by Lee Lamothe
She came off the end pretty fast, spitting and coughing. “Yuck, tastes funny.”
“Hash and gunsmoke, Roar, make you a warrior smoker. Do me.” He handed her the shotgun and the knife. He took the barrels into his mouth and she supercharged him. At the end of the gun her face was angelic, as though blowing hope into a sad man. “Wow, beautiful, Roar. Do me again.” She did. “Do Gary. Send him on a voyage.”
They each tripped to separate places. Gary kept looking up at the stars, seeming unable to look away for even a minute. Aurora massaged the crotch of his jeans and shivered and fiddled with her breasts, her mind elsewhere in a place who-knew?
Jerry Kelly played with the broken shotgun, focused on finding its point of balance on the edge of his hand. He conjured the shotgun shell from his jacket and eased it into the right-side chamber. He re-lit the piece of hash and poked around at Aurora’s face until she reluctantly took the tip of the barrel. He inhaled and blew down the left hand barrel. “Like honey, eh?” He put the tip of the shotgun on Gary’s shoulder. “You’re up, my boy.”
Gary was looking at the pattern of the stars as though trying to discern the sweet face of Jesus. “Uh, uh …” He wanted to tell Jerry he loved him.
“C’mon, Gar’, last hit. Roar, a treat for Gary. He’s had a hard day, ease his night.”
She made her lips loose and ran through what looked like enunciation exercises. She said, “I thought you’d go first.”
“Roar, I’m gonna pass I think. I’m saving myself.”
Aurora shrugged and unzipped Gary’s jeans. She leaned forward; her head instantly started bobbing. Gary’s face took a beatific wide smile of relaxation. Almost distractedly he turned his head and put the tip of the shotgun into his mouth. He’d decided against treachery. It had just been Jerry Kelly being Uncle Jerry. He could see the humour in the Cambodian moment. He began to laugh. It was these times now that he loved, when the god-like Jerry Kelly assembled everything. A light show, a sound extravaganza, floating honey smoke, the dreams of fantastic soon-profits, and this, that was probably the most perfect head-shot he’d ever had. He felt himself turning to brittle glass and it felt so good he wanted to pull at her hair, make her stop for a moment, for another moment before it ended. But it was too late: smoke in, ice out. Alchemy. Heaven.
He gazed up the barrel with adoration at smiling Jerry Kelly who filled his rosy cheeks with a massive inhalation of smoke. He felt the trust of love and wasn’t confused at all when Jerry Kelly pushed the tip of the barrel deep into Gary’s mouth, against the back of his throat and quickly snapped the gun shut and his eyes went to cold stones and he pulled the right-side trigger.
In the morning Chyna Lily heard the boots before she heard the knock at the door. She opened the door a crack and looked out at a sunny Jerry Kelly, Aurora tucked under his arm, held close like a cherished friend. Her face was vacant.
“Chy, we’re done for now. I have to leave some stuff in the shed, but I’ll be back to get it, soon. My pal Gary fucked off into the woods with the crew, they all went nuts on nature I guess. If you see him wandering around talking to the birds and bees, send him home, okay? Anyway, come on down to the shed, see what a great clean-up job the workers did. You’ll be happy. I’m proud.”
“It’s okay, Jerry.”
“No, no, no. C’mon, Chy. Me’n Roar will help you. Let’s go.”
Shuffling in slippers and her muumuu Chyna came out, reluctantly. Jerry Kelly and Aurora each took a squishy arm. They settled Chyna on the scooter and walked to the railway beside her. When she rolled aboard they walked alongside at the same speed. Jerry Kelly breathing in the fresh air and going, “Sweet,” and “God’s country, Chy.”
At the shed they went inside. The room, except for pieces of furniture and some stenciled cardboard boxes, had been cleaned and swept out; everything else, from the counting machine to elastic bands had been removed. There was a strong scent of shit, some aura of vomitus, and the rancid sweat of the workers.
“See, Chy?” Jerry Kelly. “Leave it as you found it, that’s my rule. You like?
