The Enigmatologist (12 page)

Dressed, packed. Cameras were aimed at his front door.
This didn’t bother him. One thing he learned working in Las Vegas was the
headliner always leaves by the back door. He stepped over the piles of clothes,
the empty cupboards, the Styrofoam barbeque takeout boxes that blocked his way
to the closet.
Leadbelly
tapped the closet floor with
his foot. A spring-release trapdoor popped up. He caught it with his foot
before it closed again and propped it against the wall. The brown and gray
gravel of the trailer park lot floated underneath him.
Leadbelly
dropped the gym bag onto the New Mexico dirt. There was a foot and a half
between the bottom of the trailer and the ground.
Leadbelly
lowered his legs through, until he was sitting on grease-stained earth, the
upper half of his body still in the closet. He sucked in his belly, slid out,
and rolled from under the trailer.

He emerged behind the trailer, between it and a chain link
fence that had chunks of green plastic woven throughout. He sat up and started
to rise, but stopped. He slapped his head, having forgotten something, and
rolled back under, hearing the same critiques, that he was careless, forgetful,
selfish.

A pile of clothes was underneath the mattress.
Leadbelly
pushed it aside and searched for the jeans he
wore when he was pretending to be a drunk. Needing a safer place for
incriminating evidence, he dug the SIM card out of the front pocket and opened
his wallet. The compartments were full of gas receipts, small images cut from
porn magazines, and an old condom. He threw the condom across the room. He
didn’t use them anyway, couldn’t feel nothing with them on. He slipped the SIM
card into the empty slot and rolled out of the trailer again.

He stood in the gap between the trailer and fence and
lifted a panel that had been built into the side of the trailer. Underneath it
was a keypad.
Leadbelly
entered a sequence into it
and heard a noise coming from inside the trailer. It sounded like his trailer had
been converted into a large toilet and someone had just flushed it. He entered
another code. A timer appeared on the screen, counting down. He closed the
panel, his hand lingering on the side of the trailer. It had been his home for
the past four years, the place he slept, ate, snuck to when he tip-toed out of
women’s bedrooms late at night.
Leadbelly
sighed.
He’d actually miss this place, the town, the trailer park. But it wasn’t the
only town out there. The country was full of towns, trailers, and women. Maybe
they’d let him go back to Vegas. Do it up, Elvis style.
Leadbelly
scooped up the gym bag by the strap. He patted its underside and heard the
jumpsuit rustle. He grinned, his lip curling up.

He shimmied between the trailer and the fence, heading to
the back of the trailer park, staying in the camera’s blind spots. The chain
link fence that separated the trailer park from its neighbors had been by cut
by kids, a potential escape route from bottle rocket fights.
Leadbelly
slipped into someone’s backyard. He stepped over
rusted tricycles and a small swimming pool shaped like a turtle, and through
the front gate.

In the street, dogs behind fences barked with aggressive
insecurity. Children somersaulted and cartwheeled out of minivans while moms
carried grocery bags, three in each hand. Dads parked their trucks, eyed their
neighbors’ boats.
Leadbelly
stood in the middle of
family activity, needing to find something to do for the next fourteen hours.
In front of him was the town where he’d had four years of small exploits. He
thought about where a man of his tastes could feel welcome, relax, and find
some entertainment. He smiled wide and strutted down Silva Avenue, heading toward
Brandi Cartwright’s house.

Away from the last four years of his life.

Away from his father’s journal, still sitting on box
spring’s edge.

As
he got closer to Rosa’s
Restaurante
, the feeling John
had been carrying in his stomach all day moved upward. It wasn’t the same
intestinal twisting he’d endured earlier. His chest pulsated and, despite the
cool evening, he began to sweat. He laughed at how unglued he was becoming, and
knew it was because he was anxious about seeing Rosa again. The last time a
girl shook his nerves he was in high school, standing by the lockers waiting
for Alison Mayhew to get out of her eighth-period art class. He intended to ask
her to the prom, but when she walked by with a group of friends, John panicked.
He stood with his back to the lockers, awkwardly waiting for the bell to ring
while the group of girls giggled and collected their books. John was
technically an adult now, had outgrown his teenage insecurities. He’d overcome
his fear of rejection, and tonight he had another advantage, something aiding
his courage. He’d been drinking most of the day.

The sign on Rosa’s glass door said she’d be closing in an
hour. John exhaled and opened it. The bell above him rang, the smell of cooking
meat and peppers hit his nose.

Food sizzled.

A wooden lattice with fake vines separated foyer from
dining area. A girl who looked like she was in high school, menus in hand,
asked, “How many?”

“Um, I was wondering if I could talk to Rosa for a minute,
if that’d be alright?” John asked, stepping side to side.

“Uh, sure. Let me see if she’s around,” she said, and
walked into the back.

