by Lara Reznik
Joey snoozed on.
Soon the lights of Santa Fe sparkled in the twilight on the horizon and the dark storm let up. The Mercedes was so ef-in far out. No way my Daddy’s Chevy Impala, or my friends’ broken down VWs, Pintos and Gremlins could have made it through the mountains in this storm. This car was one fine machine.
The sunrise radiated orange-red flames through the mountaintops. The car clock said 6:09 a.m. The plane didn’t depart until ten. I calculated that we still had plenty of time. An hour to get to the airport, another to park the car, check in, and board. Unless there were further delays, we’d be fine. Lord only knew what would happen if I missed that flight.
Joey bolted straight up in the back seat and started banging his foot on the floor. I peered in the rearview mirror as he unraveled the ace bandage. He was sweating profusely. “Shit.”
He looked scary. “Are you okay?”
“Can’t feel my foot.”
A sign up ahead read Angela’s Café. I drove into the parking lot and pulled up next to a rusty pickup. Then, leaving the engine running, I pressed down on the emergency brake and climbed into the back seat to get a better look at Joey’s foot.
He rolled up his pant leg. The ankle still looked swollen but not any worse than when Jaws had wrapped it. But the two smallest toes on his right foot were black. “We need to find you a doctor.”
“I’m good. Just head to the airport.”
I returned to the driver’s seat. An old guy in a fringed leather coat and a cowboy hat lumbered from the restaurant toward the pickup. I fumbled for the handle to roll down the window but couldn’t locate one anywhere on the door. Out of desperation, I pressed down on a little button, and the window rolled down magically. As the man opened the truck door, I yelled, “Hey, mister, you know where I can find an emergency room?”
The cowboy peered into the Mercedes and gaped at Joey’s foot. “Holy shit. You better git yourself there soon, son.” He took a stubby pencil from behind his ear and wrote down directions to Santa Fe General Hospital on a crumpled receipt from his wallet.
THE EMERGENCY ROOM APPEARED EMPTY save the petite Mexican receptionist at the counter. She crackled chewing gum while playing a game of tic-tack-toe with herself. Joey introduced himself and held out his foot. The woman bit her lip and told him to follow her, leaving me with a thesis worth of medical forms to fill out. I completed what I could: Joey’s name, the North Hall dorm address, approximate weight and height. I made up answers to the rest. Did he ever have the chicken pox, measles, or mumps? Sure, why not?
When I was done, I padded down the hall to the area where they kept the ER patients. Joey was groaning in one of the cubicles, and I yanked the curtain open. The same tiny nurse was taking his pulse. When she was done, I gave her the forms.
She narrowed her eyes at me. “Gracias, Mrs. Costello.”
Mrs. Costello? I started to open my mouth and set the record straight, but Joey cleared his throat and smiled at me. “You’re the best, sweetheart. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Minutes later, a beautiful woman in a white starched jacket entered the room. A thick black braid ran down her back, and her cocoa-colored skin had a satiny sheen. She extended her hand to Joey, then me. “I’m Dr. Yellow Horse.” Her palm felt calloused like a laborer.
I’d never met a real American Indian person before, and thought she was one of the most beautiful human beings I’d ever seen. I watched as she scrutinized Joey’s chart, then very gently touched his toes. She kept blinking her brown eyes. Her bronze skin paled at least a few shades. “We have no time to waste, sir. Your two little toes have serious frostbite and gangrene is setting in. They’ll need to be removed.”
Joey’s eyeballs protruded like a Pekingese lap dog. “What do you mean removed?”
“No easy way to say this, Mr. Costello. The tissue in those toes is dead. If we don’t amputate them, you could die. The longer we wait the more dangerous it is.”
“I want another opinion. We’re flying to New York in like an hour. I’ll see my doc in Queens.”
Dr. Yellow Horse shook her head. “You don’t have that option. If you fly, it will make this condition worse. Possibly lethal. Do you understand, sir?”
Joey turned the color of an alligator and remained silent.
She glared at me. “Can you sign these papers for your husband?”
