by Jeff Johnson
“She called me Emperor Dildo,” he confirmed. “Believe that?”
I picked at my non-steaming ribs and stale cornbread. Hank ate like a starving dingo, snorting, dry hacking, farting, and vocalizing a range of custom sound effects. His abdomen made an incredible amount of noise too, like whale song. He actually got food in one of his eyebrows. He saw me watching about halfway through and gestured.
“Wanna get down on this?”
“Thanks, no.”
He shrugged and continued his circus of consumption. I sometimes ate like that, I realized, but without the sound effects. Hank was full of revelations for me, because I decided to maybe not do that anymore.
“Hank, where the hell did you learn to eat like that?”
“I seen you eat,” he said around a mouthful of food. He glanced at my slippery ribs. “When it’s good, I mean.”
I shrugged with my face.
“S’part of the problem, no lie,” he went on. “Name was Rose. My second foster mother. The one with the food.” He took a breath and stopped eating, picked a chunk of something out of the back of his teeth and inspected it before flicking it away. “Rose is in county right now, so Delia is bummed. No wedding mama on the Dildo side of the family either. She thinks it makes us look like total losers, no family in the chapel. I keep telling her it doesn’t matter, but it does.” He belched and frowned. “Rose, she was good people. Eleven kids under her roof. Fed us all on state money, which is about enough to feed a small dog. Hence my manners.”
“Rose,” I repeated. I felt a twinge of sympathy for him.
“I’m still fucking skinny.” He laughed bitterly. “Ate all my fat cells growing up.”
“I can relate, unfortunately.”
“Delia told me that about you. Said you came up the hard way. Born old, Rose called it.”
“Wasn’t so bad,” I lied.
“Where to next?”
“The shop. I’ll drop you off and you can store your tux there with Delia. I’ve got to talk to Gomez.”
“Cool.”
“Aw yeah.” It was my turn to stare into space. “Aw yeah.”
We were both quiet on the drive into Old Town. Hank was high on his speedy victory at Tuxedorama, no doubt, and having eaten was likely thinking about scoring some dope and hitting up his one true love to unload some of his surplus man juice while Delia was at work. I was busy concocting a lie to feed to Gomez and multitasking by monitoring the engine, which didn’t sound right. No matter how I turned it, there was nothing I could tell Gomez short of the truth that would explain the situation. That wasn’t going to be easy, but worst of all, Gomez was a violent man of deep feelings. His reaction would be unpredictable.
There was parking across the street, so I took it. Hank must have texted Delia at some point because she was expecting us, and darted from the shop before I cut the engine. Hank and I watched as she held up traffic. Today she was wearing a lurid pink mini tee and shiny red pants, her Banksy boots. She leaned in with her tiny butt cocked out, classic streetwalker pose, and gave me a wink.
“Thanks.”
“Hey baby,” Hank purred. She winked at him too, then tossed her head at me.
“He gave you a pass, did he?” She glanced at the plastic-wrapped tux.
“We got along famously,” I said quickly. “Tux was no big deal, practically free.”
“Goody. Gomez is looking for you.” She inspected my hornet sting. “He was really, really insistent. You beat up the kid or what?”
“No, no,” I lied, wincing. “I, ah, did he look mad?” I must have made a pained expression because Delia laughed in my face. She smelled like bubble gum and Chapstick.
“You ding-dong! You’re his landlord and you just gave questionable advice to his troubled nephew! Of course he looked mad!” Then she made a mock zombie street samurai face and said in a deep voice, “He also looked very Gomez. ‘You tell Darby I lookin’ for him, no? Good chica, buuuenooooo.’”
“Later,” Hank said, seizing the call to abandon ship. He hopped out and yanked his tux out of the back, slammed the door. “C’mere, little chica. I was just telling Darby how I was growing something for you.”
Delia circled the car and slid into Hank’s arms, looked up into his sleazy smile.
“Mold?” she asked prettily.
“Guess again.”
“Mildew? A shroom of some kind? Right behind your gonads?”
