So Special in Dayville

by D. Clark Gill

  Ruiz simply shrugs. “I have changed.”

  “Nonsense!” spits the other. “No one changes. We are what we are.”

  “No, that is not true. I have changed.” Ruiz pauses in thought. “I can prove this. For Dayville’s safety, I will give you enough information to destroy the datos network in this country.”

  Intrigued, Doe relaxes his grip on the gun. “Tell me more, Candy Man.”

  Ruiz volunteers quickly, “I will deliver names, addresses, and banks of Los Espejos members.” Tension leaves him as he sees acquiescence in the other man’s eyes. “And I will testify. There is a witness program, yes?”

  Doe contemplates this before negating it with a quick head shake. “There’re too many people involved. It won’t be just you testifying, but everyone who sold an FRC and is forced to turn state’s evidence. Hell, and then there are the factories, whose workers might still be approached by the cartel. Not to mention, everyone who’s come into contact with you could be targeted by the cartel as a bargaining chip to force you not to testify.

  “Dammit to hell, we’d have to put the whole town in WITSEC for this to work.” His grip again tightens on the Glock, and once more, Ruiz tenses for a bullet’s impact. “But, you knooooow,” drawls Doe finally, with a faraway look in his eyes, “that might just be the answer.” Snapping abruptly out of his reverie, he’s obviously come to a decision. He holds up a free hand, whining peevishly, “Well, come on now. Help me up, why don’t you? Were you born in a barn?”

  Ruiz, still cautious, bends down with an outstretched hand. Ever confident, the government man grips it hard while popping to his feet. “I’m assuming, of course, you can deliver on your end.”

  Ajeno bounds out of the shadows where before there was a dumpster. “Heck yeah!” He slaps Ruiz on the shoulder. “You can trust Ricky.”

  “Good God!” The gasp escapes Doe as he reels backward, hitting the alley wall. He stares several moments at the big man who’s grabbed ahold of the fire-escape. Finally, the man in powder blue manages to nod politely. “Hello.”

  “Hiya.”

  Doe thinks fast, looking between the two men as old black and white images rise in his brain. Can this be possible? The resemblance is very faint but it’s nevertheless there. Finally, he licks his lips while shooting a concentrated glance at Ruiz. “Is that right? Are you trustworthy?”

  “Yes,” says Ruiz shortly.

  The Fed goes back to bouncing his gaze between Ajeno and Ruiz. “So I’m assuming you two know each other?”

  “Sure, sure.” A breath escapes Ajeno as he nods. “My name’s Ajeno. Ricky and me known each other real long time—a week, maybe two. He likes stars.”

  Giggles pop out irresistibly from Doe’s pursed lips. “I guess,” he says finally, “he’d have to, wouldn’t he?”

  The fat man grins. One hand still draped over the fire escape, he nods upward at the unusual clarity of the night sky.

  Ruiz, resentful of his hobby being ridiculed, breaks into this exchange, “So you will not blow the dam?”

  Bug-eyed, Doe seems unable to wrest his attention from the enormity of Ajeno. “What? Oh, the dam?” His eyes finally snap to Ruiz. “Well, I don’t knooow. I mean, there’re unions to deal with, and we had to requisition the explosives. It’s complicated, you know, all that red tape. And . . . hell, the guys have worked all day on this, the C-4’s already in place, there’s a post-explosion party to—”

  “I do not testify,” Ruiz’s voice has turned steely, “if you flood this town and make it to fall in the canyon.”

  Ajeno giggles. “Silly Ricky.” A mighty paw slaps the brick of the old factory. “Big things don’t float!” Bouncing a few feet as if to go airborne, he kicks at a soda can, sending it so high that it glints briefly in the security light. “Big things stay put,” he says, pressing his lips together in satisfaction.

  Ruiz ignores him, demanding again of The Weatherman, “You will not blow the dam, is this correct?”

  “Ah, jeez, you’re really putting me on the spot with this. . . .” Doe works out his response by pacing the alley. First, he quickly runs backward. Then, just as rapidly, he runs forward before coming to a complete stop; then he begins skipping away from them again. After five minutes of this, he’s arrived at a decision. “Listen up.” He rubs his palms, and Ruiz, perplexed, notices the light of greed in his eyes. “I’m gonna take a chance on you two. Yeah, that’s right, a chance.

