The Enigmatologist

by Ben Adams

  “John, just let me in,” the sheriff said.

  Rosa scooped her clothes off the floor. John turned to warn her about the sheriff, but smiled, her naked back disappearing as she closed the bathroom door.

  “Hold on. I gotta put some clothes on.”

  He grabbed a wrinkled t-shirt, unfastened the door chain. The sheriff rushed past him, a dust devil depositing earth in carpet.

  “Oh shit, John! I went by…What the hell happened here?” The comforter and sheets were pretzeled on the floor, kicked off and twisted together during the night. A tall floor lamp leaned against the window. John’s hoodie was half-draped over the barrel-shaped paper shade. Clothes lounged across the floor. The sheriff bent down at the foot of the bed. He picked up one of Rosa’s green Chucks, laughed, asked, “Aren’t these a little small for you?”

  “What’s up with Al?” Rosa poked her head out of the bathroom door.

  John remembered her moving above him, her hair dangling in her face. She flips it aside and smiles, almost laughs, before rolling over and pulling him on top of her. That look in her eyes that is both remote and immediate.

  Rosa floated from the bathroom, tying her hair back. John put his hands in his jean pockets, smiled and sighed.

  “Oh, morning, Rosa.” Sheriff Masters touched the front of his Stetson, a Western gentleman. “Don’t you worry about it none. We’ll figure it out. I just need to borrow John from you.”

  “Well, then I should definitely be going, let you two get to work.”

  “Wait? Going?” John hoped they’d get breakfast somewhere, that she’d take him to her favorite diner and they’d get to laugh at how awkward they felt as they ate their hash browns, eventually discussing how to extend what they started last night.

  “Yeah, John, some of us actually have jobs to get to.”

  John narrowed his eyes, a little startled by her coldness.

  Rosa put one hand on her hip, the other outstretched, saying to the sheriff, “May I have my shoe, please?”

  “Oh, yeah, sorry,” Sheriff Masters said. “Here you go.”

  Sitting on the bed, Rosa tied her shoes, the final act of dressing, transforming back into a cook. She wadded her stockings and scarf into her jacket pockets.

  “Sheriff, it was good to see you.” She glided over to John. “John.”

  “Let me walk you to your car,” John said, wanting a final moment with Rosa. He hoped that the reason for her change in attitude was because of Sheriff Masters and his news about Leadbelly, and not something he had done.

  “Sorry about the sheriff,” he said. Sheriff Masters stood in the doorway, pretending not to watch.

  “That’s alright, John. I understand. I need to get ready for work anyway.”

  They stood by Rosa’s car. The hot air dried the inside of John’s mouth and he wished for something to drink and instantly remembered all the beer he drank the day before and his head ached and stomach turned. The taste of a bad hangover coated his mouth. And there was the guilt.

  “Rosa, I kinda want to apologize for last night.” John adjusted his glasses.

  “For what?”

  “Well, I’m leaving town soon and I feel like…”

  “You don’t need to say anything.”

  “I just wish things were different. That we were, I don’t know…”

  “John, it’s fine.” She wrapped her hand around his elbow, started to massage his bicep, then turned toward her car. Her windows were down a few inches, mitigating the morning sun.

  John sniffed the air around her. He couldn’t help it. It was his second favorite part about last night, becoming intoxicated by her aroma. John hoped it would send him to some wonderland where he’d forget about Leadbelly and puzzles and would only think about being with Rosa. But her scent was different, like their damp bodies, resting adjacent, had diluted her aroma. Standing next to Rosa, John stuck to the asphalt parking lot and suffered the heat from the sun, the responsibility to his job, the conflicted dedication to his craft, and his desire to be with her.

  “Maybe I could come visit you sometime. I could come down on the weekends.” His hand twitched, about to reach for hers, but he suddenly felt self-conscious and stuffed it in his pocket.

  “You really are a sweet one, aren’t you? I made a good choice with you. What happened last night was wonderful. So, stop worrying.”

  “But what about us?”

