Muerte Con Carne

by McKenzie, Shane

  She pulled her shirt and shorts off, slid on a pair of panties and a bra, then put the clothes back on over them. After sliding her bare feet into her tennis shoes, she grabbed her wallet and headed out the door.

  Whatever food the motel had to offer didn’t interest Marta in the least, so she walked right past the front office and into the street. Looking left and right, nothing popped out as a restaurant, or even a running business. It was as if the town was abandoned, most store fronts covered in a thick layer of dust, the windows boarded up.

  She walked down the street, back the way she had driven in. On the drive in, she was so distracted by her own thoughts, she couldn’t be sure if she passed any restaurants or food marts, so she figured she’d just walk until she found something.

  As she rounded the corner, she wondered if she should have knocked on Felix’s door before walking off. She half expected his car to be gone, but it still sat parked in the tiny parking lot, now with a thin layer of dirt. Her stomach growled again, and she decided that she would just bring back some breakfast for him, apologize over some food. Let the guy sleep in.

  She only had to walk a few blocks before she saw the corner store.

  Oh thank god.

  At this point, she’d take a bag of chips and a candy bar. But as she grew closer, the smell in the air brought her belly to bubbling. Saliva filled her mouth and her nostrils widened, taking in the succulent scent of cooking meat.

  Just beside the store sat a taco trailer, hooked up to the tow hitch of an old beat-up, maroon pickup. A line of Mexican men and women stretched out from the order window, and parked in front of the store was a brown sheriff’s car. The man she figured was the sheriff sat on the hood, stuffing tacos into his mouth and wiping the grease from his chin. A sagging belly stretched his shirt, hung over the front of his belt. One of the buttons was undone to reveal the white of his undershirt. His face was unshaven, and she could see the sores on his lips from where she stood, a bright irritated red. She thought he was staring at her, though it was hard to tell with the cliché‚ mirrored sunglasses he was wearing.

  The smell from the trailer was incredible, and Marta smiled wide as she joined the end of the line. The man taking orders from inside of the trailer, his dark brown face sticking out of the window, locked eyes with her for a moment, smiled to reveal a golden front tooth. Young but weathered-looking, rough. Tattoos crept up from under the collar of his shirt and ran over his neck and throat.

  Creepy fucker.

  But Marta didn’t care. If this guy’s tacos tasted as good as they smelled, he could stare at her ass all he wanted. The line went quick, and when it was finally Marta’s turn, she bounced from foot to foot as she glared at the small, grease stained menu pinned beside the window.

  “Buenos dias, bonita,” the man said. “¿Qué‚ te puedo dar?”

  A woman stood behind the man inside of the trailer, her face wide and flat and lacking any trace of beauty. She reminded Marta of a fat, brown toad. She scooped meat from silver tubs and spread it across fresh tortillas that she had lined up on a small griddle. She glared at the back of the man’s head as she rolled the tacos in tinfoil. When she turned to hand him the paper sack, Marta saw that she was pregnant. Nearly full term from the look of it. She bumped the man with her belly, and he gave her a sideways glance.

  Marta realized she was staring and moved her attention back to the menu. “Can I please have four barbacoa tacos? Oh, and how is your menudo?” She was delighted to see it on the menu, hadn’t had menudo in years, always loved it.

  The man smiled, rubbed his chin. He leaned his body further out of the window and licked his lips. “You ain’t had menudo like this, baby. Mamá's is the best.” His eyes slowly roamed Marta’s body and he sucked on his teeth and rubbed his palms together. “I know you’ll love it, bonita.”

  “He’s not kiddin’. You oughtta give it a try, miss.”

  Marta started, put her hand to her chest and chuckled when she saw the sheriff standing next to her. He tossed his garbage into the plastic trash can, wiped his hands on his pant legs, smiled at Marta. The sores on his lips were scabbed over, though the one at the corner of his bottom lip looked freshly picked at. A translucent goo oozed out, and when the man caught Marta looking, he wiped at it.

  The man at the window eased his self back into the trailer, his smile never leaving his face. His eyes ping ponged from Marta to the sheriff and back.

