Planet Willie (22 page)

We find a
cheap flophouse for the night, or at least for what’s left of it. Unfortunately
flophouses are the financial state I’ve more or less returned to, even if you
count the supposed deduction in Hidalgos I got on the lawn mower for taking Rosa along. In the morning, Rosa goes off to locate her coyote, and Kafka and I go up the
street to a bar for a drink. We’ve got our own bottle of tequila and are set up
under the awning watching people walk by when he turns to me and speaks for the
first time in hours. “Do you think she’s pretty?”

“Twiggy’s a
nun now, kid. Interesting to imagine, maybe, but let’s face it – she’s ancient
history.”

“I mean Rosa,” he says. “She has a beautiful voice.”

“To each his
own, Kafka. You thinking about offering some accompaniment?”

He stares into
the bottle of tequila like maybe there’s a worm in there that’ll give him an answer.
Then he turns to me and says, “They won’t let me into America.”

“What do you
mean?”

“My passport,”
he says. “And my visa ran out a year ago.”

“Then what the
hell are we doing?”

“I don’t know.
Maybe I could talk to Rosa’s coyote. I know America pretty well, I guess. Maybe
I could help her out.”

“It’s better
than nothing,” I say. “I imagine you’ll have to pay the coyote something, but I
do have a few pesos left. I guess half of them are rightfully yours if we
choose to ignore what I did to you at the poker table.”

“That was part
of the plan,” he whispers.

“If you will
recall, Kafka, the plan was for me to lose and you to win. But go on after Rosa, and we’ll work something out.” He downs his drink, and for the first time since he
left prison, he’s got some fire in his eyes. He puts his hands to his head to
adjust the Charlie Chaplin bowler he’s worn for the trip, and then he’s
skipping off down the sidewalk into the distance.

I have another
drink and get to watching the locals pass by on their daily business. To tell
you the truth, there are quite a few mean-looking characters hanging around.
It’s a rougher crowd than you find in Acapulco. Maybe that’s just border life.
You come to cross over into the promised land, and then maybe you don’t get the
breaks. I can see how it might make you meaner than you intended to be. Maybe
you could have made a nice life for yourself back in the pueblo where you came
from. Maybe you could have found yourself a señorita, had some kids, maybe
planted a little garden out back. But once you’re near the border, I guess it’s
tough to settle down. I guess you can’t help but looking off towards that other
life you might have had if you were a bit luckier somehow, and I guess that’s
what I’m thinking about too. My time is coming to an end again, but I don’t
want to say that prayer just yet.

I drink a bit more,
and a little while later Kafka comes back with Rosa. He’s brushing his hand up
against hers as they walk, and both of them are grinning.

“We got it all
worked out,” Kafka says. “We leave tonight.”

“I don’t like
goodbyes, kid,” I say, “so I’m heading on. I’ll leave you some pesos in the
room. Just remember a full house beats two pair, which I realize may come as a
surprise.”

Kafka grins
and shakes my hand. Hell, I’ll catch him down the road sometime. Then Rosa’s insisting on a little goodbye kiss, so I lean down to her face and get a little
something supercalafragalistic on the lips which I’m guessing they don’t teach
at the conservatory. Then it’s adios to Mexico. Hasta luego, see you soon.

27

I’m already at
the border station when it occurs to me that I’m as illegal as Kafka and Rosa. When
the uniforms ask me what the purpose of my trip was to Mexico, I start in
telling them about Queso and Twiggy and Fernanda and the Chief, stalling for
time while waiting on some holy miracle. The uniforms might as well be wearing
white suits, however. They’re about that sympathetic. They ask me to step out
of the Japanese truck, and a guy with a mirror on a pole starts looking up
under it while I assure him it’ll be a shock to me if he manages to find even
an engine up in there. I’m done for, I’m thinking, when a big dude who appears
to be more senior starts moving towards us, and then I realize I’m really done
for. The big dude is Ralph. Somehow the department’s gotten him undercover in a
uniform, and he looks so happy to see me that he could just about kill me.

“Guess who,”
he says through his teeth, a terrifying grin on his face.

“You got to
help me out, Ralph,” I whisper. “I saved my souls, and I promise I’m heading
straight back to the extraction point.”

“I’d give my
right arm to throw you in jail and lose the key,” he growls.

“Technically
you already gave the right arm, Ralph. Indirectly, I mean. Drop a barbell on
your head, and that’s one of the unfortunate consequences. Now tell me how
we’re getting out of this.”

His jaw goes
so tight that he appears to be contemplating eating me. “May I please see your
passport, sir?” he growls, loud enough for the other guards to hear. He knows
perfectly well I don’t have one, but what I do have is a little gem of a book
by a Dutchman named Erasmus, and it just so happens to be in my jacket pocket.
I take out the
Praise of Folly
and hand it over. Ralph, who may or may
not be literate, opens it and pretends to look at a page. Then his face
contorts like he’s lifting six tons, and then he hands the book back with a nod
for his fellow uniforms, who immediately lose interest in me and move to the
next car.