Chyna Lily nodded. She exhibited dread and an anxiety to be away from the room, away from Jerry Kelly and his smile and friendship.
Holding her upper arm, he solicitously assisted her to a chair, saying, “Wow, Chy, you better sit down, take a load off. You look kinda wobbly, girl.”
Aurora stood at the wall, her eyes on Jerry Kelly, her mind still trying to sort out the power of her sucking that would lead to Gary’s head loudly disappearing into a red mist where there should have been a star shower. She dimly suspected Jerry Kelly might have had something to do with the event.
Making sure Chyna Lily was comfortable and safely balanced on the chair Jerry Kelly said he’d be back in a sec, he had a treat for her. Through the window Aurora watched him walk partway up the road, then step off the path into the bush. He came out carrying a cardboard box on his shoulder, his head bobbing a little as though listening to a boom box.
“It’s true, Chyna, he’s got a treat for us.” Aurora diluted her confusion with enthusiasm. Hoping for the best was a state she felt more comfortable within. “I wonder what it is? Maybe a supply? For us, to get us through the winter? I knew we did a good job, Chyna. We can spend the winter together. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Jerry Kelly came through the door. He put the box on the floor. “Just some housekeeping details first, Chy, okay? I know people have come up here and fucked you around. Some of ’em disappeared. That’s okay, fuck ’em. They weren’t pals, they didn’t understand the honour we need to make our lives harmonious. Other guys, I know, have had bad luck heading back down to the city: they got pinched. That’s okay too, with me. They didn’t understand how things are, they got what they deserve.
“Now, I’m nearly done here. Gary fucking off, that’s put me in a position. I got two vehicles, my car and the van. But I can only drive one, so I’m gonna drive the van down to where my car is and leave it there. I can’t take the boxes in my car, so the boxes stay here. I’m gonna come back, in a day or so, with a truck for the boxes, and when I leave again I don’t want to run into a roadblock, a bunch of State guys in round hats with shotguns and shit. You got all that, Chy?”
She nodded. She saw the change in his face, saw him winding up. She feared for Aurora; she feared for herself. “I got it, Jerry. We’re cool.”
He nodded back at her. “Because there’s two things I can do, here. I can bury both of you, or I can trust you. Which, I wonder, should I do?”
“We’re okay, Jerry. No problem. We won’t touch your stuff, we won’t say nothing. Right, Aurora?”
Aurora had no idea what was going on, what was being said. Why, she wondered, would Jerry talk about burying us? We’re not dead. He must mean something else. She got impatient, looking at the box with birthday eyes.
He stood and walked to the box, kicking it gently over toward Chyna Lily with his foot. “So, we’re cool? Just leave it alone, all of it. It’ll be gone in a day or two. Got it?”
Chyna Lily and Aurora couldn’t take their eyes off the box. Chyna’s eyes were wide in dread and fear. Aurora’s were wide in anticipation and joy.
Jerry Kelly reached down and ripped a piece of tape from the box top. He put his arm around Aurora’s shoulders, then kicked the box over onto its side at Chyna’s feet.
Aurora looked at the pretty colours of the slithering ribbons and went: “Ooo. Look, Chyna, magic ribbons, they’re untying themselves.”
Chyna began screaming.
Chapter 22
Zoe Preston was free within the limits of Miguel Garcia’s hacienda outside Nuevo Laredo. There was a housekeeper who kept herself silent and a gardener barely out of his teens, swashbuckling with a machete on one hip and a silver revolver with a pearl handle set for a cross-draw on the other. He constantly appeared on the edges of her vision; when she confronted his eyes he shyly looked down and away and found litter to police or flowers to caress.
The sun was hot and constant. Zoe often sat on a flagstone patio in the shade but the reflected sun took its effect upon her and her skin seemed to glow. To cool herself in the perfectly square pool, she waited for the young gardener to find chores elsewhere.
After the police had moved her from their cells crowded with puta, she’d been taken away by a man who introduced himself as The Mig. The Meeg. “Your uncle is a great, very great, friend of mine,” The Mig had said as he ushered her into an immaculate Ford SUV. “He asked that I rescue you from this misunderstanding and keep you safe. It’s very important, Señorita Preez-tone, that we remain very low key for the near future. Your uncle said your father, a friend and colleague, required your safety until he can complete his business on your behalf. Beyond that, I can tell you little. My role is small and very minor.”