  “What about us? We’re both adults. Last night was something we both wanted. Anyway, I need to go home before the big lunch rush. Have fun playing with the sheriff,” Rosa said, tapping him on the chest with the palm of her hand.

  “Rosa, wait. I still feel like…”

  Rosa clenched John’s shirt and kissed him. It was soft and tender, reminiscent of the way she kissed last night. He felt eighteen years of anxiety and frustration over empty puzzles, an absent father, and his stuttered life melt away. Her kiss, the earnestness of it, made him feel like she was the only thing that mattered. He melted into her, and wanted to be with her again.

  She lingered for a moment, her face near his, lips slightly parted with an almost imperceptible tremble. She released him, turning her head and exhaling, her hand skimming his shirt.

  She got in her car, rolled down the window, and said, as if reading his thoughts, “Stop worrying, John. Besides, who says I didn’t take advantage of you?”

  As Rosa drove down the street, John touched his mouth, rubbed his fingers together, awakening the memory of their night, the places their bodies had pressed together, where he’d held her as they fell asleep, her body twitching as she dreamed.

  He’d probably never understand her sudden change. Maybe that was just the way she was, passionate when it suited her, and distant the rest of the time. But it didn’t matter. They had one wonderful night together, one John would always remember. And suddenly the day seemed tolerable.

  “John, you old dog, you!”

  “What did you hear?” he asked, turning.

  “Not much, but I saw her plant that number on you. I ain’t never seen Rosa act like that towards a man.”

  “Really?” John said, unable to hide his excitement.

  “Yeah, really. Lotsa fellas tried asking her out, but she turned them all down. You shoulda seen Jimmy tripping all over himself when she first came to town. So, tell me, how was it?” Suddenly, John was back in the college dorms and his friends were asking him for details, wanting to imagine themselves in his experiences.

  “What? It was…I dunno,” he said, walking back into the room, replaying his night and questioning his morning.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means what it means.”

  He wanted to say it was one of the most amazing nights he’d ever had, that he understood terms like ‘the one’, and thought Rosa might be ‘it’, that he understood every love song ever written, especially the ones from the seventies, played on late night radio shows, and how he might call one of these shows and dedicate a song to her. He wanted to say that he felt empty and agitated now that she’d left, and that he was worried that he wouldn’t see her again and that his half-drunk memories of their night might fade. He silently stared at the spot where she’d slipped off her shoes, thinking that the sheriff didn’t want to hear how he felt, that he was only interested in the explicit details.

  “You’re not gonna say anything about it, are you?”

  “Nope,” John said.

  “Well, just don’t go breaking her heart,” Sheriff Masters said.

  John smiled and looked away. The sheriff didn’t care about the different positions they tried or whether or not John ‘hit it right’. He only wanted Rosa to be happy.

  But Rosa had left abruptly, like she’d realized sleeping with John was a mistake.

  “Might be the other way around,” John said. The bed where they had slept was vacated, the sheets were wrinkled. “So, are you gonna tell me about Leadbelly or not?”

  “Oh, yeah, Leadbelly. Well, I
drove by his place this morning, just to make sure he’d high-tailed it outta town. I saw his truck was parked out front. So, I walked up to his front door, started knocking. As soon I hit his door, it went flying open. I started calling, but nobody answered. It was all dark inside, so I turned on a light and almost had a heart attack. Goddamn place was covered in blood. It was everywhere, the walls, floor, everywhere. I ran back to my car, called Jimmy. Told him to come out, secure the crime scene, that I was coming out here to find you. This might have something to do with your dead kid.”

  John didn’t want to get involved. Rosa was gone. He’d never see her again. She only wanted to be with him for one night, nothing long-term. He didn’t have any reason to stick around. As far as he was concerned, the case was over. He just wanted to go home and work on his puzzles.

  “This probably has something to do with the two guys from last night. The reporter was probably getting close to finding out something about Leadbelly they didn’t want him to know, so they killed him. Go talk to them.”

  “Alright, let’s go talk to them.”