“Keep the
book, Ralph,” I say. “Given our natures, I realize this may sound crazy, but
it’s never too late to get an education.” Then as Ralph mutters something
especially ungodly, I hop back into the truck and drive off as fast as I can.

From there
it’s just an easy ride over to Corpus Christi and up the coast, all the more
easy when you consider that the truck will really no longer clear thirty. At
this point I could just as well be working it with a hand pump, but all the
same I have to admit that we’ve already been through adventures together, and I’m
growing a little fond of the lawn mower. You spend years thinking you’re one of
those fellas who’s just naturally made for speed, but then a truck like this
comes along and shows you maybe you were nice and easy all along. So I’m
cruising along in the emergency lane, waving at the big rigs as they blow past
honking their horns. I’m giving out a look through the windshield that I’ve
decided to call the Benevolent Elder. It’s just sort of a natural smile, smooth
and easy on the edges. “Hi there, neighbor,” the smile says to passersby.

Soon enough
I’m pulling into Galveston. Lots of memories there, and hopefully someday I’ll
make a few more. Hopefully saving Fernanda will get me back in Saint Chief’s
good graces. Of course I’d like to go over and see Caroline a little later.
Hell, I’d like to stick around for another morning stack of pancakes at Pete’s,
but I know my time is up, and I know they’ll be expecting me back at the Rancho
Notorious. They’ll be waiting to beam me up, and so those other mysteries will
have to wait until the next case.

One stop,
however, it’s my duty to make. I came down as a detective, I had a case to
solve. Best dot the i’s and cross the t’s, so to speak, on the off chance I
might someday encounter Harry Shore again. Of course that still means getting a
Madonna past him. I’ve pulled out the two I’ve still got at just about every
rest stop between here and Acapulco and have managed to convince myself that
one of them has darker eyes. Kafka wasn’t much help. Said it wasn’t like he
painted the eyes exactly the same color every time. So I’m gambling again,
taking my chances, which is more or less the story of my life, as well as my
death.

Shore greets
me at the front door in his wheelchair. He’s dressed in his tight black t-shirt
and hasn’t changed a bit, although I guess it hasn’t been all that long since I
last saw him.

“You’ve got
some explaining to do,” he says, racing me into the living room, where I take a
seat on a couch to catch my breath. “Now where the hell have you been?” he
says. “When I hired you, I expected to be kept informed.”

“Believe me, Mister Shore,” I say, “my expectations had to be adjusted too. It was quite a ride.”

“The insurance
company tells me you stole one of my files,” he says, flexing his arms at his
sides like he’ll come at me if he needs to.

“I borrowed
one, yes. All part of the investigation. A young man named Darling was a great
help.”

“Well this
Darling’s been let go,” he says, by which I assume he doesn’t mean released
back into the wild. “Sheer incompetence if you ask me.”

I feel for the
kid, but if you’re a movie man in the insurance business, I guess sometimes
that’s the way it goes. I hope he at least gave Jean a good last line as he
walked across that carpet and out the door.

“Well is that
her, at least?” he says, looking at the canvas in my hand.

“It most
certainly is,” I say, handing her over. “She’s a beauty.”

He takes the
canvas and carefully rolls it out in front of him on the coffee table. Then he
stares at her for what seems like a month. He studies her scarf, he studies her
lips, he studies every corner of this masterpiece painted by either the school of Botticelli or an Albanian kid named Kafka. He studies the eyes longest of all,
and then he looks up at me and smiles. I smile too. I mean I really put it out
there. I don’t even know what to call it, it feels so good.

“The school of Botticelli,” he says, eyes gleaming with pride. And that’s all. He doesn’t ask
about Fernanda, and he wouldn’t know to ask about Lulu. With his painting back,
he’s got no further questions, and though I’m tempted to tell him the truth
about his girls and their souls, he’s far too gone for that. He was never
praying for them. He was praying for himself.

Before leaving,
I make him write me out a check for the rest of my expenses, although I don’t
guess I’ll ever get around to cashing it. I’ve got enough money to make it till
midnight, when I intend to say adios to the Rancho Notorious in style. Tequila
for everybody, I’ll be disappearing for a while. In the meantime, however, I’m
thinking I’ll pay a little visit to this Galveston hat maker friend of mine
who’s principally specialized in lizard skins. What I’m thinking is hand-tooled,
hand-stitched, and I’m thinking of calling it The Kid.

Josh Shoemake was born in Richmond,
Virginia and lives in Paris and Marrakesh. He taught literature in Tangier,
Morocco and was headmaster of The American School of Marrakesh. His website and
blog can be found at
www.joshshoemake.com
.

He is also the author of:

           
Tangier:
A Literary Guide for Travellers

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