The Pirate, Part I: The Traitor

by Malcolm Torres

  "Are you ready to talk about it yet?" Phyllis's voice is a desperate screech.

  "Oh my God, mom, we've already talked about -" Wendy stops. Her eyes harden against her mother. It's been a stretch for Wendy, at 19 to get her mind around exactly where her mother is on her pregnancy. She knows her mom is against being a grandmother and recently she's been pushing the late term abortion decision. This is the first time she's referred to the baby as it, though.

  Unable to restrain her impatience with her daughter's immaturity, Phyllis continues, "You are running out of time. You have to open your eyes to the reality of your situation, young lady -"

  "Do not start lecturing me, mother!"

  "How are you going to go to college and care for a child? Would you mind explaining that to me . . . your father seems to think -"

  "Stop, just stop. Don't ever talk again, I'm serious!"

  "You have to hear this. It's for your own good! As your mom, it's part of my job description to tell you all the unpleasant things that you don't want to hear. Now, dammit, your father seems to think -"

  Wendy slowly gets herself upright and leans on the headboard. She glares at her mother and in a controlled even tone, she says, "I'm warning you, don't even mention adoption or abortion to me again. It's too late for an abortion, I'm over seven months along, mom." Wendy slides from under the covers, puts her feet on the floor and steps toward Phyllis. She takes her mom's hand and tries to press it to her tummy.

  But Phyllis pulls away, jumps back with a look of disgust and disappointment on her face. "Your father found out about a doctor in Mexico, and he's making arrangements for you. They can -"

  Wendy covers her belly with her arms and steps back, shocked. "A Tijuana clinic!" Wendy blurts.

  "It's not in Tijuana, and besides it's for your own good -"

  Wendy is mortified. "In a few months you are going to see this newborn, mother. Your grandchild. How are you going to look at this beautiful baby knowing that you wanted to kill it?"

  Wendy's mom completely freaks out. "Be reasonable, damn it! How are you going to get a career off the ground with a child and no husband?"

  Wendy is struggling to stay calm. She sobs and tears roll down her cheeks. "As long as you're talking about an abortion, we have nothing to talk about -"

  "I'm not allowed to ask who the father is, and now I'm not allowed to mention abortion. Great! See how far that attitude gets you in this world, young lady." Phyllis snatches the photo from Wendy's nightstand. "Is he the father? Is it Jack?"

  Wendy tries to grab the photo but Phyllis turns away. In a mocking voice, she says, "He was a nice enough guy, but where is he now? Floating around the ocean somewhere?"

  "Give me that picture."

  "If you're having a sailor's baby, young lady," Phyllis's voice bends to sarcasm. "I hope you don't think he's going to be any kind of real father."

  Wendy shoves her mother toward the door. "Get out! Get out of my room you bit -"

  Phyllis is laughing now. "Good luck trying to get a sailor to the altar."

  Through sobs, Wendy says, "You're going to be a grandmother whether you like it or not! Now get out!" Wendy pushes her mother into the hallway.

  Fed up now, Phyllis flings the picture at Wendy, striking her in the chest. It hits the floor and the glass shatters. "I might be a bitch. I might even be a grandmother someday -"

  Wendy slams the door.

  Phyllis shouts from the hallway. "- but I was never a slut, Wendy! I always knew when to keep my pants on."

  "Maybe you wouldn't be so uptight if you got your pants off once in a while, mother!" Wendy is shaking and sobbing as she pulls a suitcase from the closet and tosses it on the bed. She opens a dresser drawer and snatches handfuls of underwear and socks and drops them in. From the night stand she grabs the package of figs and the stretch cream and pitches them into the suitcase too.

  * * *

  From the outside, the house is large, set back from the quiet residential street with a contoured front lawn, neatly-edged flower beds and several properly placed stunted palms - a picture of suburban bliss. But, if there were someone walking by outside, which there isn't, they'd be able to hear two women screaming in fits of rage at each other inside. The words are not clear, muffled by the sturdy walls and filtered by the well-kept foliage, but it's clear the women inside the house are having a good old fashioned catfight.

  The thick wooden front door whooshes opens and now the voices can be heard clearly.

  "Where do you think you're going?" Phyllis demands.

  The storm door bangs open and Wendy emerges onto the shaded slate patio with her suitcase in tow.

