by Essa Alroc
“Her name is Angelica Salvatori.”
“Trust Delia to give her a ridiculous name like that. Where is she?”
“Miami is what I’m being told. She owns a bar there. We should have her by tomorrow, day after at the latest.”
Tia felt pressure in her bladder, not sure if it was because of her fear, or the fact that she hadn’t gone to the bathroom in days. If she did have a sister, these men were planning on taking her like they’d taken Tia. A lump formed in Tia’s throat, making it impossible to swallow. Thoughts whirred in her head as she tried to make sense of what she had heard. She had a sister. She had a sister she’d never met, didn’t even know about. These men were going to take her, hurt her like they had hurt Tia. Tia tried to reign in her panic.
Her eyes focused again on the window, looking out onto the desert landscape, the tall cacti sitting thirty feet high in the distance, the sun a sharp glowing disc behind them. She never knew they could be so high or the sun so yellow. It looked so bright and beautiful. It didn’t make sense that something so dark and horrible could be happening inside. Tia sucked in a breath, this one loud enough to make both men stop their chess game and look over at her. With another gasp, for the first time in one week and three days, Tia sat up.
“Tia,” Nathan started to rise out of his chair. Seeing the movement, Tia jumped to her feet, pins and needles shooting through her legs as she used them for the first time in days. “Tia?”
Tia backed away in panic as Nathan started to walk to her. He stopped on the other side of the bed, watching her cautiously. “You’re awake.”
Tia’s back hit the wall and she turned to the side. Next to her, the window. It was open, not even a pane of glass separated her from the sky. She reached out a hand like a sleepwalker and put it outside in the open air. Her hand was free.
“Tia.” Nathan watched Tia from across the room, afraid to startle her. The window was large but two stories up. Tia moved in front of it and turned to face him, leaning back on the sill. Nathan lifted a hand towards her as she tilted back a little.
“Tia, come away from there. You’re going to fall.”
Her voice was smoky from nonuse. “I have a sister?”
Nathan nodded quietly. “Yes, and when we get her, you can come away with me.” Nathan slowly started to walk around the bed. “Why don’t you lie back down?” He started to approach her. He stopped when Tia leaned farther into the window.
“What are you going to do to her?”
“You don’t need to be concerned about that.” Nathan’s voice had grown firmer. “Now come away from the window.” He started to take another purposeful step towards her, and Tia leaned back even further. This time, the elderly man took notice as well.
“Nathan, you need to put a stop to this.” The older man, Victor Slon, started to rise from his chair.
“I’m working on it. Tia, please come away from there before you get hurt.” Instead, Tia leaned out until the only thing keeping her from falling out was her hands gripping the windowsill. She let her focus drift away from Nathan. She turned her face and saw the sky, felt the warm sun on her back.
She let go of the windowsill and let herself float into it.
Nathan raced to the window as Tia disappeared, arms outstretched, tumbling over. “Tia!”
Tia heard her name as she fell from the sky, her heart pounding in her ears as the wind rushed by her. She lay suspended in air forever, her hair forming a halo around her angelic face. Time stopped, everything stopped.
Suddenly, everything slammed out of her as her body hit the ground, her breath left her in a whoosh of air. She lay on the ground, stunned for a moment, wondering if she was dead. The sky stretched on endlessly above her and suddenly Tia was feeling less brave.
She gingerly sat up, and felt for broken bones. Tia heard shouting from above and knew they would be coming for her soon. She got to her feet, her standing still unsure, and bolted towards the horizon to find her sister.
***
The Yuma Desert sits outside Yuma, Arizona, a tiny slice of the larger Sonoran Desert that routes drug dealers and illegal aliens alike into the United States. The harsh lands, lack of rainfall, and unstable sand dunes make it a poor choice for development and it sits deserted, with the occasional spots of Coyotes smuggling illegals into the large neighboring city of Yuma. There are almost no natural water reservoirs.
Frequently, unprepared travelers expire on the trip through the harsh terrain. The most common cause is dehydration, either from the immigrants not bringing enough of their own supply, or from having it stolen by the often vicious outlaws who wander the terrain. The problem had grown so significant, the US Department of Fish and Wildlife had, with great controversy, installed several watering stations along the border that allowed the border jumpers to refill as needed.
Darren Calipso, border patrol agent, had been given the lofty duty of re-checking the water stations. It was an easy job that could be surprisingly fun, when given the proper equipment to play with. Darren raced in the sand, the tracks from his ATV disappearing almost as soon as he made them, miles of empty desert stretching in front of him. He felt alone in the universe, and the feeling was good. The wind whipped through his hair, sand spotted against his goggles. He jumped another dune, his ATV flying in the air, and laughed as it came down with a delicate bounce of perfect suspension. With all four wheels on the ground again, he surveyed the horizon, expecting to find it empty. To his surprise, for once, it wasn’t.
A lone figure, black against the sun behind it took haltering, stumbling steps. The figure paused, leaned forward, fell to the ground. It struggled to an uncertain stand, again stumbling forward with determined steps.
Darren shook his head and reached for his canteen. Another illegal getting ready to forfeit their life to the desert. He gunned the ATV and took off towards the figure. As he drew closer and the sun stopped blotting the features of the figure, he stared in surprise.
The stumbling person continued to trundle and trip in the sand. Darren stopped the ATV and watched her for a moment. She gave no indication she even knew he was there. She was tall, in a long white dress definitely not designed for a trek in the desert. If anything, it looked like a nightgown. But the gown wasn’t the most surprising thing. In a desert populated by illegal Mexican immigrants, drug dealers and outlaws, Darren had expected to see swarthy dark, sunburned skin with coarse black hair. Instead, the woman in front of him was a vision of pearl skin, just starting to turn pink from the sun, and white blonde hair that hung to her waist. For the first time, the woman turned towards him and he saw her wide violet blue eyes widen in alarm.
“What are you doing out here?” Darren took a step towards her and held out the canteen. She stared at it as though she had never seen one before.
“I don’t know.” The words were whispered and gravelly, confused. Darren studied her face as he walked closer. She was beautiful, but haggard, her hair tangled from the wind, her lips and cheeks chapped. “I don’t know how I got here.” She whispered it again and dropped to her knees on the ground.
Darren raced to her side, still in shock from the surreal situation. He squatted down next to her and pushed the canteen at her again. “Are you lost? Are you looking for something?”
The girl’s eyes locked on his and finally seemed to focus for a moment. “I think,” she started haltingly, her voice getting weaker; “I’m looking for my sister.”
She slumped to the ground, unconscious.
***
From the outside, the bar looked closed, even abandoned. The dirty windows were so caked in years of cigarette smoke, bar fight blood and mystery smears that it was completely impossible to see what was going on inside unless you pressed your face against the glass. Nobody ever did unless they wanted to walk away with a forehead full of hepatitis. A chipped red door sat crookedly on a door frame, never fully closed. On that, a sign, in peeling stick-on black letters, the name of the bar.
&nb
sp; “Strangely Sober.”
“Yo, Sal, ” Mooki’s voice caught on the last word as he sucked in a mouthful of some seriously strong black hash. “It’s your hit.” He held the pipe out from the table he was sitting at in the bar, deserted except for the four regular patrons. Mooki, also known as Marlon Lookey, Sal’s half-brother from her mother’s fourth marriage, was one of those regular patrons.
“Have Nicky take it for me,” came a pack a day, but decidedly feminine voice from somewhere under the bar. Rustling, hammering, feminine swearing. A hand reached up for a lighter, chipped broken fingernails, cuts and burns, multiple Band-Aids. The hand shook as it snatched a lighter and disappeared again.
Nicky, usually known as Nicholas Salvatori, reached over to oblige his niece’s request. “Whatcha making in there Sally girl?” Nicky said in the general direction of the bar.
From below the bar, a mini commotion, muffled swearing, a possible blowtorch?
“You three are going to rot your brains with that shit.” Sal’s other uncle, Giovanni Salvatori, aka Gio, stated from where he was studying a mismatched chess set, watching his unlikely opponent. He took a heavy belt from his single malt scotch and moved a pawn. His companion said nothing, but then again, his companion rarely said anything.
“Check,” John Bernard St. Pierre, one of Sal’s former stepfathers, stated as he shoved his bishop into the spot in front of Gio’s unprotected king. Everyone called him Mumbai, despite the fact that he wasn’t Indian and had never been to India. The irony was lost on the group, as they were all really bad at geography.
“Son of a bitch,” Gio responded.
“My brain’s already rotting. I’m just making the process more comfortable.”
From behind the bar stood a girl, who on first glance, looked surprisingly like Tia. On closer inspection, she was a far more tattered copy. Instead of a natural white blonde, her hair was naturally golden. That could be discerned by the four-inch roots that grew from the top. The rest was bleached almost yellow, with dried and broken ends. The length ranged from two inches to mid back. Her features were small like Tia’s, but her lips were pale and chapped, currently clamped around a cigarette. Her nose sat awkwardly crooked in the center of her face, the result of a previous fracture. Two scars, one new, a slim red line grazing her right cheekbone, the second older, less pronounced, slicing through the middle of her top lip. Her most alluring and disturbing feature were her eyes. In Tia’s face, the blue violet was soft and limpid, serene. In Sal’s face, they burned fever bright, the dark circles and red rims making the color more pronounced. Her gaze was disturbing, but slightly intriguing, mainly in its strangeness.
She was an exact replica of Tia. Just not a pretty one.
Her hands clutched a lit cigarette, despite the one that was already in her mouth, a lighter, a fire extinguisher, a beer, several rolls of duct tape and a half-empty bottle of 151. She placed everything on the bar in front of her and took a drag off her cigarette in her mouth, another drag off the cigarette in her hand, and surveyed the mess with a critical eye.
To any outsider, the occupants of the bar were an oddly-matched group. Gio and Nicky were middle aged and middle aging, respectively. They were both wiry Italians with quick tempers. Gio, the older brother, was the high-strung hothead, given to going off for anything. Nicky was the younger laid back ladies’ man with a long string of girlfriends with names like Taffy, Candy, Crystal and so on. They were the brothers of Sal’s mother and the favorites of her various uncles.
Mooki was the youngest. He was the short, thin half German result of a green card marriage that Sal’s mother took too seriously. He mainly followed Sal around downing a steady supply of drugs and occasionally starting some brother/sister bickering that both secretly enjoyed. He was also the muscle of the group. That would have seemed strange, considering his unimposing, hippie persona, except he grew up with a name like Mooki so he had a lot of experience fighting.
Mumbai was a mystery. He was a six foot five Haitian refugee with one eye and he was Sal’s fifth former stepfather. The only thing he ever said of the marriage to Sal’s mother was that it made him nostalgic for his days as a political prisoner.
Sal lifted the fire extinguisher, cigarette dangling from her lip and squinted as she lifted the nozzle. She pointed it towards Mooki who was watching from the table.
“It’s just a fire extinguisher.” Mooki was unimpressed.
“Correction, it was an extinguisher, now it’s an embellisher.” Sal pressed the nozzle gently and laughed as Mooki tumbled out of the chair he was sitting in to avoid the four foot flames that shot out.
“Relax, it’s on the lowest setting.” Sal flicked a switch and set the fire extinguisher on the floor. “You should see when I put it on high.”
“Holy shit,” Mooki responded as he peeked his head above the table and stood, moving to where Sal was standing. “You gave it settings and everything.” He picked it up, placing it on the bar, admiring Sal’s handy work. The extinguisher had undergone some minor changes. There was a small cartridge on the bottom now, with a small bottle underneath. The entire nozzle had been wrapped in electrical tape. On the front, Sal had written in black magic marker “Use in case of water”.
“Nice.” Nicky had joined them.
Sal smiled proudly. “The hard part was finding something that vaporized into strong enough alcohol to burn. Mooki gave me the idea when he passed out after drinking all that 151, and I dropped that cigarette on him.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“Your eyebrows came back in nicely.” Nicky lifted the nozzle and turned his attention back to Sal. “How did you know how to make it?”
“I guess the better question would be, ‘Why?’” Gio said from across the room, still staring at the chessboard in dismay.
Sal was incredulous. “I will have you know that this,” Sal patted her flamethrower fondly, “is the thing that is finally going to take care of this problem once and for all.” Sal slapped her hand down on the bar and fixed her eyes on her uncle, who continued to play his game with Mumbai.
“Ain’t gonna work, Sal.”
“It will if I hit all the support beams.”
“You’re only going to burn the support beams? That won’t be a dead giveaway to the fire inspector.” Gio rolled his eyes and shoved a pawn forward.
“It would be, if I was using an accelerant like gasoline or lighter fluid. Not,” Sal patted the fire extinguisher, “if it runs on alcohol. So they find spots of alcohol,” Sal shrugged and spread her arms wide. “It’s a bar, of course they’re gonna find booze!”
Nicky raised an eyebrow and turned to Gio. “She makes a good point. You really think this will work?” Nicky turned back to Sal. She nodded emphatically as Gio shook his head.
“Why don’t you just keep it?”
Sal sighed as Gio started the same argument they’d had a million times before. “Because I’m not ready to retire yet.” Sal glared at the bar that had been the bane of her existence for the past three months. She scratched a spot on her neck, the idea of retirement making her itch. “We’ve been over this, Gio. If you want to retire, do it. I won’t hold it against you if you’re ready to get out.” Sal looked at her uncle, still focused on the chess board. His hand was still.
“That’s not what this is about Sal.”
Sal let out another deep sigh. “I know.” She flounced around the bar and moved to the table by Mooki . Looking for allies. “But you hanging out to keep me in check isn’t necessary. I think I’ve proven that I have everything under control.” Sal raised an eyebrow at Mooki and nodded. The very stoned Mooki began to nod along with her.
“Dude, your extinguisher is awesome.” Sal smiled at Mooki. His comment was off topic but the best she could hope for given his condition. “Can I play with it?”
“In a minute.” Sal looked over to Nicky. “Nicky agrees. He made out better in Vegas than any of us.” Nicky nodded in agreement.
Sal snorted and tossed tangled hair. “You’re never convinced we got out clean. Seriously, you’re more paranoid than I am. That’s saying something.”
“Vegas is fine.” Nicky moved back to the table, glaring at Gio. Being the biggest gambler in the group, he also had the most to lose if Vegas came back to bite them. He chose to go the optimistic route. As Sal had pointed out, it had always worked out before.
Sal smiled. Two down. The third would be easiest. “What do you think Mumbai?”
“What happens will happen.” Mumbai’s mouth barely moved as he spoke. “Checkmate.”
“Son of a bitch,” Gio let out a swear as he lost yet another game of chess to Mumbai and an argument to Sal in record time.
The conversation died down for a bit and the room was quiet as Gio and Mumbai gave up on chess and the cards came out. Mooki and Nicky moved to the table, dragging wobbly bar stools.
“Sal, get beer.” Mooki tossed over his shoulder.
“Get it yourself.” Sal went back to playing with her fire extinguisher and hopped up on the bar to sit. “Get me one too. My hands are shaking. I’m getting too excited.” Sal jiggled the fire extinguisher and lifted a butt cheek to reach into her back pocket. She tugged a pen out of where she had shoved it into the tangled mess of her hair as she spread out a piece of folded paper in front of her. The layout of the bar, drawn to freakishly detailed scale, lay in front of her. She studied the angles and began making notes on the paper.
“You are the world’s worst bartender.” Mooki dropped a beer next to her and looked at the paper.
Sal reached out without looking and promptly knocked over the beer.
“Fuck, I’m too hyped up. I’m writing like a three year old with palsy. This might be another stroke.” Sal took a slug off her beer. She lit another cigarette and dropped the one that had burned down to a nub between her index and middle fingers on her right hand. “I need a game of logic to determine if I am having a stroke.” Sal dumped beer down her shirt as she attempted to take a drag off her cigarette and a sip of her beer at the same time. “Mooki, fuck, marry or kill?”
