Cut to the Bone

by Shane Gericke

  Kemper struggled to his feet, reeling like he’d mainlined a quart of Scotch. He watched Pie’s head skitter along the deck and drop off the edge. He cried out as a flying snake of drilling chain wrapped him like a straitjacket, fracturing his jaw with the slam of its hot, whippy tail.

  He staggered to the edge of the quaking rig, spitting broken teeth, the night sky boiled yellow and sulfurous from oil- and gas-fed flames. He peered over the edge and considered the astronomic odds of surviving the seven-story leap to the foaming green seas. He shook his head and backed away, thinking maybe there was just enough time to find another lifeboat . . .

  The curly black hairs on his neck ignited, and he knew he was out of options.

  He whimpered, afraid, then snugged up his charred Levis and faced the water. He stared at the half-moon brightening the waves that pounded the Godzilla legs of the platform. He prayed he’d see his children again. He pinched his nose and closed his eyes.

  And he jumped.

  As the metal bones of the Horizon, the pride of British Petroleum, crashed noisily into the sea.

  Present day

  Chicago

  The duct-taped Buick swam north on Rush Street, hunting whores like a lesser white shark.

  Superstition Davis pushed out her chest and waved. The driver flashed high beams in response. He clicked on his turn signal and angled for the curb. She licked her lip and kicked out a hip, sealing the deal.

  He immediately straightened out and shot past.

  She pouted, stamped her feet, and made a motion, come back. When he didn’t, she hiked her skirt from micro to vanishing, tossing her chocolate tresses and widening her violet eyes.

  He screeched to a halt, then back-whipped the Buick into an empty slot, scattering pedestrians like ten-pins.

  Superstition hurried as fast as her towering stilettos allowed. She peered through the windows as she moved around the car, noticed his hands were already below his waist, moving furiously. Hey, buddy, wait for me, she thought, amused. There's a penalty for early withdrawal-

  But he was shaking Tic-Tacs into his hand.

  “Aw,” she murmured. “You're new at this.”

  She leaned into his window as his round, hopeful face appeared over the descending glass line. The streetlights and humidity gave her cleavage a damp orange shadow.

  “Wow, you look like a Creamsicle,” he murmured.

  She ran a hand over her scanty clothes. Her figure-hugging micro-dress was the blinding neon of Orange Crush. Likewise the five-inch stilettos accenting her long, lean legs. Her skin was the white of pastry cream, and her smile, moonglow on piano keys. “A Creamsicle, huh?” she teased. “Does that mean you’ll lick me?”

  He wiggled in his upholstered seat. “Uh, yeah, I’d like . . . um . . . where . . .”

  “My place is around the corner,” Superstition said, scouting for clues the driver was what he appeared. Like fortune-tellers and con artists, she had to read clients accurately if she wanted to avoid fatal mistakes.

  He was middle-aged and clean-shaven. Bald on top, styled on the graying fringes. He smelled like Drakkar Noir, lightly applied. He wore pleated tan chinos, a parrot shirt from Tommy Bahama, and beef-roll loafers without socks. His Buddy Holly glasses had silver insets at the temples, and there was a pale indent on his ring finger, where a wedding band used to gleam. He was freshly divorced, or stepping out. She guessed the former. Players didn’t waste breath mints on street hookers. They also spray-tanned their telltale divots . . .

  “I’m, uh, John,” he said, his anxiety thickening his voice.

  “Fantasi,” she lied back as she slid into the passenger seat. “With a heart-thingy over the i. It’s a pleasure to meet you, John.”

  “Likewise.” He glanced at the rearview, then back at her. “Is your place, um . . .”

  “I’m at the Wainwright Hotel,” she said. “There’s free HBO if you don’t like me.”

  John looked her over again. “That’s not remotely possible,” he murmured. He caressed her knee with trembling fingertips, but didn’t move higher.

  Horny, but polite. She decided he’d been dumped for Higher Earning Potential. He hadn’t seen it coming, got shellacked by wifey’s law-shark, was forced into an efficiency under an O’Hare flight path. He paid for her golf lessons and tooth bleaching, saw his kids Saturday afternoons at the Woodfield Mall food court, and lay awake nights wondering how his carefully charted life had gone so completely to hell. After months of Internet porn because all the women he knew were her friends, he showered, groomed, hopped into the only car he could afford after alimony and child support, and headed into the Viagra Triangle - the Near North Side club district prowled by Important Men, the tanned and bejeweled divorcées who adored them (or at least their investment portfolios), and the upmarket hookers who serviced the rest.

