The Dragon Griaule

by Lucius Shepard

  ‘Who killed them?’ asked Snow.

  Taken aback by the question, Canelo said he didn’t know.

  ‘It was the PVO, wasn’t it?’ Snow came a step toward him.

  ‘In this life, the sort of life Guillermo lived, a man makes a great many enemies.’

  ‘What are you fucking saying?’

  Canelo spread his hands to demonstrate his helplessness. ‘I wasn’t there. How can I know who killed them? It might have been a jealous ex-lover, a madman. The cops said the bodies were horribly mutilated. Their cocks were in each other’s mouths.’

  ‘Guillermo was terrified of the PVO. He said they hated gays.’

  ‘That proves nothing. Hating gays is all the fashion down here.’

  Frustration overrode Snow’s sense of loss. His emotions crested, overflowing their confines, and he shoved Canelo in the chest, knocking him back against the wall. ‘You know damn well it was political! If it wasn’t why are people staying away from the club?’

  ‘Calm down, man! Okay?’ Canelo inspected the rear of his jeans for stucco dust. ‘Let’s go inside. I’ll tell you what I know.’

  He held the door open and Snow, his temper cooling, went through. The instant the door swung shut behind them, he heard a complicated snick and Canelo slung him face-first into the wall. Something cold and sharp pricked his throat. Canelo pressed his mouth to Snow’s ear, his funky breath overpowering the smell of his cologne, and said, ‘Don’t you ever put your hands on me again!’

  Snow held perfectly still. ‘Yeah. Okay.’

  ‘If you weren’t Guillermo’s friend I’d open you up. But don’t get the idea I’m your friend. To me you’re just a stupid fucking gringo who doesn’t know his ass.’

  Canelo stepped away and Snow, hearing another snick, turned to see him pocketing a butterfly knife.

  ‘You want to know who I think killed Guillermo?’ Canelo asked. ‘It was you. You didn’t cut him, but he died because of you.’

  ‘That’s crazy,’ said Snow.

  ‘You don’t understand where you are, man. None of you fucks have a clue. You go blundering about, thinking you can solve any problem because you’re superior to the pitiful, fuckedup Temalaguans, but all you do is make more trouble for us.’

  ‘I think it was the PVO,’ Snow said weakly.

  ‘Maybe. It might have been political. The PVO could have done it, or some other political party. See, what you don’t seem to understand is that in order to stay in business Guillermo had to be an informer. All these bitches with their bigshot husbands coming around . . . the husbands asked him questions. He tried to be cool. He’d give them some information, nothing serious, enough maybe that someone would get slapped around now and then. But nothing more. He didn’t want anyone to get their head chopped because of him. He walked a fine line. But when you started asking about La Endriaga the line got even finer. He should have handed you over. We tried to tell him, we said if you give up the gringo the pressure will ease off, but he wanted to protect you. “He’s my friend,” he’d say. “I’m not going to betray a friendship.”’

  ‘He should have told me!’ said Snow. ‘If he’d told me about his predicament, how bad things were . . .’

  ‘Get real, man. Think about it. He warned you constantly. You simply didn’t want to listen.’

  ‘He didn’t tell me the whole story. I never understood . . . he never conveyed to me how serious it was.’

  ‘Maybe he thought you were smart enough to fill in the blanks. Or maybe he believed you were as much a friend to him as he was to you. Maybe he thought you respected him and actually paid attention to what he said. Big mistake, huh?’

  Snow stood mute, absorbing what Canelo had told him.

  ‘It was casual with you,’ Canelo said. ‘You thought it was cool to have a fag who owned a night club for a friend.’

  ‘That’s not how it was!’

  ‘Sure it is. You’re like a half-ass method actor, man. One who almost buys into his character, but can’t quite get there.’ Canelo gestured at the door. ‘Get the fuck out.’

  Snow balked at leaving. ‘It’s not like you say. Maybe I’ve made some missteps, but I . . .’

  ‘Maybe? Fuck!’ Canelo’s scorn was a physical force. ‘Nobody cares how you see the situation. Your viewpoint doesn’t mean dick. Now beat it! If I were you I’d leave the country. Guillermo wasn’t good with pain. He probably ratted you out when they tortured him. Even if he didn’t, I’m getting an urge to tell the next cop who comes in that you were talking shit about the PVO. I’m not kidding. Nothing’s stopping me and I may not be able to resist the temptation.’

