by Ben Adams
“Rosa, did you…”
Rosa blushed and looked at her shoes.
“You did! Holy shit! You fucking did!” Jose leapt from the ground, the beanbag chair still holding the imprint of his body. He dropped the bong, spilling the brown water on his stained carpet. “Why did you…Did Louisa ask you to do this? You know we don’t have to do what she says. She’s out there, sitting in the desert, we’re here. We can do whatever we want.”
“He’s sweet. I like him. And…I don’t know…” Rosa looked at the posters on her bother’s wall, the bikini clad women sprawled across sports cars or dangling on young men like platinum jewelry. Her brother wouldn’t understand that John made her feel loved enough that she could wipe away the barriers and disguises she used to protect herself from the leers of the men in town, that with John she could be herself.
“She doesn’t get to tell us what to do. This is a new world, our world. She wasn’t born here. We were. We don’t owe her anything.”
“You let those college kids beat you up because she asked you.”
“That was different. You needed to get the sheriff to…Doesn’t fucking matter why I did it. I ain’t doing shit for her again. Fuck her. She can rot in that trailer park. From now on, I’m doing me.” He picked up his bong, then added, “I coulda taken those frat boy putas.”
Her brother was right, that she was only responsible for herself. She had always been loyal to the old ways, to the plan. When she was younger she understood it, embraced her role, was excited about living a double-life in New Mexico. She even anticipated the future, the end of everything. It had comforted her. For the past several years, she’d been operating on her own, building a life independent of oversight. She’d grown to enjoy it and was scared by the possibility that she didn’t believe anymore. Then she received her latest assignment: John Abernathy. It was supposed to be simple reconnaissance, find out everything she could about him. She would smile, thinking about him, the puzzle-related puns he’d make when he hung out with his college friends, how he worked on his puzzles for hours every night after his mom went to sleep, how he believed in true love and felt ill printing photos of men covering other women’s feet in Nesquik strawberry powder, cheating on their wives, and how he always gave half of his roast beef panini to Doug, the homeless guy who lived in the alley next to his office. And she was surprised when she realized that she was in love with him. Now all she wanted to do was see him again. Only, she wasn’t sure he’d want to see her if he knew the truth.
She wasn’t alone in her apprehension, and she knew Jose wasn’t alone in his thinking. There were countless others like him who just wanted to kick back, coast for a while, delight in the indulgences of this world before everything became really complex.
But that didn’t matter now. Leadbelly was dead and they needed to run, leave behind everything they loved. Rosa would never see John again, explain how she felt. She knew her brother wouldn’t want to leave, knew she’d have to convince him to give up the parties, drugs, bad music.
“You enjoy this life? hanging out with your friends, smoking weed all the time?”
“What the fuck do you care?”
“I always…” she started, hands on her hips. She composed herself, folded her hands and ran them over her nose and mouth. “Jose, the Air Force knows about me. I don’t know how, but they do. That means they know about you. What do you think’s going to happen when they find you?”
“Putamadre,” Jose said, grabbing a pair of jeans off the floor. “I was just starting to like this place.”
He reached for his wallet and cell phone on his dresser.
“No phone,” Rosa said. “We don’t want anyone tracking us.”
“No reception where we’re going anyway.”
Rosa waited for him in the living room, surrounded by pizza boxes, video game consoles, wondering how upset he’d be if she came over and cleaned when he wasn’t home. If they had a home to come back to.
“Jed,” Jose said, knocking on the bedroom door across the hall. “We need a ride.”
Jed opened the door. He was naked except for a pair of mismatched tube socks and a brown baseball cap decorated to look like a designer handbag. Marijuana leaves replaced the logo that dotted the cap. The cap was turned backwards like he’d put it on right before answering the door and reverse was its natural state.
“Damn, son. You got really fucked up last night, huh?”
“Huh? What?” Jed squinted. He rubbed his left eye and half of his face with his hand. Someone moaned and tossed on the bed.
“Is that…Holy shit. You got Dawn in there? You better get your ass to the free clinic, son. Get your shit tested out.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Rosa said.