“Warmer. Warmer.”
“An unguent.” She raised one foot, making dainty. I couldn’t stand any more so I got out and slammed the door, heading for the Rooster Rocket for a drink and fistfight with a possible knifing crescendo.
The inside of the Rocket was dark as ever. And cold, too. I let out the breath I’d been holding as the door closed behind me and drew in a deep breath of bar smell through my nose. Cherry was behind the bar and she gave me a curious look. My hackles went up.
“Gomez around?”
She flicked her eyes in the direction of the booth across from her. Gomez leaned out and looked down at me, took his reading glasses off. He was sitting there doing paperwork, waiting for me.
“Darby,” he called in that way he had, of being loud without raising his voice. “C’mere, vato. Sit with me.”
I walked toward him with my head down. I couldn’t help it.
“Cherry, sweetheart,” Gomez rumbled again, “how about a round here. Christian thimbles.”
I slid into the booth across from him. Gomez set his glasses down and stared at me. In front of him was a spreadsheet, the ordering forms, and a Dollar Store calculator. Coffee. I looked up from all of it into his eyes. Gomez didn’t have brown eyes like most Mexicans. His were close to black, a single shade away from his actual pupil, and right then they looked like the eyes of a serial killer on a movie poster. He’d come close to hypnotizing me in the past with his impressive ozone glare. I smiled nervously.
“Hey, dude,” I began lamely, “I, ah, I wanted—”
“Hold your tongue,” he commanded softly. “First, we will drink.”
I swallowed. He stared at me while we waited for Cherry. I tried not to squirm. After ten hours, she set our drinks down and drifted back into the bar gloom. Gomez took his tiny glass in his scarred fingers and raised it. I took mine and raised it as well.
“To family,” he breathed.
“Cheers.” It came out of me almost like a question. We drank.
“Gomez,” I began again, “there are times in a man’s life when—”
“Stand up,” he directed. He slid out of the booth and gestured for me to rise with both hands. I did. Reluctantly. We looked at each other. Gomez was a seasoned street fighter, swinging before I was born, so there would be no rookie telegraph messaging. His strike would be blind and fast, to a wet place like my eyes or the roof of my mouth if it was open, or the neck. He might even try to pull my lip or an ear off. He spread his arms wide and my eyes went wide too.
Gomez hugged me.
“I owe you, homie,” he whispered. “We always had each other’s backs, but now you are a brother to me. I have no idea how you saved the boy. He will not tell me. But”—he stopped and sniffed, continued in a hoarse voice—“he is a changed man.” He drew back and shook me by the shoulders, then raised his voice. “Cherry! Sweetheart, bring us real drinks! The top shelf! Bourbon!” Then he drew back and gestured for me to sit.
“This is welcome news,” I said, amazed that I didn’t stutter. “Santos is, where is he? I mean right now?”
“At work.” Gomez leaned back. “Preparing.”
“Ah.” I nodded, like this made sense. “Good.”
“What did you say to him?” Gomez smiled and leaned forward, glanced in Cherry’s direction. “He said it was private, that he did not want to violate your trust. But if you tell me?” He spread his hands, palms up.
“We had an interesting day.” I nodded and considered. Cherry gave me a moment’s reprieve by delivering our drinks just then, so I picked up my
glass and gave her a smile, waited until she was back at the bar before I addressed him. “What did he tell you, Gomez? I mean, when did he get back?”
“Last night. Late. I don’t know what time. He called me this morning and said he was on his way to work. We talked.” Gomez picked up his drink. “He told me that he had cash. Him and his brother, they had made some. It was money I didn’t know about. He told me he had it because . . . I don’t know why he told me, not really. But it had something to do with you. Santos wants to be more honest about who and what he is. He won’t work for the government, but he will not ever run for office either, he says. He intends to exist outside the system, which is good, but he means all the way out.”
“And these preparations . . .”
“The new start.” Gomez lowered his voice. “Santos does not believe he can beat the game if he plays by the rules.”
“Right.” I had no idea what that meant. “Right. Good.”