  "Wendy!" Phyllis insists. Her voice trailing off with a desperate defeated squeal because now she's certain that she's lost any hold she's ever had over her dear daughter.

  Wendy storms down the sloping front walk to the driveway and stops at her black Volkswagen Jetta.

  Phyllis darts down to the driveway and frantically runs around the car. "Wendy, please, honey, please don't leave. Not in your condition!"

  Wendy tosses her suitcase in the backseat and slams the door. Then she climbs into the driver's seat and starts the car.

  Phyllis runs to the passenger side and attempts to open the door, but Wendy revs the engine. Her tires screech as she backs out onto the street.

  Phyllis runs down to the sidewalk, balling and yelling at the top of her lungs, "Wendy, come back! Please don't go!" Tears are flowing freely down Phyllis's cheeks as she watches her daughter zoom away down the street.

  Driving way too fast, barely stopping at intersections, Wendy stomps on the clutch and jams the transmission through its gears until she's out on a major avenue. She's crying as she glances up at a highway sign over the entrance ramp and reads Santa Monica Freeway, Interstate 10 East.

  CHAPTER 11

  Jack and Max are sitting in a booth at a roadside diner in Key West drinking frosty pints of beer. The waitress sets platters full of deep fried seafood and wet-looking scoops of coleslaw and French fries on their table and they dig in.

  "You know," Max says after washing down a big mouthful of fish and chips. "A few days ago, I could understand where you were coming from on the whole Wendy situation, what with us use to being broke and all, but now things are a bit different, bro'. I mean with you having an actual bankroll now."

  "I thought about calling her," Jack admits.

  "For real?" Max smiles. "You gonna do right by her?"

  "I was just thinking about her, that's all."

  "You should send her some money, like, I don't know, how much do kids cost?"

  "Fuck, I don't know. Probably a few thousand for sure."

  "With a thousand dollars she could buy shitloads of diapers."

  "Shitloads of diapers," Jack chuckles.

  "Damn, didn't see that coming."

  "But I'm not sure sending her money is the right thing to do," Jack adopts a morally upright tone.

  "Why not?"

  "It's admitting the kid's mine."

  "Probably is. And you know something, maybe we shouldn't be buying a sailboat. Maybe you should be buying a little house and a -"

  "And a four door sedan?" Jack gets his back up. "Don't even say it. I might as well buy a burial plot in the cemetery while I'm at it."

  "Come on, a house, a wife and a kid, it wouldn't be so bad, you could -"

  "What? Wash dishes? Fold clothes? No fucking way, man!"

  People at tables around them glance at Jack.

  "Chill out, big guy."

  "We finally got the money to buy a boat and cruise the islands," Jack whispers. "Can't you feel it, man? We're about to set out on a real adventure!"

  CHAPTER 12

  Eduardo Scabado's luxury home is pimped out with white carpets, chrome and glass tables, a plush white leather couch, a matching loveseat and easy chair. Off to the side, in what's supposed to be a dining area, there
's a bar with a few stools. Thug-1 and Thug-2 are sitting there but they aren't having any drinks. There's even a bartender in a tuxedo, a black guy, but he's not serving any drinks. The bar is closed because Eduardo is taking care of some business. Even though he's reclined in the middle of the gigantic sofa, which looks like a marshmallow, with a bikini-clad chick kneeling to each side of him - one is filing his nails the other is stroking his thigh. Eduardo has tight-fitting synthetic powder-blue pants on. A garish shirt covered in loud stripes and spangles, unbuttoned down to his belly button, revealing a hairy thick chest and several gold chains. He's clearly got an erection bulging his crotch area into a pup tent, and clearly the big-breasted girl stroking his thigh is causing it, because every few strokes she shifts her hand over and rubs the pup tent.

  Behind the couch, outside three tall art deco windows, orange fire, miles long has burned the clouds and the heavens above them a beautiful shade of orange and black. On the table in front of Eduardo, several bags of marijuana are scattered on the glass coffee table.

  "Where did you get this shit?" Eduardo asks in a thick Cuban accent.

  "We can't give up our source, Eduardo," White says. "That's a bad business practice."

  Thug-1 stands up from the bar and steps over behind White guy.

  White guy looks warily at Thug-1 and says, "You sickin' the dogs on me, Eduardo?"

  "No disrespect, Eduardo," says Cuban, "but if you can, like, tell us what's going down, maybe we can, like, help you out."

