USA Noir - Best Of The Akashic Noir Series

by Johnny Temple (Editor)

  The old man and the soldier stared at me. I wanted to laugh. That’s it? I mean, really? A little skinny bald guy? I was invincible with love.

  Poppa turned and entered the bistro without a word. Pope and Amapola followed, holding hands. The stout soldier dude just eyeballed me and walked in. I was left alone on the sidewalk. I followed.

  They were already sitting. It was ice cold. The way I liked it. I tried not to see Amapola’s nipples. But I noticed her pops looking at them. And then the soldier. Pops told her, “Tápate, cabrona.” She had brought a little sweater with her, and now I knew why. She primly draped herself.

  “Dad . . .” said Pope.

  “Shut it,” his father said.

  The eyeglasses had only become half-dark. You could almost see his eyes.

  A waiter delivered a clear drink.

  “Martini, sir,” he said.

  It was only about eleven in the morning.

  Big Poppa said, “I came to town last night to see you.” He sipped his drink. “I come here, to this restaurant. Is my favorite. Is comida Frances, understand? Quality.” Another sip. He looked at the soldier—the soldier nodded. “I invite you.” He pointed at Pope. Then at her. Then at me. “You, you, and you. Right here. Berry expensive.” He drained the martini and snapped his fingers at the waiter. “An’ I sit here an’ wait.” The waiter hurried over and took the glass and scurried away.

  “Me an’ my brother, Arnulfo.”

  He put his hand on the soldier’s arm.

  “We wait for you.”

  Popo said, “Dad . . .”

  “Callate el osico, chingado,” his father breathed. He turned his head to me and smiled. He looked like a moray eel in a tank. Another martini landed before him.

  “You,” he said. “Why you dress like a girl?” He sipped. “I wait for you, but you don’t care. No! Don’t say nothing. Listen. I wait, and you no show up here to my fancy dinner. Is okay. I don’t care.” He waved his hand. “I have my li’l drink, and I don’t care.” He toasted me. He seemed like he was coiled, steel springs inside his gut. My skin was crawling and I didn’t even know why.

  “I wait for you,” he said. “Captain Arnulfo, he wait. You don’t care, right? Is okay! I’m happy. I got my martinis, I don’t give a shit.”

  He smiled.

  He pulled a long cigar out of his inner pocket. He bit the end off and spit it on the table. He put the cigar in his mouth. Arnulfo took out a gold lighter and struck a blue flame.

  The waiter rushed over and murmured, “I’m sorry, sir, but this is a nonsmoking bistro. You’ll have to take it outside.”

  The old man didn’t even look at him—just stared at me through those gray lenses.

  “Is hot outside,” he said. “Right, gringo? Too hot?” I nodded—I didn’t know what to do. “You see?” the old man said.

  “I must insist,” the waiter said.

  “Bring the chef,” the old man said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Get the chef out here for me. Now.”

  The waiter brought out the chef, who bent down to the old man. Whispers. No drama. But the two men hurried away and the waiter came back with an ashtray. Arnulfo lit Poppa’s cigar.

  He blew smoke at me and said, “Why you do this violence to me?”

  “I . . .” I said.

  “Shut up.”

  He snapped his fingers again, and food and more martinis arrived. I stared at my plate. Snails in garlic butter. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t even sip the water. Smoke drifted to me. I could feel the gray lenses focused on me. Pope, that chickenshit, just ate and never looked up. Amapola sipped iced coffee and stared out the window.

  After forty minutes of this nightmare, Poppa pushed his plate away.

  “Oye,” he said, “tú.”

  I looked up.

  “Why you wan’ fock my baby daughter?”

  * * *

  Sure, I trembled for a while after that. I got it, I really did. But did good sense overtake me? What do you think? I was full-on into the Romeo and Juliet thing, and she was even worse. Parents—you want to ensure your daughters marry young? Forbid them from seeing their boyfriends. Just try it.

  “Uncle Arnie,” as big dark Captain Arnulfo was called in Cuca’s house, started hanging around. A lot. I wasn’t, like, stupid. I could tell what was what—he was sussing me out (that’s a word Pope taught me). He brought Bass Pale Ale all the time. He sidled up to me and said dumb things like, “You like the sexy?” Pope and I laughed all night after Uncle Arnie made his appearances. “You make the sexy-sexy in cars?” What a dork, we thought.