  “Sheriff, I’d love to help, but I gotta get back to Denver, check in with Roof, file my expense report, do some other things.” John pictured himself at his kitchen table, designing a crossword about heartbreak, listening to songs about the emptiness of life.

  “Now, look, I’ve been mighty kind to you, driving you around and whatnot, treating you like a real high-flyer…”

  “Sheriff, I appreciate that, but…”

  “Let me finish.” Sheriff Masters stepped forward, straightened himself, his presence filling the motel room. “Now, you caused quite a commotion in my town, scaring Leadbelly, putting that fella in the hospital. Now Leadbelly’s dead. Whether you like it or not, you got some responsibilities here. You got a mess to clean up. Now, I can’t force you to stay. But this is one a those moments, John. My dad used to call them character moments, where we get to see what kinda man you really are.”

  “What do you expect me to do? I just take pictures.”

  “I expect you to put on your goddamn shoes and get in the car,” Sheriff Masters said, pointing toward the open door, his car parked outside.

  When Leadbelly sped away from the lumberyard, John assumed it was to a gentleman’s club in another part of New Mexico, and John could go back to Denver, to his mom’s apartment, and build puzzles at her kitchen table, ignoring her theories about his dad’s disappearance. But someone had murdered Leadbelly. And now the sheriff stood in John’s motel room, the scene of the best night of his life, asking him to stay and help. He didn’t want to admit it, but part of him was curious, and part of him was terrified. This wasn’t a video game or a movie, the places where he’d encountered violence in the past. It wasn’t entertainment. The violence was real. The two men last night had proven that. And it scared him. He wanted to run back to the safety of his old life, to the comfort of his routines and frustrations. It was one of the major patterns of his life. He ran to puzzles when his dad left, he ran back home after college, living with his mom, working for Rooftop, instead of penciling out his own path, and now he wanted to run back to Denver. Aware of the urge to return to someplace comfortable and easy whenever he became overwhelmed by the prospects of hardship and growth, John made it item number seven on the list of things he chided himself for during late-night reflective moments. However, since checking into the Sagittarius Inn, something had shifted in him. He noticed it just before the bar fight, and when Colonel Hollister had restrained him in his motel room, the itch to act. Now he was feeling this impulse again, compelling him to investigate Leadbelly’s murder. Besides, Sheriff Masters was right. It was his mess, partly. John ran his hand through his hair, groaned at being forced to grow up.

  “Alright,” John said, half-whining. “Let’s go.”

  “Hot damn!” The sheriff slapped his hands together, eager as a kid with a handful of Mexican fireworks ready to lose some fingers.

  John, hand on the door knob, turned back to the empty room. “Hold on a second. I forgot something.”

  He grabbed his gun out of the nightstand and clipped it to his belt. He hoped he wouldn’t need to use it, but knew, after last night, he needed to be prepared.

  The unmade bed, the room smelling of sexual toil. The next time John walked through the door, the place would be clean and spotless, aerosoled and aromatic. John went to the side of the bed where Rosa had slept. He bent over, picked up her pillow, buried his face in the poly-cotton blend, breathed deeply, inhaling what remained of Rosa from the room. Even if he’d never be with her again, he wanted to remember her scent.

  Outside, John pulled the door a couple of times, making sure it was locked.

  “You got everything?” Sheriff Masters asked.

  “Let’s go,” John said, putting his gun in the glove box. They drove down the road. In the side mirror, heat waves blended the motel into the other buildings, another motel, a fast food restaurant, a self-storage facility. Everything eventually melted together.

  The house stank of bachelorhood, stale beer, body odor, and the general filth of young men who were ill-equipped to live on their own. Rosa stood in the doorway to Jose’s house, amazed that her brother could live that way, not caring that his house smelled like a toilet full of bong water. She wiped her feet on the mat she bought him as a housewarming present and stepped inside. She shook her head in disgust and hurried past the coffee table littered with plastic sandwich bags that were dotted with green flakes and seeds, past the pink-tiled bathroom and the stacks of Maxim magazines next to the toilet, not wanting to think about the magazines Jose and Jed didn’t leave lying around, to her brother’s room.