The aroma of lavender and strong coffee hit Jed. He was suddenly awake and aware of Rosa, his boss, standing in their living room. Jed worked in the restaurant’s kitchen with Jose as a line cook. He was usually late, and smoked weed on his breaks, but Rosa kept him around because he was Jose’s friend. She knew Jed had a crush on her. He was barely able to get through the job interview without blushing. And when he saw her standing in his kitchen, his first thought was, ‘Oh crap, I’m naked. With Rosa here,’ and his second thought was, ‘Damn, I hope I don’t pop a woody.’ He put his hand over his crotch and slammed the door.
Almost immediately the door reopened. Jed was fully dressed. Khaki pants, a short-sleeved, buttoned shirt, untucked, with a clip-on tie. He stood stiff in the hallway.
“I’m sorry about that, Ms. Jimenez, you having to see me all naked and shit,” Jed said, trying to sound professional, and not hung over. He wished he had flowers.
“Don’t mention it,” Rosa said, crossing her arms, tapping her foot on the bong-water, stained carpet.
“Dude, we need a ride,” Jose said. “We’re…”
“Taking a vacation.”
“Yeah, a vacation.”
“I thought you had to give, like, two weeks notice, or some shit,” Jed said.
“I’m the boss’s brother, son,” Jose said, in a developed bravado. “I don’t gotta do nothing. You know this.”
“Seriously?” Rosa said. “This is what you say when I’m not around?”
“So, you gonna give us a ride or what?”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” Jed said. “Where you going?”
“Just drop us off at the bus station,” Rosa said.
They were a couple of blocks from Leadbelly’s when they saw it, a tent of clouded plastic, its white canvas peak rising above the black shingled roofs, a snowcapped mountain in the New Mexico desert.
“That wasn’t there when I left,” the sheriff said.
“Yeah, I’d hate to think you missed a clue like that,” John said.
The displaced trailer park residents clogged the street, blocking traffic on South Grand. Sheriff Masters turned on his siren. People parted, clearing a path for the squad car. The sheriff rolled up his windows and drove through slowly. Muffled shouts. A crowd in robes and tattered pajamas pointed toward Alamo Street. Large, armored vehicles blocked the intersection, barricading them. On the doors were stenciled stars with lines representing wings, a shooting star crashing to town. Sentries guarded the trailer park entrance.
Jimmy’s squad car was parked at the Stuff ‘n Pump. The sheriff parked behind it and jumped out. “Jimmy, what the hell’s going on here? I thought I told you to secure the crime scene?”
“Whoa, Uncle Lee,” Jimmy said. “I did. These Army guys showed up after you left. Dude, they had these papers, yelling about ‘proper jurisdiction’ or some shit. What was I supposed to do? They had papers.”
“They’re not Army,” John corrected him. “They’re Air Force.”
“Bro, what’s up?” Jimmy said. He stuck his hand up for a high-five. John ignored it. “So, you were talking to Rosa last night. She’s one fine piece of poonanny. I’ve been trying to get up in that for a minute now.”
“Goddamnit, Jimmy!” the she
riff said. “You should have radioed in, stalled them until I got back. I’d drag you out to the desert and tie your balls to a goddamn cactus if you weren’t my goddamned nephew. Now, watch how a cop is supposed to act.”
“So, seriously, bro, you hit that? You give her a Tijuana Toilet Seat?” Jimmy asked, his question reminding John that he’d never see Rosa again, and that some people who would didn’t deserve to.
The sheriff stomped toward the tent. John made sure the sheriff was out of earshot before turning to Jimmy, saying, “You remember that guy in the bar, right?”
“Yeah, dude, he was fucked up.”
“You ever talk about Rosa like that again, I’ll rip your fucking arms off. Got it?”
John didn’t remind him that it was Charlie and his friends who beat up the man, and that John was unconscious when it happened. He just walked away, leaving Jimmy standing alone by the cars.
John weaved his way through the crowd. They had surrounded the sheriff and were asking him why armed men had yanked them from their homes. The sheriff tried to be diplomatic, saying he’d get to the bottom of it, but became impatient, agitated, and pushed his way through them.