Zoe asked if The Mig had spoken to her uncle.
“Not directly, but an associate contacted me. I am merely a man who is insignificant and small, but I enjoy a small measure of respect and influence when one such as yourself is in danger.” Sitting behind the wheel of the huge truck he fairly bowed. “Greatly exaggerated, of course, but … people speak and others believe.”
“Is my father in danger?”
“That is beyond me. I was told on behalf of Señor Markoweetz that you required safety and security and I was to treat you as I would my daughter.” The Mig laughed. “Clearly Señor Kee-Lee doesn’t know my daughter. Aieee.” He seemed to struggle to put her at ease, to deflect any questions she might have because he obviously had no answers. A call from Señor Markoweetzo via Yeery Kee Lee was enough. As requested, he would be a host to a guest, but if another more ominous telephone call came and he was directed to dig a coyote hole for the young woman, he would do it, although with reluctance and no sense of pleasure.
When they’d arrived at the compound Zoe was introduced as a special guest; the housekeeper looked at her youth and lack of bra and made a sound. Zoe got the impression that young women her age were often installed at the house and that offended the housekeeper’s religiosity.
She lived in an upper room with a fine view of the endless desert that turned purple in the evening as the sun made its way to sleep. The bathroom was dun tiles and gold fixtures. The tub was wide and deep and cool and white. She lay in it for several hours over the first two days staring at the sunset bruises in the shape of boot toes on her ribs and thighs. What her dad called a shit-kicking. When she showered she did it gingerly, slowly massaging fragrant shampoo where her hair had been pulled and twisted and her scalp felt raw.
When she’d been given the cellular to speak to her dad on, he’d sounded soothing and calming. He could say little, it was clear, but he seemed to be in some degree of control of the situation. She thought it curious that Uncle Marko and her dad were working together on her behalf.
Until she knew what state her dad was truly in, or if it would help him or hurt him, she made no effort to escape beyond using her ears to track and monitor the movements of the staff, the sound of very faint traffic on a paved road off to the east of the hacienda, the most faint whistle of a train to the north. She told herself her dad would never let anything happen to her. If she needed to be away from The Mig, he’d commit whatever he had to to make it happen. Until she knew, she would watch and listen and wait. She had a long wood-handled knife she’d taken from the kitchen when the grim housekeeper had turned away from her youth and its attendant promiscuity. “If my dad doesn’t come to get me,” she said to herself, tearily, “it’s because he’s dead.”
On the third morning after arriving at the hacienda she awoke early. She dressed in a pair of too-large counterfeit Levis and a white peasant top. She took her leather-covered daybook and tried to find words to describe what it was to be alive in the middle of mystery while the yolky sun just washed another unexpected day upon her. At the window she pressed her face against the screen and breathed in the wet foliage soaked down by the gardener who, she noted with a shock of reality that banished any poetry from her soul, was floating face down amongst the aqua flowers in the cement pool surrounded by stone angels he tended endlessly. A plume of blood fanned out from his white jellaba. The silver pistol was lying still at the bottom of the water, the machete was gone.
Zoe Preston found the wood-handled knife under her mattress and positioned herself against the rough stucco behind the door to her room, the knife clutched in her fist beside her cheek, ready and waiting and wondering if she could do what would need to be done.
There were whispers outside the room. Several men’s voices. A door opened, then closed. Another door and then a shout and a struggle, staggering footsteps on the thick board floor of the hallway, then a sharp exhalation and a grunt. Then another. Then another. Then The Mig’s voice, hollow and faint and liquid and unintelligible, “Ahh.”
There was silence then and she looked at where the floor met the door and saw a ribbon of blood running into the room on the stone floor. It made her catch her breath audibly, and outside a gringo voice, no longer whispering, said: “This one,” and the door opened with great caution and she raised her silver bladed knife.
“Put it down, put it down. You Marko’s kid? His niece?”