  "Like," Eduardo mocks Cuban, "you punks are selling my grass."

  "We didn't boost this grass from nobody," Cuban says.

  "Like," Eduardo's tone is biting, sarcastic. "If you didn't boost this grass from nobody, where the fuck did you get it?"

  White and Cuban are slow to respond.

  "Don't tell me this shit washed up on Miami Beach?" Eduardo says.

  "This grass came from an outta town source," White Guy says.

  Eduardo glances at Thug-1, who quickly pulls out a pistol and points it at White Guy's head.

  "Hey, whoa, whoa, whoa, now," White guy says. "Let's not get hasty, no reason for violence."

  "Like, I don't wanna spill your blood on my rugs, punk. So start telling me about this outa town source."

  White guy slowly looks at the gun and then back at Eduardo.

  "You better start talking right now, motherfucker," Eduardo says. "Because if you don't, you will die."

  It's Cuban who cracks and says, "Alright, alright, I'll tell you what you want to know. There's this cat named George on Key Largo and he -"

  CHAPTER 13

  Jack Turner is standing at attention in front of Captain Hall's desk sweating bullets. Jack thinks he's been busted for stealing all that grass from the storage room. Ever since he tossed it in his truck, he's been worried that a surveillance camera caught him running across the parking lot with those big bags of grass in his arms. And if that's not it, he figures, an inventory revealed the missing bales and now he's about to be questioned about what went on that night he was standing watch in the contraband warehouse.

  Captain Hall has a real poker face, with that steady look that pulls his lips down in a skeptical frown. His demeanor says, I'm already pissed off and I know what you are about to say will disappoint me even further.

  There's a guy in a suit sitting in a chair off to his right, and the longer Captain Hall makes him stand there without talking, the longer Jack becomes certain that the guy in the suit is a cop or an FBI agent who is there to arrest him. Oh shit, Jack worries. I knew I shouldn't have stolen that grass. And the money - it's blood money, it's filthy. Jack is about to speak up, to confess. He's about to open his mouth when Captain Hall inhales deeply through his nostrils and sneers like he's about to speak.

  Jack knows his worst possible nightmare has come true, because Hall says, "This is Mister Banks, and he is with the DEA. Do you know what DEA stands for, Turner?"

  "Drug Enforcement Agency," Jack says, now certain he's about to be put in handcuffs and taken away to a federal prison. He's going to be raped daily in jail for the rest of his life. There's no doubt. He figures if he speaks up and admits what he's done before the captain accuses him, maybe they'll go easy on him. But he can't bring himself to admit the horrible treason he's committed. It's weird, the thought flashes across his mind, since he didn't smoke any of the marijuana, he only sold it, there's a part of his conscience that tends to think he didn't really do anything too wrong. All he did was change a few bags of dead plants into cash. What's wrong with that? And he suddenly resolves to give all the cash to Wendy. He decides right then and there - makes a solemn promise to God - if he gets away with this, he's going to give all the money to her and the baby, even if the baby is not his. Just please don't arrest me. He can feel himself perspiring profusely under his shirt and across his forehead.

  Captain Hall's voice breaks through the worried thoughts in Jack's head. "Correct, Turner, DEA stands for Drug Enforcement Agency, and Mister Banks," Hall points at the guy in the suit sitting off to Jack's side, "has asked me to volunteer a member of the crew to assist him with a surveillance operation."

  "A surveillance operation?" Jack asks, not making the connection.

  "Yes, exactly, Turner, a surveillance operation that may last a couple of weeks. And I'd like you to volunteer. What do you say?"

  Jack thinks it's kind of cool that Captain Hall is asking him to volunteer. He knows he could have just sent orders to his division officer without giving Jack a choice. Hey, Jack realizes, this is all about me spotting that speedboat. Captain Hall was so impressed he's actually calling me up here to his office, just like he had me on the bridge to fire that rocket. Jack throws his shoulders back, stands up straight. "Absolutely, sir. I'm honored that you personally are asking me to take this assignment. Of course I'll do it, but can I ask what it is I'll be doing?"

  "Well, go ahead and tell him, Mr. Banks," Captain Hall says.

  "You'll be helping out with surveillance on a drug trafficker in Puerto Rico," Banks says. "It should take about ten days, two weeks tops."