  IV

  Following his set-to with Canelo, Snow returned to his apartment and packed his bags, shaken by what the bartender had told him and frightened not just by his threat, but by the world of threat, a world of maniacs and bloody politics of which he had, of course, been aware, yet never thought would menace him. He intended to catch the first plane north, wherever it was bound, but as he waited for the taxi and afterward, on the way to the airport, his guilt concerning Guillermo elbowed his paranoia aside and he wished for some way he could make a stab at redemption. He had nary a clue of how to go about this, but perhaps fate conspired to assist him, for on reaching the ticket counter he discovered that the destination of the first available flight was Miami – that provided the platform for the germ of an idea. An hour later, en route to that city of second-rate glitterati and leathery, sun-dried MILFs, he debated whether or not it was worth the risk and concluded that he could safely take a first step and pull back if things went badly. And so, upon landing in Miami on a humid Wednesday afternoon, Snow rented a cheap motel room in Coral Gables and prepared to initiate an affair with Luisa Bazan.

  Every second Friday Luisa would check into a suite at the Bon Temps, a boutique hotel in the heart of South Beach, where she would reside until Sunday night. She had invited him to meet her there several times, offering to pay his airfare, and he had made his excuses. Now he hoped she would be amenable to an encounter (lately she had been testy toward him, impatient with the unconsummated relationship) and he also hoped that he could get to her before she secured the services of a cabana boy for the weekend. On the Friday evening after his arrival in Miami he staked himself out in the hotel bar, the Tres Jolie, and waited there without result until after midnight. He had steeled himself against this possibility (her schedule was governed by her husband’s whims) and he was certain she would come eventually – but waiting for another week to pass was more difficult than he presumed and he nearly abandoned his scheme. What, after all, could he learn from Luisa in one weekend that would alter the situation? She would likely have no salient information about the PVO and, even if she did, how could he use it? It was a crazy idea that had seemed for a moment wonderfully crafty and wise, one of many similar strokes of genius that had misdirected the meandering course of his life. The only consideration that stayed him from leaving Miami was that he had nowhere to go. He had blown his job at the private school, he had no friends to speak of in Temalagua, what with Guillermo dead, and no support system now that he had been banned from Club Sexy. No purpose, no real direction. He refused to contemplate the horror of returning to Idaho. That left him with the image of an addled, gray-bearded Snow drinking the dregs of his life away in some misbegotten Central American hell, with ‘Margaritaville’ and ‘The Piña Colada Song’ dominating the soundtrack and a tattooed female lizard by his side, watching for symptoms of terminal weakness that would allow her to rifle through his pockets for money and drugs. This picture in mind, the prospect of a weekend with Luisa Bazan acquired a fresh gloss.

  At half past seven on the next Friday evening, Luisa flounced into the Bon Temps, spike heels clacking on the marble floor, her impressive rack rendered more impressive yet by a ruffled blouse that exaggerated every jiggle, blond streaks in her beautifully coiffed hair, and clingy slacks that made her ass seem iconic, like the majestic rump of a horse cast in bronze and
mounted by a heroic warrior with a plumed hat and sword. Were she to put on ten or fifteen pounds more she might be able to pose for a fetish magazine, but for now she resembled a voluptuous sexual cartoon. From the reception desk you had an unobstructed view into the Tres Jolie – the bar was crowded with a group of yelping and whooting twenty-somethings having a starter drink before hitting the clubs, and Snow had positioned himself so Luisa would be likely to notice him, hanging his jacket over an adjacent stool to prevent anyone from sitting beside him. He watched out of the corner of his eye as she chatted up the receptionist, a bellboy, the manager. When she spotted him her face emptied and she took a step toward the elevators, as if intending to sneak past the bar without acknowledging him, but then she adopted an expression of haughty reserve and approached to within an arm’s length and said, ‘Craig?’

  Snow glanced up and smiled – a well-rehearsed smile of boyish delight to which a dash of sadness was added.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked. ‘The school . . . they told me they didn’t know what happened to you?’

  He persuaded her to sit and told her an equally well-rehearsed story consisting of half-truths and outright lies. He had, he said, experienced an emotional crisis. Thinking that he would never be able to exorcise the residue of feelings for his old flame, he’d decided that the most honorable thing he could do for Luisa was to remove himself from the picture and, obeying an impulse, he bolted. It was an act of desperation, perhaps of cowardice, for which he apologized. He had wanted to say goodbye, but she was a woman whom you did not say goodbye to easily. If he had come to her, her beauty, her spirit . . . they would have been too great an allure and he would not have been able to sustain the courage of his convictions. En route to Miami, however, he experienced an epiphany. He couldn’t think of anything other than Luisa. Her scent, her mouth, her sensitivity, the very sum of her pervaded his thoughts and nowhere could he find a trace of his obsession with his former love. It was a consummate irony, he said, that by running away from the object of his desire he had dissolved the bonds that prevented him from attaining it, though it was characteristic of the ironies that seemed to rule his existence.

