by Sarah Cortez
Juanita turns as the man stops and asks if we can spare a buck.
I climb out and he starts to back away until he sees me dig into my pocket. He's middle-aged with a scraggly beard and a well-worn knapsack on his back. I give him a five and he thanks me. I pull out the Wolf's picture and ask him if he's ever seen this man around. He shakes his head and thanks me again and hurries away.
When I climb back in Juanita says, in a shaky voice, "I didn't see him coming up behind me."
"That's what you got me for."
"Partner, right?"
"Almost." She nearly smiles and all the depressing thoughts fade away from my brain. "Saw a bumper sticker yesterday that said, There are three kinds of people-those who can count and those who can't."
It takes her a second and then she laughs.
It hits me as soon as I wake up the following afternoon. The Wolf broke into Kim's apartment and laid in wait for her. I get dressed in a hurry. An ex-Green Beret is no one to mess with but he's the one on the lam, not me. If he's dumb enough to come at me, he'll join the list and I'll cruise through another Grand Jury hearing. I'm thinking maybe I should call Juanita, or at least Jodie, but all I have is this gut feeling and I hate to roust the troops, especially if I'm wrong.
Stepping away from Sad Lisa, I see the brown-green water of Lake Pontchartrain is as still as a pond. There's no wind whatsoever, the warm air steamy with humidity and the fishy smell of iodine. The calm is unsettling. To a Lakota warrior, any change in the environment, especially when normally rough waters are suddenly calm, can be a warning from nature. The warning is understood, if that's what it is. It reinforces my gut feeling and I make sure to carry two extra clips of ammo, not that I've ever needed that many bullets to kill someone.
Parking behind Bessie Cleary's apartment house, I walk up to the garage gate and wave to the retired N.O.PD. man who recognizes me and opens the gate.
"Something wrong?" he asks, pulling out his Glock.
I shake my head. "Just checking."
"She's at work," he calls out behind me, and I wave as I tuck my portable radio into the back pocket of my faded blue jeans. I wear a short-sleeved gray dress shirt over a navy-blue T-shirt. Unbuttoned, the shirt covers my knife and holstered Beretta. My gold star-and-crescent badge is clipped to the front of my belt. I'm breaking in a new pair of black Reebok running shoes.
I go up the back stairs. Bessie lives on the third floor, at the front of the building. I turn into the hall from the backside and freeze. He's at the far end of the hall dressed in black fatigues and black combat boots. Working on Bessie's door, the Wolf doesn't see me creeping along the hall toward him. I ease out my Beretta and flip off the safety. My heart's already pounding but my hands are steady as I raise my weapon in the standard two-handed police grip.
A door opens between us and a young woman steps into the hall, drawing the Wolf's attention, and he spots me and bolts.
"Police!" I raise the Beretta and the woman falls back against her door. I race past. The Wolf leaps into the front stairwell. My Beretta cupped in both hands, I stop at the opening of the stairwell and hear footsteps descending heavily, thudding on the carpet.
I follow the sound down the stairs, keeping on my toes, pointing my weapon ahead as I take each turn. I can still hear him descending as I reach the landing above the ground floor. A metallic slam echoes up and I stop and ease my way forward until I see the front door slowly closing. He's outside now and I run for the door, catching it before it closes, hitting the metal bar and swinging it outward. I hesitate a second, then scramble through the door.
The Wolf races around the corner, down Howard, not even looking back, moving flat out. I pull my portable radio from my back pocket and charge after him.
I key the mike. "3124-headquarters!"
"Go ahead, 3124," the dispatcher responds.
"I'm in foot pursuit of a signal thirty suspect. River bound on Howard from Constance Street."
I describe what the Wolf's wearing and what I'm wearing, trying my best to keep my voice low and calm. Last thing I want is to sound like a lunatic on the air. Excited voices fill the speaker but I can't hear as I pump my arms, running hard, Beretta in my right hand, radio in my left.
People watch us from the sidewalks and the street, standing with wide eyes, like deer caught in headlights. The Wolf's a half-block ahead of me, running head down, not looking over his shoulder as he cuts between parked cars into the street then back through them, up on the sidewalk in case I'm crazy enough to let off a round or two. He bowls over an elderly couple coming out of a furniture store as he turns another corner.
