The Awakening

by Allen Johnson

  Miguel waited outside the bank, just down the street at a sidewalk stand of oranges meticulously stacked in front of the Martinez’s grocery store.

  “Go ahead; have an orange,” Señora Martinez said.

  Miguel was lost in his thoughts. He fingered the pistol at his belt and thought about how he would gun down the bandido in the street, if it came to a shootout.

  “Have an orange,” the shopkeeper repeated.

  “What, what?” he said, coming to his senses, but not really seeing the señora.

  “The oranges: They are very sweet this year.”

  Just then Antonio came out of the bank. He was counting a handful of bills. Miguel drew out his pistol, but his shooting hand slammed against the orange stand and two or three pieces of fruit began to tumble from the top of the pyramid. Miguel stopped one orange and then another, but more and more started to tumble, culminating in a rumbling cascade of rolling oranges. With all limbs outstretched, he threw his torso over the fruit, his gun still in his hand, now flopping about like a severed high-pressure air hose. The fruit stand collapsed under Miguel’s weight, and the chief of police was suddenly rolling about on a cushion of oranges.

  The shopkeeper could not stifle a laugh, which only added fuel to Miguel’s embarrassment and rage. He scrambled to his feet, but was quickly upended on a carpet of orange “ball bearings” and came crashing down on his backside.

  “Easy, Miguel,” the shopkeeper said, struggling to keep a straight face. She bent over to give the police chief a hand, but he was in no mood for assistance and jerked his arm away with such authority that it again threw him to the ground. At this point, all pride had evaporated, and he resigned himself to crawling on hands and knees to a clear spot on the pavement, where he was finally able to right himself.

  Señora Martinez could not contain herself any longer. A burst of laugher exploded from her sealed lips. “Do not worry, Miguel. I will make orange juice and send you the bill for the rest.”

  By the time Miguel had regained his composure, Antonio, who had witnessed the knockabout scene, was across the street and entering the hardware store.

  Miguel decided to continue his undercover surveillance. Three short, grey-haired women—all with fabric shopping bags stuffed with daily groceries—were standing nearby, still trying to recover from their laughter. Miguel approached them, using them as cover.

  “It is a little cloudy today,” Miguel said, his eyes fixed on the hardware store across the street.

  “Yes, it certainly is,” one of the ladies said. She looked at her companions and let out a snort of laughter.

  “I do not think it will rain, though,” he said, oblivious to the women’s losing battle to contain themselves.

  “I would be surprised if it did,” the second woman mused.

  “No, that is right,” the third woman said. “You remember, Carmen? We got our last big rain just before the orange harvest.”

  All three women burst into guffaws, leaning on each other to keep from falling down.

  Just then Antonio stepped out of the hardware store with a brown paper sack under one arm. He took a small piece of paper from his pocket, looked at it, crumpled it up, and tossed it into a wastepaper basket attached to the outside wall of the hardware store.

  Miguel, surrounded by the three women, dropped to one knee and pretended to tie his shoe. When Antonio looked in his direction, he pulled Carmen’s skirt to one side, as if drawing a curtain.

  This was not appropriate behavior for any man, not to mention the chief of police, and it both startled and offended Carmen, who unsheathed a loaf of French bread from her shopping bag and whacked Miguel over the head with it, breaking the bread in half in the process.

  Meanwhile, Antonio had crossed the street and, passing by the quartet, tipped his head and said, “Buenos días, señoras. Buenos días, Miguel.”

  Miguel, having been reduced to untying and retying his shoe, finally stopped fingering the laces, stood up, and watched Antonio climb the hill toward the Garcias’ home.

  “Hmm,” Miguel grunted.

  The police chief then retraced Antonio’s steps, going first to the bank. He cut a direct line to the bank teller.

  “That tall man who just came in wearing brown shoes, khaki pants, and a black sweater …”

  The teller, a slender birdlike man, never began business without a proper morning greeting. He looked over the top of his reading glasses. “Buenos días, Miguel.”