  Snow did not believe Luisa had bought into his story. She maintained a cool and disaffected mask throughout and he had been planning to amp up the emotion, to say that he expected nothing of her, he realized how badly he must have hurt her, and he would go his own way if that were her wish, etc. . . . but at this juncture she drew him into a passionate kiss, drowning him in perfume, engaging him with tongue and breasts, eliciting cheers and approbative comments (‘Fuck, yeah!’ and ‘Dude, if you don’t hit that, I will!’ and the like) from the nearby twenty-somethings, some of whom had been eavesdropping. Luisa blushed and led Snow from the bar, accompanied by a smattering of applause, and into the elevator, where unrestrained kissing and fondling supplanted the need to speak, and thence to her suite on the ninth floor, an interior decorator’s wet dream of ‘travertine floors, faux-zebra-skin rugs, Calcutta marble counters, and petrified wood accent tables . . .’ (Out of boredom he had read and re-read the hotel’s brochure while waiting for Luisa.) Amidst this hideous thousand-dollar-per-night splendor the evening held few surprises, yet Snow was unsettled to discover how demanding Luisa was in the bedroom. He felt like a German Shepherd being put through his paces. Harder, faster, deeper. Heel. He supposed her aggression and dominance were due to her enforced docility at home. Thankfully he had procured a supply of Viagra and was able to perform up to her standards, emerging from the training run unscathed apart from a bite mark or two and a sore tongue.

  Around noon they went shopping for lingerie, a brief excursion that saw her buy a variety of peignoirs, bra-and-panty sets, and a number of more risqué costumes. Upon their return to the Bon Temps, Luisa put on a fashion show, modeling each and every item, breaking from the process for bouts of coitus interruptus. Their involvement had been so all consuming that it had frustrated Snow’s desire to extract information from her about the PVO, but the fashion show afforded him an opportunity to ask his questions. He had thought that he would have to be subtle in his interrogation, but once he got her started Luisa spoke freely about her husband’s lack of character and his nefarious activities. One typical exchange went as follows:

  Luisa (from the next room): Here I come, baby!

  Snow: Okay!

  (an interval of several seconds)

  Snow (hushed): My God.

  Luisa: It’s pretty, no?

  Snow: That’s not the word I’d use. You look . . . incredible. Amazing. There are no words. Enrique’s eyes are going to bug out when he sees you in this.

  Luisa (sternly): Enrique never see me like this. Never. These clothes . . . they are for you. No one else.

  Snow: Don’t you have to show him stuff that proves you went shopping?

  Luisa: I buy some junk at the airport . . . at the duty free shops. Here. You like me like this?

  Snow: Oh, yeah!

  Luisa: You ready for me?

  Snow: What do you think?

  Luisa (giggles): Look. I can slide this over like so. And then I can sit like . . . Ohhh! That’s so nice!

  (a minute or two of strenuous breathing)

  Luisa (playful): Let me go, baby. I don’t want you to come yet.

  Snow: You’re going to fucking kill me.

  Luisa (laughs): I’m going to try.

  During a viewing of the next outfit:

  Snow: I don’t get it. Won’t he be able to tell you bought lingerie from the receipts?

  Luisa: Enrique don’t ever look at the receipts. He don’t do nothing. I take care of the receipts, the bank, everything. That’s how I know where he goes on and the presents he buy for women. Puto pendejo! Lambioso! He don’t care if I know about them!

  Snow (casually): Where’s he go on these trips?

  Luisa: Mexico, sometimes. But mostly he goes to Tres Santos.

  Snow: Tres Santos? That’s a little speck of a village. At least it used to be. What’s he do there?

  Luisa: It’s where he meets the Jefe. The guy who runs the PVO. How’s this?

  Snow: Very sexy. Beautiful. So what’s his name?

  Luisa: Jefe. They just call him Jefe ’cause he’s the boss, the chief. He don’t like names. He got lots of secrets and he don’t ever leave Tres Santos. Enrique says he’s a really weird guy. He spend all the time flying inside this big building.

  Snow: I’ve never heard of anything like that – flying in a building.

  Luisa: I don’t know nothing about it. That’s what Enrique says.

  Snow: What’s Enrique do? Does he fly, too?

  Luisa: He fucks whores. I can smell them on him when he come home. And I can tell there are many because of the clothes he buy for them. Clothes like this. Different sizes.

  Snow: I don’t recall there being any whores in Tres Santos. The population couldn’t support them.

  Luisa (impatiently): Well, they got some now and Enrique buys them presents. Why you care? You want to talk about Enrique or you want more of this?

  Snow: It’s just I can’t believe he goes with whores when he has a beautiful woman like you.

  Luisa (coyly): You like these, eh?

  Snow: When you shake them like that, I can’t think of anything else.

  And again:

  Snow: Maybe he’s a fag. You ever think about that?

  Luisa: Enrique?

