Bad Juju & Other Tales of Madness and Mayhem (10 page)

Tonight’s the night,
she thinks, as she squats over the smelly hole in the floor.
If everything goes according to Bill’s plan, we’ll be on a flight to Mexico City in the morning. No more of Hugo Chavez’s looney tunes. No more death squads. Left or right.

Back in the bar Bill keeps fiddling with his cell phone, checking the time.
Pablo is late. Where the fuck is he?
The bartender, Fidel, is asleep on his feet. Business is slow, dead even.

At last a familiar figure appears in the doorway, longish coal-black hair, white shirt, dark trousers. Pablo. But his mahogany complexion is bleached stark white, as if he’s fallen into a vat of lime. He stumbles. Keels over at Bill’s feet.

A crimson amoeboid stain spreads across the back of Pablo’s white shirt, blood leaking from a mortal wound.

Holy shit!
thinks Bill.

Fidel gapes over the bar.

“What’s up with Pablo?” he asks.

“What does it look like?” Bill demands. “He’s been stabbed or shot.”

Fidel looks queasy, as if he might puke. He pours himself a brandy and shoots it back.

Just then Yvette walks up.

“What’s up with Pablo?” she asks.

But Bill is already squatting down. He lifts Pablo under his arms, turning him partially over, resting his head on his knee. Blood dribbles between Pablo’s lips. His eyes are vague, as if some insect from outer space has burrowed inside his brain and taken control.

Suddenly, Pablo jerks to a seated position, his mouth opens and he vomits. Clots of viscous blood spew across the floor. And a small leather bag soaked in magenta gore, its drawstring pulled tight.

As if he has achieved some final resolution of his sorry-assed existence, life swirls out of Pablo like an exhalation. He falls back into Bill’s arms, stone cold dead.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Bill says in amazement. He’s never had anyone die in his arms before. He lowers Pablo’s corpse to the floor.

“Live by the sword, die by the sword,” says Yvette.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Pablo was not a nice person.”

“But he served his purpose.”

“Only because you weren’t on the receiving end of his brass knuckles.”

Yvette’s knees crack as she bends down and reaches out for the leather bag. Bill slaps her hand away and scoops it up.

“Ow!”

When he releases the drawstring, more than a dozen jumbo rough-cut emeralds, like the multifaceted eyes of a greenhead fly, tumble into his palm. His hands are stained with blood from the bag.

“You’re right, he was a bastard,” Bill says. “But at least he delivered the goods come Hell or high water.”

“And whoever punctured his tire won’t be far behind,” Yvette says, sucking on her teeth.

“Don’t get nervous, pet.”

“Most assuredly I’m not your pet.”

Yvette takes a Beretta 9mm from her purse, confirms the clip is full; then ratchets a shell into the firing chamber.

“Keep an eye out, while we give Pablo a quick funeral,” Bill says.

Together Bill and Fidel heft Pablo’s cadaver into the alley and on the count of three hoist it into a dumpster. Fidel wheels a bucket and mop from the storage room and soaks up the pool of Pablo’s blood.

Bill’s Rolex shows 10 minutes to midnight. He stands behind Fidel, squeezing and releasing his shoulder blades. Fidel is as tense as an alley cat dropped in a cage of pit bulls.

“We’ve got a party to go to,” Bill says gaily. “Take two aspirin and get some rest, pal. Everything’ll look different in the light of day.”

They zoom through midnight streets, where a light rain has left puddles capturing the red filigree flash of sudden brake lights, the neon yellows, crimsons, blues and purples of cheap pleasures and promises not kept.

A glistening black Land Rover 4 x 4 follows each twist and turn of the Lamborghini. Never too close, never too far behind. Yvette keeps looking back at the tailing lights. She spits through the open passenger-side window. The noxious fumes of fear waft from her armpits.

They’re bound for the birthday party of the American consul, born at 12:13 a.m. fifty-seven years ago. Ahead, outside the consul’s official residence, a line of expensive cars weave through a maze of steel & concrete anti-tank barriers and snarls of razor wire.

Security is extra tight after the earlier bombing of the U.S. embassy. Marines in full-combat gear flash light beams in the faces of the guests, bark incomprehensible questions, paw through car trunks and under seats.

They confiscate Yvette’s 9mm, handing her a numbered claim ticket. When she starts to make a fuss, they threaten a strip search. Bill feigns a limp and they let him keep the blackthorn cane.