  My beloved showered me with letters. I had no way of knowing if my own letters got to her or not, but she soon found an Internet café in Nogales and sent me cyber-love. Popo was drying up a little, not quite what you’d call sober, but occasionally back on the Earth, and he started calling me “McLovin.” I think it was his way of trying to tone it down. “Bring it down a notch, homeboy,” he’d say when I waxed overly poetic about his sister.

  It was a Saturday when it happened. I was IM-ing Amapola. That’s all I did on Saturday afternoons. No TV, no cruising in the car, no movies or pool time. I fixed a huge vat of sun tea and hit my laptop and talked to her. Mom was at work—she was always at work or out doing lame shit like bowling. It was just me, the computer, my distant girlie, and the cat rubbing against my leg. I’ll confess to you—don’t laugh—I cried at night thinking about her.

  Does this explain things a little? Pope said I was whipped. I’d be like, that’s no way to talk about your sister. She’s better than all of you people! He’d just look at me out of those squinty Apache eyes. “Maybe,” he’d drawl. “Maybe . . .” And I was just thinking about all that on Saturday, going crazier and crazier with the desire to see her sweet face every morning, her hair on my skin every night, mad in love with her, and I was IM-ing her that she should just book. Run away. She was almost seventeen already. She could catch a bus and be in Phoenix in a few hours and we’d jump on I-10 and drive to Cali. I didn’t know what I imagined—just us, in love, on a beach. And suddenly the laptop crashed. Just gone—black screen before Amapola could answer me. That was weird, I thought. I cursed and kicked stuff, then I grabbed a shower and rolled.

  When I cruised over to Aunt Cuca’s, she was gone. So was Pope. Uncle Arnie was sitting in the living room in his uniform, sipping coffee.

  “They all go on vacation,” he said. “Just you and me.”

  Vacation? Pope hadn’t said anything about vacations. Not that he was what my English profs would call a reliable narrator.

  Arnie gestured for me to sit. I stood there.

  “Coffee?” he offered.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Sit!”

  I sat.

  I can’t relate the conversation very clearly, since I never knew what the F Arnie was mumbling, to tell you the truth. His accent was all bandido. I often just nodded and smiled, hoping not to offend the dude, lest he freak out and bust caps in me. That’s a joke. Kind of. But then I’d wonder what I’d just agreed to.

  “You love Amapola,” he said. It wasn’t a question. He smiled sadly, put his hand on my knee.

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  He nodded. Sighed. “Love,” he said. “Is good, love.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You not going away, right?”

  I shook my head. “No way.”

  “So. What this means? You marry the girl?”

  Whoa. Marry? I . . . guess . . . I was going to marry her. Someday.

  Sure, you think about it. But to say it out loud. That was hard. Yet I felt like some kind of breakthrough was happening here. The older generation had sent an emissary.

  “I believe,” I said, mustering some balls, “yes. I will marry Amapola. Someday. You know.”

  He shrugged, sadly. I thought that was a little odd, frankly. He held up a finger and busted out a cell phone, hit the speed button, and muttered in Spanish. Snapped it shut.
Sipped his coffee.

  “We have big family reunion tomorrow. You come. Okay? I’ll fix up all with Amapola’s papá. You see. Yes?”

  I smiled at him, not believing this turn of events.

  “Big Mexican rancho. Horses. Good food. Mariachis.” He laughed. “And love! Two kids in love!”

  We slapped hands. We smiled and chuckled. I had some coffee.

  “I pick you up here at seven in the morning,” he said. “Don’t be late.”

  * * *

  The morning desert was purple and orange. The air was almost cool. Arnie had a Styrofoam cooler loaded with Dr. Peppers and Cokes. He drove a bitchin’ S-Class Benz. It smelled like leather and aftershave. He kept the satellite tuned to BBC Radio 1. “You like the crazy maricón music, right?” he asked.

  “. . . Ah . . . right.”