In the foyer, carry-out menus fanned on a table. Maroon
vinyl covering stackable chairs. The local newspaper reporting football scores,
weekend sales. In the dining area, two tables had customers.

The restaurant was mostly quiet. The background music had
been turned off, although music came from a small radio in the kitchen. It was
soft and John heard Rosa’s footsteps. She walked toward him, wiping her hands
on a towel hanging from her apron. John grinned. When he crossed the street, he
wondered if he’d still feel the same excitement he felt at lunch, still want to
be near her. And watching her glide toward him, all he could think was how
lucky he was that he had another chance to see her again, and he wondered if
she felt the same way.

Rosa kept a straight face at first, professional, but when
she recognized John, she blushed and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her
ear.

“Are you back for dinner?” she asked, putting her hands in
her apron pockets.

John’s face warmed. He looked away, adjusted his glasses,
suddenly reticent.

His drunkenness vanished, as did his confidence. He
wondered had what compelled him to run across the Plaza and into the
restaurant. There was no way she’d want to hang out with him. All he could
offer her was an encyclopedic knowledge of puzzle history and the proper
aperture for photographing a grown man’s back hair. But there she stood,
smiling at him, waiting for him to say something.

“No, I already ate.”

“Cheating on me already?” she said, tilting her head to
the side.

“What? Uh, no, I…” John said.

“I’m just kidding.” She touched his sleeve.

“Oh, okay,” John said, blushing. “The reason why I came
over was, well, I was wondering, um, Rosa, I know this might sound kind of odd,
but I was, I was wondering if you
wanna
have a drink
with me? After you got off work, I mean.” Then added, “If you’re busy or
something, I understand. I just thought it’d be a nice way to spend the
evening, spending time with you, I mean.”

“Aw, John, you’re sweet. Of course I’ll have a drink with
you. Sometimes I like to go to the place across the street.” She pointed to the
scene of
Leadbelly’s
bar fight.

“You want to meet there when you’re done?”

“I should be done here around nine.”

“Okay,” he said, relieved. “I’ll see you around nine.”

Still looking at Rosa, John pulled on the door. It stuck.
He laughed and looked away, embarrassed, then pushed on the door. He faced his
flustered reflection in the glass. Beyond his image, Rosa watched him, smiling.
His small victory created new warmth, insulating him from the cold night air.

She wanted to see him again. John bounced into the street,
slapping the trunks of parked cars, feeling confident, validated. It was like
when he was in his senior year and one of his puzzles won the award for ‘Most
Ironic Use of 1980’s Television Show Titles’. That night, award rolled in his
hand, he felt like he could accomplish anything, like he was on the four-letter
word for ‘narrow walkway’ to crossword stardom. He felt the same way leaving
Rosa’s, only this time there was the potential for nudity and adult situations.

Sheriff Masters leaned against a light post.

“So?” he said, sticking out his hands, raising his
shoulders.

“She’s meeting me for a drink at nine.
Wanna
get something to drink, keep me company till Rosa shows up? The
Enquirer’s
still
buying.”

“Hell yeah.”

* * * *

The
same bartender from earlier was still working, wiping pint glasses, pouring
brown liquor into small glasses. John nodded toward him. He nodded back.

The sheriff and John grabbed a couple of barstools. Sheriff
Masters put his Chesterfield Stetson on the seat next to him. Some old-timers
and a few people close to the sheriff’s age in dirty jeans and sweat-stained,
straw cowboy hats hovered around the bar or sat at small tables having drinks.
In the back, sitting silently at a table, two men nursed their beers. Lines of
intense focus creased their foreheads and led to empty eyes staring into full
drinks. They frowned at something invisible, their mouths tight and severe.
John recognized the men as two of the soldiers who’d broken into his hotel room
the night before. He’d been thinking about Rosa most of the day, imagining
scenarios, conversations, and had forgotten all about them. The interactions he
invented pushed them from his mind. But seeing them sitting in the back of the
bar brought him out of his fantasies, and he felt the knife on his throat and
heard Colonel Hollister’s words right before he’d hung up the phone.

“Oh shit,” John said, sitting down. He patted his hands on
his legs. “You see those two in the back?”

“Yup.”

“They came to my room last night.” John didn’t turn
around, hoping that by not looking at them they’d vanish, a thought reflex from
childhood.

“You know prostitution’s illegal in New Mexico, but, hey I
don’t judge.”

“They’re with the Air Force.”

“Some people just love a man in uniform.”

“They handcuffed me to a chair.” John rubbed his wrists.

“Bondage, huh? You pay extra for that?”

“They’re looking for
Leadbelly
.
Their boss asked me to find him for them. I called them, told them
Leadbelly
left town.”

“Think they’re looking for you?” the sheriff asked,
suddenly alert.