“I’m just a… a friend.”
“Please step outside for a moment, Miss?”
“Levin.”
I stood in the hall for what felt like eternity. Maybe an hour. Sweat formed above my lip and ran concentric rings under my arms. The thought of Joey losing his toes made me sick. What will happen to him? What’s in store for me now that I’m certainly going to miss the plane?
The curtain swished opened and Dr. Yellow Horse appeared in the hall. “Your friend has signed the consent for surgery. He’ll be in very competent hands.”
“Can I speak to him?”
“Okay. But he’s on a valium drip… an IV that makes him sleepy. Don’t stay too long.”
When I reentered the room, Joey was like a different person. His leg was propped up on pillows and he grinned at me like a little boy greeting his mama for a bedtime story.
I rushed to his bed and gave him a hug.
“I’ll never forget what you done for me, Laila. Dr. Yellow Horse said I coulda lost my foot. A couple a toes ain’t nothing. She says with physical therapy I’ll walk normal again.”
“If I had gotten you out of the blizzard sooner, you wouldn’t be here.”
“You saved my life. Now catch that plane. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
“I-I can’t leave you here by yourself.”
“The nurse called Uncle Donnie. He’ll be here tonight. It’s all cool.”
“Are you sure?”
He pressed his lips together. “Ben has no business getting you involved in this.”
“I can only blame myself for the trouble I’m in. But what will you do?”
“Uncle Donnie will take care of me. When I’m better, I’ll call Denise.”
“I’ll tell her what happened. She’ll come visit you,” I said.
“No. Promise me you won’t tell her about any of this. She thinks I’m taking care of my mother in Queens.”
“But—”
“Promise me.”
“Okay, I promise.
“And get away from that crowd before it’s too late,” he said.
“I’ll try.” But was I ready to bolt? Those Bridgeport townies had a weird power over me. Especially Ben. I couldn’t explain it. Not to Joey, or Denise, or least of all myself.
And then there was the matter of that plaid suitcase.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Back to Bridgeport
New Mexico, 1970
I reeled out of the Santa Fe hospital in tears. The melodrama of Joey losing his toes left me with a revolting sense that everything had spun out of control. I reminded myself that Dr. Yellow Horse was way cool and Joey would be fine. Okay, maybe not fine, but he’d survive the surgery.
Had I honestly thought this trip was a game? These people were deranged and dangerous. Joey had been used and abused by them. And I had followed in his footsteps. Did Angel have a hit out on me? Isn’t that what those mob guys did? If only I could stop thinking so much, hang a DO NOT DISTURB sign on my brain.
The snow had finally stopped, but a mass of scalloped clouds still hung over the mountains. The sun scattered through fissures in the thick clouds. I cruised down I-25 and slipped Simon and Garfunkel’s Scarborough Fair tape into the 8-track player. The ride seemed longer than I had remembered. Could I have missed the airport exit? At 9:10 signs for Albuquerque International Sunport finally appeared. That left me fifty minutes to park, get in line, and check the bag. My life depended on catching that ten o’clock flight.
Once again I found myself asking a higher power for help. Please God, if you’re up there, let me make this damn flight. Ex
cuse me, sir, I didn’t mean to say damn.
Did I even believe in God? It couldn’t hurt to ask the guy for help. Maybe he was a she. But would he/she know I wasn’t a true believer? And would that hurt my chances for him or her to answer my prayers? Ben had quoted Karl Marx, who said that ‘religion was the opiate of the masses.’ He mocked all conventional institutions such as churches, corporations, the military, the police, and the government itself. “Politicians are the real criminals,” he had said. “If you play by their power hungry rules, you’re nothing but their slave.”
I exited onto Gibson Boulevard and followed the signs to the parking lot. After locking the Mercedes, I raced to the terminal with the plaid suitcase and pink overnight bag thumping along the snowy walkways. My breath formed clouds in front of me. When the terminal doors slid open, a blast of hot air caused my whole body to quiver like I’d entered the warmth of heaven.
