Dead Folks

by Jon A. Jackson

  “What?” Humphrey said. “What's that . . . a—it can't be.”

  “Is,” Pepe said, grinning broadly. “I was gon’ to surprise you. This is habanero. Fresh habanero.”

  “Where did you get it?” Humphrey asked, his voice low, almost whispering in awe.

  “It comes from Belize, this habanero. It comes on aeroplano. A fran of mine has bring him to me.” He turned triumphantly to the paper sack and dumped it on the counter. There were at least two dozen of the golden, glowing pods.

  Humphrey hastened to them, picking one up in his hands. “They're beautiful,” he breathed, slowly rotating the golden vegetable, his eyes devouring the smooth, shiny skin, the fascinating wrinkles.

  “Careful, boss,” Pepe said, gently removing it from his fingers. “Wash your hands. This pepper is so, so—très volatile. You handle this and then you rub your eyes . . . wow! Your eyes on fire!”

  Humphrey ran the water and soaped his hands, asking, “What are you going to do with them? What do you have planned?”

  “Many things. A habanero salsa, for your grilled salmon.” He pointed to the fresh salmon, lying on the counter, cut into thick steaks. “This salsa also have roasted New Mexican chilies, almost no fat at all, some green peppercorns, a little dill . . . “ He gestured theatrically, lifting his eyes to the ceiling. “Later, I use the habanero in some other dish . . . I don't know.”

  “Pepe, you are a genius.” Humphrey stared at him gratefully. He felt like hugging the handsome young man. He felt almost, well, affection. “You know, Pepe, perhaps you are a genius. I wonder if we could talk? I mean about some other things? Not just food, though that too, of course.”

  “Of course,” Pepe said. “But now I must begin to chop. I make the salsa.”

  “I'll watch. I can help.”

  Pepe held up his hands. “Boss. Boss. Por favor. You will talk. I will chop off my fingers. I will fuck up the salsa. Blood in the salsa!”

  “All right, all right,” Humphrey said. “I understand. But later, we will talk.” He picked up the magazine from the block. “Vindicated,” he declared, gazing down at the article. He sniffed, lifting the paper to his nose. “Must be the salmon,” he muttered, walking out. Pepe was already washing and coring the peppers.

  As soon as he was gone, Caroline issued from the pantry. “My god,” she whispered, “what if he'd caught us?”

  Pepe shrugged, wiping his hands on a towel. He flung it onto the counter and approached her. He swept her into his arms, although she fought a little, still fearful. He hiked up her dress and slid his hands under her panties. She quivered, still kissing him. But when the kiss was over, she said, “He'd kill us. He'd kill me, anyway.”

  “Diablo? He kill nobody. Here.” He eased her panties off and gently pressed her to bend over the butcher block again. He fumbled with his trousers. When he was ready, stroking his penis to hasten its stiffening, he grasped her by the hips and eased himself into her moist warmth.

  After a few moments, she gasped. “It's hot! Why is it so hot? My pussy's on fire!”

  Pepe could feel it, too. At first, he'd thought it was just that her vagina was warm inside, but quickly he realized that it was more than that. Just the few seconds he had spent coring and chopping the habaneros, brushing the seeds away, they had released enough capsaicin on his hands . . . and when he'd touched his penis, then entered her . . . it was damned hot! My cock is a flaming sword, he thought. Fantastic!

  A few minutes later, pulling up her panties and still rubbing her crotch, Caroline said, “But he does kill people, Pepe. You don't know.”

  “How do you know?” Pepe asked, skeptically. He was washing his hands with warm water and plenty of soap. His penis was still tingling. He decided to soap and wash that, too. It didn't help much, but the sensations were diminishing slightly.

  “We're in the family, sort of,” Caroline said. “Believe me, I know. I'm afraid of him. Papa said not to be afraid, that Mr. DiEbola wouldn't bother me, that he wasn't interested in that sort of thing. But he also said, ‘If he does . . . “’ She waggled her hand in a gesture that was presumably a replication of her father's gesture. It meant that she was on her own, as Pepe understood the gesture. “Papa told me, ‘Be careful,’” Caroline said. “And lately, since Mr. DiEbola's lost so much weight, he's been looking at me funny. I think I'm going to quit.”