  It was more like flying than driving, and when he sped past Arivaca, I wasn’t all that concerned. I figured we were going to Nogales, Arizona. But we slid through that little dry town like a shark and crossed into Mex without slowing down. He just raised a finger off the steering wheel and motored along, saying, “You going to like this.”

  And then we were through Nogales, Mexico, too. Black and tan desert. Saguaros and freaky burned-looking cactuses. I don’t know what that stuff was. It was spiky.

  We took a long dirt side road. I was craning around, looking at the bad black mountains around us.

  “Suspension makes this road feel like butter,” Arnie noted.

  We came out in a big valley. There was an airfield of some sort there. Mexican army stuff—trucks, Humvees. Three or four hangars or warehouses. Some shiny Cadillacs and SUVs scattered around.

  “You going to like this,” Arnie said. “It’s a surprise.”

  There was Big Poppa Popo, the old man himself. He was standing with his hands on his hips. With a tall American. Those dark gray lenses turned toward us. We parked. We got out.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Shut up,” said Arnie.

  “Where’s the rancho?” I asked.

  The American burst out laughing.

  “Jesus, kid!” he shouted. He turned to the old man. “He really is a dumbshit.”

  He walked away and got in a white SUV. He slammed the door and drove into the desert, back the way we had come. We stood there watching him go. I’m not going to lie—I was getting scared.

  “You marry Amapola?” the old man said.

  “One day. Look, I don’t know what you guys are doing here, but—”

  “Look at that,” he interrupted, turning from me and gesturing toward a helicopter sitting on the field. “Huey. Old stuff, from your Vietnam. Now the Mexican air force use it to fight las drogas.” He turned to me. “You use las drogas?”

  “No! Never.”

  They laughed.

  “Sure, sure,” the old man said.

  “Ask Amapola!” I cried. “She’ll tell you!”

  “She already tell me everything,” he said.

  Arnie put his arm around my shoulders. “Come,” he said, and started walking toward the helicopter. I resisted for a moment, but the various Mexican soldiers standing around were suddenly really focused and not slouching and were walking along all around us.

  “What is this?” I said.

  “You know what I do?” the old man asked.

  “Business?” I said. My mind was blanking out, I was so scared.

  “Business.” He nodded. “Good answer.”

  We came under the blades of the big helicopter. I’d never been near one in my life. It scared the crap out of me. The Mexican pilots looked out their side windows at me. The old man patted the machine.

  “President Bush!” he said. “DEA!”

  I looked at Arnie. He smiled, nodded at me. “Fight the drogas,” he said.

  The engines whined and chuffed and the rotor started to turn.

  “Is very secret what we do,” said the old man. “But you take a ride and see. Is my special treat. You go with Arnulfo.”

  “Come with me,” Arnie said.

  “You go up and see, then we talk about love.”

  The old man hurried away, and it was just me and Arnie and the soldiers with their black M16s.

  “After you,” Arnie said.

  * * *

  He pulled on a helmet. Then we took off. It was rough as hell. I felt like I was being pummeled in the ass and lower back when the engines really kicked in. And when we rose, my guts dropped out through my feet. I closed my eyes and gripped the webbing Arnie had fastened around my waist. “Holy God!” I shouted. It was worse when we banked—the side doors were wide open, and I screamed like a girl, sure I was falling out. The Mexicans laughed and shook their heads, but I didn’t care.

  Arnie was standing in the door. He unhooked a big gun from the stanchion where it had been strapped with its barrel pointed up. He dangled it in the door on cords. He leaned toward me and shouted, “Sixty caliber! Hung on double bungees!” He slammed a magazine into the thing and pulled levers and snapped snappers. He leaned down to me again and shouted, “Feel the vibration? You lay on the floor, it makes you come!”

  I thought I heard him wrong.

  We were beating out of the desert and into low hills. I could see our shadow below us, fluttering like a giant bug on the ground and over the bushes. The seat kicked up and we were rising.

  Arnulfo took a pistol from his belt and showed me.

  “Amapola,” he said.

  I looked around for her, stupidly. But then I saw what was below us, in a watered valley. Orange flowers. Amapola. Poppies.

  “This is what we do,” Arnulfo said.