  The fear of being arrested vanishes from Jack's mind along with the thought of giving all the money to Wendy and the baby. He is totally up for a two week assignment in Puerto Rico. He'd never been there before and wonders exactly what he'll be doing - imagines himself on lookout with binoculars in the jungle, or patrolling off the coast on a small boat - maybe even flying around in a helicopter which would be very cool. This is exciting, Jack realizes.

  "I'll pick you up on the pier at zero five thirty tomorrow morning, okay, Turner?" Banks says.

  "Sounds great," Jack replies, thinking that Max can shop for a sailboat on his own.

  CHAPTER 14

  Road trip music plays as Wendy cruises across the dessert. A row of tall wind turbines spin lazily atop a tan mesa beside the highway. Ahead, as far as she can see, there's only blue sky and dessert dirt speckled with wind turbines and twisted Joshua Trees. Indio next exit, announces a green sign on the roadside, and Wendy realizes this is the furthest east she has ever been. A couple years ago she went to the Coachella music festival in Indio with friends, and that had been quite an adventure, but nothing compared to the trip she is taking now. According to the map app on her phone, there's 2700 miles between her and Key West, and almost all of that is on Highway 10. When she looked over the directions during her last stop for a snack, she saw that she'd stay on Highway 10 all the way to Florida; from there she's confident, she'll figure it out - take a right turn and another couple highways all the way down to Key West. Her biggest concern is breaking down on the dessert or running out of gas. She decides not to let it run below a half a tank. She's determined to make it to Phoenix tonight.

  Her phone starts to vibrate on the passenger seat, but she doesn't answer it. It's her mom, calling for the like the 80th time. The hell with her. Just don't shut off the credit card, Wendy thinks, and everything
will work out just fine, Grandma.

  Cruising along like this on the wide-open dessert, knowing she has at least a week of driving ahead of her, having now committed to the fact that she has left her parents for good, she feels an incredible sense of freedom. Her entire life, for the first time ever, is right in front of her. It's so real she can feel it coming at her at 65 miles per hour. The future is smooth, she believes, like blacktop rolling under her wheels. It kind of freaks her out, realizing that all these years her driveway, right out in front of her house, was connected to the street, and that was connected to the highway, and the highway she's on right now, this thing made out of melted rocks or whatever, is a continuous ribbon all the way from her house to Key West, almost 3000 miles away. All those years playing jump rope and drawing with chalk on her driveway, and now she really understands that her driveway was connected to Key West all that time. She doesn't have to slash her way through a jungle or climb a mountain or fight off wild animals or bandits or anything. It makes total sense to her that all she has to do is point her car east and step on the gas and follow the lines on the highway and listen to music and at the end of this long road she's going to find Jack Turner. She just knows when they see each other they're going to fall in love again. They're going to get married and get an apartment and have a baby and live happily ever after.

  She decides to pull off in Indio for something to eat.

  At a buffet restaurant, Wendy loads up two plates with baked chicken, mashed potatoes, mac n cheese and steamed broccoli and cauliflower. There's a mini ice cream scooper in a big bowl of butter and she can't resist the thought of butter melting all over her hot veggies, so she dollops on two of those little scoopers. While scarfing down she glances at herself in the mirrored wall and sees that she's gulping her food after barely chewing, so she forces herself to slow down. Wow, she thinks, I'm ravenous! I've never felt this kind of hunger before. It's like there's a hollow craving inside her abdomen and the food is just falling into this giant hollow space and not even filling her up at all, just disappearing into empty blackness. She wipes both plates clean with a couple of dinner roll. Insatiable, she returns to the buffet for a third plateful. This time she experiences feelings that border on lust as she peruses the metal pans full of tasty food under the sneeze guard. She chooses two pieces of spicy Thai chicken, shovels on another scoop of Mac n Cheese and two pieces of corn on the cob. It's very relaxing, this sense of anonymity she feels. She is so far from home and she doesn't know any of the seniors or any of the horribly overweight people who are in the dining area. She places a brownie in the bottom of a bowl and covers it with vanilla soft serve and then pumps on two blasts of chocolate sauce, whipped cream and sprinkles. She hasn't had sex in over 8 months, since the last time she was with Jack Turner, and right now she doesn't miss sex at all. Who could miss sex, she thinks while looking at the bowl of sugary sweets, when there's this?