  Marta forced a smile, crossed her arms over her chest. “Okay, I’ll take two bowls of menudo then.”

  The pregnant woman now stood beside the man, her eyes narrow slits as she stared Marta down. The man wrote down Marta’s order, his grin widening, tongue sliding over his gold tooth. When he turned and found the woman hovering over him, he shoved her backward, slapped Marta’s order to her chest. Even as she was pushed back into the trailer, her eyes stayed on Marta.

  The man said something to her under his breath, and the woman nodded, got back to preparing the food. She shot one final glance in Marta’s direction, her mouth a perfect arch, eyes as sharp as razors.

  The man leaned back out the window with a grease-stained paper sack in his hand, called out an order number. One of the Mexican men standing by quickly retrieved his food, wiped the shine from his lips as he waddled off, already opening the bag and glaring into it.

  Marta’s stomach gurgled as she paid. The rough man spread Marta’s change over her palm, running his fingertips over it. Marta yanked her hand away, frowned at him, and stepped aside. Her face nearly plunged right into the sheriff’s chest. She had forgotten he was standing there, and he tipped his hat with one hand, the other caressing his fat stomach in a circular motion.

  “How you doin’, ma’am?”

  “Hungry.”

  “I hear that. I hear ya. You’re gonna love Cristobal’s food. That’s a guarantee. No doubt about it.” He cleaned his teeth with his tongue, hooked his thumbs into his belt. “What brings you ‘round these parts, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

  Marta sat at one of the wooden picnic tables lined up on the side of the store, flies suckling at its surface. Various etchings marked the wood, declarations of love and hate carved into its gray surface. The smell swirling off the taco trailer hit her in waves, and her stomach churned in response.

  “Am I in trouble, sheriff?”

  He glared at her with one eye squinted. “Trouble? Didn’t say nothin’ about no trouble. Just ain’t never seen you before, and pardon me ma’am, but we don’t usually get pretty young girls like you ‘round here.”

  “Just passing through. I’m staying at the motel down the road…can’t remember what it’s called.”

  “I know the one. Only one we got.”

  “Yeah, well I’m staying there with my husband. We’re on a drive across the state, and we decided to stop and take a few days off, relax a little bit.” She smiled, rested her elbows on the table and her chin on top of her fists. She didn’t know why she lied, especially about Felix being her husband. It just sort of slipped out that way. Like she would feel safer if this man thought she was a married woman. It didn’t.

  “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that. Sorry to say we don’t have much to see here. Where y’all headed to if you don’t mind me askin’?”

  “Mexico. Gonna cross the border, buy ceramic donkeys and cheap tequila. Always wanted to go, never had the chance.”

  “Four barbacoa tacos, two orders of menudo. Para la bonita.” The man held the paper bag out of the window, his pock-marked face hovering right beside it. The sun caught his tooth and it twinkled yellow.

  The sheriff nodded, stepped aside so Marta could pass him. She snatched the bag, the smell nearly making her drool on herself. She waved back to the sheriff. “Nice to meet you, sir. Have a good day.”

  “Same to you, ma’am. Enjoy the food. Best damn tacos you’ll ever have. And the man wasn’t lyin’ ‘bout that menudo, either.” He tipped his hat. “Tell your hubbie I said hello.”

 
“Um, okay.” Marta calmly walked away, but as soon as she was out of sight, she hurried her pace. Though the guy at the window made her uncomfortable, it was nothing she hadn’t grown used to throughout the years. Wandering eyes and creepy smiles she could deal with. But there was something about the other man, the sheriff, that bothered her. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but just knew she wanted to get away from him and back into her room where she could eat in peace.

  She checked over her shoulder but there was nobody there. The scent wafting off the food in her hand swirled into her nostrils and she ran up the stairs two at a time once she made it back to the motel. She stopped in front of Felix’s door, rapped her knuckles against it.

  No answer.