  “Here’s the plan.” He quickly outlines a series of events. “So we don’t blow the dam, but I gotta get something in return for this! I mean, the government will be investing big on this op.” He whips a glare at Ruiz. “You, Ruiz, are going to testify at every trial of Los Espejos members! Not only testify, but talk. I mean, disembowel yourself of every name, date, crime, close associate, and financial infrastructure associated with the gang. Got it?”

  Reluctantly, Ruiz nods.

  “Good,” says The Weatherman, rubbing together his thin, tapered fingers. “That’s real gooooood.” He smiles to himself as if at some private joke, but Ruiz, with a sharpened instinct, feels the other man’s eagerness bloom, as if now the agent’s gotten to the real business at hand.

  Doe turns away from Ruiz. “Now, Ajeno . . . it is Ajeno, right?” When the fat man nods, Doe continues, smirking, “Now your job’s real simple. All you got to do is to help Ruiz here.” He nods, indicating Ruiz. “Understand?”

  Ajeno nods vigorously. “Oh, sure! I like helping Ricky.”

  “Gooood,” drawls Doe. “Then maybe later you and I can talk about other things.” His grin turns wolfish. “And everyone will be happy, right?” Eyes unfocused, he touches his earpiece. “Miller? Hey, Miller!” He listens impatiently before snapping, “Your response took too damn long! Whaddya doing—taking a leak during a firefight situation? You know, don’t even tell me. I don’t wanna know. I said—DROP IT! Just get me a vehicle at the alley’s north end. Got it? What do you mean ‘which end’s north’?!”

  His skeletal hand flies up in exasperation. “No, forget that I asked. I don’t want to know. Put Agent Michaelson on the line . . . you know, the agent with the buck teeth. Oh, is that you, Michaelson?” Clearing his throat of phlegm, he barks out quick orders.

  Finally, Doe refocuses his gaze on the other two men, all three of them still spotlighted in the headlights of a powder-blue SUV that’s now moving slowly toward them from the alley’s far end. “Okay, boys,” says Doe, motioning Ruiz and Ajeno to turn around. “We’re leaving now. So, no peeking to see what direction we take. Our presence in town is strictly classified. I’ll make contact ASAP as soon as we set up our debriefing schedule. Got it?”

  A moment later, the screeching of tires signals the Fed’s departure. Ajeno turns to Ruiz. “There’s just one way in and out of here, ain’t there, Ricky?”

  The other shrugs. “We are alive. Who cares?”

  ***

  “How could I care for a . . . a . . . kidnapper!” wails Crystal. She’s fallen to the kitchen floor, jamming hands over her ears. Minutes pass, maybe hours. Can the police be right? Is Ajeno really a sociopath? Surely, though, he’s not so wicked as to steal someone’s baby! “I won’t believe this,” she tells herself. “I won’t believe this. I won’t believe this!”

  She doesn’t hear the apartment door, left ajar by the departing cops, being pushed open. It’s only with the approach of footsteps that she senses she’s not alone. Her head jerks up.

  Ajeno is awkwardly leaning over her, his enormous belly bunching uncomfortably between them. “Sad ’bout the baby, huh? I tried getting one, but couldn’t. I really did try, but it was too loud.”

  Crystal stares up with silver-dollar eyes. “Oh, God,” she gasps, “it’s true, isn’t it?”

  “No worries. No more baby.” Pursing his lips, Ajeno reaches into his pants pocket, and horror seeps into Crystal’s imagination. What’s he planning to do? What can’t a man do, if he’s so depraved as to kidnap a child? What’s happened to it? The po
lice didn’t say. They had, though, used the past tense. Did Ajeno kill it? Is he now trying to silence her?

  Terror commands Crystal’s attention as he retrieves a medicine bottle. Then, with a motion for her trembling palm, he drops out a small pill. “This’ll help make things like they were. You’ll feel better then.” The square pill, she notices with fatalistic dread, is pink. It reminds her of a Sugar Dot.

  With a start of surprise, she now sees that they’re not alone. There’s the tall, dark man from the diner. He’s kneeling down before her. As his hands replace Ajeno’s touch, her skin warms immediately. “I would like,” he says gently, “to sit you on a chair. You will permit this?” When, mutely, she nods, he lifts her from the kitchen floor and helps her onto a nearby chair. In another moment, he’s pressing on her a cool glass of water.

  “My name,” she feels compelled to tell him before bravely swallowing the pill, “is . . . Crystal.”

  He nods, faintly grinning. “Yes, I know. Ajeno has told me.”

