to peak levels.
The Mexican clientele were not comfortable with the ways and the language of the gringo, so my dad had a captive audience. He was known as a man of high integrity and trusted by anyone who came to know him.
That was how my family became import/export brokers. He was the purchasing agent for many businesses south of the border. He charged a fee of 10 percent over cost, and they would provide the funds in advance. Soon my dad had credit everywhere and a stable crème de la crème clients with carte blanche pedigrees.
Every one of his clients had children, but I only spent time with George and Albert. They were kindred souls and equally as mischievous. I shared everything with George because he was my new best friend, and the trust couldn’t have been greater. Uncle Jorge was glad he could leave his kids with me as I would entertain them and just maybe they could pick up some English along the way. So imagine this, every morning, my dad would take me over to the motel for the day’s events. Uncle Jorge would give me a $100 bill for our expenses. Holy shit, that is close to $900 in 2017 money.
I was a thirteen-year-old who normally would have to scrounge for dimes from my folks just to go to the corner Chinaman’s market for a treat. I didn’t know what to do. This money covered taxi fares to all the miniature