She wondered at how he knew not to pass through the doorway, then realized he was looking at her through the crack in the door.
“I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you,” she said, her voice rising to coax breath from emptying lungs. “Go. Just go. Take what you want. I haven’t seen you,” before realizing he’d said her uncle’s name and it wasn’t burglars.
“I’m coming in. You stab me, you’re making a big mistake. We’re here to get you, that’s all. Markowitz sent us. We’re here to take you home. We don’t have a lot of time.”
She pushed the door against him. He used just enough force to keep it as it was without trying to crush her back against the stucco with it. “What’s his name, my uncle?”
“Marko. Ah, Leslie, or something. Fuck, girl, there’s dead people around, c’mon.” His voice was rough, but reasonable. He didn’t threaten and seemed only impatient to do the mission her uncle had sent him to do. “You’re safe now.”
She moved along the wall away from the door, holding the knife as her Uncle Marko had showed her, a knife fighter’s trick, behind her thigh so the opponent wouldn’t know there was a knife, and if he did he wouldn’t know which way it was held, whether her counterattack would come overhand or underhand. Uncle Marko, she thought and resisted a hysterical giggle. She was nine years old and he said it’s never too young to learn how to carve up a drunken Pollack salami when you really, really had to. She felt great love and was dying now to see Uncle Marko. She said to the door: “Come in. Just one.”
A heavily bearded face did a quick peek around the door, then darted back, then came out again, this time with an appreciative smile. “Tijuana trick, hide the blade. You’re Marko’s niece, all right.” He held out both palms to show they were empty; one sleeve of his checkered shirt showed a large bloodstain on the cuff. “We have to hurry, get you across with the morning commute.” He spoke to someone behind him. “She’s got a blade.”
“Fuck, this could go bad fast.”
The heavily bearded man poked his head back in. “Miss, we’re just here to get you out. Marko sent us, no way I can prove it to you, but if we go without you, well … we’re not. C’mon.”
She recognized him as a big man who could be mean but had a gentle heart, like her Uncle Marko, like her dad. He had a life of doing violence, receiving violence, suffering prison, and lived in it without complaint. She moved off the wall, wide, and moved so she could see outside the door, past him. The fingers of blood on the floor were reaching farther into the room. She felt the loss of The Mig, who had made a joke of his daughter, a fine friendly joke to ease her apprehension.
“Okay, okay.” She kept the knife in her hand as she left the room, averting her face from the source of the blood. The beautiful boy gardener in the pool, she kne
w, would haunt her for a long time to come, although she’d seen many butchered bodies as she practised her craft of aid in dark places.
There were four men on the landing, waiting and shuffling. All were big and had the competent mien of Uncle Marko’s biker pals, and all wore road clothes: jeans, untucked shirts, and leather or cut-off denim vests. One, who wore a blue checked kerchief, nodded in a friendly greeting. “You can’t take the knife.”
She dropped it onto the floor. The heavily bearded man picked it up between his knuckles and wiped the handle on his shirtsleeve. He dropped it near The Mig’s body. Gently, he put his hand under her elbow and began steering her to the top of the stairs.
She said: “My passport, it’s in the room inside the leather book. I want the book.”
The man in the checked kerchief nodded at another man and the man went into the room and came out with the daybook.
The man in the kerchief led the way down the stairs. “You’re safe now. You’re going home. We’ll get you over the border. Your uncle’s waiting. You’re safe.”
He gave her a wad of American money and put his hand on her shoulder. “You tell Marko we treated you right, okay? Your ticket is good Laredo to Houston, then use the money to get a flight to Buffalo.” He handed her a slip of paper. “Call this number when you know when you’re arriving and Marko will have someone meet you there.”
She said: “What happened to the housekeeper?”
She thought he had beautiful blue eyes and thought she witnessed the silent brevity of grief in them.
At Houston, before boarding for Buffalo, she called the number and a soft-voiced man answered. She asked for Marko and the man said he was out, is this Zoe? She said it was and the man asked for her flight number and arrival time in Buffalo. He asked what she was wearing.
