The Enigmatologist

by Ben Adams

  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.

  And if she did come out, that’d be worse. He’d have to be interesting, funny, charming. The last time he had to impress a girl he was at a student art show, glass of boxed wine in his hand. His roommate had fixed him up with a fashion design major, a student award winner, whose work was comprised of evening gowns made out of restraining orders and Ed Hardy t-shirts. He charmed her for the first hour, but when he ran out of conversation material he reverted to talking about his favorite Cape Canaveral episodes and puzzle theory and she left with another artist, also a student award winner, who constructed sculptures out of mummified pigeons. By the time he started working for Rooftop, he was out of practice, had forgotten how to be interesting. And sitting on the barstool, he kept telling himself, ‘Don’t talk about Cape Canaveral, don’t talk about Cape Canaveral…’ repeating it mantra-like.

  Then he saw Rosa standing at the door, radiant, glimmering, and his thoughts evaporated, were forgotten.

  She stood at the door, looking around. John half-stood and waved exuberantly, childlike. He quickly dropped his hand, embarrassed. Rosa waved gracefully and floated over, otherworldly. She wore a dark green leather jacket, and a green, gossamer scarf was wrapped several times around her neck, hanging loosely around the neckline of her black dress. Soft and black, her hair was down, brushing her shoulders as she glided toward John. She ran her hand through it, her fingers piercing the dyed blue streak.

  John stood as Rosa reached out to hug him. He hugged her with one arm and held the bar with his free hand for support, like the moment had made him lightheaded.

  “Hello, John,” she said releasing him. “Lee, are you keeping John company for me?”

  The sheriff took his hat off the barstool next to him and slid over. “Rosa, why don’t you take this seat? I’ve been keeping it warm for you.”

  Rosa sat between them.

  “Uh, Rosa. Hey?” Levi glanced toward the men seated at the table by the window. “What are…what are you doing here?”

  “John invited me out for a drink. Can I get a bourbon neat, please?” She put her hand on John’s arm. John smiled and leaned in.

  “Uh, yeah. Okay.” Levi brought Rosa her drink, staring at the men in the back.

  “Is he okay?” she asked John.

  “It’s nothing to worry about,” John said, sipping his drink. He wanted to relax and forget about the men in the back and everything they promised. He wanted to focus on Rosa, enjoy the moment with her. She made him feel alive, like he could fill out a crossword with his left hand while arm wrestling a polar bear wearing a luchador’s mask.

  Rosa smiled, sweet but guarded, hiding what really made her happy. John hoped it could be him.

  They talked for a while. He told her about puzzles, Cape Canaveral, made bad jokes. She laughed and touched his arm. John reached out to touch her, but pulled back. Instead, he smiled and leaned in closer, until there was almost nothing separating them. Their legs brushed. John laughed, jerked his leg away, then moved it back. Rosa put her hand on his knee. John inched his fingers over to touch her hand, excited to feel her skin under his fingers.

  Then he heard a thunk.

  And quickly turned to the bar.

  Ol’ Bonethumper lay on the bar in front of him. The words ‘Ol’ Bonethumper’ had been burned into the ax handle with a magnifying glass, a technique from Sun Burnt Portraiture 202. Levi motioned toward the back. John swept Ol’ Bonethumper off the bar with his left hand, holding it so it was hidden behind his forearm.

  The two men moved toward them, bumping and pushing people out of their way, causing drinks to spill. Those with wet and boozy hands spun around, started to say something, but stopped at the sight of the two men walking with the gait and disposition of men willing to do anything.

  “Rosa, get behind me,” John said.

  The men stood in front of them. Sheriff Masters and John slid around, forcing the men to press their backs to each other, trapping them.

  “Rosa Jimenez,” one of them said, looking right through John, “please come with us. We have some questions we’d like to ask you.”

  “What do you want with her?” John asked, surprised by the authority in his voice.

