Desperado

by Manuel Ramos

  “Wow, Artie. That’s crazy. You hear about this kind of stuff, but you never expect that it’ll happen to someone you know. A scam out of something like a detective movie, blackmail, who knows what else. What you gonna do?”

  “That’s why I’m talking to you.”

  I thought about all the options that he could be referencing. I started to feel uncomfortable with where the conversation with my old high school buddy was headed.

  “You want me to lend you money?” I calculated that this was the least disagreeable of the ideas he might have floating around in his head.

  He gave me one of those as if looks and I felt insulted.

  “No, no. I got the money,” he said.

  At this point I started to re-think my relationship with Artie Baca. I sat upright and leaned forward. We did stupid things in high school and for a year or so after. Typical teenage antisocial behavior and other messes not so typical. The kinds of things that might make him think I’d be up for taking care of a blackmailer. But that wasn’t me, never had been. I couldn’t be the muscle on a job if my life depended on it.

  I should have had a better understanding of Artie, but I relied too much on memories and the secrets we shared, and, well, things went the way they went, all crazy and weird. After it played out, when the dust settled, as they say, I finally realized that I never caught on to his trip, and that turned out to be a big mistake for me, for Artie, for everyone involved.

  “I want you to give the money to her,” he said. I eased back against the inflexible chair.

  “Uh, you should take care of that yourself. Why get someone else involved? Already I know more than you want me to know. Why’d you come to me anyway?”

  Artie Baca’s lazy eyes finally looked back at me. The girls called them bedroom eyes, but for me they came off as droopy. More sluggish than sexy.

  “Insurance. I’m thinking that when this chick sees that someone else knows about her blackmailing, that will be the end of it. You’re like a witness. If I’m not afraid to tell you, then she’ll understand that the ten grand is all she’s getting out of me. One payment and only one or I go to the cops with you as back up. I’ll explain it to her so she gets it. But I want you to deliver the same message, along with the money. You don’t have to get physical. I’m not asking that.”

  “You want to put me out there, as your insurance? You ever think she might resent my butting into her action? What if she’s not alone, which she probably is not by the way, and her partner decides that there’s one too many witnesses and figures he’ll eliminate the risk? What if he wants to cancel your so-called insurance?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing like that will happen. She’s after quick money. Thinks I’m an easy mark. She was stuttering and nervous when she talked to me on the phone. There’s no weight behind her. No one else involved. She had a good time with me, then a day or two later it probably sunk in that the rent was due, or that she wanted to enroll in hairdresser college after all. So she started thinking about how easy it would be to make a little something off me. She called me at my office and gave me her pitch. I couldn’t believe it. I tore into her, chewed her ass out. She ended up crying and I thought that was the end of it, that I had scared her off. But then she sent me the video and I knew this was serious.” He sounded pathetic, looked worse. “I gotta pay her and get this done.”

  Years of resentment steamed up my throat. “Why in the good goddamn would I help you?”

  He tightened his lips into a thin line. His Adam’s apple moved up and down. His expensive shirt had a stain near the collar. The Artie I once knew never paraded in public with less than an immaculate presentation.

  He reached into the back pocket of his pants and I stiffened. Had I come on too strong? Artie had a violent streak. I’d seen him explode more than once when someone pushed him. He showed me a soft-looking tan leather wallet. An embossed letter “B” stood out on the cowhide. He unfolded a check, and laid it on the table so that I could read it. Pay to the order of Gus Corral the sum of one thousand dollars and no cents. No sense. That’s me. I should have ripped up the check, told Artie I’d see him around, maybe at the twentieth-year reunion.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” I said, almost pleasantly. “I could use the money. But I need to ask again. Why me? It’s not like we’re BFFs or whatever they call friends these days. I haven’t seen you since . . . uh, well, for years. Why me?”

  Artie stood up, his six-foot frame still thin and wiry. He paced around Sylvia’s dusty shop. He blew his nose into a monogrammed handkerchief.