  “Buenos días, Reynaldo,” he said with as much warmth as a clenched fist.

  The two men gawked at each other.

  “Well?” Miguel said, lengthening the word into three syllables.

  “Well, what?” Reynaldo asked, baffled.

  Miguel rolled his eyes. “The tall man with the brown shoes, khaki pants, and black sweater,” he growled

  The teller looked queerly at Miguel.

  “And wearing no hat,” the police chief added.

  Still no recognition.

  “Clean shaven.”

  Reynaldo was still bewildered.

  Exasperated, Miguel played his last card reluctantly. “The Garcias’ new man.”

  The teller’s face lit up. “Oh, you mean Antonio,” Reynaldo twittered, as if the stranger were his favorite cousin from Valencia.

  “Right, Antonio,” Miguel smirked.

  “Yes?”

  “He was here just a few minutes ago.”

  “Yes, that is right.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, what, Miguel?”

  “Well, what did he want?” he asked loudly.

  “Oh, that. He wanted money.”

  “He wanted money?”

  “Yes, that is right. He wanted money.”

  “So, you gave it to him?” Miguel snapped.

  “Of course.”

  “Did he hold you up?”

  Now it was Reynaldo who rolled his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  “He did not hold you up?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then, you gave him a loan?”

  “No, I did not give him a loan.”

  “Then, what did you do?”

  “I gave him 20,000 pesetas from the Garcias’ account.”

  “My God! You gave him money from Diego’s account?”

  “Of course.”

  “But in heaven’s name why?”

  The teller opened the drawer under the counter and fished out a check. “This is why,” he said, holding the check in front of Miguel’s eyes.

  Miguel snatched the check out of Reynaldo’s hands. It was made out to “Cash.” “This is signed by Diego Garcia.”

  “I know that. Diego asked Antonio to cash it for him.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “Of course, I believed him. Why would I not believe him? I would do the same thing for you.”

  “But I am the chief of police!”

  “I know that. And Antonio is Diego’s friend. So what is the difference?”

  Miguel held his head like the top was going to fly off. “Never mind,” he said, not knowing whether he wanted to fold his arms across his chest or place them on his hips. “Just never mind.”

  He stormed out of the bank and marched over to the hardware store. Just as he reached for the door, he remembered that Antonio had tossed a crumpled note into the wastepaper basket. He lowered his head into the basket and then leapt backward, his hand over his mouth and nose.

  The foul smell was Raul’s doing, the village drunk, who the night before did what came naturally: As always, he drank until he had to puke, and when he emptied his stomach, he unloaded in his favorite hardware store canister. Miguel stomped around in little circles. “Goddamn it, Raul,” he caterwauled. “You goat-smelling son-of-a-bitch.”

  Miguel cupped a wadded handkerchief over his nose and, cranking his head back as far as possible, reached for the crumpled piece of paper, which to Miguel’s disgust was soaked in the day-old vomit.

&nbs
p; Miguel carefully unfolded the scrap of paper. “Caramba!” He stared at the paper, written with a firm hand in block letters:

  Zn3P2 + NaOH

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Miguel chanted, strutting a kind of chicken dance in front of the hardware store. “I have got you now, you cocky gigolo. I am going to turn you into a gelding.”

  Miguel held the piece of paper between two fingers and tried to figure out where to put the condemning evidence, reluctantly resorting to wrapping it carefully in his handkerchief and placing it in his shirt pocket. He was so excited with his find that he didn’t even bother to interview the hardware store clerk. He finally had all the evidence he needed. There was no question: Antonio was preparing to build a drug lab—meth or crack or any number of designer drugs with the sole purpose of burning up the brains of the village children. Miguel was going to make sure that the stranger rotted in a Spanish prison cell. “He will never see the light of day,” he swore under his breath.

  Miguel did not waste any time to make the arrest. He immediately drove the squad car to the Garcias’ house. He got out of the car and looked left and right. There was no sign of Antonio. He knocked on the front door, his hand on his pistol. There was no answer. This time, Miguel pounded on the door and then leaned his back against the house at the side of the portal.