  Not able to wait any longer, she opened the bag, and snatched out a taco. She unwrapped the foil, pulled out one of the small plastic tubs of chile, and poured it over the steaming brown barbacoa meat. The second she bit into it, her eyes rolled to the back of her head and a moan seeped out through the tender meat in her mouth.

  It was absolutely the best she ever had. The meat was perfect, seasoned and cooked to perfection, and she took another bite before she had finished chewing the last one. “Mmmm.”

  She knocked again. “Felix, I brought some breakfast for you. Best fucking tacos you ever had, I mean it. I’m having a taste bud orgasm out here.”

  Still no response. She pressed her ear to his door, listening for any rustling around, but got nothing.

  She sighed through her nose, still chewing, then took another hefty bite.

  So goddamn good.

  “All right. You’re pissed at me, and I understand. I’m sorry, okay?” She finished the first taco, licked the brown grease from her fingers. “I got you two barbacoa tacos and a cup of menudo. I’ll just leave it out here for you.”

  She pulled out her remaining taco and her Styrofoam cup full of menudo from the bag, along with a couple more tubs of chile, rolled the top of the paper bag, and set it in front of Felix’s door.

  “I’m going to my room now, so you won’t have to see me. But don’t let your food get cold. I’m telling you, you need to try this. Okay?”

  She waited a few minutes, but still nothing. Back in her room, she made quick work of the second taco, devouring it like some starved beast. The urge to snatch up the two tacos she had left for Felix entered her mind more than once. The last bite stayed in her mouth, and she over-chewed it, wanting to savor it, taste it for as long as possible.

  She pulled the plastic lid from the Styrofoam cup and inhaled the rich aroma of the greasy soup. The menudo was filled with chunks of tripas and hominy. She plucked a nice honeysuckle chunk from the top, sucked it into her mouth.

  “Oh my god.”

  Slurps and moans filled the room as she dug in.

  ***

  Felix woke up with the side of his face pasted to his pillow by his own vomit. He lay in the bed naked, his body covered in a layer of sweat. The mattress was soaked.

  He sat up, groaned, grabbed his forehead with both hands. The small hangover he had only yesterday was a puppy compared to the snarling, thrashing pitbull in his skull this morning. He had no idea when he had stumbled into the motel, but remembered the stairs being particularly difficult to climb. The liquor held okay, and though he’d lost count of how many shots he’d taken, he managed to keep it down. Until he entered his room. The smell and mustiness was waiting for him. Though the air conditioner hummed, it did nothing to change the smoldering temperature. The moment he stepped in and shut the door behind him, his stomach had had enough.

  A large splatter of puke lay on the carpet just inside the door, his footprints smashed into it leading to the bed. He remembered puking a second time in the bed, but he had been too exhausted and sick to move, so he just closed his eyes and slept in it. He touched the side of this face and grimaced at the hardened gunk caked to his cheek and ear.

  “Oh…jesus…”

  Standing was nearly impossible, but he forced himself to his feet and stumbled toward the bathroom. He kept his eyes opened to mere slits as the harsh sunlight razor-bladed into the room through the blinds. Even with his back turned to it, the light made his temples pulse.

  He aimed his dick over the water, and leaned against the wall with his arm, burying his forehead into the crook of his elbow. The piss was dark yellow, almost orange, and it splashed against the brim of the toilet, sprinkling his feet with hot urine. He shifted his aim and moaned, hating himself more and more each second.

  Marta. Her face came screaming into his mind through the fog of his hangover.

  Did I hear her voice? A banging on the door?

  He couldn’t be sure if it was a dream or not. The knocking could have been his temples throbbing. Marta did fill his dreams, but the images his mind had conjured for him were nightmare material. She was screaming, so loud and shrill, and covered with blood. Then a gurgly burp exploded from her throat, along with a waterfall of intestines and purple organs.

  Just thinking about it sent tremors through Felix’s gut, and before he knew it, he was on his knees, hugging the porcelain. What was left in his stomach poured out of him, a pink frothy broth. The sting leaked into his nostrils. The pressure from puking ignited his headache into another realm, and he leaned his face against the piss-covered brim and gasped, moaned and whimpered.