"Police!" I yell as I jump over the couple, who don't seem seriously damaged. I try my best to tell headquarters we're on Annunciation now, heading uptown. I'm gaining on him, I think.
When he turns at the next corner, he glances back at me, but doesn't lose stride. I don't know what street this is, but it's even narrower. We're heading toward the river again and there are fewer people here. A man in a hard hat steps from a building in front of the Wolf and then leaps out of the way, crashing against a parked car.
I manage to croak out "Police!" as I pass to keep him out of the way.
The Wolf turns down South Peters and I know this street and try my best to tell headquarters we're heading downtown now. Cars are parked on both sides of this skinny street. A siren echoes in the distance, then another. The cavalry's coming, thank God.
Jesus! This guy's as good a sprinter as me and I run regularly on the levee. My knee's pinching a little now, but I can't fall back. At least my breathing's still coming evenly, although I'm sucking in a lot of air. I feel a surge in my warrior blood and increase my pace. Can't let this fucker get away.
The Wolf crosses the street and I see umbrellas ahead. It's an outdoor cafe, tables covered in wide Cinzano umbrellas. I get up on the sidewalk as the Wolf skirts the first table and grabs the next one, crashing it and umbrella to the sidewalk. I cut between the parked cars back into the street.
A woman screams and a gunshot echoes. The picture window of the cafe explodes and I spot the Wolf jumping behind a parked car. The window of the car to my left shatters and I see yellow flashes as he fires at me. I leap behind a van across the street, take to the far sidewalk, and go belly down as more slugs hit the van. I crawl forward and slip behind an SUV. It's big enough for me to look under, but I can't see the Wolf's position from here.
Six more shots ring out.
Jesus, I hope he's not shooting people in the cafe! I tell headquarters where we are, steeling myself as I get up and move forward as fast as I can, the parked car shielding me.
When I reach the vehicle directly across from the Wolf's position, a marked police car skids to a stop at the far corner, lights flashing, siren wailing. I take in a deep breath, let half of it out, and peek from between the cars.
The Wolf's on his haunches, looking at the police car. I raise my Beretta as he lifts his weapon, sticks it in his mouth, and shoots himself. He falls face forward, half in the street.
The cops alight from their car. I wave at them as I cross the street.
"He shot himself!" I call out as the patrol officers approach, guns drawn.
"Check the people in the cafe," I tell them. "Make sure no one's hurt and make sure no one leaves! They're witnesses."
The two move off as another police car screeches up. I put out a code four on my radio, then ask to have the homicide supervisor, the crime lab, the coroner's office, and Jodie Kintyre join its.
As I holster my Beretta, the Wolf's body twitches and I yank out my knife, then laugh at myself, which draws curious looks from the two cops. I feel someone move up behind me and turn to see Juanita Cruz's wide eyes. She's in T-shirt and jeans too, her hair down. Her lips tremble as she stares at me and says, "You are the Raven."
I stop myself from snapping at her when I kneel next to the Wolf and check his throat, trying to find a pulse in his carotid artery, not that it'll do him much good with m
ost of his brains on the sidewalk. I find no pulse and calmly slice off a chuck of his hair to slip into my pocket. Juanita's eyes are huge and I see I've nicked the Wolf's forehead with my knife. I feel his warm blood on my fingers.
Slipping my knife back into its sheath, I rub my eyes with my clean hand. When I blink them open, I spot several uniformed men whispering to one another, nodding toward me.
Jodie comes on the air asking me, "Is the subject 10-7?" (Out of service-permanently.)
"10-4. 29-5." I make sure to tell her he killed himself.
"I'm in route." She sounds relieved that I didn't have to shoot anyone.
I call out to the first officer who'd arrived, asking if anyone in the cafe was hurt. He shakes his head as I turn to the sound of running feet behind me. Lt. Merten lumbers up, sees the body, and looks at me, wheezing as he tries to catch his breath.
I raise both hands and tell him, "I never fired a shot."