“This new car of his.” Gomez frowned. “He says it is, what was his word, a relic of yours, left over from something you did?”
I said nothing.
“Darby, I used my car connection to run the VIN on that ride. Santos already did, but I had to make sure. That car was never manufactured. It never rolled off the line. No one ever owned it. It never existed.” His voice went all the way down to a whisper. “Priceless, vato.”
A chill went up my back. A phantom with a phantom car. I should have expected as much. I shrugged.
“Oh! Your piece of shit minivan! It’s in a parking garage over by the convention center. The one across from the bank plaza.”
“Drop the keys off when you can, no rush.” He sipped his drink and nodded appreciatively. “So, homie. You. How are you? How is Suzanne?”
“I’m okay,” I said. “Suze is still up north. She’s coming down to visit this weekend.”
“Good. The feds?”
“One of them has colitis.”
“Good!” Gomez brightened, then abruptly glowered. “You still being stalked by a renegade stripper?”
“Nah. I think I still got a pretty big problem there, but I don’t know what to do about it just yet.”
“You need help, you got my number. The family thing, no shit, Darby. Santos has a chance now. You two gonna stay friends?”
“Sure we are. Tell him to call me, in fact. I got a couple coats I think would fit him. Snappy vintage, hard to find.”
“Will do. Flaco wants to see you too, man. Free tacos for a while.”
We drank in companionable silence after that. My initial relief on the matter of Santos had faded, giving way to low level alarm. He’d come back, resumed his old life, and he was preparing for something. Whatever it was would no doubt be blamed on me, so it was in my best interest to find out what the hell he was up to. But for the time being, it was one less thing to worry about. When I was done, Gomez and I said our goodbyes with a fist bump, same as always, but he smiled this time.
On the way out, I stopped at Flaco’s window. The old man looked up from chopping onions with tears in his eyes.
“Darby!” he howled. “My friend! I must tell you—”
“Tell me while you cook, man,” I interrupted. “Fuckin’ starved. Four juniors, and two more on the side. If I don’t eat, I’m going to drown.”
“Six of the best juniors! One fire!”
“I’ll be right back,” I said. “Gotta poke my head in the Lucky and yell at Delia.”
“I will bring them over!”
That gave me pause. In two decades, the closest Flaco had come to delivery was throwing a taco out the window into the street. I nodded uneasily and ducked into the tattoo shop.
Delia was alone, kicked back at her station reading a trashy magazine, a pair of scissors in one hand. She’d been cutting out random words to use in the border of a piece of flash. The new kids wouldn’t get there until early afternoon. The Nordic death metal was cranked so loud it was hard to tell who it actually was. I went to the stereo and turned it down.
“Hank was bummed you were mean to him,” she said immediately. “He didn’t go on and on about it like a baby, but all he had to do was mention it for me to know it bothered him.”
I held my hand up for silence.
“I wish you two could somehow get along,” she continued, ignoring me. “You have to think, Darby. Hank and me, this is real, like wedding real. I don’t think the big picture has really sunk in all the way with you somehow.”
“I watched him eat,” I began, “and this was after I watched him drink.”
“You’re serious?” She put her scissors down and stood, folded her arms. “Unbelievable. Be nice to my man, Darby Holland. Period.”
I deflated.
“And no shit-talking about him either.” Delia stepped closer to me and the look on her face was sincere. “From now on we gotta have a rule, man. Play nice and stay nice or no dice.”
“Like the three monkeys in the Chinese postcard,” I ventured weakly.
“My god. You two have so much in common.”
“I’m only a dick because I care,” I said firmly. “Quit being such a bully.”
“Fine. This means I can talk all the shit I want about that phony bitch Suzanne, right?”
I sighed. She did, too.
“You look cute today,” I ventured.
“Hank thinks so.”
I sat down in one of the customer chairs. Delia remained standing. We were at a crossroads and I was the one with the map.
“Let’s agree to not be critical of our questionable choice of mates,” I proposed. “At least for now. A diplomatic truce until the smoke clears.”