  “No, you don't quit,” Pepe said. He embraced her, crushing her ample bosom to his flat chest. “Pepe will look after you. You don't worry. Now you go.” He pushed her away with a spank on her butt. “Pepe has to make salsa for the devil.”

  After dinner, which Humphrey clearly relished, along with a bottle of Oregon pinot noir (Humphrey detested white wines, except occasionally on hot summer days), he congratulated Pepe on the salmon, particularly the stunning salsa. Then he beckoned him into the study. This was a very comfortable room, with soft leather chairs and couch, lined with books that Humphrey had actually read, although he often pretended that they were just for decor. He poured them both some MacCallan and when they were seated he said, “You know, I'm thinking I'm losing too much weight, Pepe. What do you think? It isn't good to lose too much, too fast. Maybe a few more pounds.”

  Pepe, comfortable in wool slacks and a cashmere pullover, made a face that suggested it was foolish to worry. He felt very comfortable here, sipping this excellent whiskey. He accepted a Cuban cigar. “You look good, boss. You feel good?”

  “I feel great.”

  “So? What is the problem? The women they are chasing you, making your life too, too . . . ?” Pepe waved his hand, searching for the correct phrase.

  “Fuck women,” Humphrey said. “They're murder. They can drive you crazy. That little what's-her-name, Carla? Caroline? She's always leering at me.” He mimicked a leer. Pepe had to laugh. “I might have to send her away.”

  “Oh, she is okay, boss. If you want, I tell her to watch herself.”

  “I'd appreciate that, Pepe. But women are a problem, especially one woman.” He shook his head.

  “What is it?” Pepe asked.

  “There's a woman named Helen,” Humphrey said. He went on to describe the situation in some depth, ending by leaning forward to pour them both more Scotch and fastening Pepe's eyes with his own. “I'm telling you this because I believe I can trust you, Pepe. You're a smart fellow, a man of the world. You know what kind of business I'm in. It's the real world, not the polite world that an ordinary businessman thinks he lives in. This is the world where I have to make life-and-death decisions for many people. I have to provide for them. I don't mind doing this, Pepe, but it isn't easy, you can imagine.”

  Pepe was suddenly chilled, despite the fire burning brightly in the nearby fireplace. He realized that a fateful step had been made. He had become the confidant of a dangerous man, an unimaginably powerful man. He wasn't sure that he wanted this, but it wasn't for him to decide. It had been thrust upon him. In effect, his employer had just confessed to murder—not in so many words, but there could be no doubt about what he had said. And his employer's manner was such that Pepe knew that the man was confident that he could (and would) deal with any betrayal of that confidence.

  “What do you think I should do about her?” Humphrey asked.

  Pepe was stunned. He was a cook. But, he thought, now more than a cook. All he could think to say was, “Oh boss, how do I know?”

  Humphrey laughed. “I know, you're just the chef. A great chef, though. You've helped me a lot, Pepe. But, like I said, you're also smart, a man of the world. What do you do about a woman like this?”

  Pepe thought for a long moment, then asked, “Boss, is this woman a threat to you?" He pointed a finger at Humphrey.

  “To me? To me personally? No. No, she's not. But there are many sides to this. If I don't do something about her, maybe someone sees me as weak. Also, she has something I want: a lot of my, our, money. That money don't belong to Helen.”

  Pepe digested this in silence for a long minute or two,
then said, “Maybe if she gives up the money, you find some way . . . you know. Maybe she can be useful to you.”

  “Yes,” Humphrey said, enthusiastically, sitting forward, “that's what I've been thinking. I don't wanta whack her. I've known her all her life. She's a fucking pain in the ass, but she's also cute.”

  “Cute?”

  “Well, I like her. I'd like to help her.”

  And you would like her money, Pepe thought. Aloud, he said, “But what about this Joe Service? He is her lover?”

  “Joe. Yeah, well Joe is a problem too. It's about the same, though. He really oughta be whacked, but somehow it don't go down right. It don't feel quite right. It don't feel good. But the others,” he continued waving his hand at the rest of the national mob, presumably, “they want him knocked. They think he's dangerous, a loose cannon, or something.”

