The Five Acts of Diego Leon (25 page)

“Come on,” Fiona urged Diego. “Let’s go. Really now.”

But Diego didn’t budge.

“Service!” the man shouted again, this time pounding his fist against the counter.

The soda jerk stood behind the counter, unmoving. “Get out of here before I call the police,” he said. “We don’t serve Mexicans.” He took a few steps back and grabbed a nearby telephone. “Do it now, or you’ll be sorry.”

Instead, he reached across, grabbed a jar of peppermint sticks, and flung them at the shelves behind the counter. The glass shattered, and the red and green peppermint sticks lay strewn across the floor among shards of broken bottles. Then the other one stood up from the table and made his way to the door. He took in the whole drugstore—its bleached walls, the checkered black-and-white floor, the bright vinyl booths that were smooth and spotless. His eyes were narrow slits, the pupils black as obsidian. He had high and defined cheekbones, a wide and low forehead, and a set of thick, hearty eyebrows.
His skin was dark, darker than anything Diego had seen in some time. Diego sat completely still as Fiona clung to his arm, terrified. He gripped the door’s knob, his arm taut and lean. His large Adam’s apple quivered and rolled up and down the length of his neck as he spoke, his eyes resting squarely on Diego, his gaze bitter and unflinching.

“
Güachate, guerinche
,” he said then turned around and he and his friend ran off down the street.

“What was that?” the soda jerk asked, his voice shaky, startled. “What did he say to you? Was that Spanish?”

“No,” Diego said, finishing his soda now. He rose and placed his hat back on. “I don’t know what language he was speaking.”

“You know him?” the soda jerk asked. “Are you one of them?”

The other patrons sat there, frozen, eyes unblinking. Two teen-aged girls huddled together. A woman in a red velvet coat clutched her purse and wept. The soda jerk’s face was bright and flushed, the freckles there now nearly vanished, concealed by his skin’s redness.

“No,” he said. “I’m not. I’m
not
one of them.” Diego stood, grabbed his hat, and took Fiona by the hand. “Let’s go,” he hissed, and they walked out the front door.

He would work today on a film set in “dark Africa,” he was told, where he’d play a native savage. He was wearing his costume—a short loincloth, no shoes, a necklace made of bones and shells and feathers—when he sat down in the makeup chair. Fiona had been there since six in the morning, setting out her greasepaints and brushes and creams at a nearby station. When she saw Diego, she walked over and began smearing black paint all over his arms and face.

“Did you hear about Sancho?” she asked.

“Sancho? What do you mean?”

“He and a huge bunch of the others living in the same neighborhood were rounded up last night and sent back to Mexico. Can you believe it?”

“Who told you that?”

“One of the other extras who lives around there saw it happen
and ran off before they could catch him.” Fiona continued applying the black face paint until it completely covered Diego. He stared at his reflection, the grease hardening over his skin. It was only a matter of time before they came for him, he thought.

Sancho Gutiérrez was one of the few Frontier extras that Diego knew by name. As two of the only ethnic-looking bit players around the studio, Diego and Sancho were often assigned to the same pictures and scenes. One week they were Alaskan Inuits, the next Indian chiefs and braves, the next Chinese boatmen. In his mid-forties, Sancho was overweight and always jovial, his hair already graying around the back and sides of his head. Diego had heard him tell one of the other extras, a girl, that he was from the state of Jalisco.

“
Ja-lis-co
,” he repeated, stressing each syllable when the girl couldn’t pronounce it.

When Sancho spoke English, he did so with a heavy accent, and some of the cameramen and set builders loved teasing him about this. Sancho would laugh with them, but when he stepped away, the men would shake their heads and call him “stupid beaner” and “dirty Meskin.” In those moments, Diego was glad not to have been honest about who he was.

He only spoke with Sancho briefly, while they sat in the makeup chairs or waited in between takes. Sancho had a daughter named Evangelina, a wife named Carmen, and a younger brother back in Jalisco who he hoped to convince to move to California.

“I took my family out of there just after the revolution started,” he told Diego one afternoon. “It was hopeless. My brother wants to stay. Work the land that belonged to our father, but I say to him, ‘What is left there? Just a barren piece of earth. Leave it and come here where there’s plenty of work.’ ”

Diego wanted to tell him that he knew very well what Sancho’s brother was going through, that he knew about family obligations and responsibilities, that he understood the loyalty that kept him shackled to that volatile land—he had only felt it too late, himself. Instead he remained quiet.