Yvette wonders if the young Lego-jawed Marine would be as good in bed as she imagines.

The consul’s party spreads like pasteurized honey across the lawns of the official residence, which roll like black velvet down to the edge of Lake Maracaibo. The main house is a blaze of light. Flickering tiki torches illuminate the ebb and flow of the guests.

Women, gorgeous and plain, stacked and flat-chested, lesbian and straight, mingle and collide like stars in a night fisherman’s net. The men, all in dark suits, puff on Cohibas and talk money, whores and fast cars, not necessarily in that order. A
mariachi
band strolls and strums amid the throng.

Bill swoops up two flutes of champagne and hands one to Yvette. They tap glasses. Down the hatch.

“You know I’m crazy about you,” he says.

Her shimmering cobalt eyes give him her reply.

Behind them, the tailing Land Rover disgorges three lugubrious travelers before being whooshed away by a valet. The driver’s face is instantly recognizable as Agustin Rios, the gangster, flanked by two flunkies. He produces an engraved invitation. No one checks them for guns or similar paraphernalia.

Meanwhile, Bill and Yvette flit among the flotsam of guests and party crashers. Bill goes back to drinking rum. Yvette munches on chunks of iceberg lettuce provided by some hapless assistant to the salad chef. A DJ spins
salsa
tunes by the pool. A notorious female drunk sheds her clothes and dives in. When she climbs, dripping, up the chrome pool ladder, Bill hands her a towel.

Impelled by an instinct for survival at all costs, Bill glances behind. Light glints off the lapels of Agustin’s sharkskin suit, as he repels toward them through the riffraff. Grabbing Yvette by the elbow, Bill spins her into the night.

Hand-in-hand they scoot to the bottom of the sweeping lawn. On a pier at the lake’s edge, a clique of pleasure seekers waits to board a classic 1949 Chris Craft Sportsman bound for an oil rig a quarter mile out. There a famous Argentine dance band plies its vibes.

Just as the lines are cast off, Bill leaps aboard, pulling Yvette with him. She gives a B-minus imitation of a Marilyn Monroe squeal. They totter on the stern as the twin 120-hp Evinrudes rumble. Once they’re safely in the cockpit, Bill bends her backward, a blade of grass in Lake Maracaibo’s fume-choked air, and kisses her deeply. The varnished mahogany decking of the motorboat shimmers like ancient gold.

Agustin rushes up to the edge of the dock, but comes up short. The launch is already twenty yards out. “Fuck!”

When the second launch, inbound, arrives at the shore-side dock, the trio of badasses leaps aboard with amphetamine-enhanced impatience. They elbow through the disembarkees. Eyebrows are raised. A foolish man steps toward Agustin, who knees him in the nads.

As the launch heads out to the oil rig, someone calls security.

Meanwhile, back at the rig, the band struts its stuff under the stars. The music is pure orgasm. Yvette goes wet between her legs for the second time that night. Bill’s feet won’t stand still. A dozen pairs of dancers swoop and glide across the rude planks of the rig. Overhead fog lights drape the scene in a talcish light, blanching the dancers to a corpse-like hue, the dancing dead.

The band transitions into a Joao Gilberto bossa nova tune amid scattered applause. The dancers just keep going, segueing into the new beat. This is serious business.

“They’ll be on the next boat,” Bill says.

“What shall we do?” Yvette says.

“Let’s dance.” Bill takes her hand and slow samba’s onto the floor. There, things heat up. Yvette spins and gyrates. Bill moves with
gravitas
, a legacy of living in the Spanish tropics.

Suddenly Agustin splits through the audience. In his hand, a silver chrome Browning 9mm.

“I want the fucking emeralds,” he shouts, shattering the rhythm of the band.

The mood changes from gay to tragic in a heartbeat. The crowd and the other dancers draw back in alarm. Only Bill and Yvette hold the floor. The band takes up a tango.

Bill and Yvette lock eyes. His right arm reaches around her back, pulling her close. Her bosom rises and falls with emotion. They begin to dance. Legs bent, torsos tight together. They move effortlessly. Slowly, then faster and faster.

“Stop!” screams Agustin. He levels the pistol at Bill.