Someone kicked the front door open and we both turned, fast. Flaco came through with a red plastic serving tray in his hands and a giant smile on his face.
“Delivery, for the one and only Darby Holland! Six deluxe juniors! Extra sauce! Extra meat! Extra everything that makes a taco great!”
“What the—” Delia began.
Flaco set everything on the counter and unfurled a white paper napkin with a flourish, took a bow.
“Thanks, dude,” I said, rising swiftly.
“What the hell is this?” Delia asked. Flaco pointed his smile at her.
“Darby worked a miracle with young Santos.”
Delia looked at me. “What kind of miracle.” It didn’t come out as a question.
“The hardest kind,” Flaco replied. “Santos, he is a criminal. We all are criminals these days to some degree I suppose, but it is in his blood. His bones.” Flaco frowned then. “We were all sure he was headed back to lock up. His soul, it was”—he looked for the right word—“like bad meat. Old before it could be cooked. Spoiled. But Darby gave him something we couldn’t that will keep him free. Something rare and precious.”
Delia and I both looked on, waiting for whatever it was. Flaco looked up with tears in his eyes.
“Hope,” he said. “Hope is how the bird flies. It is a thing of the heart.” He gestured at the tacos as if they were too simple now, bowed his head, and walked out slower than he’d come in. I walked over to the counter and looked at the juniors. He’d arranged them in a perfect little row. I picked up the first one and bit into it, then glanced at Delia.
“Amazing,” she said.
“What?” I managed. I was eating as fast as I could, and at that moment I must have reminded her of Hank. She cocked her head.
“You bond with a young Mexican criminal, and you even change his life in some way so profound that Flaco is delivering tacos, and yet you spend the morning with Hank and I get the impression that he’s lucky to be alive.”
I plowed into taco number three at speed. Delia’s face was wrinkled in disgust when I looked over. I swallowed.
“It was an accident. Me and the kid, I dunno. Maybe I was the first guy to treat him like an adult.” I thought for a second. “That can’t be it. But maybe I was the first real fuck-up he’d ever met who had some real level of commitment to it. Y
ou buy that?”
“Jesus.” She looked away. I gestured at the tacos.
“Delia, eat one of these. He wasn’t bullshitting about the extra deluxe. C’mon.”
She slowly walked over and picked one up, took a bite. Her eyes were especially huge when she looked up at me.
“Good, right?”
She nodded. I patted her bony shoulder.
“You did the same thing for me,” she said when she swallowed.
“What?”
“Hope. Gave it to me like you were giving away feathers. I told you that a million times, man. I just can’t see why you don’t have the same effect on Hank.”
Shit.
“How’s it feel to be right about everything?” I asked. “Every single time, without fail, all the fucking time.”
“Pretty good.” Delia took another bite and smiled as she chewed. “S’why I do it.”
“Spaz.”
“Weenis hole.”
“Harpy.”
“Knob.”
“Knobber.”
“I got something to show you,” she said. She wiped her hands on the presentation napkin. “You’ll actually like it.”
“Where is it? If it’s a bump or a rash of some kind . . .”
“In the back room, dummy. On the drawing table.”
She watched as I finished the last taco. When I was done, I followed her into the back. There, spread out for review, was a sample T-shirt, screen printed with a design that could only be one of hers. I stood before it in awe, Delia beside me. I put my arm around her shoulder.
It was a three-color graphic. King Kong, hanging from the side of Big Pink, the Portland skyline’s lurid salmon flesh skyscraper. The King was in his classic movie pose, depending from one hand, but in his free hand he held an enormous revolver, smoke and fire curling from the barrel. His eyes were wild and crazy, and his lips were pulled back to reveal teeth capped with gold and inscribed with Satanic symbols. Below, Burnside and Sixth was littered with upside-down police cars and screaming yuppie pedestrians, many of whom were on fire. LUCKY SUPREME TATTOO was on a banner being dragged across the story sky by an old-fashioned biplane. Our phone number and address went across the bottom in the reflection of an oil slick.
