Wrong Thing (9 page)

“I want to go.”

“Why?”

“I have to get back to my room. It's late. I'm just kind of . . . overwhelmed. I need to be by myself.”

He kissed her. She rubbed against him, then pulled away. “I have to go. I'm going now.”

The Kid didn't go with her. He sat on the ground and watched as she walked towards the gardens. At one point she looked back, smiled and waved. The Kid was sitting in the dark, and he didn't know if she could see him as he waved back.

He sat there for a while, then stood up, put on his jacket, and walked back to the gardens. He went to the fountain and sat on the edge. He wanted it always to be like this, the light exploding off the dark water and the brilliant moonlight all around. It wasn't just because of her, the lovely warm blonde realness of her, her smell still on him, her taste still on his fingers when he put them in his mouth. It was all of it—what they had just done, in a place where the language wasn't his. It was all so far away from his father and mother and their street where everyone's breath and clothes smelled of cigarettes, and everyone was either just out of the hospital or waiting to go in. The Kid was happy by the fountain because he didn't feel scared. He thought he had left his father's house and, wherever he went in the world, he would always be free of it.

The business lasted for about two years. There had been a delay in a consignment they were waiting for, and at around one o'clock in the morning they got a phone call from the guy who was carrying it. He asked if they wanted to meet him at a Denny's. The Kid was tired, and Miguel had a woman in bed with him, so the Kid told the guy to just come over to the house and drop it off.

He did. The Kid quickly drank a beer with him, then sent him on his way. He left the meth on the kitchen table and went back to bed. The woman Miguel was with didn't know what they were into, but the Kid figured he'd get up before them and move the stuff.

He didn't know the guy was a snitch.

At just after five in the morning, there was a banging on the front door. The Kid ignored it, but it didn't stop. Groggily, he got out of bed and, naked, went into the hall and stumbled towards the door. Before he reached it, it was smashed open, hit so hard that it bounced against the wall and slammed shut before being kicked open again. There were five cops, and they had a warrant. They also had their guns out.

They forced Miguel and his woman, Maria, to get out of bed. They herded everyone into the living room. Miguel was wearing shorts, and Maria was wearing his robe. The Kid was still naked. “Put something on,” one of the cops told him.

“Yes, sir,” said the Kid. He walked over to the stereo and looked at the rack of CDs. “Is Johnny Cash okay?”

The cop punched him in the face, sending him sprawling on the floor.

“Don't do that!” Maria yelled at the cop. “You didn't have to hit him.”

“I felt that my life was in danger and used the minimum necessary force,” the cop deadpanned.

The Kid stayed on the floor, thinking that if he got up the cop might knock him down again. He didn't feel afraid, just hopeless. He knew his life was over. He knew there was enough meth on the kitchen table to guarantee him and Miguel at least ten years each. He felt sad for Miguel, that he'd gotten him into this and ruined the good thing he had going with his job.

“Get up,” another cop told him. The Kid got to his feet, warily, and the cop pulled his hands behind his back and cuffed him. Other cops did the same to Miguel and Maria.

“Okay,” said the cop who had hit the Kid. “Do you want to do it nice and tell us where the drugs are?”

“We ain't got no drugs,” the Kid said.

The cop shrugged. “Okay” They were led to the kitchen and made to sit at the table while the cops searched the house. The meth was right there on the table, under their noses, but they didn't notice it as they forced their prisoners to sit there and warned them not to move.

The cops trashed the place. They emptied drawers and closets and the contents of the fridge onto the floor, slit mattresses to look inside them. The Kid and Miguel sat and looked at each other. They looked at the meth, then back at each other. The Kid thought about telling the cops the stuff was right here, on the table, so they wouldn't do any more damage to the furniture. He knew it wouldn't matter much to him or Miguel what happened to the furniture—they weren't going to be needing it where they were going—but he didn't like seeing things being destroyed. But the thought was fleeting. Let them earn their paychecks.

Maria didn't do drugs, and so neither the Kid nor Miguel knew whether she realized what was on the table in front of her. She made to ask Miguel something, probably along the lines of What the fuck is going on? but he shook his head and whispered to her, telling her to just be cool and sit there and not say anything.

As they looked at each other, the Kid and Miguel felt as though they could read each other's minds. It was like a silent discussion. Both considered trying to somehow hide the drugs. Both considered the fact that they were in handcuffs, and that the only place the cops didn't seem to be looking was the kitchen table. And both decided not to do anything, to just pretend the drugs didn't exist.

The Kid felt a surge of hope rise inside him, and he tried to fight it down. He didn't want to hope. He knew he was going to prison, that the cops had only missed the drugs so far because they were busy searching everywhere else. He knew that, but the hope rose anyway.

The three of them sat at the table for more than an hour. They didn't speak. Then, at last, the cops came back into the kitchen. The Kid felt a lightness in his head and a jumping in his stomach.