He nods and leans both hands against the nearest car.
"You ... all right?"
"Yeah."
Juanita stands stone-stiff above the Wolf's body, staring down at it. I lean close and ask if she's okay.
"This doesn't make me feel any better," she says.
Boy, do I know that feeling.
She takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. I can feel the emotions raging through her tight face. Suddenly, a gust of wind washes over its from the river, a warm summer breeze that rustles Juanita's hair. She peers up at the sun, closing her eyes as it touches her face.
When she opens her eyes, I ask, "How'd you get here so fast?"
"I remembered how he'd broken into Kim's and decided to check on Bessie's apartment."
"Me too." I reach over and spread the Wolf's blood on Juanita's face in two stripes, painting her like a good plains warrior, the obsidian knife suddenly heavy on my belt. Her eyes grow wide with comprehension. I nod and repeat, "Me too," adding the word she's been looking for, "partner."
San Juan, Puerto Rico
here must be more dead dogs on the side of the road in Puerto Rico than anywhere else in the world. The strays must go out of their way to kill themselves there. Or maybe Puerto Ricans just don't like dogs. I was in a cramped rental car, driving my three aunts to my cousin's wedding in Ponce. It was a ten-minute ride, and I'd already seen four dog carcasses. Tongues hanging out. Guts. Blood. It took some of the buzz off.
"Que paso con los jodios peros en la highway?" I asked.
"Se dice perrrrros," my Titi Juana said.
"Perrrrrros," I tried.
"Perros," Titi Gloria said.
Then Tia Nidia said, "No se, mi amor. Toda la gente maneja como loco aqui."
I could see how the roads in PR could drive you crazy. There wasn't always a traffic light where you needed it. A lot of the blacktop hugged the sides of mountains and were crazynarrow so that your sideview mirror hung over a thousandfoot drop into nothing but jungle. Still everyone on the island seemed to drive fast.
But no one honked. They might not like dogs in PR, but they sure as hell were polite.
"Por favor, mi amor, maneja mas rapido," Titi Juana said.
My aunts giggled about something I didn't follow. I wondered if the reception would have an open bar.
The church was dark, big. Polished pews. Bleeding Christ. The ceremony in Spanish. I spent the time shifting my weight from one foot to the other.
At the reception, I went right to the bar. The drinks weren't free, so when the bartender poured, I told him, "Mas. Chin mas," and he was cool about it. I tipped him a couple of bucks.
At the table, my aunts gossiped, and I tried to listen, nodded a lot, and laughed when I thought I should. I knew everyone at our table except one woman. She had black hair cut straight across the forehead. Copper skin, broad cheeks, thick, dark lips. She sat alone, except for a gift bag in the seat next to her. It was decorated with a coqui wearing a straw hat. I got up and walked around to her side.
"Quieres que yo lo puse esto con los otros regalos?" I asked, standing over her.
"Que dices?" she replied, looking up with her eyes.
I gestured to show what I meant. Gift bag. Gift table.
"Gracias, pero es algo diferente," she said and looked down at her manicure.
"No sweat," I said and took a seat next to her. "Me manejo aqui esta noche y vio una cosy ... rara. Vio, como, cuatro perros en la highway-muertos. It was crazy."
She laughed, covering her teeth like some women do, then shook her head to herself. I hadn't been trying to be funny. She looked completely away from me. I got the hint and so I bounced and went back to the bar.
Some people gave some speeches. I went outside for a smoke. The moon looked like my grandmother's glaucoma eye.
It smelled good out there, green, wet. Palm trees and the sounds of tree frogs all around, like this invisible choir. I'd never seen a coqui before so while I puffed I walked around to see if I could spot one. Then I heard a woman talking in a loud voice. I glanced up and saw a silhouette. A woman talking on a cell phone. I couldn't catch all of it. Something like, How can you do this to me? Then some bad cursing.
I got closer. It was the woman from the table. Framed in the light coming from the reception hall. She had that gift bag with her.
She hung up, saw me standing there. "Estas perdido?" she asked.
"Que noche bella!" I said.
"Que noche fea!" she responded and walked past.