  She kissed his downy cheek. “Gonna rock your world, Johnnycakes,” she murmured into his ear, making sure he felt the tip of her tongue. “As soon as we get to my room. Does that sound all right?”

  John nodded like a puppy and put the Buick in gear.

  Nogales, Arizona

  The mosquito landed on the narco’s sun-crisped arm, preparing to sink its blood-fang.

  It died in a crushing splatter.

  “The courier is late,” Ortega said, scratching the bloody pieces. “Should I call?”

  “Road construction in South Phoenix,” Garcia reminded, calculating the circuitous route the man had to take to this remote desert canyon, fifteen miles north of the Mexican border. “Give him another thirty.”

  Ortega nodded, went back to sweeping the canyon with binoculars. “Makes me nervous, sitting this long exposed.”

  “Eleven million in drugs will do that,” Garcia agreed.

  “This, my friend, is your work cubicle,” said Brian Charvat, waving his bony hand at the cactus and boulders lining Peck Canyon Road, a potholed rattletrap that reminded his passenger of the Dan Ryan Expressway back home. “And this bad boy,” he continued with a knuckle-thump of the dashboard, “is your company car.”

  “Impressive,” Derek Davis said over the engine whine of the Border Patrol Jeep. He surveyed the dusk-bitten landscape. They were only a few minutes west of Interstate 19, which connected Nogales - the nation’s busiest border crossing - with Tucson an hour north. Yet, they were deep inside smuggler country. He heard the whissssh of speeding cars - and the random pop-pop-pop of gunfire. Since it was too dark for hunting, the shots were most likely from smugglers, the hard cases who plied their deadly trade in the big lonesome of Arizona’s border with Mexico. He tingled with excitement. His job in Chicago was hazardous, no question. But this was bad to the bone.

  They drained their water bottles, then headed into Peck Canyon. “Smugglers hide in these rocks,” Charvat explained as they bounced along the hard pack. “Waiting for the drivers who’ll haul the drugs up to Phoenix and Tucson. You want to hunt bad boys, you start here.” He gave Davis a long look. “I know, vacation postcard, right?”

  “It’s dangerous,” Davis agreed, hearing the warning underneath. “But I’m used to that.”

  Charvat grinned. “‘Course you are, tough guy - Chicago SWAT’s no picnic,” he said. “But this isn’t the big city, with backups just seconds away. It’s . . . Mars.” His lips pursed with long-held frustration. “Your department has, what, 10,000 cops?”

  “More or less.”

  “I’ve got 200 for a wilderness the size of Rhode Island.” He bit into the half-a-burrito left over from their supper at a lime-green cantina on the Mexican side of the fence. Made a face. “Not as good cold as I’d hoped,” he said, throwing the rest out the window. It splattered on a cactus, beans flying one way, tortilla and jalapeños the other.

  Davis stared at the passing scenery. The tangerine-infused sunset had dissolved, replaced by a velvet-Elvis starscape and a full yellow moon that shimmered through crevices in the canyon wall. A wild dog howled, setting off an orchestra of beasts. A lively wind
brought scents of juniper, mesquite, and grasses, spiced with animal spoor and road dust. Hawks swooped and soared on the heat eddies. It was achingly beautiful.

  And dangerous as a rabid wolf, he reminded himself. The borderlands were awash in desperation: Illegals who’d do anything for a job to feed their children. Coyotes who guided them across in exchange for their life savings - and sometimes their lives, if the water ran out. Bandits who robbed everyone except the apex predators: the traffickers, the narcos, who hauled billions of dollars’ worth of drugs, weapons, and human beings across the invisible border that separated Venus from Mars.

  “Out here, you’re on your own,” Charvat expanded. “Put out an SOS and you might get help in an hour.”

  “Or, never.”

  “If the radios don’t work, sure,” Charvat said, skirting a beagle-sized lizard moving sluggishly across the road. “You know, I get lots of cops asking for ride-alongs. I’m happy to oblige because it’s good for both of us to see how the other half lives.” He shook his head. “But you’re the only fella ever asked to work a week for free just to see if you liked it enough to take your job and shove it.”