Saltillo tile floors, colorful rugs, and Indian paintings flashed by me as I lugged the suitcases to the TWA check-in area. The pungent smell of New Mexico ristras emanated from the red chili pods strung everywhere in the airport.
According to a giant wall clock, it was 9:48 when I finally arrived at the TWA counter where a multitude of travelers stood in line with suitcases, skis, and duffle bags. Toddlers ran about squealing with delight. With minutes left to make the flight, I snaked my way through the line, becoming an instant piranha and recipient of angry glares. I kept shouting, “Excuse me, my plane is leaving in minutes.”
No one really cared. After literally shoving my way to the counter, I tearfully attempted to explain my dilemma to the TWA agent.
She looked annoyed. “Didn’t you hear my announcement?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I just got here.”
“Your flight’s been cancelled. Next one to New York is tomorrow morning. Get in line and I’ll reissue you a new ticket. Now please move so I can help someone else.” She looked away. “Next.”
“Tomorrow? There’s no other flight today?”
Her eyes snapped back in my direction. “We only have one flight to New York a day. You’re holding up the line, Miss.”
A guy wearing a felt cowboy hat grabbed my arm. “Come with me, young lady.” A wry smile was hidden under the umbrella of a fake mustache. Was he a narc? A hit man sent by Angel?
I was hyperventilating when the man pulled off the ridiculous mustache and big hat and swept strands of red waves behind his ears. “Rojo.”
Did he have orders from Angel? I dug out the Mercedes keys from my bag and handed them to him. “The car’s outside.”
“Keep walking,” he said in a gruff voice. He tailed closely behind me until we reached a series of gates that looked closed. Other than a Mexican guy sweeping a broom, there was no one else around.
“Stop here,” Rojo said.
I turned back at him to face my fate. “Is Angel going to kill me?”
Our eyes connected. “He would have been furious if he knew you stole the Mercedes.”
“I-I borrowed it.”
He shook his head. “Makes no difference. You don’t fuck around with a guy like that. When I found your note, I ripped it up and got Jaws to give me a lift down here.”
I felt choked up. “You did that for me?”
“You’re a decent girl. I couldn’t bear the thought of what Angel… never mind.”
“No, tell me.” I said.
“Let’s not go there. It never happened. I drove you down here this morning, right?”
I nodded. “Yes, of course.”
“Whatever happened to fat-face anyway?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Last time I saw him he was a human snowman. Maybe he froze to death.” God forbid.
Rojo gave me a quick hug, and then handed me an envelope. Before I had a chance to ask him what was inside of it, he had vanished among a flight crew headed down the terminal. I owed a lot to him. Crazy Rojo was okay.
As I walked back to the TWA area, I passed by a row of phone booths and entered a vacant booth. I stuck a dime inside the coin slot, and dialed the operator. When she asked how she could help me, I gave her a phony credit card number Chris had provided me.
Chris answered the phone on the second ring. “Hey, baby. Qué pasa?”
I told him about the plane cancellation and said everything had gone okay in Taos, leaving out the part about Joey. I planned to set the record straight when I got back home.
“So you definitely won’t be home until tomorrow?” he asked. He sounded disappointed.
“I don’t know what to do.” I said.
“Relax. Buy a burrito and a few magazines.”
“But what if—?”
“Don’t say another word!”
I sniffle. “Okay. Then I guess it’s goodbye.”
“I love you, baby,” Chris said and hung up.
He’d never told me that before.
I felt bemused by this declaration of love as I dragged the bags over to a row of plastic chairs. It would be a long night. Then I remembered the envelope Rojo had left me, and opened it up. To my surprise it was an American Airlines ticket to Hartford, Connecticut for one MARY JOHNSON. The flight left in two hours. Rojo must have purchased it for me after he’d heard the announcement about the flight cancellation to JFK. No doubt he’d paid for it himself. A true friend. Or did he have another motive?