The most senior cop leaned on the table, his face close to the Kid's, his hands almost touching the bags of meth. “All right,” he said. “Where is it?”

“I don't know,” the Kid said. The cop made to hit him, and the Kid shrank away. “Look, I ain't being smart. I don't know what you're looking for, I swear.”

The cops took the Kid and Miguel into the living room. They left Maria handcuffed in the kitchen. They worked both of them over, not to try to get them to confess to anything, just because they wanted to. When they were done, they removed the handcuffs. They went to the kitchen and uncuffed Maria. Then they left.

Maria went into the living room. Miguel and the Kid both had puffy faces and bloody noses, but they were in each other's arms, laughing and crying at the same time, stomping their feet on the floor.

“We're going to fucking church, bro!” Miguel said through swollen lips. “I ain't kidding! In fact, you know what?—We're gonna pray now. I'm fucking serious, I swear to God. Right fucking now. On your knees.” He looked at Maria. “You too, sweetie.”

“Why?” she said.

“Because you just saw a fucking miracle! The Lord saved our sorry-assed fucking souls!”

“I'm a believer now,” the Kid said.

Bemused, Maria joined them in kneeling on the floor, surrounded by the debris of the police search.

“Okay,” Miguel said. “Lord, we thank thee for giving us each day our daily bread. We ask thee to forgive us our sins and help us be good people. We especially thank thee for making the cops too fucking dumb to notice four bags of meth when it's right in front of their faces. Amen.”

“Amen,” said the Kid.

“So you guys are drug dealers?” said Maria.

Miguel looked at the Kid. “Now that,” he said, “is something we really need to have a talk about, bro. Know what I'm saying?”

“Yeah,” said the Kid.

The Kid called the guy who'd snitched on them. “Hey” he said. “Guess where I'm calling from? I'll give you a clue. It ain't jail.”

“Why would you be in jail?” the guy said, and the Kid heard it in his voice.

The Kid laughed. “You fucking idiot. You better pack your bags.”

“Dude, I don't know what you're talking about”

“A bullet in the face.”

“What?”

“That's what you're gonna get if you stay around.”

“Why? From who?”

“From me, and you know why. Now, you better be gone before I find you”

Silence. Then the guy said, “I'm engaged. I'm gonna have a family. I can't go anywhere.”

“You don't go anywhere, you ain't gonna get married and have a family. You're gonna be dead. I'll kill her too. I'll kill her first”

“What can I do? Just tell me.”

“Nothing. You can leave or die.”

He started to cry. “How long?”

“I'll be looking for you tomorrow.”

“Okay. I'll be gone.”

“Good idea. And don't come back.” The Kid hung up.

That evening, the Kid and Miguel walked from their house to the Cowgirl Hall of Fame. There was live music that night, some shit-kicker cowpunk band, and there was a three-dollar cover charge. The guy on the door looked at their cut and beaten faces as they paid, but he said nothing. They went inside and got beers, then sat at a table outside.

“So, what do you think?” said Miguel.

“I don't know. What do you think?”

“I've had it, that's what I think.”

The Kid nodded and didn't say anything.

“I mean, that was fucking close. That was as close as I want to get. If they'd found the shit, I don't know how long we were looking at—”

“I do. At least ten years.”

“Jesus. That ain't funny. You know, after they'd gone, I just kept looking at Maria, and imagining not being able to see her, not being able to walk down the street or do anything for years . . . Man.” Miguel shook his head.

“I think I'm with you. I think I'm gonna stop. What're you gonna do?”

“Selling advertising sudden looks pretty damn good,” said Miguel. “You?”

“Don't know. I never thought about it before. There's enough money to get by on for a little while.”

“Yeah.” Miguel laughed. “It was good, huh? While it lasted. It was real fucking good.”

The Kid smiled at him. “Yeah,” he said. “It really was.”

Miguel held out his hand. The Kid shook it.

“Let's go check out the band,” Miguel said.

They went inside. It was busy. They ordered more beers, then stood watching the band. Miguel wasn't crazy about the music, but the Kid liked it. The beer started to give him a buzz. He thought that the occasion should seem momentous, but it didn't. He'd decided to quit what he'd been doing for two years, and it didn't seem to make any difference. He had a feeling of relief, that he wouldn't have to worry anymore, worry that the cops would bust him or that someone would kill him. He'd often wished he could be like Miguel, who never worried about anything and never made a big deal out of anything. He knew that Miguel would blithely go back to selling advertising or perhaps do something else and not even think about it. Nobody knew it, but the Kid was always afraid.

He thought about an afternoon a few weeks earlier. He'd been doing some business in Albuquerque, and was now driving back to Santa Fe. It was a warm day, and he drove with all the windows rolled down. He hung his left arm out of the window, and watched the concrete and desert go by. He felt good, but there was a sadness under the good feeling. He wished he wasn't afraid all the time. He wished he could just enjoy the day and not wonder how many more times he'd see it before a prison cell or a bullet took it all away.