  “Jose! Get up!” She said, pounding on his door, the thin wood almost cracking.

  “What?” Jose said, the door muffling his voice.

  “Get up! We have to go.”

  “What the fuck. I don’t gotta be in until…Shit, it’s still early.”

  “Get. The. Fuck. Up. Now.”

  Rosa heard shuffling and collisions as Jose stumbled over piles of clothes and bumped into cabinets and an end table. He cracked the door.

  “Are you alone?” Rosa asked. “Do you have a girl in there with you?”

  “Damn, woman. What kinda question is that? You know this ain’t Las Vegas, it’s Las Vaginas.”

  “Are you alone?” she asked again.

  “Yeah. Come in,” Jose said, rolling his eyes, rocking his head. He was wearing light blue boxers and a wife-beater that was sweat-stained around the collar and arm pits.

  Rosa crossed her arms, stared at the brown, circular water marks on the popcorn ceiling. She was always amazed that they were related. She was organized, motivated, driven. Her restaurant had become the star of the plaza. She intended to capitalize on her success, spread out, franchise, grow her business, bring jobs and money to town, make a difference. Jose was interested in growing other things. Every time she visited him, Rosa was reminded of this. It started when she helped him move in. Jose had refused to unpack until he had smoked a blunt and covered the walls of his room with posters of cannabis leaves and large-breasted women.

  Jose plugged his phone into a set of speakers, nodded his head to a reggaeton track about the singer and his friends smuggling weed across the border in underground tunnels, stopping periodically for blowjobs.

  “Pack a bag,” Rosa said.

  “How’s about I pack a bowl? I don’t gotta be at work for, shit, I don’t know, a while.” Jose plopped onto a beanbag chair. The bag wheezed and little Styrofoam bits spewed out of tiny holes. He picked up a red, plastic bong, a foot long, and poked the bowl with his finger, checking to see if there was something in it he could smoke.

  “Hold on. I gotta hit this shit. Wake and bake, beotch.” Jose grabbed a plastic lighter, the childproof metal band pried off, from his dresser and lit the bowl, inhaling. The dried grass and resin sizzled. Gurgling water. The red tube filled with smoke. Jose slid the bowl out, clearing the chamber
, and the foot long column of smoke was vacuumed into his lungs and stomach.

  He coughed.

  “It’s Leadbelly.”

  “That pendejo?” he said through his coughs. He exhaled the gray fog, polluting the room with the smell of burnt herbs, light and pungent. “You want some?”

  “I’m trying to have a serious conversation here,” Rosa said, fanning smoke from her face.

  “Didn’t think so,” Jose said. He took another hit. The embers in the bowl glowed then died.

  “You remember the other night when we saw him? He said someone was after him.” She crossed her arms and leaned against the door.

  “You can’t take anything that guy says seriously.” Jose’s voice was high-pitched from holding in the smoke.

  “Well, he was right.”

  “Shit, he’s a walking ad for herpes cream.” He exhaled, coughing.

  “Last night…”

  “Let me tell you about last night.” Jose grabbed a large plastic cup of water and drank. “Me and Jed went over to Dawn’s house. You remember her? She used to work at the Conaco by the airport.”

  “These two guys came up to me at Levi’s.”

  “Why you hanging out there? That place sucks. You shoulda come with us to Dawn’s. She was having people over.”

  “They tried to force me to go with them.”

  “This guy Nick pulled out this bag of Purple Kush.” Jose pantomimed holding the bag. “You shoulda seen that shit. Nugs all covered in these red hairs. Nothing we could do but smoke that shit down.”

  “I think they were Air Force.”

  “What the…How did they…” Jose leaned forward. “What did they say?”

  “They tried to make me go with them. Nothing happened, though. Fortunately, John was there and stepped in.”

  “Who’s John?”

  “He’s kind of my boyfriend,” Rosa said, shrugging one shoulder, tilting her head to the side.

  “Is this that asshole kid from Denver?”

  “He’s nice,” she said, putting her hands on her hips.