Either way, I’d be on my way to Hartford soon enough. Home with Chris and Ben. Someday, I hoped to return to The Land of Enchantment under different circumstances. My momentary happiness was interrupted as six men in sports jackets and khaki pants darted into the terminal. Are they narcotic agents here to bust me? Did Angel set me up for revenge?
Pools of perspiration filled my bra as I waited for my inevitable arrest. Then a tall guy with a big nose and a pinstriped suit stepped through the door of a gate flanked by two more dudes in sports jackets and khaki pants. The tall guy smiled and waved at a crowd that had gathered in the area. A freckle-faced kid yanked at his mother’s dress and yelled, “Mommy, who is that?”
His mother pointed at the grey-haired man now engaged in shaking the hands of people in the crowd. “Son, that’s Spiro Agnew. He’s the Vice President of the United States.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Past & Present Collide
Austin, Texas, 2012
Rather than drive home to the lake house and the FBI agent waiting at my door, I head south onto First Street to confront my husband at the rental where he’s temporarily living. It’s time to find out whether my marriage is a over, terminado, finito. A serious migraine throbs in my temples.
Hispanic families sit in lawn chairs on their driveways and porches. An old couple holds hands next door to our house, and I ache with doubt whether Eduardo and I will be like that when we’re old. Will our marriage even survive?
I park the Acura behind Ed’s white truck in the driveway and march up the walkway of the small brick house. The blinds are closed and all the lights are off inside. I rap on the door, then pound on the door, but no one answers.
Across the street Juanita’s Mustang is parked in the driveway. Pastel reflections from a flat screen TV appear in through the living room window. I consider bursting into her house, demanding to know if my husband is there. What’s the worst that can happen? I find them together? Ed has never broken his marriage vows before. But then he’s never moved out of our home before either. And he’s mad at hell at me. If he’s screwing Juanita, better to find out now.
I psyche myself out for a showdown at the OK Corral. You go, girl. March right over there and give that woman a piece of your mind. How dare she try and steal your husband away. Then spit in Eduardo’s face for cheating on you after twenty-five years together.
But I take the coward’s way out and dial Ed’s Blackberry. It rings once, twice, and then goes to voicemail. Is he so mad at me he’s succumbed to Juanita’s charms? What choice do I have but a face-to-face confrontation?
Chin held high, shoulde
rs back, chest thrust forward, I strut across the street to Juanita’s house. A brass wind chime on the overhang of the porch resonates in the breeze. My heart races like it’s competing at the Indy 500.
Juanita opens the door. Her face burns crimson and she raises her painted brows. “Laila!” She’s dressed to the Southwestern nines in a broomstick skirt and snakeskin cowboy boots ready for the annual CMA music awards. “Would you like to come inside?’ she says. “How about a glass of wine or something?”
My throat is so parched I can barely get the words out. “Is, ah, Eduardo here?”
Before she answers, Ed appears at the door. Fully clothed, thank God.
I let out my breath.
“This isn’t our lake house.” He checks his watch. “And you’re four hours late.”
“Darlene had an emergency. I left you half a dozen messages.”
“What emergency could be more important than our marriage?”
“She tried to commit suicide.”
He slouches against the wall. “Jesus.”
“Come sit down,” Juanita offers.
I enter into the living room. Cute place. Wood floors, vaulted ceilings. I’ve rented the house many times to prospective tenants over the years we’ve owned it. Never has it looked so nice. Juanita’s got Louis Shanks style furniture. Not my thing, but the place looks classy.
Juanita sits down on a plush recliner and offers me a seat on a rose-colored silk sofa. Very sleek.
I look at her. “Maybe I will have a little wine.”
“I’ll get it,” Ed says.
Juanita tells him there’s a bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge. “Bring me a glass, too, por favor.”
Ed heads off to get the wine.
Juanita smiles at me. “Agent Lopez is still at your house. I can call him. He’s an amigo viejo, an old—”
“I know what amigo viejo means. I accused you of sleeping with him, remember?”
“Marty… Agent Lopez and I went to the police academy together many years ago. He left APD to join the FBI. For your information, I never slept with him. He had a esposa and a couple of niños.”