  He raised his pistol and shot three rounds out the door and laughed. I put my hands over my ears.

  “You’re DEA?” I cried.

  He popped off another round.

  “Is competition,” he said. “We do business.”

  Oh my God.

  He fell against me and was shouting in my ear and there was nowhere I could go. “You want Amapola? You want to marry my sobrina? Just like that? Really? Pendejo.” He grabbed my shirt. “Can you fly, gringo? Can you fly?” I was shaking. I was trying to shrink away from him, but I could not. I was trapped in my seat. His breath stank, and his lips were at my ear like hers might have been, and he was screaming, “Can you fly, chingado? Because you got a choice! You fly, or you do what we do.”

  I kept shouting, “What? What?” It was like one of those dreams where nothing makes sense. “What?”

  “You do what we do, I let you live, cabrón.”

  “What?”

  “I let you live. Or you fly. Decide.”

  “I don’t want to die!” I yelled. I was close to wetting my pants. The Huey was nose-down and sweeping in a circle. I could see people below us, running. A few small huts. Horses or mules. A pickup started to speed out of the big poppy field. Arnulfo talked into his mike and the helicopter heaved after it. Oh no, oh no. He took up the .60 caliber and braced himself. I put my fingers in my ears. And he ripped a long stream of bullets out the door. It was the loudest thing I’d ever heard. Louder than the loudest thing you can imagine. So loud your insides jump, but it all becomes an endless rip of noise, like thunder cracking inside your bladder and your teeth hurt from gritting against it.

  The truck just tattered, if metal can tatter. The roof of the cab blew apart and the smoking ruin of the vehicle spun away below us and vanished in dust and smoke and steam.

  I was crying.

  “Be a man!” Arnulfo yelled.

  We were hovering. The crew members were all turned toward me, staring.

  Arnie unsnapped my seat webbing.

  “Choose,” he said.

  “I want to live.”

  “Choose.”

  You know how it goes in Die Hard movies. How the hero kicks the bad guy out the door and sprays the Mexican crew with the .60 and survives a crash landing. But that’s not what happened. That didn’t even cross my mind. Not even clo
se. No, I got up on terribly shaky legs, so shaky I might have pitched out the open door all by myself to discover that I could not, in fact, fly. I said, “What do I do?” And the door gunner grabbed me and shoved me up to the hot gun. The ground was wobbling far below us, and I could see the Indian workers down there. Six men and a woman. And they were running. I was praying and begging God to get me out of this somehow and I was thinking of my beautiful lover and I told myself I didn’t know how I got there and the door gunner came up behind me now, he slammed himself against my ass, and he said, “Hold it, lean into it. It’s gonna kick, okay? Finger on the trigger. I got you.” And I braced the .60 and I tried to close my eyes and prayed I’d miss them and I was saying, Amapola, Amapola, over and over in my mind, and the gunner was hard against me, he was erect and pressing it into my buttocks and he shouted, “For love!” and I squeezed the trigger.

  THE TIK

  BY JOHN O'BRIEN

  Scotch 80s, Las Vegas

  (Originally published in Las Vegas Noir)

  Part of me wished that I had asked the cab to wait. I hadn’t. I stared up at the big double doors, weathered from the desert sun, yes, but still so imposing that you half-expected to see a muscled bodyguard when they opened. The doorbell didn’t work. It never had. I felt the familiar quiver begin in the back of my neck as twice I dropped the ornate knocker, an upside-down black iron cross. I peered over my back to see if the cab was still in sight. The long drive was empty.

  Despite the impending nightfall, I noticed the German shepherd asleep on the grass, his white face a beacon in the otherwise black lawn. I knew this dog and wondered if he would remember me. I walked over to nudge him awake.

  When I had last left this house over ten years ago, I was certain that I was through with this all-consuming part of my life, but as I bent over to pet the dog, it was clear this place was far from finished with me; rather, like the dog, it was merely lying in wait for some new awakening. The shepherd lifted his head and growled, but whether the snarl was for me or something else, I did not know. I followed his gaze and was startled to find that I was being watched by a tall slim figure, standing where only moments before the closed doors had been.