  “Honestly? I think you’re the kind of person I need for something like this.” I shook my head. He held up his hand, signaling me to calm down. “Don’t jump to conclusions,” he said. “Nothing negative, Gus. Not like the old days. I considered the cops, but that would mean public exposure. It would make the papers and the TV news. My business would take a hit. I figured ten thousand wouldn’t break me plus I could save my marriage and my business. But I needed a guarantee that the woman wouldn’t bother me again. I thought about a private investigator, maybe an ex-cop. I wasn’t sure there were any of those guys around yet, but I found a few. They’re mostly process servers or skip tracers, not really investigators, not someone I’d trust with the money and the secret. A couple were nothing but fat slobs without an ounce of intelligence. Or con men pitching their own grifts. I thought over the people I knew, someone who could be useful in this kind of thing. I remembered what we did in high school, and after. Maybe you didn’t know it, but I always thought I could count on you. I could rely on you to do what you said you were gonna do. All the guys thought of you that way. I don’t know anyone else, to be frank. I can’t go to my lawyer or my business partners. No one.”

  He stopped talking. When I didn’t say anything he must have concluded that he hadn’t convinced me yet.

  “And, yeah, I figured you could use the money. I heard about you and Sylvia, losing your job, working and living here, all of it. I kept coming back to you. That’s why I’m here.”

  The BS was thick. I knew better than to believe Artie’s rap. But I was sure that his check was good. The guy had money. I didn’t.

  “You have to help me, Gus,” he said. “I can’t do this by myself.”

  Those two short sentences carried more impact than his story about his one-night fling, the blackmailing, even that he was willing to pay off the chippie. Artie Baca, begging for my help. I should have felt good about that, I should have stood up and crowed like a rooster at dawn, but all I felt was sadness for something that slipped away from both of us that warm afternoon.

  2

  Artie’s post-high school life could be summarized as a quick evolution from conscienceless Romeo to real estate magnate, with very few stops in-between. When we quit carousing together—a very physical arrest and a month in City Jail will do that for some people—he worked for old man Abel Sánchez back when Sanchez was one of the few Latino realtors in the city. Artie turned a small real estate office into a major enterprise. When Sánchez retired, Baca took over the business and continued to build it with his charm and force of personality. Those were the days when real estate was still a good bargain on the North Side, when old houses could be picked up for a song and then sold to future-thinking developers who saw more happening, eventually, on the North Side than any of us long-time residents could imagine. When the neighborhood started to gentrify, Artie was the man of the hour. By the time the North Side had morphed into “Highlands” he’d sold off several properties at double and triple what he’d paid for them, and he even inserted himself into some of the deals that turned one-family homes into multi-unit condos and townhouses. He made a killing on real estate although in other parts of the city that market went south with the rest of the economy, which meant that one thousand dollars wasn’t all that much to him and, apparently, he could also afford ten thousand for a one-night stand that had turned into his biggest nightmare.

  I reflected o
n my circumstances. The recession hit me hard, like everyone else in my family, but at least I had a job, managing my ex-wife’s segunda on Thirty-Second. Six days a week, from opening at nine in the morning until I decided to close up, usually around five or six. I pretended to be the night watchman so I could sleep in the place. In the back room I kept a small refrigerator, microwave, toaster oven and a TV that worked most of the time. I had carved out a cozy set-up.

  Sylvia provided a cot but she never acted civil to me, even when she dug into the cash register and calculated my weekly pay. The good part was that I didn’t have to pay rent. The bad was that I saw Sylvia several times a week when she walked in with her usual scowl and bad attitude. Checking on me, of course. I waited like a hungry dog to get my pay each Friday. But I needed the job. My life hadn’t exactly panned out the way I thought it would when I was voted in high school as The Most Likely to Retire Early. Maybe I was retired and didn’t know it.

  “How were you thinking this would go down?” I said.