“Do you ever want to go back there?” Diego finally said to him.

Sancho chuckled and shook his head. “No. Never. My daughter, she was born here. She’s an American now. This is her home. I want
her to grow up in America. Marry. Raise a family. In Mexico, that would not be possible. Mexico’s not a place for people like me.” Here he stopped and pointed at Diego. “People like us.”

“Like us?” he asked.

“Yes.” Sancho stood and started making his way back inside the soundstage. “Us. People not part of the elite.”

“No. My grandfather was rich. He owned—” Diego started to say, but Sancho was already inside and unable to hear him.

He thought about Sancho as Fiona finished applying his makeup. An assistant to the director came over to him and clapped her hands loudly. “Don’t you look amazing, darling,” she told Diego and the other extras who stood in line, waiting for further instructions. “Like real African
savages
.”

The set had been designed to resemble the Serengeti. There was tall grass, a foam tree and rocks, and a shallow pool of water where they were to gather and dance as another member of the tribe beat a ceremonial drum. The painted backdrop featured herds of wildebeests and a flat plain dotted with more trees.

The director was in a good mood, and he surveyed the set and shook the hand of each of the tribesmen. “Excellent, gentlemen,” he said as they took their places. “It’s time!”

The director yelled “action” and the drumbeats sounded, and he and the others danced around, flailing their limbs and shuffling their feet. He fed off the rhythm, and that energy that flowed through everything and through him. Diego was a part of it, and he felt that this giant machine had now taken him in and claimed him as one of its own. As he danced with the other men, he remembered the first time he performed with the other boys when he lived in San Antonio. He remembered the sound of Gonzalo’s flute, and he heard Elva’s claps again. He felt a camaraderie, a kinship that was ancient and sacred, and he told himself that this was where he belonged. This was his tribe. This was his land. These were his people.

Diego was still wiping away traces of black body paint from his arms while he stood near the studio’s front gate waiting for Fiona. He was growing hungry and irritable. Why was she taking so long? He
smoked and paced as he waited. He realized he hadn’t thought about William Cage for days when he saw him suddenly emerge from the revolving glass doors of the executive building across the street. A jacket and fedora were cradled in his arm and he held a leather briefcase. He fumbled through his pockets for his keys, which he handed to a sweaty-faced valet who darted off to fetch the car. Diego took several deep breaths as he approached. He tapped him on the shoulder and Cage swung around, an unlit cigarette in his mouth. When Cage saw Diego, the briefcase fell from his hand and hit the floor with a soft thump.

“You startled me!” he said, bending down to grab it.

“I’m sorry,” Diego said. “Please forgive me, Mister Cage.”

“It’s quite all right.” He searched through his pockets for something to light his cigarette with. “Do I know you?”

Diego reached into his own jacket and found a box of matches, struck one, and lit the cigarette for him. “We met once.”

“Oh?” He furrowed his eyebrows. “Did we?”

“Yes,” Diego said, pointing to Cage’s lip. He was disappointed that Bill hadn’t remembered him. The cut had left a scar that was faint, but he could still see it. It gave his otherwise flawless face an air of imperfection that Diego found endearing, dangerous, and very enticing.

Cage’s frown softened now. “Yes,” he said. “I remember now. I remember.” Cage frowned again. “But what are you doing here? You’re not some reporter, are you? Looking to bribe me? I’ll have you know that many people in the business frequent those types of places. They’re bohemian. There’s nothing indecent—”

“I work for Frontier. As an extra,” Diego interjected. “I mentioned it that night, but you were rather drunk.”

Cage puffed on his cigarette. “I see. So, you’re not a reporter?” Here he leaned in.

“No,” Diego said, smiling. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Cage winked at him. “Good. A good man, you are.” The valet came speeding around the corner with his car. “Well, I’m off then,” he said, flinging his coat, hat, and briefcase in the car and getting in. He was about to close the door when Diego grabbed it and held it. “Excuse me,” Cage said as he tried shutting it.

Diego held on.

“What are you doing?” he grunted, giving up, out of breath.