As they swirl and swivel toward the gangster, Bill swings Yvette aloft, turning her almost upside down across his right shoulder. One long sumptuous leg points at the moon, her body is parallel to the floor, the other leg bends across Bill’s chest. Her dress falls away. In the V between those stunning legs, she’s naked as a jaybird.

Poor Agustin. It’s as if he’s never seen a quim before. For a split second, he’s utterly distracted by this most hush-hush item of female anatomy.

Time enough for Bill to swing the blackthorn shillelagh in a withering overhead arc, slamming it full bore into Agustin’s right temple. Skull bone cracks like an egg. Brain matter liquefies. Agustin sways; then

crumbles

down

dead.

Yvette continues her bare-assed flip, landing in a perfect split, just in time to snatch Agustin’s gaudy 9mm as it spins across the planked surface. Blam. Blam. Good-bye bodyguards.

Bill pulls Yvette to her feet. The band breaks into a classic tango tune. Pugliese’s
La Yumba
! With a wave to the onlookers, Bill and Yvette do a crossover tango walk to the waiting motor launch. Aboard, they disappear into the gloom of the vast lake, never to be seen again on the streets of Maracaibo.

Dog Daze

Cy looked up at me with his one huge wondering eye; then stuck his foot in his ear and began to scratch. A slow, languid scratch that seemed to use up all the time left in the universe.

When I first saw Cyclops at the pound, he already only had one eye. The other was a white sightless orb. A creature from Greek mythology half-blinded by some jealous demigoddess bitch he’d sniffed up too close and personal. The tag on his cage said his name was Jake, age 4. I didn’t want a Jake. That name always made me think of the crappy sequel to the movie
Chinatown
. But I wanted this dog.

So I paid my hundred twenty-five dollars and renamed him Cyclops. According to the SPCA clerk, they’d found him wandering in a neighborhood of warehouse businesses and Korean restaurants. Dumped. “Get out of the fuckin’ car!”

In that neighborhood it was a wonder he hadn’t ended up as stir-fried
japchae
.

“What kind of dog is he?” I asked, taking his vaccination papers from the unbelievably long fingers of the volunteer SPCA associate.

“You’ve already adopted him and you don’t know what breed he is?” In her eyes I was a walking pile of bat guano. Dr. No—you remember him—died buried under a couple tons of the stuff. In the book; not the movie. We don’t get much call for bat guano at the BANK. That’s why I always retool my deodorant during my lunch hour.

The BANK.

That’s where I work as a teller and part-time junior assistant vice president.

If you bank at the Gulf Drive branch, I’ve probably processed one of your deposits or withdrawals. Does that sound right?

We’re located in the only strip mall on the five point three miles of Gulf Drive. The rest of Gulf Drive is lined with mid-century homes and older, some of architectural significance. Many in significant disrepair. All with views of the Gulf of Mexico.

“So what kind of dog is he?” I repeated.

He was a brindle-colored creature, floppy-eared and stubby-legged, his hair cut Twiggy-short. He weighed maybe eleven pounds, stood nine inches tall at the shoulder, with a tail that curled into an elaborate quill. Cy’s laid back nonconfrontational personality reminded me of the shrink my parents took me to back in high school. But I knew the shrink was faking it. Inside he was wound up tight as a virgin asshole.

Not Cy. Cy was 100% genuine.

The intern rubbed Cyclops behind one ear. “I’m not sure.” She looked across two alleys of cages, a stray-cats-and-dogs Ramallah, to a tall skinny young man in a green T-shirt and jeans who was scrubbing out a cage.

“Larry,” she yelled. “What kind of dog is this?”

He twisted the hose nozzle into the off position and looked at the dog I was holding up.

“What’s his name?” Larry asked.

“Jake,” said the pale-cheeked intern. Her skin exuded the scent, texture and absence of color of an albino rose petal.

“Cyclops.” I said.

I wondered if she liked to fuck on her lunch hour. That would require some serious deodorant retooling. But the SPCA was too far away from the BANK where I worked. I’d end up spending too much time driving to and from fucking.

“Jake’s a purebred Shih Tzu,” Larry shouted above the sudden barking of dogs.

Cy and I stepped outside. It was a perfect Saturday morning in March with a breeze whipping off the bay carrying the tang of salted dead fish and marine oil. Clouds like the torn insides of a stuffed toy animal skidded across the sky. Cy looked up at me and winked.