  “It’s simple. She wants to meet so she can get the money. I’ll set that up but tell her you’ll be there in my place. If she doesn’t go for that, I’ll play along that I’ll be there, too, even though I won’t. I don’t want anything more to do with the skank. She said she’d give me the video when she gets her money, but you know that doesn’t mean anything. She’ll have the damn tape forever. I can’t do squat about that.”

  “That’s not much of a plan,” I said. “I don’t really see how my involvement takes care of your problem.” I did my best to point out the flaws in Artie’s thinking even though my eyes kept returning to the check lying on the table.

  He sat back down across from me and picked up the check. “It’s all I can do. It’ll work. She’s weak, over her head. I’d deal with her in a different way except that I’m trying to limit my exposure. If you won’t do it, I’ll look for someone else. I know a few guys who might . . . ”

  “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it.” Artie had a bad habit of jumping to conclusions, of shooting first and asking questions later. He dropped the check on the table. “But I have to level with you. I don’t think it’ll fly. She’ll be back in another month or two, wanting another ten grand. Then again in another six months, for twenty thousand.”

  He looked lost in his own thoughts. I wasn’t sure he heard any of my words.

  “If this is how you want to play it, no skin off me, right?” I said. “There’s a risk, but the thousand dollars covers that. If you have to pay her again, my delivery fee doubles, simply because I told you so.”

  “This will work,” he said. “It has to. There won’t be any next time or any more delivery fees. Our business partnership ends after you take care of this. You can bet on that.”

  My brain screamed at me to say no. Why get involved with Artie Baca again, after all the years and our bleak past history? But my empty checking account said something else.

  I reached for the check but he beat me to it. “You get this when the job is done, Gus. That’s how it has to be.” He folded the check and slipped it back in his wallet.

  “Her name’s Misti Ortiz,” he said. “That’s what she’s using anyway.”

  “Very pop culturish,” I said. “Tell her to meet me at Chaffee Park. It’s open, more or less, so I can see whoever’s coming. The surrounding houses might discourage any rough play. I’ll get there early and scope it out. If anyone’s with her, I’m out of there. You’ll have to go to Plan B, whatever it is.”

  “I don’t like it,” he said.

  “You don’t have a choice.”

  He twisted his right hand around his left. “I guess that’s everything. I’ll call you when I confirm the day and time, hopefully today or tomorrow. Then I’ll swing by with the cash.” He quit twisting his hands and clenched them together while he thought over what he was doing. The sweat had moved from his lip to his entire face. “One more thing.”

  He produced an obvious computer-generated photograph from his pocket and handed it to me.

  “Her picture, so you can be sure you’re dealing with the right bitch.”

  The close-up from the video featured Artie and the woman, cheek-to-cheek, with big, bright, boozy smiles. The girl’s bare shoulders hinted at nakedness but there was nothing particularly scandalous about the pose. She had short black hair; a silver ring pierced her left eyebrow. Her glazed eyes focused on a point a few inches above the camera. Dark, near-purple lipstick smudged her mouth and Artie’s neck sported a smear of the same color. Artie did indeed look drunk—his eyes were almost closed and his cheeks gave off a reddish glow.

  “She from the States?”

  “Mexico. Probably illegal. Maybe I can get her deported. Send her sweet ass back to the motherland.” He laughed. I didn’t.

  I looked at the photo, then Artie, back to the photo. I remembered that Artie was not one of my favorite people and that he deserved whatever grief the young lady wanted to give him. I thought of our past times together, our secrets and our potential for damaging one another. I thought about the check resting in Artie’s wallet.

  “Okay, Artie. Let’s do it.”

  3

  Ifinished my third cup of coffee and second blueberry cereal bar. A typical breakfast. The wall clock chimed ten times. Fortyeight hours after Artie’s visit, I looked out on another pleasant day. The Colorado summer could disappoint a person who didn’t like unfailing sunshine or afternoon showers that cooled off the parched air after work.