  Pepe lifted both hands, palms up. “So, let them find him and do it.”

  Humphrey shook his head. “They can't. They tried it already, in Montana, and it almost worked, but in the end it was their own boy got knocked. Joe isn't just good, he's lucky.”

  “Nobody can find this man? Nobody can hit him?” Pepe frowned. “He must be Superman, hey?” But after a minute, he brightened and said, “Boss, if this Helen can find him, and if she . . . “ He made an obscure, jerking motion with his right hand, a tightening of a rope perhaps, or a stabbing gesture? “Then maybe you can say to these others, ‘I have got the money and she has got the man, so she can come . . . “’ Now Pepe made a kind of gathering gesture with both hands and arms, as if gathering the lamb to the breast.

  Humphrey beamed. “Pepe, you are a genius.” But then he frowned and said, “But what if . . . what if Joe whacks her?"

  “Is also good,” Pepe responded.

  DiEbola nodded. “Yes, except that I wouldn't have the money. Though, maybe . . . but we can deal with that later, if it turns out that way. You know, Pepe, I don't pay you enough.”

  Pepe shrugged, nonchalantly allowing the well-deserved praise to roll gracefully from his shoulders.

  7

  Girl in Hand

  Joe was awakened by the telephone. He glanced at the clock radio on the bedside table. Only 9:16. He had fallen asleep. He must have been very tired. He picked up the phone.

  “Mr. Humann? This is Margaret from billing?”

  It was an irritating voice, invariably lifting in an interrogative manner at the end of each statement. “What do you want?” Joe said.

  “We were wondering? Since Ms. Yoder left without signing the bill? If you were planning to take care of this with a credit card? Or would that be cash.” The final question in the series was phrased as a descending scale that ended with a flat landing that was a bit disconcerting, even bordering on brutal. “Or would that be cash.” Chink-ching-clink-clank—crash.

  “Hunh?” Joe blinked. His mind wasn't working too well. Finally, the thrust of her question struck home. Obviously, someone had noticed that Cateyo had gone out with her bags, just as Joe had asked her to when he'd sent her away in the park. And the hotel bill was on her credit card. But she hadn't signed the bill. And Joe was still here. The hotel was not blind.

  “Cash,” he said, remembering gratefully that he now had some nine thousand dollars in his pockets.

  “Oh very good.” For once no lift at the end of the statement. But then, “Could you come down to the desk? Or we could send someone up?”

  “Now? You want me to pay my bill now? It's . . . it's 9:21. I'll stop by the desk later, maybe tonight.”

  “Well, sir? With cash? Without a credit card? We require a deposit?”

  “Cheesecrackersgotallmuddy,” he muttered, a phrase from his childhood, a joke involving a priest who overhears the curses of a child who has dropped his cheese crackers into a puddle. “Okay, send someone up.” He almost crashed the phone down but, instead, gently replaced it on its cradle. He got up and put on a robe in anticipation of the bellboy, or whoever. While he waited he thought about Cateyo. What on earth had happened to her? He had returned to the hotel after looking for her at the Market Street Grill, thinking she might have come back when he didn't appear, but there was no sign of her. Her bags were gone. And then he'd been so tired, he'd lain down to rest, and the next thing he knew that irritating woman had called.

  So where was Cateyo? He decided she must simply have taken off for Montana. Apparently his urgings had finally penetrated her innocent brain. He sighed. He missed her. But, he told himself, it was all for the best. She had to go back anyway, to reassure everyone, to look after her house, to make sure of her job at the hospital. He just wished that he'd had more of a chance to discuss it with her. There were a few things she could have taken care of for him while she was up there—mainly, spying out the land. He would like to know, at least in a general way, what the authorities were thinking about him. Of course, when Cateyo was questioned by the cops she would, willy-nilly, pick up on what they were after. But there were some inquiries she could make, as well. Anyway, he was sure that once she got there he could contact her and he could give her some advice or suggestions.

  It was the woman from billing, herself, who came to his door. She seemed pleasant enough; her voice didn't seem nearly as irritating face-to-face. Perhaps it was only on the telephone that she adopted that intonation. But she wanted a thousand dollars.