  After the pounding subsided enough for him to get to his feet, he cut the shower on, stepped in, and let the hot water engulf him. The spray was weak and sporadic, but it felt good nonetheless. It was a little too hot, but he left it that way, burning the petrified puke from his face, melting it off in soggy clumps. It still hurt to open his eyes fully, so he kept them at a squint, using the cheap bar soap to scrub away any evidence of the prior night.

  God, when Marta sees me, she’s going to flip.

  Tonight was the night. They would be heading out to the border, and god knew what would happen next. He still didn’t know what the full plan was. They were going to wear some tattered, old clothing and act like they were Mexican illegals crossing over. Felix wasn’t convinced it would even work. Hell, he didn’t know dick for Spanish, just a few phrases here and there. Enough to get by, but not even enough to have a conversation.

  And I’m taking my goddamn driver’s license. Just in case. Hide it under by nuts if I have to.

  He planned on taking Marta’s too. At some point when she wasn’t looking he planned to swipe it and bring it along. No way in hell he’d let the two of them rot in some fucking prison just to prove a point.

  As far as he knew, though, Marta still wasn’t talking to him. He still couldn’t figure out what he did to deserve that shit, but just chalked it up to Marta being Marta. If that was really her at his door this morning, maybe she was over her little tantrum.

  His hands and feet had pruned up pretty good, and though his headache was alive and well, he did feel slightly better. He loathed walking back into the room and into the vomit-scented sauna that it was.

  He cut the water off, dried himself, and breathed through the filter of the towel as he got dressed. But the towel was infused with a mildew odor, its surface scratchy and hard. He tossed it away and breathed into the crook of his arm instead.

  A half-empty bottle of tequila sat on the floor beside the bed, and he wondered where it came from or how he had gotten it. Once he had his clothes on, he went back to the bathroom to brush his teeth, which he did over and over again until he was sure all traces of funk were gone. There was still a slight sting at the back of his throat, in his naval passages, but it would have to do.

  Doing his best not to look at the vomit splashed over the carpet, he stepped around it and out his door. The sun was like a flamethrower blasting heat and light into his face. An agonizing pounding began afresh in his head, and he groaned, leaned backward on his door for a second. He nearly stepped on the paper sack sitting at his doorstep, and he realized then with a slight smile that Marta had been at his door that morning after all.r />
  A peace offering maybe?

  A small piece of him wanted to stay mad at her, to show her that she couldn’t just treat him like that for no reason, then expect everything to be back to normal. But as usual, he would do no such thing. She would smile at him and he would be incapable of doing anything but smile back. She had power over him and he knew it, but didn’t care.

  This is the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with.

  He picked up the greasy bag and peered into it. Breakfast tacos from the look of it, wrapped in foil. There was a Styrofoam cup in there too, and Felix went for that first. It was still warm, but when he uncovered it, he felt his gorge rise again. Menudo.

  Fucking disgusting.

  The chunks of honeysuckle intestine protruded from the orange-red soup, bubbles of grease floating on top. The white hominy looked like boils that needed popping. Felix quickly replaced the lid and dropped the cup in the bag. Any possibility of an appetite was now vanquished.

  “Felix!”

  Felix shaded his eyes with his hand and peered into the parking lot. Marta splashed around in the tiny swimming pool, filth floating around in her black masses. She waved, a smile covering half of her face, then motioned for him to come down.

  Felix wanted to shout back to her, tell her he’d rather not. The sun was already making him regret ever getting out of bed. But to shout would surely send needles into his brain, so he took the stairs slowly, crossed the parking lot.

  Marta grabbed the edge of the pool and lifted herself half out of it. She wore her white bikini, and just seeing her smooth brown skin, gleaming and wet, brought a smile to Felix’s face. The bikini top pressed her breasts together, and he wanted nothing more than to smash his face into her cleavage. The tips of each breast were pointed with hard nipples, and he could see the shape of her areola through the soaked white top.

  “Hey,” she said as Felix sat on a plastic lawn chair. “Sleep okay?”