John and the sheriff squeezed their way to a strip of yellow caution tape that blocked the street. They bent underneath it and stepped into the empty road in front of the tent’s entrance. The walls of the tent were smoked, but blurred images moved behind them. A circus of muffled voices accompanied electronic beeps.
A young soldier was posted by a metal barricade in front of a slit in the tent, guarding the entrance. They tried walking past him.
“I’m sorry, sirs. I can’t let you pass.” The kid stared straight ahead, into that space, the empty source of his courage. He was a few years younger than John, but John sensed the age difference, like the extra half-decade he’d lived gave him a natural authority over the kid.
“I’m the goddamn sheriff. Are you telling me you’re not gonna let me through? This is my goddamn town.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I have my orders.” His rifle shook in his hands, slightly.
“Do you see this badge?” The kid stared straight ahead. “Look at it!” The kid glanced at it, moving only his eyes. “Do you know what it means?”
“Uh.” He finally looked up at the sheriff. “Yes, sir, I know what it means, but, uh, sir, I have my orders. I can’t let anyone through.”
“To hell with your orders!”
“Sheriff.” John put his hand on the sheriff’s shoulder. “There’s no need to yell. I’m sure we can work this out. Airman, I understand you’re just following orders. Maybe it would be best if we spoke to your commanding officer. Why don’t you find Colonel Hollister? Tell him John Abernathy and Sheriff Masters would like a word with him.”
The sheriff gave John a subtle but curious look.
“The motel room,” John said. “Remember?”
The sheriff nodded.
The kid sighed, relieved. He said something into his walkie-talkie, held it to his ear, deciphering squawking, the secret language of airwaves. He didn’t question how John knew Colonel Hollister. It wasn’t his job to question.
“The colonel will be right with you, sirs,” he said, a receptionist with a rifle.
John leaned over the metal barricade, closer to the tent. Behind the foggy plastic, men in hazmat suits ran to all the trailers, holding devices to everything, outdoor furniture, trash, reading residual energy from various types of radiation, then making notes on iPads. One walked out with a box full of Leadbelly’s dirty magazines. He put it in a van by the tent’s entrance. On the van’s side was another logo: NASA.
“Mr. Abernathy, how good to see you again. I’d like to say I’m surprised.” Colonel Hollister walked toward them, his tan arms swinging. He wore an Air Force uniform, minus the jacket.
“But you anticipated me coming out here.”
“I told you, we’re not over.”
“You Colonel Hollister?” Sheriff Masters asked when the colonel stopped at the metal barricade separating them. A young soldier with a battered and swollen face stood behind the colonel, carrying an attaché case.
“That’s correct,” he nodded.
“You wanna tell me what the Air Force is doing at my crime scene?” Sheriff Masters asked, pointing to the tent-covered trailer park.
“This isn’t your crime scene. This is an official military investigation and, as such, is under our jurisdiction.” He crossed his arms and smirked, stiff with false authority, enjoying the metal leaves on his shoulders.
“Like hell! I know a few things about military investigations. The only way this could possibly fall under your jurisdiction is if someone in the military was involved. Now, I know for a fact that no one in that trailer park’s military. So, why don’t you tell me how this falls under your goddamn jurisdiction?”
“Corporal McGillis,” Colonel Hollister said, glancing over his shoulder, “please show Sheriff Masters and Mr. Abernathy the letters from the State Attorney General, the governor, and the president.”
“Let me see those goddamn letters,” the sheriff said. Corporal McGillis pulled a few papers from a folder in his attaché case. Sheriff Masters snatched them from him, his hand extending over the barricade.
Sheriff Masters offered the letters to John, but he brushed them away. He was interested in something else.
“How’d you get those bruises?” John asked Corporal McGillis.
The corporal started to step forward. His swollen left cheek, shaded yellow and green, hid a smile. It caused his left eye to squint and close. He cracked his mouth to speak, but Colonel Hollister interrupted him.
“Don’t answer him, Corporal. Mr. Abernathy, Corporal McGillis’s appearance is none of your concern. Neither you nor Sheriff Masters have any authority to question my men. Now, Sheriff Masters, are you satisfied with the documentation?”