  Snow: Maybe the reason he goes to see the Jefe so often is because they’re fucking.

  Luisa: No, not Enrique.

  Snow: You say this Jefe’s a weird guy. And powerful. Power can be sexy. Enrique wouldn’t be the first person to switch teams in that kind of situation.

  Luisa (uncertainly): Jefe’s got a woman, but . . .

  Snow: But what?

  Luisa: She’s sick or something. I don’t know.

  (a pause)

  Luisa: I’m going to try on that black lace thing. What you call it?

  Snow: A peignoir. />
  Luisa: Yeah, I’m going to try that on.

  Lastly:

  Snow: If you wear that tonight, I’ll rip it to shreds.

  Luisa: You can rip up anything you want. We buy more next time.

  Snow: You make me so crazy, I might hurt you. Accidentally, of course.

  Luisa: You hurt me last night, baby. Did I complain?

  (she hums absently)

  Snow: You know, the more I think about it, the surer I am that something weird is going on with Enrique and Jefe. You say Jefe lives alone, unprotected? No guards, no soldiers?

  Luisa: He don’t need them. Everyone is scared of him. Every time they walk around in the village, the people hide. Enrique say Jefe laughs when he sees that.

  Snow: Right, and yet you’re telling me there are a couple of dozen whores in the village. It doesn’t make sense. Maybe the presents Enrique buys, maybe he does that to cover up what’s really going on. What’s he tell you he does with Jefe?

  Luisa: They talk about the elections, about they going to get the country back on the right track. Make the army stronger.

  Snow: (mutters unintelligibly)

  Luisa: Huh?

  Snow: Nothing.

  And so it went. Sex, driblets of information extracted, more sex, the sole interlude an excursion out onto Collins Avenue and the Mynt Lounge, an exclusive club whose doorman dropped the velvet rope for Luisa, glanced suspiciously at Snow, and ushered them into a surprisingly drab room with black theater carpeting and spacious booths with Mynt green lighting and black walls painted by video projectors (at the moment they were playing what looked to be clips from the SeaWorld aquarium – manta rays and sharks and barracudas, oh my), presided over by a high priest DJ wearing robes adorned with Illuminati-type symbols, mystic eyes, ankhs, radiant objects, who spun anthemic techno at ear-bleeding levels, the dance floor jammed with cavorting models in micro-minis and drug dealers and their clients butt-shaking their way to Jesus or, more likely, the Big Red Dude, and a swank of celebrities, foremost among them in terms of personal power, a black-clad movie director named Brett (a purveyor of cinematic dog shit, in Snow’s view), the Annoying Ego-monster Incarnate with a Van Dyke that reminded him of Guillermo, who swaggered over to their table trailed by his personal assistant, a diminutive clean-shaven imp or familiar also dressed in black and bearing a bottle of designer vodka and three glasses (the imp was not permitted drink, apparently, lest he grow great with self-importance), and following an exchange of cheek kisses with Luisa, the Bearded One inquired of Snow his place in the world, a shouted conversation that evolved into a tiresome supercilious put-down once Brett ascertained that his place was lowly, though Snow wasn’t altogether sure whether or not he had fallen prey to paranoia, because Luisa had earlier that evening slipped him a large blue capsule whose contents wreaked havoc with his judgment and caused the inside of his eyeballs to itch and filled the air with lime spiders and their dark, astonishingly complex webs in which Snow could detect patterns revealing of both past and future, presenting him with the once-in-a-lifetime ability to anticipate the onset of consequential events, but that he wasted on foreseeing the approach of a model with icy eye shadow and breasts like highway emergency cones who slithered up shortly before they headed back to the Bon Temps, insisting that Brett and Luisa do jello shots off her lovely, tanned tummy, as an afterthought including Snow in the invitation, though not the imp – thoroughly disoriented at this juncture, he complied, pretending to be flattered, delighted, eager, but found the experience unpleasant, like licking puke off a still-convulsing corpse, and then lifting his head from this ghoulish feast he saw that the legion of the beautiful damned on the dance floor had broken out sparklers and were waving them around, setting fire to the webs, sending the spiders scuttling for cover, and a booming female voice exhorted everyone to ‘. . . feel free . . . while there’s time to be free!’, words to live by, advice Snow took to heart and went out into the soft warm air lit by the glowing, buzzing, neon cuneiform sign language of the Bauhaus hotels just off the strip, the noise from Collins Avenue – whooping groups of revelers, the purr and growl of muscle cars, sexy and dangerous, dripping with reflected light – a relief by contrast to the din of Mynt, and as they walked he tried to recall a clever phrase he had come up with, something about performing a glitterectomy on the nation, but removed from the environment that had bred and nurtured and defined it, the fundamental relevance of the phrase fizzled out, and Snow along with it.