  Davis shrugged. “I’m a moron.”

  “Good. You’ll fit right in with the Killer Bees.”

  Davis arched an eyebrow.

  “B for Brian. BP for Border Patrol,” Charvat explained, flicking the toy bumblebee hanging from his rearview. Its zigzag grin glowed coppery in the moonlight. “Which makes me the Killer Bee.”

  Davis laughed. “I’m going to work in your hive?”

  “Yep. We’ll even issue you a government stinger.”

  “Don’t need it,” Davis said, spreading his hands. “Mine’s a mile long.”

  “Mine’s a mile, too,” Charvat said. “Wide.”

  “Rock breaks scissors,” Davis laughed, holding out his fist for a bump.

  Ortega stiffened as if electrified. “Quick, Jefe. Top of the ridge,” he grunted, blading his hand to the south-southwest. “Behind those dead saguaros.”

  Garcia peered through his night-vision scope. Saw the Jeep with the forest-green stripe. It was the Border Patrol, kicking up dust on the road into the canyon that hid Garcia, his crew, and carefully bundled sacks of profit.

  He studied the jouncing vehicle for clues to its destination. One agent sat shotgun, elbow out the window. The other was behind the wheel, hands at ten and two, head on an easy swivel, reading the landscape. Both appeared relaxed. Not on the radio and not clutching weapons. Not scanning the sky for tactical teams in helicopters. Not looking for anything in particular. Just seeing what they could see.

  “Routine patrol,” he decided.

  “And if it isn’t?” Ortega challenged. “If someone ratted us out and they’re coming to check?”

  Garcia patted the backpacks stuffed with enough Taliban heroin and Colombian cocaine to ease the withdrawal pains of Godzilla. He stroked the ammunition belts crossing his chest, the cartridge at the top of each curved magazine winking brassy in the moonlight.

  “Ten of us. Two of them. Do the math,” he said.

  “My boss has juice in D.C.,” Charvat said. “She’ll get you assigned to my sector.” He wagged a crooked finger. “Assuming, of course, we accept your application, you graduate with distinction from the Border Patrol academy, and you don’t kill your dumb ass training.”

  “You will, no problem, and har-de-bleepin’-har.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Charvat said, slapping the dash. Dust scattered like fruit flies.

  A long, comfortable silence ensued as they bounced along the ridge. Another good sign, Charvat thought. Nothing worse than a partner who never shut up.

  “You married, Derek?” he said.

  “High school sweetheart,” Davis said.

  “Nice when that happens. What’s her name?”

  “Superstition.” He smiled at Charvat’s arched eyebrow. “It’s a long story.”

  Charvat laughed. “Best ones are. You have kids?”

  A long silence.

  “No. We don’t have children.”

  The flatness implied a touchy subject, so Charvat changed the subject. “What’s she think about picking up and moving?” he said.

  “She’s psyched,” Davis said, rebrightening. “Sue loves Chicago, but the winters get her down. She’s a sunshine kinda gal.”

  “We got even more sunshine than we do illegals,” Charvat said. “Though some days it’s a toss-up. She’ll like it just fine. Wanna call her with the good news?”

  Davis scratched his head. “Well, sure, I’ll try, Chief,” he said, pulling out his phone. “But she sees it’s me, she might not answer.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “She’s trying to get laid.”

  He let Charvat stew in that while he speed-dialed her cell. Not surprisingly, he got: At the tone, please leave a message . . .

  He did, and Charvat goosed the accelerator over a hill. Davis felt like a kid again as they both went weightless.

  “I trust there’s a story behind that little statement?” Charvat said.

  Davis heaved a sigh as he pinked with discomfort. “Yeah. And to tell the truth, I wouldn’t mind talking about it,” he said. “But I hardly know you.”

  “Easier, sometimes, with strangers.”

  “I guess. Hell, Bee, I gotta tell someone. About what Sue does when I’m out of town. Sometimes, when I’m home, even.” He clenched and unclenched his fists.

  Charvat nodded encouragement.