“Well, everything looks on the up and up. I’ll have to verify these.”
“Leadbelly must have been pretty important if you’re going to all this trouble,” John said.
“Gentleman, I have an investigation to oversee,” Colonel Hollister said, turned and began walking away.
“You know, Colonel, something’s missing,” John said. “When you came to my room the other night, there were two men with you. I don’t see them here.”
“What are you talking about?” Colonel Hollister returned to the metal barricade separating him from John. It was lightweight and unanchored, and could be easily tossed.
“Last night Sheriff Masters arrested your two men in connection with the murder of a kid outside Truth or Consequences. He was a reporter for the Enquirer, was supposed to interview Leadbelly.” John didn’t look around the street or at the tent. He stared into Colonel Hollister’s eyes, watching the lines and wrinkles around them twitch.
“And?”
“I find it odd that this kid gets killed, now Leadbelly’s dead. And you’ve been here the whole time.”
“Was that a question or an accusation?”
“Why did you have Leadbelly’s place under surveillance?”
“Mr. Abernathy,” Colonel Hollister said, his voice remaining steady, but agitated, “the desert is a dangerous place, occupied by elements that don’t like questions, or people being where they’re not welcome. I’m sure Sheriff Masters can tell you all about New Mexico’s criminal underworld. And their body count. Or perhaps, since you’re employed by that ridiculous tabloid, you’re convinced there’s something conspiratorial going on, government agencies operating secretly, but the truth, Mr. Abernathy, the truth is, and I suspect this is what your young reporter discovered…” Colonel Hollister lowered his voice and leaned closer, “People die in the desert all the time.”
The colonel pivoted to walk away. Then he turned and said, “Besides, who said those gentlemen are still the sheriff’s guests?”
Sheriff Masters rolled up the documents, slapped them against the railing. He jogged to his car like a retired bull rider with
bad knees, looking over his shoulder, getting more upset with each look, watching Colonel Hollister calmly walk inside the tent.
“Jimmy, go call your cousin and find out the legality of these jurisdiction papers.” He tossed the documents at his nephew.
“Which cousin?”
“The goddamn judge! Which one do you think?” Sheriff Masters threw his hat on the ground and kicked it. “And pick up my goddamn hat!”
“And you,” he said to John. “Why didn’t you raise hell about getting into Leadbelly’s place?”
“They weren’t going to let us in, no matter what we said.” John leaned in, lowered his voice like he was sharing a secret. “You see that kid’s face?”
“He was beat up pretty good.”
“He matches the description of the kid that got into it with Leadbelly the other night at Levi’s.”
“Leadbelly was probably scared shitless they’d come looking for him.”
“Looks like they got to Leadbelly before he could leave town.”
“Why the hell would they kill Leadbelly, then start an investigation like this?”
“I’m guessing they’re covering up something bigger than an Elvis photo.”
An explosion inside the tent. Smoke filled it like a fortune teller’s crystal ball, spirits from the other side trying to make contact, or a parlor trick. Men in hazmat suits rushed into the street, screaming at everyone to get back.
The people in the street ran from the flames, house shoes flapping on the asphalt, or tried to get into the tent, into their homes, either to help put out the fire with garden hoses or to save photo albums, scrapbooks, and other family memories. Sheriff Masters and Jimmy ran to the middle of the crowd, ushering people away from the trailer park.
John checked for Colonel Hollister. He and his men stood on the opposite side of South Grand, away from the smoky trailer, away from the Stuff ‘n Pump, watching the smoke occupy the sky. Seeing that they were distracted, John sprinted toward the tent.
John fought against the ragged house robes and plastic hair curlers congesting the street, slid past the steel barricades, the military vehicles, NASA vans. He slipped through a slit in the tarp. Smoke plumed from Leadbelly’s trailer, filling the upper half of the tent. A Ford Econoline cargo van, its side door open, was parked in front of Leadbelly’s. John ran to it, crouching, one sleeve covering his mouth and nose. Tripping on a can of paint thinner next to a trailer, his sleeve slipped from his face. He expected to choke on the fumes, but he breathed freely in the thick and oxygen deprived atmosphere.