“They haven’t come over yet, so probably not,” John said,
hoping that Colonel Hollister had sent them here to find
Leadbelly
,
suspecting he hadn’t left town, that they would eventually leave to look for
him elsewhere, and John could have a quiet evening with Rosa.

“Uncle Lee.” The bartender came over, threw some coasters
on the bar.

“Levi, this here’s John Abernathy. John, this is my nephew
Levi.”

“We met earlier.”

“Levi,” the sheriff said, leaning over the bar, “don’t
look, but those two men in the back, you recognize them?”

“They were in here the other night, talking to the kid
Leadbelly
beat up. They were only here a couple of minutes.
Didn’t even order anything. Just talked with the kid for a bit and left.”

“How long have they been here tonight?”

“They showed up a couple of hours ago, asking about Rosa.”

“Rosa? Not
Leadbelly
?” John
asked, wrinkling his forehead.

“Yeah, Rosa. They’ve asked everyone in the bar about her.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Nothing. Told them I didn’t know her,” Levi said, wiping
the bar with a towel. “The way they were acting, trying to intimidate my
customers, like they’d kick some ass if they didn’t find her. They even tried
slipping me some cash.”

“Douches,” John said.

“I told them to save their money and order drinks. Now
they’re just sitting there nursing their beers, taking a table from my
regulars.”

“Yeah,” the sheriff said, “sitting by the window.”

“With a good view of Rosa’s,” John added, turning to the
window, the seated men.

“John, you see those bulges on their left sides? That’s
usually a sign they’re packing.”

“When they came up to the bar,” Levi said, “one leaned
over. His jacket was half zipped up. He had a gun in a shoulder holster.”

“I’m
gonna
get my service
revolver outta the car.” The sheriff started to get up.

“Wait,” John said, grabbing his arm. “We don’t
wanna
tip our hand.”

“Levi,” the sheriff said, “you still have that Walther PPK
I gave you behind the bar?”

“Yeah. And
Ol
’
Bonethumper
.”

“You still got that? I remember making that with your
dad.” The sheriff turned to John and clarified, “It’s a sawed-off ax handle,
about a foot and a half long.” He held his fingers apart, showing its size.
“When they make their move I want you to slip me
Bonethumper
,
okay?”

John had never been in a fight before, but the thought of
saving Rosa from the same men who had broken into his hotel room electrified
him. His legs vibrated under his skin and he rubbed them, trying to settle them
down. He imagined Rosa’s reaction when he saved her, the way she’d look at him,
with gratitude and desire. And he knew what he had to do.

“I’ll take
Bonethumper
,” John
said.

“You sure?” the sheriff asked.

“If one of us is
gonna
go all
Whack-a-Mole on these guys, better it’s not the sheriff. I don’t want anyone
accusing you of police brutality.” That’s the excuse he gave, not wanting to
tell them that he was energized by the prospect of a fight.

“You expecting trouble?” Levi asked, re-wiping an already
dry glass.

“Probably not,” the sheriff said. “It’s just in case.
They’ll probably just leave, then we’ll follow them, see what trouble they’re
up to.”

“Levi,” John said, pointing toward him, “if something does
happen you
gotta
pull that gun, cover your uncle. Got
it?”

“Got it.” The rings on Levi’s fingers rattled against the
pint glass he was wiping.

“Here, have a shot on me.” John’s hand shook as he pulled
some cash from his wallet. “Looks like I better have one. I’ll take a PBR Tall
Boy, too.”

“Get me a whiskey on the rocks, with a splash of water,”
the sheriff said.

The adrenaline that eclipsed John waned. He slouched,
elbows on the bar, and questioned why he was so anxious for violence. He’d
avoided conflict most of his life, hiding in puzzles instead. This urge to
communicate rage through violence felt foreign, like a part of him was
changing. But the two men in the back were looking for Rosa. John sat up and
took the shot Levi poured him, swearing he wouldn’t let anything happen to her.

The bar slowly filled while John and the sheriff sipped
their drinks. Several men talked to the sheriff, registering small town
complaints over pints of cheap beer. The sheriff introduced John as a friend
from Denver. John smiled, nodded. He used it as an opportunity to watch the men
in the back. They took small sips every time John turned.

He also watched the clock behind the bar. The hands
appeared to be frozen, unable to reach nine and twelve, the cue for Rosa’s
entrance. He wondered if she regretted agreeing to meet him, if she’d changed
her mind and decided to head home and forget about the skinny kid who awkwardly
asked her out. He couldn’t blame her. She barely knew him, and he was only in
town for a couple of days. Still, he didn’t think he could take it if she
didn’t show. The sheriff would make some joke and John would have to sit at the
bar longer than he wanted, pretending he was too cool to be dejected, trying to
judge the right time to leave.