  “That’s none of your concern,” he said, not looking at John. “Ms. Jimenez, I’m not going to ask again. You need to come with us.”

  He reached past John with his left hand and clutched her arm, exposing his gun in its shoulder holster.

  “Let’s go. Now,” he said, squeezing.

  “Hey! Ow!” Rosa cried, as he yanked her arm.

  John was always irritated at something. Rooftop would tease him, saying it was art school snobbery, but his outward irritability hid a suppressed rage, fueled by the twice-held-back grade school thug who made fun of him for not having a dad, the editors that sent him rejection letters, having to photograph a cheating husband getting dry humped by a mega-church pastor wearing an inflatable Sumo wrestler suit. He never expressed his frustrations through violence, instead opting for snide remarks or a misdirected tantrum, usually when discussing his father, but when the man grabbed Rosa, John erupted.

  He grabbed the man’s wrist and reared back to hit him with the handcrafted baton.

  John woke on the barroom floor. His mouth was wet and the liquid tasted like iron and he knew he was tasting his own blood.

  “Is he dead?” Levi asked, pointing the gun at the other man. He leaned over the bar, glancing down at John.

  “Keep your gun on him,” John said, pointing to the sheriff’s man. He reached for the barstools and lifted himself up. His legs swayed and an older, bearded man helped him stand. John gripped the bar for support. He wiped the blood from his face with some bar napkins. His perception seemed compressed and he heard a faint but constant tone. The concussion symptoms quickly vanished and the world around him glared with the acute sensitivity of an exposed nerve.

  The stench of liquor. The whispers from the drunken crowd in the bar. A man lay on the floor, his limp body bleeding between empty barstools and broken bottles. John remembered him grabbing Rosa. He remembered trying to step in. Then darkness.

  John leaned over and said, “Jesus Christ. What happened?”

  “That fella knocked you out,” the sheriff said, pointing to the man on the ground. He pointed to the older, bearded man. “Then Charlie and the boys went all ‘Whack-a-Mole’ on
him. You’d better search that sonuvabitch, if you can.”

  The sheriff grabbed the conscious man, spun him against the bar, and began searching his pockets.

  “I’m a federal agent,” the man said.

  “Mister,” the sheriff said, shoving him into the bar, “look around. You think anyone here gives a shit about the federal government?”

  The man on the floor was lying on his back, one arm knitted into the legs of a barstool. John knelt by him. Blood ran down the man’s face, staining his collar. John put two fingers against the man’s neck, checked his pulse.

  “He’s alive. Just unconscious.”

  Some of the man’s blood was on John’s fingers and John rubbed his thumb against them, smearing the blood.

  The man’s jacket was open, the gun exposed. John put it in his hoodie pocket. Another gun was in a holster around the man’s ankle, a smaller one. The man the sheriff searched had the same guns on him. Neither of them had any ID.

  “Where’s your ID, G-man?” the sheriff asked.

  “I’m undercover.”

  “Sure. And I’m the King of Las Vegas.”

  “Sheriff, this guy’s got a thousand dollars on him,” John said, counting the cash.

  “Same with this here fella.”

  John handed his money to the sheriff. Sheriff Masters put half in his pocket, threw a thousand dollars on the bar. “Looks like drinks are on these fellas tonight.”

  Everyone in the bar laughed, their mouths watering for their next drink.

  “Charlie,” the sheriff said to the older, bearded man, “I’m gonna call the station, have them send Jimmy out here to get these fellas. Keep an eye on them for me would you.”

  “I already called,” Charlie said.

  Within seconds they heard sirens. A deputy was followed into the bar by a couple of paramedics with a gurney. The deputy was in his early forties. His hair was short, spiked on top and long in the back, reaching his uniform’s collar. The sides of his head were shaved. Gray whiskers lit his Fu Manchu mustache.

  “Levi, bro, what’s up?” He extended his fist toward Levi. The bartender rolled his eyes, but gave him the fist bump. “Rosa, what’s up, mamacita?”