  “You must be kidding,” Joe said. “A thousand dollars? For this?” He gestured around the room, which actually was quite large and pleasant, if not furnished in exceptional splendor, with a dazzling view of the lights of the city through the partially closed drapes. The woman looked around herself, clearly unaccustomed to this top-floor luxury. “Well, I mean,” Joe amended, “it's nice, sure, but it isn't three-hundred-dollars-a-night nice, and this is only Salt Lake City . . . it isn't San Francisco, or Paris. I've only been here a couple of nights. Not two full nights.”

  The woman, a young woman, perhaps no more than twenty-five, nice looking, intelligent looking, but seemingly without a sense of humor, listened patiently, interestedly. Joe had a feeling she was a Mormon. He equated pleasantness, humorlessness, blandness, and earnestness with the kind of low-temperature religiosity that characterized the Latter-Day Saints, at least in his experience. These people were very business oriented, to his mind, implacable really, but they weren't fervent Holy Rollers or Snake Chunkers. Still, they were not to be diverted from their purpose.

  “How many nights were you planning to stay?” she asked.

  “I don't know,” Joe said. “At these rates, not many. What are the rates, anyway?”

  “The room is one hundred fifty dollars a night,” she said, “but without a credit card?” There was that lifted tone. “We require a deposit?” And now a back-to-earth, gliding crash landing: “Which will be returned at checkout.” And then a further, muffled flump, perhaps the explosion of the wreckage: “Less additional charges.” She stood there in her blue skirt and low heels, her hands clasped placidly over her crotch, sort of smiling at him, but not really.

  “I'll give you five hundred,” Joe said, “and I'm out of here in the morning.”

  She settled for that.

  An hour or so later, having taken a soothing shower in the luxurious bath, where so recently he had soaped and caressed the lovely body of Cateyo, Joe was sound asleep when he was again awakened by the telephone. This time it was a sinister voice that whispered in his ear.

  “Joe, Joe, from Kokomo,” the voice whispered, “I thought you were gonna call.”

  “Cap'n Lite?” Joe guessed.

  “You got it. You're making my job hard, Joe. How come you didn't call?”

  “I guess I forgot,” Joe said, honestly. “I came back here and I fell asleep. Well, so now I'm calling. What did you find out about Helen? Anything?”

  “Joe, you don't understand,” Cap'n Lite insisted. “You were supposed to call, every six hours. The boys got pissed.”

  “Every six hours? You mean right through the night?
I'm gonna wake up at four in the morning so I can make my call?” He glanced at the clock; it was only 11:15. “So I'm talking to you. What have you got?”

  “What I got is a little blond lady. I've also got some information about your previous girlfriend. You're kinda careless with your girlfriends. But what I need is you, Joe.”

  “Now why would you have Cateyo?” Joe asked coldly. “That isn't very nice. She isn't part of this deal. I hope she's all right.” He spoke matter-of-factly, but with an edge of menace.

  “She's all right so far,” Cap'n Lite said, “but a couple of the boys are quite attracted to her, although she ain't really their style. She's kind of small and these are very large boys, Joe, as you recall. I don't think they'd really hurt her, but in the passion of the moment, who knows? By the time you got her back she might need to be rebushed. So we need to talk to you, in person. I got things to tell you; you got things to tell me.”

  “Well, I'm happy to talk, Cap'n, I'm always ready to talk. Let's talk.”

  “In person, Joe.”

  “You know, Cap'n, that doesn't really strike me as a great idea. I mean, you've already got Cateyo, which means you've got my attention, but how does having me help the situation? My ribs are still sore from our last conversation.”

  “Joe, I got people who have more than sore ribs. And the point is, we got Blondie. We gotta talk, Joe. Face-to-face.”

  “You know, I'm hearing something here,” Joe said. “I'm hearing something that doesn't have anything to do with Cateyo. I'm hearing . . . “ He pretended to listen for a couple of seconds, then whispered, “The sound of money.”

  “Me too,” Cap'n Lite said. “I been hearing it louder and louder since I let you outta the car, up on Sunnyside. It wasn't just a hundred thousand decibels, either. It was more like a couple million decibels. It really caught my ear.”

  “I'm glad, Cap'n, because it's got my attention, too. Did you get any sense of the direction that sound was coming from?”