  Diego came to the door, opened it, saw no one, and closed the door.

  “Damn,” Miguel said. He pounded on the door again, this time drawing the gun out of his holster and holding it with the barrel straight up.

  Diego opened the door again and faced Miguel, gun in hand. “For God’s sake. You scared the daylights out of me. What are you going to do, Miguel? Shoot me?”

  “Where is Antonio?” Miguel whispered.

  “I do not know,” Diego whispered back. “I think I dozed off. He is probably with the mob, planning his next heist.”

  “This is no laughing matter,” Miguel said, still whispering. “Where is he?”

  “My guess is he is in the orchard working. And why are we whispering?”

  “Can I come in? I do not have a warrant,” Miguel said in full voice.

  “Of course, you can come in. You do not need a warrant to come into my house. Since when do you need a warrant?”

  “Ever since Antonio started dealing drugs.”

  Completely bewildered, Diego stared at the chief of police. “I think you better come in.”

  Miguel stepped through the entry and quickly combed the house—crabbing along in a low crouch and drawing his pistol down at the threshold of each room. When he was sure all was clear, he straightened his legs, which were burning from all the crouching, and returned to the living room. He sat down in an armchair opposite Diego, who was seated on the couch and shaking his head in disbelief.

  “All right, Serpico, you want to tell me what this is all about?”

  Miguel’s gun was still in his hand, and he used it to punctuate each word of his sentence. “What do you know about Antonio?”

  “I know he is my friend.”

  “That is what I thought. Well, he will not be your friend for long. Not after you hear what I have to say.”

  “Make your point, Miguel. And stop waving that gun around like some kind of brainless cowboy.”

  “Oh, right,” Miguel said, holstering the pistol. He leaned forward over his knees. “Did you know that Antonio is cashing checks in your name at the bank? Huh? Did you know that? I bet you did not know that, did you?”

  “You mean the 20,000-peseta check I wrote out today? Is that the check you are talking about?”

  “That is the check. Did you know about that?”

  “Of course, I knew about that. I wrote it.”

  “And you gave it to Antonio to cash?”

  “Right. I gave it to Antonio. Is that what this is all about?”

  “Not so fast. I bet you did not know that Antonio is setting up a drug lab.”

  “What in the world are you talking about?”

  Miguel raised his hand, calling for Diego’s patience. He extracted his handkerchief from his shirt pocket and unfolded it carefully on his lap. “You see this?” he said, waving the paper like a tiny flag at a patriotic parade.

  “You are saving scraps of paper now, Miguel?”

  “No, Diego,” he said in a huff. “This is the evidence that is going to put the infamous Antonio away for a very long time.”

  “Let me see that.”

  Miguel handed the paper to Diego, who caught a whiff of it and recoiled. “What toilet did you fish this out of?”

  “Never mind. Just read it.”

  Miguel read the symbols and shrugged.

  Miguel took the note, wrapped it, and tucked it away in his pocket again. “Those are chemical symbols. Your boy is a drug dealer.”

  “Wait a minute, Miguel. I think you are jumping to conclusions here. Where did you get this?”

  “Antonio tossed it in the garbage.”

  “I see.”

  Just then, Antonio walked through the front door.

  Miguel flipped around in the chair, dropped to his knees, and drew out his weapon, training it on Antonio’s chest.

  Antonio raised both hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. What is going on here?”

  “Not so fast, big fellow. Turn around. Put your hands on the wall and spread your legs.”

  Done.

  Miguel stepped out from his cover and kicked Anthony’s legs back, almost toppling him.

  “Now, just a minute,” Antonio protested, turning his head toward Miguel.

  Miguel shoved his pistol into his back. “Do not move or, I swear, I will blow a hole in your belly.”

  “Bueno, bueno. Just relax a little. I am not going anywhere.”