“I need you,” Diego said to him.

“I hear that from a great deal of men,” he said. “Make an appointment with Marjorie and she’ll—”

“No,” he insisted. “This can’t wait.”

William Cage let go of the door handle, smiled up at Diego, and said, “You know? You’re awfully cute when you’re determined.”

Diego stood straight up, broad-shouldered, head held high. Just like his grandfather, just like Fiona would always urge him to do. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat before he spoke: “Look, sir, I’m not here to flirt or play games with you. I am here to ask you for help. For the past few years, I’ve worked diligently and loyally for you and this studio, which I admire greatly. I’m proud of my work and proud of what I do, and you can ask any of the directors in your employ; they will attest to my dedication and drive. I only ask that you consider—”

“Shut up,” Cage said.

“Excuse me?”

“Shut up and have dinner with me. Tonight. My house.” He closed the car door and started the engine. He rolled the window down. “I’ll send a car for you at six.”

“But you don’t know where I—” he started to say, but Cage drove off.

He didn’t wait for Fiona. He ran all the way back to the Ruby Rose. That afternoon, Diego lay down in his bed, his shirt off, smoking, staring up at the chipped ceiling, the pipes in the walls groaning and hissing. He checked his pocket watch over and over. Two hours before the car would arrive, he bathed, shaved, and put on his good blue suit. He mixed himself a tonic to settle his stomach, sat in the chair by the window, and thumbed through a copy of the month’s issue of
Reel News
, finally stopping at a black-and-white photograph of actor Samuel Sloan. In the photo, he wore a plaid tam-o’-shanter hat with an exceedingly large pom-pom on the top, checkered plus fours, and sheer stockings. In his hand he held a golf club. Accompanying the photo was a short write-up about Sloan’s most recent picture for Frontier, a comedy titled
Mister Ne’er Do
Well
. Once while they milled about on the set between takes, one of the other extras, a skinny kid with buckteeth and clumsy feet, had told Diego that he’d heard Samuel Sloan was actually a Jew.

“Passes himself off as wholesome all-American. Corn fed,” the extra said. “But he’s a Jew. Went from Weisman to Sloan, and like that,” he said, snapping his fingers, “he starts getting parts and becomes a Frontier darling.”

People did it all the time, Diego knew. They changed or hid their identities to get what they wanted. It wasn’t anything shocking or unheard of. He had chuckled at the extra’s naïveté. He put the magazine down, took his watch out, and looked again at the time. Restless, he lit another cigarette, rolled the magazine up, and sat back in the chair. There came a knock on the door, and he rose and opened it. A man in a black jacket and chauffeur’s cap stood in the entryway.

“Car for you, sir?” the man said.

The neon lights made trails of bright streaks as they drove west on Sunset Boulevard. Soon, they pulled into a large circular driveway lined with tall Italian cypress trees that swayed in the breeze. The house sat on a large plot of land known as Bel Air—past West Hollywood and Beverly Hills—in the folds of the rolling green hills in the western part of the city. It was a Spanish-style structure with an arched portico, a tiled roof, and wrought iron fixtures. The chauffeur stopped the car, swung open the door, and climbed out.

Inside, the floors in the vestibule and living room and dining hall were laid in brightly colored mosaic tiles and the winding staircase banister and handrail were made of a black iron that was rather imposing.

A butler in a black suit and bow tie led him to a sitting room and pointed to a bar near a large window. “Would you care for a drink, sir?” the man asked.

“Whiskey.” He sat, lit a cigarette, and tried to relax. “With ice.”

“Yes, sir,” said the butler. “Beautiful day out.” He plucked ice cubes out of a bucket with his gloved hands and poured the whiskey from a glass bottle.

“Indeed,” he responded, absentmindedly.

The butler handed him the glass. His face was gaunt and his skin very pale. His eyes were watery and red. “Mister Cage will be with you shortly. My name is Lawrence, if you need anything in the meantime.”

Diego was starting to get impatient when Cage finally walked in. He wore tan trousers, black loafers without socks, and a silk smoking jacket with nothing else underneath. His bare chest appeared through the jacket’s smooth shawl collar.

“Welcome,” Cage said. He reached out, took Diego’s hand, shook it, then leaned in and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek.