Gideon's Rescue

by Alan Russell

  “I met a new member tonight. She’s convinced her fiancé is dead, and I’m inclined to agree with her. He went missing six weeks ago, and just last week someone sent her twenty-five hundred dollars along with a note that said, ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ In the envelope they also included the fiancé’s love poems. He was a day laborer. Tomorrow morning we’re going to where he used to be picked up for work, so we can talk with other day laborers.”

  “Guilt money,” said Seth.

  “It sounds like it.”

  “My advice to you isn’t original: Follow the money.”

  “That’s what I’m going to try to do.”

  Seth got up from his seat. Wineglass in hand, he walked over to the living room. I watched as he started thumbing through his huge collection of vinyl albums.

  “What are you doing?” I called.

  “Enough introspection,” he said. “We started tonight’s conversation with cowboy music, and we need to continue in that motif. I’m looking for the ultimate expression in cowboy music.”

  “‘The Streets of Laredo,’” I said, sounding overly confident.

  Seth shook his head. “I don’t think we want a ballad.”

  “Willie Nelson’s ‘Mammas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys,’” I said, “or Bon Jovi’s ‘Wanted Dead or Alive.’”

  “I’m not talking about an individual artist,” said Seth, “but a musical score.”

  “The ‘Paladin’ song,” I said. “Have Gun—Will Travel.”

  “Close,” said Seth.

  “‘Rawhide,’” I said.

  “Very close,” said Seth.

  I could see he’d found the album and was gently preparing it for play.

  “Give me a clue,” I said.

  “Clint Eastwood,” he said.

  That was enough. I should have figured it out with “Rawhide.” “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly,” I said.

  Seth smiled and cued up the album. It was ironic that Italians had directed and written the score of one of the quintessential American western films, but that was the way with spaghetti westerns.

  The music provided everything you’d want or expect in a western: gunfire, whistling, coyote calls, and yodeling. When the score came to a close, Seth said, “Pretty far removed from ‘Home on the Range.’”

  “About as far removed,” I said, “as the once-upon-a-time land where buffalo roamed.”

  Chapter Six

  Danke Schoen

  I had a second drink. It wasn’t Pappy but a sipping whiskey from Kentucky’s neighboring state of Tennessee. As Seth poured himself another half glass of merlot, he mentioned that he would be presiding over a wedding that weekend. That seemed a good opportunity to do some ball busting, a time-honored male tradition.

  “What kind of a couple,” I asked, “picks a shaman to officiate their wedding, rather than clergy or a justice of the peace?”

  “In most cases,” said Seth, “an enlightened one.”

  “What will you be wearing? A loincloth?”

  “I imagine a very nice suit.”

  “Will the music be the playing of didgeridoos?”

  “I find that unlikely, since no one getting married is an Australian.”

  I pretended I had a stogie in my hand and did my best Groucho imitation: “‘Marriage is a wonderful institution. But who wants to live in an institution?’”

  Seth laughed. “Maybe I’ll use that line in the ceremony. What better way to start life’s journey together than through laughter?”

  “So at your weddings there are no strange ceremonies, or tribal music, or ancient rituals?”

  “Many rituals are ancient,” he said, “even though we’re not aware of it. The exchanging of rings is an ancient Egyptian custom that started thousands of years ago. Most couples want that in their ceremony.”

  I surreptitiously looked at my now-naked ring finger. It wasn’t until several months after Jennifer’s death that I’d finally removed my wedding ring.

  “Why the interest in weddings?” asked Seth.

  I avoided the question by saying, “It seemed like a cheerier topic than funerals.”

  Sirius had settled at my feet. At first it seemed as if he was listening to our conversation, twitching his ears when we spoke, but it hadn’t taken him very long to settle into a deep sleep. Now he was actively dreaming, making small whining sounds and twitching his paws.

  Seth and I both smiled. “I’ve heard the dream patterns in dogs,” he said, “are very similar to the dream patterns in humans.”

  “I wonder if I’m in his dreams,” I said.

  “It only stands to reason. You’re the leader of his pack. He’s with you night and day.”

  “It would be interesting to see how he perceives me in his dreams,” I said. “Am I this patriarchal figure? Am I a friendly big brother? In his mind, is my form distinctly human, or does he see me in a different image?”

  “Do you dream of dogs?”

  I nodded. “Sirius is in many of my dreams. Sometimes other dogs are there as well.”

  “Good.”

  “Why good?” I asked.

  “Sirius is your spirit animal. He protects you when you’re awake, and I imagine he protects you in your dreams.”

  Sirius was breathing harder now, and his noises were louder. The sounds were familiar.

  “I actually think I know what he’s dreaming about,” I said. “He makes those sounds whenever I’m getting ready to throw a Frisbee. Sirius can hardly contain himself.”

  We watched his legs. They had gone from twitches to running in place, but the movements suddenly stopped.

  “In his dream,” I said, “he just made a great catch.”

  My visit with Seth was a short one, maybe forty-five minutes. I didn’t want to stay up late, as I’d agreed to pick up Luciana at six thirty in the morning so that we could interview witnesses who might remember the last time they’d seen Mateo.

  I turned in a little before 10:30. My hope was that I’d get at least seven hours’ sleep.

  Man proposes, God disposes.

  The flames were everywhere. The fire was raging all around me, and the black smoke was making breathing impossible. Every breath felt like I was swallowing fire.

  Over all the burning smells, one stood out. Cooking meat and hair. Our flesh was on fire.

  I was holding a gun. I was also holding up my partner. Sirius was dying. He’d been shot by the scumbag who was helping me carry him. The murderer was assisting me for the simple reason that my gun was leveled at his gut.

  “Please,” said the man. “The dog’s dead.”

  I considered shooting him. The fire had burned away my inhibitions. Murder was no longer something unthinkable. But the killer had a use: with two people it was easier carrying Sirius. Now we just had to find a way out of the fire.

  “‘He ain’t heavy,’ I sang, “‘he’s my brother.’” It came out as a raw whisper of pain.

  The killer thought I’d lost it. I was singing in the middle of our immolation. My madness frightened him because he knew it liberated me. But I was aware enough to study the condition of my partner. When his rib cage infinitesimally expanded, my own breathing became easier. Sirius was still alive. I could feel the murderer tense, and knew he was about to throw Sirius my way.

  “Time to die?” I rasped. I felt like the spokesperson for Death; I’m sure I looked it.

  Embers showered down on us, burning our flesh. The killer screamed, while I pretended indifference to the pain. My eyes were focused on his; so was my gun. The killer reconsidered his escape plan.

  “This way!” I said.

  He followed my command, even though I didn’t know where I was going, even though I didn’t know if there was a way out of the flames.

  Sirius helped me escape the inferno, nudging me with his muzzle and licking my face to wake me from the fire dream. Only two people know about my PTSD, Lisbet and Seth, and I’m not very forthcoming with them about it. The tru
th is I downplay what I go through, because I don’t want them to be overly concerned. One day I might confess just how debilitating these dreams are. In fact, with each fire dream, I burn, and not only in my mind. Sometimes the welts show themselves; sometimes not.

  It isn’t easy to explain the pain. At one time or another, most people have awakened to a severe cramping in their legs. If they multiplied that pain by about a hundred, they’d have some idea of what occurs during a fire dream.

  Whenever I escape from hell and experience the ecstasy that the sudden cessation of pain affords, my “third eye” opens. The insights come at a price; I burn for them. I suspect my visions reflect my preoccupations at the time, which are typically the cases I’m working.

  With his back turned to me, a man played a guitar. Then he sang, “‘Love is so short, forgetting is so long.’”

  I knew that line. I had recited it at the previous month’s 187 Club meeting. It came from Pablo Neruda’s poem “Tonight I Can Write the Saddest Lines.”

  But I knew it wasn’t Neruda who was singing his poetry. Even though I couldn’t see his face, and even though I didn’t know what he looked like, I was certain the singer was Mateo. His song was for his muse, Luciana.

  Mateo continued playing the guitar, but the tune changed, morphing into Johnny Cash’s “The Streets of Laredo.” Mateo sang in English, “‘I’m a young cowboy and I know I’ve done wrong.’”

  And then I was in a crowd, but it was more like a mob. The faces were ugly and contorted. The stink of body odor filled the air; it was a primal smell. I was in stands that overlooked a pit. Two dogs were fighting; even louder than their snarls were the cries from their trainers exhorting them to “Kill, kill, kill.”

  My vision switched, and I found myself in a bigger arena, but I wasn’t in the stands. I was at the Colosseum and was among the sacrificial victims being brought out. The crowd was cheering for carnage. They wanted blood. And then I saw Mateo and Emily also being forced into the pit. We were all lambs being delivered to the slaughter.

  My third eye closed; the oracle stopped talking to me. I was back in my bed. My hot sweat was cooling. Perched protectively over me was my shepherd. “Good dog,” I said to Sirius. And then Morpheus claimed me and told me lies, saying the fiery battle was behind me, which was enough for me to sleep.

  The alarm went off too early. All I wanted to do was sleep away the morning, but I removed the sheets and began to slowly move around. As usual, I felt desiccated by my fire walk. I drank two glasses of ice water, and then started in on an iced coffee, downing two ibuprofen as chasers.

  I put down some kibble for Sirius, and then shaved and dressed. Luciana lived in an apartment complex in south Van Nuys, which was less than five miles from my house. When Sirius and I set out for her place, it was still dark. It was a good reminder of what many people had to face every day just getting to work.

  During the drive I thought about my vision from the night before. As usual, my oracle needed divining. There’s never a priestess around when you need one, though. Some of my vision clearly had been inspired by my talk with Seth. He’d played the western music and brought up the wholesale slaughtering that had gone on at the Colosseum. Emily had clearly been in my thoughts as well. Of course, it made no sense that Emily and Mateo had both ended up in the pit. Come to think of it, I’d also been brought out as a blood offering. As was always the case, my oracular vision could be interpreted in all sorts of ways.

  When I arrived at Luciana’s apartment, I texted her that I was waiting out front. OK, she wrote back. Two minutes later she joined me and Sirius in the car. Marta had not been able to get time off of work, meaning Luciana would have to deal with my Spanish and I would have to deal with her English. My secret weapons were Google Translate and an app I had downloaded that supposedly could translate my spoken English into Spanish.

  With all the apps available on our cell phones, it seems to me we’re getting closer and closer to Gene Roddenberry’s vision of Starfleet tricorders. We can get information and readings on just about everything. I hope that proves to be a good thing.

  The translation app seemed to work reasonably well, and the two of us “talked” during our seven-mile drive. Luciana told me Mateo had only lived in his latest residence for a few weeks before his disappearance. She said he had moved to Van Nuys to be closer to her, and had shared a two-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment with six other day laborers. On most days the roommates shared a ride to their favorite hiring halls, but because their car was out of service on the day Mateo went missing, he’d traveled with a vanload of other workers to Woodland Hills. On that day his roommates had decided to look for work closer to home and had gone to the Home Depot in Van Nuys. Mateo preferred the more affluent Woodland Hills, where he could usually demand up to twenty dollars an hour.

  “But it’s a big hassle,” I said, “to have to travel from Van Nuys to Woodland Hills.”

  As the crow flies, it’s only about six miles, but in LA those are often hard-fought miles.

  The app had trouble with the word hassle, forcing me to rephrase my sentence to include the words great difficulty. At that, Luciana did some thoughtful nodding and looked like she was about to get weepy.

  Mateo, she explained, was so anxious to get married that he was doing everything he could to make the most money in the fastest amount of time. In addition to sending money home, Mateo gave Luciana “marriage money” to bank. The two of them had agreed to save ten thousand dollars for their nuptials. Their plan was to return home to Mexico for the ceremony and a grand fiesta. According to Luciana, they had almost reached the halfway point in their goal when Mateo disappeared.