  “She puts on this neon dress,” Davis said in a voice just above a whisper. “It’s cut up to here and down to there. She paints on lipstick and slips into do-me heels. She gets in her car and drives to known pickup spots in the city. Then she parks and starts looking for men. Women too, sometimes.” He cleared his thickening throat. “My wife is a . . . she’s a . . .” He waved his hands as if batting flies. “Ah, shit, man, I can’t believe I’m telling you this . . .”

  “Say what you mean, Derek, it’s all right.”

  Davis took a deep breath.

  Chicago

  They crossed under a neon sign that pulsed WI-FI/HBO/BEST RATES IN TOWN. John centered the Buick between two faded stripes, turned off the engine, pocketed the keys, and glanced at the hotel entrance.

  He turned white as ricotta.

  “Are you all right?” Superstition said, alarmed.

  “Yeah . . . yeah . . . fine,” he muttered. Sweat poured off his bald spot, soaking his banana-colored collar. “Just a little . . . nervous, I think.”

  “Being here with me?” Superstition said.

  He nodded. She squeezed his arm.

  “Aw, that’s sweet,” she said. The cell in her pocket vibrated. She ignored it. “But I’m a nice girl, honest. I wouldn’t hurt a fly. We’ll talk, get to know each other a little.” Her smile turned naughty. “Then we’ll have to do something about your handsome clothes.”

  He touched a green parrot dampened by his flop-sweat. “You like, Fantasi?” he said, clearly pleased.

  “Very chic. So, are you ready?” She watched him closely for signs of a heart attack. The last thing she needed was a dead john named, ironically, John . . .

  “I’m sorry,” he said, dabbing sweat with a monogrammed handkerchief. “I mean, for being such a doofus. It’s just that you’re the first.”

  I knew it, I just knew it. “Since she left you?” she said.

  He nodded. Removed his glasses and dabbed at his eyes. “Yeah. My wife. Tabitha. Tabby. I thought we were doing great.”

  “She thought otherwise.”

  John shrugged. “She had me served at work. You know, with the divorce papers. She wanted everyone to know.”

  “Wow, that’s cold,” Superstition said, meaning it.

  “Yeah, I thought so.” John made a face, then sat a little straighter. “Aw, listen to me,” he said briskly, pulling the door handle. “You don’t want to hear about my troubles. Let’s go inside.”

  Superstition joined him
at the front of the Buick. The engine ticked. The neon buzzed like horseflies. She slipped her hand into his. He caressed her fingers, and she squeezed back. They were warm and gentle. They belonged to a husband, a father, a son, a friend. They were no longer trembling. John was right, he was ready.

  Suddenly, she wasn’t.

  “I’m sorry, I’ve changed my mind,” she said, releasing his hand and stepping away, wishing her hair wasn’t wired for sound. “Take me back.”

  He looked like he’d walked into a buzz saw. “Back?” he squeaked, an octave higher than before. “To Rush Street?”

  “The corner you picked me up on, right.”

  He stared. “What the . . . I mean, why? Don’t you like me?”

  She patted his face. “That’s the thing - I do like you. Which is why I want you to go back home. You shouldn’t be doing this, John.”

  He stiffened, angry and embarrassed. She walked to her side of the car, motioning for him to use his remote opener. He planted his feet and crossed his arms. “Come on, John, it’s for the best. You’d regret this later,” she said, letting him down gently. “I don’t want you thinking of me when you do.”

  “You’re wrong, Fantasi,” John said, hopping foot to foot to burn off his frustration. “I’m ready for action. Listen, I have cash in my pocket, a whole stinking pile-”

  “Get this through your head, pal - I’m not going to date you,” she snapped, needing to stop him before he dug in too deep. “Drive me back or I’ll walk.” She knew he’d do it, as he was too nice to refuse forever.

  He sighed like the world was ending, then pulled out his keys and pushed UNLOCK. Ten silent minutes later he screeched into the curb. “If it’s because you thought I was having a heart attack . . .” he muttered.

  She touched his hand. “No. That’s not it. It’s exactly what I told you,” she said. “I know men pretty well, wouldn’t you agree?” she said.

  His sullen shrug said, So?

  “So, you’re not cut out for this. You’re a nice guy; you shouldn’t be picking up whores. You’d lie awake nights feeling terrible from the guilt.”