  Miguel frisked him thoroughly, even tapping the barrel of this pistol between his legs. “All right. You are clean,” he said, putting his gun away. “You can turn around now.”

  Antonio stepped toward the wall to get his feet under him, turned, and lowered his arms. “You are damned right I am clean. What are you trying to prove?”

  “Just sit down.”

  Antonio sat on the couch beside Diego.

  “Miguel has pegged you as a drug dealer,” Diego said.

  “What?”

  “And he has the evidence to prove it.”

  Antonio gawked in amazement at Miguel. “You want to explain this?”

  For the second time, Miguel uncovered the piece of condemning evidence and handed it to Antonio. “Is that yours?”

  “Of course, it is mine, but judging from the smell, I cannot imagine where you found it.”

  “Never mind that. Then you admit it is yours.”

  “Yes, it is mine. Are you happy now? It is my scrap of paper. I have a desk drawer full of them; I will give you the whole bunch, and you can knock yourself out. ”

  “Cut the sarcasm.”

  “All right, all right,” Antonio said, trying to gain control of himself. “Just tell me what is going on.”

  “I will tell you what is going on. You are going to jail,” he said smugly. “That is what is going on.”

  “Okay. But before you throw me in the slammer, may I ask a couple of questions?”

  Miguel sat back and folded his arms. “Go ahead.”

  “Do you know what those chemical symbols represent?”

  “I have a pretty good idea.”

  “Enlighten us.”

  “Well, I do not know exactly, but I would bet my life that they are drug-related.”

  “And you would lose that bet. Zn3P2 is the symbol for zinc phosphide. And NaOH is the symbol for sodium hydroxide.”

  “I cannot believe it,” Diego said.

  “You know those chemicals, Diego?” Miguel asked.

  “Yes, I know those chemicals. And you would, too, if you knew anything about olive trees and pest control.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Zinc phosphide is rat poison. We have a nest somewhere in the house, and I asked Antonio to
go down to the hardware store and get a can of the stuff. It works.”

  “And the sodium whatever it was?”

  “Sodium hydroxide,” Diego continued. “The common name is caustic soda. We do not produce a lot of table olives, but the ones we do produce must be soaked in sodium hydroxide. It is an alkaline solution that removes the bitter acid from the olives. We were running low on the product, and I asked Antonio to order a couple of sacks. All right?”

  Miguel suddenly looked more like a sheepish little boy than the chief of police. “So why did you write symbols instead of words?” he asked, more out of curiosity than accusation.

  “I do not know. It is faster. Do not ask me how I knew the symbols; I just knew. Maybe I was a chemist in my other life.”

  “Bueno,” Miguel said flatly. He walked with heavy feet to the door, opened it, and then turned around. “Could the two of you do me a big favor?”

  “What is it?” Diego asked.

  “Could you not tell this to Lupita?”

  Diego turned to Antonio, who nodded.

  “We will not say a word,” Diego said.

  “It is a promise,” Antonio added.

  With that, the chief of police walked out the door, closing it silently behind him.

  Antonio fell back into the couch. “And this is one of the three kings bearing gifts for the baby Jesus?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Diego said. “You will see. He looks splendid in a turban.”

  ON THE EVENING OF JANUARY fifth, Diego, Antonio, and Miguel met at the church to get in costume for the Festival of the Three Kings. All three were in good spirits. Even Miguel seemed less intent in finding fault with Antonio, and, more importantly, he was sober.

  It took nearly two hours to dress and apply makeup. Diego, as the venerable Melchior, was by far the most regal of the lot. He wore a long white beard and matching wig, held in place with an ornate gold crown with glass emeralds and rubies. His robe was a lush red and gold paisley print, topped with a white, furry half-cape with black spots.

  Miguel played Gaspar, the youngest of the kings. He, too, donned a wig and beard, but black in color. He wore a dark-wine tunic and a rich golden robe that dropped to the floor. Like Diego, he sported a crown, which he meticulously set at a rakish angle over one brow.