  “And you? What is your name?”

  Ajeno laughs. “Oh, he’s Ricky. He’s my friend.” He claps a meaty hand on Ruiz’s shoulder. “You can trust ’im.”

  Crystal’s gaze widens as, gently, Ruiz continues rubbing her hands as if fearing them to be frostbitten.

  Ajeno straightens his pants like a little boy. “Guess it’s time. Time for me to get to my job at the diner. You working tonight, Ricky?”

  “No.” Ruiz continues staring into Crystal’s eyes. The smell of soap on his skin is making her dizzy. “No, I am not working tonight.”

  Ajeno briskly nods while heading for the door. “Gotcha. You gonna stay here?”

  The tall man asks Crystal, his hands, still encircling hers, going still. “Am I staying?”

  “I can make us some coffee,” she says in a rush. “Or would you like tea?”

  “Coffee, if it is not too much trouble to make it very strong.”

  Her breath catches. “People always call my coffee sludge, it’s so strong.” She stands up, still steadied by him. It’s a wonder, but she feels so much better. It must, she thinks to herself, have been the pink pill. How silly she was to have been afraid of Ajeno!

  Ruiz frees one of his hands to lift it to his lips. An inhalation of garlic, transferred from her to him, makes his groin burn. “It sounds delicioso.”

  “Okeydoke,” says Ajeno, happily going out the door. “See ya!”

  ***

  The admittance of Dayville into the Witness Protection Program happens seemingly overnight. The public is told only that the town is receiving disaster funds to repair communal facilities, and that each inhabitant should report immediately to City Hall for a hefty tax refund. New signs, switched out for old, are posted on public buildings. They establish one Nightdale, USA, a town proud of its newly created colonial roots.

  Fresh history books, artificially aged to circa 1956, detail a community founded in 1733 by disenfranchised wool weavers who believed sheep to be holy. Supposedly, they also abstained from drinking alcohol and habitually put to death any visitors caught wearing cotton. Called The Weavers, they enjoyed operating handlooms during worship services.

  Workmen in powder-blue overalls also work day and night to physically disguise the town. Acid is washed over brick to age the buildings; butter churns are added to public restrooms; while the statue of Daniel Boone in the town square disappears, to be replaced by a bronze herd of bighorn sheep.

  Roads approaching the town are rerouted while federal workmen work feverishly to veil the 1970s construction of Byhalia Falls Bridge. By adding cast-iron fretwork and painting the whole thing a glossy black, it assumes an authentic Victorian air. A new sign at its entrance, chemically aged to appear tattered, proclaims, Nightdale – Civilization’s Past!

  Crystal and the other teachers begin drilling schoolchildren on sheep spirituals and mutton communions as an army of hypnotists descend upon the large meeting room at City Hall to remove, from the collective mindset, any memory of Dayville.

  “You will remember only Nightdale,” they chant to the rhythms of their pendulums swinging back and forth, back and forth. “Dayville was but a bad, bad . . . bad dream.” Back and forth swings the pendulum. “You live in Nightdale. You are very happy and will pay your taxes promptly.”

  Within a week, all these changes, including the arrest of Carlos and his cartel hit men, plus the mayor having reluctantly dyed his hair red to match a new surname of McGregor, are complete.

  Ruiz waits with mounting dread for John Doe to scoop him up in a federal SUV for transport to the closest federal courthouse for his deposition.

  “Why,” asks Ajeno one afternoon, “do you got to leave, Ricky?”

  Ruiz tries to brush it off. “It is nothing. They want me to formally say what I know. That is all.”

  “But you’ll come back here,” Ajeno points to the floor of his apartment, “to me and Crystal. Right?”

  Ruiz inhales sharply. Crystal is busy in the kitchen. She’s especially happy this night since the doctor, removing her cast, has pronounced her foot healed. Now she’s cooking tamales for their dinner, the smell making him swoon with desire for her. “I hope so. Yes, I hope so very much.”

  “You mean,” Ajeno appears to slowly work this out, “they might not? They might keep you,” his fat hands make motions as if patting a box, “locked up?”

  “They might,” admits Ruiz, “but if so, you vow to me to care for Crystal, yes?” The three of them have already talked about how Ruiz might be a better fiancé for Crystal than Ajeno. They are all in agreement.

  But now concern furrows the fat man’s brow. “I don’t want you,” his hands again pat the implied box, “locked up.”