  Woodland Hills is right off the 101 freeway corridor. It’s an area that is mostly white and mostly well-off. During the summer months it is also usually the hottest area in LA. A few years back the LA Times ran a story explaining why that is. What it boils down to—boils being the operative word—is that Woodland Hill’s location prevents it from getting any cooling ocean breezes.

  I was glad it wasn’t yet summer; I was also glad we were arriving early, before the heat of the day had had time to build.

  Luciana agreed that it would probably be best if she did all the questioning. The presence of a white law enforcement officer might scare off the day laborers, most of whom were in the country illegally.

  The Home Depot opened most days at six. At the moment there were around twenty-five day laborers assembled at the periphery of the parking lot. All the workers wore similar outfits: blue jeans, work boots, and layered shirts.

  I used my phone and Google Translate to formulate the questions that I wanted Luciana to ask. The idea was for her to show Mateo’s picture around, explain when he’d gone missing, and ask my questions.

  Sirius and I went for a walk while Luciana took my phone and began her rounds. Even though we kept our distance, I could see most of the day laborers didn’t want to engage with Luciana. This was especially true of the hierarchy that seemed to be running the labor pool. Most of the others seemed to take their cues from these unofficial jefes. Being a Good Samaritan is a luxury most people can no longer afford. Still, Luciana was persistent and managed to get a few of the workers to talk to her.

  I leaned against a fence, trying to be unobtrusive. All throughout Los Angeles County there were day laborers like these looking for work. Though they are ubiquitous, they are also all but invisible. The longer I watched the goings-on in the parking lot, the more I made sense of their hiring system. There seemed to be several work organizers. One or two English speakers would ask questions about each job, learning what it entailed and how many hours the work was likely to take. They would ask if lunch was included and the number of workers needed. Then a big guy would pick which laborers got the job. It sort of reminded me of how organized crime functioned. At the end of the day, I was sure these organizers would get their own mordida, their cut of the laborers’ wages.

  Since I had time to watch the business
of human trade going on, I was surprised at a number of things I saw. I would have thought that the average employer was some construction boss, but that wasn’t the case. It was the citizens of Woodland Hills who were doing most of the hiring, and maybe twenty percent of those picking up the labor were women. Many of the women had their maids riding with them to translate. From a distance I could hear the negotiations; skilled work like electrical and plumbing commanded higher wages.

  After half an hour Luciana came back to my car. She said no one could be sure if they had seen Mateo on the day he went missing, and no one was sure what job he had last worked. One of my questions, she said, had amused the workers. I had wanted to know: Have you worked for anyone unusual? I also had Luciana ask: Has anyone ever asked you to do something strange on the job?

  The consensus, according to those she asked, was that all gringos are strange, but one older man in particular had quite the reputation. On a weekly basis he would pick up a worker, always one of the younger men, for what he described as “light gardening.” There was never precisely a bait and switch, but after arriving at this man’s house, the worker was always asked if he would prefer doing another task for more money—life modeling. The man would explain that he was an artist and was in need of a nude model. Some of the workers chose not to model, Luciana was told. And with much winking and ribald laughter, she was told that other workers did more than model.

  Luciana also spoke to a worker who said he’d been hired to dig holes for a fence, but upon getting to the job had been asked if he’d like to act in a movie called Macho Libre. The young man who made the offer, he said, had told him that he would wear a mask like the lucha libre wrestlers, but that he would be fighting another man and the winner would get a purse of $350. That was more than double a typical day’s wages. The worker said there was a boxing ring already set up in the backyard, and near the ring was a stable that housed a donkey painted with black stripes. The only other painted donkey the worker had ever seen was in Tijuana, where tourists liked to have their pictures taken with the “zonkey.” For the fight, the laborer was asked to wear a zebra-striped outfit. His opponent, the worker was told, would be in a costume that looked like a banana peel. Because the whole situation didn’t feel right, the worker had declined the fight, despite the persistent pitch of the young man to take his $350. Even if he lost, he was told, he would get a purse of $175.