  Work. What a concept. I needed work. I wanted a paycheck in return for my sweat but no one wanted my sweat. I didn’t have a choice except to do my time in Sylvia’s store. No options presented themselves and my brain refused to produce ideas.

  Daily life in Sylvia’s Superb Shoppe fluctuated between monotonous and really monotonous. I did what I could to make the routine more interesting. Difficult to do since all I had to work with were second-hand clothes, junk, boxes of frayed baseball cards, chipped porcelain angels and more junk. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure, except that no one had unearthed any treasures in Sylvia’s Superb Shoppe.

  Not that people didn’t come looking. The typical looky-lou who wandered into the store had recently moved into the North Side, which was happening by the droves over the past year or so. Usually a couple bubbling over with excitement about exploring their new neighborhood, maybe carrying a baby in one of those rug rat slings, most likely leading a big dog that they tied to the bike rack anchored on the red flagstone sidewalk. These folks might buy a coffee cup with a silly slogan or maybe one of the Gold Medal paperbacks that I “gave” to Sylvia when she threw me out. Once in a great while I sold an ugly painting of a horse running in the wind or dogs playing pool because the couple wanted the frame.

  Sometimes I was entertained by the guy who watched too much Antiques Roadshow, or the woman who read in the Enquirer about someone who found a long lost art masterpiece at a yard sale. These types would look at everything in the store, handle several pieces and whisper to themselves or the person who had tagged along on the scavenger hunt. Eventually, they would leave without buying anything. Sylvia’s stuff, no matter how superb, did not excite these people—they saw no potential fortune in the rooster and hen salt-and-pepper shakers or the jars of buttons.

  The third type of customer, often an older woman, sincerely looked for bargains. Shoes for the kids or grandchildren, work shirts for the old man, plates for the cupboard, scissors, knives or a hat for herself. I liked these people. They needed what they bought and more than once I gave them a discount on Sylvia’s exaggerated prices. Sometimes I didn’t ask for any money. Sylvia would have ripped out my eyeballs if she knew, but I made sure she never had a clue.

  These customers showed up less and less. I guessed they moved to cheaper housing in another part of town, or the economic crisis made even a trip to the second-hand store a luxury that had to be put off until times got better.

  Occasionally someone I knew stopped in the store.
Depending on who it was, the visit could be a pleasure or an embarrassment. I experienced both when an old crush dropped in one afternoon.

  At North High School, Isabel Scutti and I never connected in any meaningful way. In the early nineties the Italian students didn’t mingle much with the Chicano students. The anti-Columbus protests that rocked Denver every October chilled cross-cultural fraternization. Each group agitated about cultural and ethnic pride. Phrases like “genocide” and “freedom of speech” were casually thrown around. They lost their impact, but lines were drawn and not too many of us crossed them. But that didn’t stop me from daydreaming about Isabel. Can’t say now what the big attraction was back in high school, but when she walked in the store I stared for too long, then tried to smile, then blurted out, “Isabel! Look what the cat drug in.”

  She frowned. “The cat?”

  “Sorry. Guess I’m surprised to see you, that’s all.”

  The frown turned to a smile. She looked me over, conducting her own inspection of the weirdo in the second-hand shop. “Gus Corral. I thought that was you. It’s been years.” Years that hadn’t aged her at all.

  I knew bits and pieces of her history. Her family lived in the North Side for eighty years or so. A great-grandfather came over from a Sicilian village. A few branches of the Scutti family continued to live in or near the old man’s house on Vallejo Street, although many of their fellow Italians moved away. She graduated from the University of Northern Colorado and I’d heard she taught at Horace Mann, still on the North Side, and published a trio of poetry books. Never married but she had compiled a long list of ex-boyfriends. That last according to my sister, Corrine, who periodically filled me in on the adventures and misadventures of our classmates.

  “Yeah, years. You look the same. Like you just turned in your paper in Advanced English and expect an A.”

  “I promise I’m not looking for answers to the Algebra homework. That’s what I always seemed to bother you about.”