  Ruiz shrugs. “It is the federales; what can we do?” He climbs to his feet, slapping the big man’s arm companionably. “We do what we can. And tonight, that is to set the table.”

  Days pass, and even though townspeople talk of seeing a familiar powder-blue SUV cross the old Victorian bridge back into Nightdale, and even though a burned-out vehicle sporting flecks of powder blue is later found down by the docks, in an area known for the dumping of stolen cars, there’s still no appearance of John Doe.

  Days slip into weeks and then into months, until three months have disappeared like dew beneath a summer sun.

  Finally, Ruiz, unable to stand the suspense, calls the telephone number listed on The Weatherman’s business card. He speaks to a tipsy secretary (it being near New Year’s). She informs him between burps that John Doe is missing and presumed to have fled to a South American nation.

  “They tried,” she drawls, “finding him at his last assignment, some godforsaken town named Dayville, of all things. But the agents come up dry there, too. No one’s ever heard of Dayville, USA.” She pauses with genteel gulping noises. “He claimed a lot of expenses down there, and now folks think he might’ve embezzled that money. Gotta say, sounds fishy!” Her tone turns suspicious. “What’s your business with ’im anyway?”

  “I, uh,” Ruiz stammers, being out of practice lying, “I tell him last summer that I will call about his . . . car. My name is Enrique Ruiz. Did he speak of me?”

  “No, but I wouldn’t worry ’bout it.” The secretary sounds disappointed. “He probably don’t need a mechanic down there in Bora Bora Ding-Dong, or wherever the hell he is. Me, I need a job, but he’s probably sitting fat and happy on a beach somewhere!”

  Ruiz persists, “But my name, it means nothing to you?”

  “Nope, and if I haven’t heard of you, then no else up here has either. I was his personal assistant for over twenty years. I knew everything he knew. But, be my guest, if you really wanna hop the boat to San Miguel-de-I’m-a-loser-who-skipped-out-on-my-loyal-PA!” She belches loudly. “Anyway, we got in-house staff that services our cars.” Silence follows and he realizes she’s hung up.

  Crystal enters the room.

  “I am free,” shouts Ruiz, swinging her around until she giggles. “I am free!”


  ***

  The bride’s bouquet smells of gardenias, each tiny blossom a fresh, crinkled explosion of notepaper, hand-wadded. It was a joint wedding gift from Beth, Eliza, and Lizzie, all still incarcerated in Nightdale’s Mental Health Facility. When picking it up, Crystal had exclaimed over its workmanship, “Oh, Beth, this is lovely!”

  “Eliza here,” came a sullen voice matched by a sternness in the sweet pink face. “Beth is resting. It’s not one of her good days.”

  “Oh.” Crystal clutched the bouquet to her chest. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Eliza’s tone was resigned. “Not really. Lizzie and I take over when she gets tired and can’t remember who she is.”

  Feeling slightly depressed, Crystal rode the bus back to the Eden Palace. She studied the bouquet as rain pelted the metal roof of the bus. The paper flowers, she thought, almost looked real, but something, she knew, was missing. The scent! The paper had no scent.

  So, the day before the wedding, the bride, wearing her heaviest coat and a scarf covering her hair in rollers, went down to the car wash, their array of travel aromas being the widest in Dayvi . . . er . . . Nightdale. A deep inhalation of the paper bouquet now reassures Crystal of her choice. Gotta-Gotta-Go Gardenia has a definite edge over Rambling Ro-Ro-Rose.

  The wedding party includes everyone from the Eden Palace Apartments. Even Fernando and Alejandro attend the ceremony to see Ajeno act as ring bearer.

  Maria is unable to attend due to her continued court-ordered stay at Nightdale’s Mental Health Facility. She’s been there ever since the night Ajeno brought the baby to the trailer. As Crystal proceeds down the aisle at Holy Rosary Cathedral toward a smiling Enrique Ruiz, Maria’s therapist stands by a window across town, asking, “Why do you think your attempts to distance yourself from your son have been unsuccessful? Could you be ambivalent? Maybe you don’t really want to cut yourself off from him.”

  Maria, struggling to speak past the gag in her mouth, can only mumble, “Eees . . . ooot . . . ii . . . OOONN!!”

  “I hear what you’re saying,” the therapist sagely nods, “and it’d be helpful to get at the root of this irrational belief. I mean,” he cocks a doubtful eye in her direction, “hospitals don’t really make those kind of mistakes, now, do they?”