"Frio, you mean," I said to her back.
I finished my cigarette and considered calling Julie. I had a vision of her tight, freckled body in a bikini. But it wasn't a good time. So I just went inside.
A band was playing, and my TIa Lidia wanted to know when I would ask her to dance. So I danced with her and then my other aunts and then with every female relative I had. As one salsa finished, another aunt would come up, and so it went. I had a couple more drinks. Then I danced with my cousin Carmen. She was a good egg-a doctor who had just married another doctor.
I asked her who the dark woman was. "Una amiga de co- legio. Se Ilame Itaba," she said. "That's funny, Papo, because she asked me about you."
My cousin was small, thin-hipped, dark-haired, glowing. She was tiny in my arms. At six-four, I towered over her.
"Oh really? What did you tell her?"
"That you were divorced. That you were trying to find your feet. Not too much."
I guess that was the nicest way of saying I'd been unemployed and unemployable for almost a year. "Okay," I said.
"I can't wait to get to Mexico. This humidity is killing me. Is my hair okay?"
"How's mine?" I said, and we laughed. "Leave it to you to get married during hurricane season."
I danced another salsa with Titi Juana. I felt good, energized, buzzed. I figured I'd give that dark lady another shot.
But then I saw my grandmother. She wore a black dress ringed with fluffy edges and sat on the edge of her chair. I could tell she wanted to dance.
"Abuela. Vamos a bailar," I said. She smiled up at me with shiny false teeth. I took her velvet soft hand and led her to the dance floor. She put her white-haired head against my chest.
When the dance ended, she smiled at me again and said, "Coco Duro," the nickname she had for me as a kid. Then she smacked me in the arm because she couldn't reach my head anymore.
When I got back to the table the dark woman was gone.
Maybe she'd left to make a phone call again. I was walking to the door, caught myself in the mirror and put up a hand to fix my hair, when this guy bumped into me. Dark, wraparound shades. I don't like not being able to see a man's eyes. You can't see if you can trust him. He was swarthy. Jet-black hair, combed back. Funny thing was the man's forehead-it was deformed. Flat from his eyebrows to his hairline. And there were thin scars up and down his dark cheeks. The guy caught me looking, his shades turned toward me, but he said nothing, I said nothing, and that was it.
I went back to my hair, making sure the pointed peak I ke
pt on the top was just right. The gel was holding fine.
Outside there was no sign of the woman. Her loss.
The rest of my night I drank enough to feel good, then drove my aunts back to my aunt's house, where I was staying. It rained lightly, making the dark road shiny and slick. I saw four more dead dogs. More guts. More tongues. Or maybe they were the same dogs. The women gossiped in the car-what a nice ceremony, the food could've been better, et cetera.
Back at my aunt's house, in the middle of the night, when everyone else was asleep, I got up and went to the living room, found a bottle of dark rum, and filled a glass with it. I tipped my head back, drained it, burped, and went back to bed.
Outside the drizzle had turned into steady rain.
In the morning, I sat at the kitchen counter in front of a plate filled with eggs, platanos, half a mango, and buttered bread. Cafe con leche, orange juice. "Come mas," my TIa Lidia said, and before I could answer I got another piece of bread, another fried egg, another mango half. My head was buzzing, my stomach turned, but I kept eating.
"I gotta get ready to go to San Juan," I told them.
My aunt gave me more bread and told me about a tropical storm warning. She was happy my cousin had flown to Mexico that morning for the honeymoon. The warning could turn into a hurricane. She told me I shouldn't travel even though the rain had stopped.
"I'm meeting a friend," I said in English. I was too sour to try Spanish. "And I got to get a little blackjack and poker in while I'm here. Besides, there's not going to be no hurricane."
I went to pack my duffel bag. I wanted to get moving before it started to rain. Through the bars on the window, I saw a taxi park in front of the house. A woman got out. It was my cousin's friend Itaba. Tia Lidia walked out to talk to her.
I was twisting the lid onto my flask when Tia Lidia came in the room. "La amiga de Carmen necesita it a San Juan." Since I was going to San Juan today, I could give her a ride, no?
"She can't take a cab?"
