When Pigs Fly

by Bob Sanchez

  “We had a beef.”

  “That much I figured. You can’t kill him, though. My prints are all over this place, I’d look bad.”

  “You don’t want him dead, what are you doing here?”

  “Business. After the successful conclusion of which you can feel free to kill him all you want.”

  Zippy opened the refrigerator. “Doesn’t this asshole keep anything to eat or drink in here?”

  Diet Cola put his hand on his stomach. The roast beef was great, but next time he’d pass on the hot peppers. “Have a glass of water,” he said, “then sit down. You wanna make a coupla grand?”

  “Why not?” He filled a glass with tap water and sat down at the kitchen table.

  “You can work with me. Mack Durgin’s got an urn with a guy’s ashes inside. His widow wants them back.”

  “What, like cigarette ashes?”

  Diet Cola thought how lucky he was to find a partner like Zippy. “Yeah,” he said. “Twenty years of Lucky Strikes. Can you believe it? The only memento she had of her old man, and Mack Durgin won’t give it up.”

  “What the hell does she want that back for?”

  “Hey, I’m just snapping your jock. There’s really a hundred million bucks inside—Hah! Gotcha again! Look, it’s a family dispute. The old man got cremated and Mack stole the ashes, thinking he could hold them for ransom.”

  “The prick. How much?”

  “Twenty-five grand, which the lady won’t go over ten. She says her husband screwed around on her, so he wasn’t worth any more than that. You help me out, you get half once I collect.”

  They shook on the deal, then Zippy washed his hands in the sink.

  Diet Cola wondered if he’d find the lottery ticket while it was still any good. It had been pretty quiet outside; if he’d heard anything, it would’ve been the friggin’ pavement boiling. He sure hadn’t expected to hear a clank and a grunt from the direction of the carport, so he slipped out the back door and walked around the side to see what was going on. A car sat in the street and the bozo who presumably owned it tinkered with the inside of another car, this one with Massachusetts plates and in the shade of the carport. Diet bent down and pulled the guy out by the seat of his pants. The wimp yelped like a puppy. He looked exactly like Elvis except for his face and his hair. He had the sideburns, but his hair was scarce on top. His face and neck looked like they’d taken a serious hit from a meteor shower or smallpox, take your pick. The boozer’s nose, the giant purple blotch on the left side of his face, the brown moustache, the half-assed squeal of fear, none of those were the King, but who else wore a jacket with sequins and shoes that looked like blue suede?

  Diet stepped on them. Elvis only stopped screaming when Diet closed his good hand onto the sucker’s Adam’s apple until his face went red.

  “Mack Durgin? Where’s my ticket?” Diet eased his grip.

  “I’m not Mack Durgin. Honest to God I’m not.” Diet slapped his face.

  Zippy watched from the other side of the car, laughing as he lit a cigarette. “That’s not him. Mack Durgin is bigger and older and doesn’t look like such a moron.”

  Of course, Zippy looked like his brains were falling out, but Diet Cola let it go.

  “What’s this about a ticket?” Zippy asked, but Diet had already opened the wallet he’d pulled out of Elvis’s back pocket.

  “Elvis J. Hornacre, Massachusetts license,” Diet said. “So you are Elvis.” There was plastic wiring on the floor that he hadn’t noticed before. He had looked over every inch of the inside, looking for the lottery ticket. “You can’t be here to repo this piece of junk, and I’d bet a dozen donuts it doesn’t belong to you. So what brings you here?”

  “It’s mine. It is.”

  “Your name’s not on the registration, nitwit.”

  “Well, uh, no. The car’s in my girlfriend’s name. Cal Vrattos.”

  “She broke up with you, right?”

  “Naw, she wants me to fix something.”

  Zippy walked out to the street to Elvis’s car and in two minutes came back holding up a black electronic box with wires dangling in the air. “Fucker had a souped-up GPS system out there.”

  Diet Cola smiled. “That’s why she had a homing device inside her door panel. Lover boy here was tracking her. You’re going to kill her, aren’t you?”

  “Naw. Naw, I’m just gonna—”

  “You’re just gonna undo whatever you got wired up in there. Right now, I don’t have much time left.”

  “I—but I can’t, it could blow.”

  “That’s okay, Zippy and me will stand back.”

  “No! It’s too dangerous.”

  “No more dangerous than trying to get past me and Zippy. You blow that car, you wreck more than a piece of machinery, more than some poor babe’s life. You also place my business plan in severe jeopardy. Zippy, you want to move his car out of sight while I supervise Mister Elvis here?”

  Elvis nervously removed a gray wad of what Diet Cola guessed was Semtex or C4 attached to a couple of wires. The damned thing probably would have cratered the house and attracted every cop within a hundred miles. “You’re a homicidal maniac,” Diet Cola said, placing an arm around Elvis, who tried unsuccessfully to pull away. “And I mean that in a good way.”

  Chapter 23

  That evening, Mack and Cal walked into Tucson’s Golden Burrito Restaurant and asked for the Durgin party. A wooden wall contained a collage of neckties nailed like the scalps of overdressed patrons. The hostess wore high-heeled leather boots, thigh-high leather pants and a pink shirt with heavy stitching that looked like a mole burrowing just under a layer of fabric. The restaurant logo, an improbably gold image of a burrito, showed lines of curly steam above her right breast. She led them to a table where his parents waited. His father wore pressed slacks, a sport coat and a blue shirt with the stub of a red silk tie cut off just below the knot. Mother wore a pink dress that clashed with the jeans and shorts that other patrons wore. Mack hugged them both, then introduced my friend Cal. They all sat down and placed their drink orders with the waitress.

  Brodie placed her hand on Cal’s hand. “You look lovely, dear.”

  Cal beamed. “Thank you.”

  “Nivea works wonders, doesn't it?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “The facial cream we sent you, Mary. It just melts away those wrinkles.”

  “I'm not Mary. I’m Cal.”

  “Oh.”

  A pain stabbed Mack's heart. “Mary died last year, Mom and Dad.”

  “Oh my God, no!” Brodie gasped. “Mackenzie, I am so sorry! Why did you keep this from us, son?”

  “I didn't, Mom. You both went to the funeral.”

  “Then who is this woman?”

  “I introduced her just now. Cal is my friend.”

  “Is she your girlfriend?”

  Mack squeezed a slice of lime into his Tecate beer. “If it develops that way, I'll call you, Mom.”

  “But I am your Mom.”

  Mack sighed.

  “Are you in love with her?”

  “We’ve only known each other two days. I'd say I'm in like, but I can’t speak for her.” Cal winked at Mack and gave him an encouraging nod.

  “In like who? Like Flynn?”

  “Mrs. Durgin,” Cal said, “I see you've been shopping.”

  “Indeed, which reminds me why we came here.” Brodie reached into her shopping bag and pulled out a small white box with a ribbon on it. “For you, dear. It's just a silly thing we picked up here in town.” Cal undid the ribbon and opened the box to find a glass sphere with a desert scene inside: a man riding a burro alongside some cactuses. Cal shook it and watched white flakes fall to the bottom.

  “A saguaro snow globe! Thank you! I didn't have one!”

  Carrick became serious. “And now the reason we came to see you, Mack.” There was a long silence. Brodie whispered in her husband's ear, and he pulled out a package that looked like it contained a framed picture.


  Carrick cleared his throat. “You were an officer of the law for thirty years.”

  “See, Cal? I told you.”

  Cal speared a slice of avocado and looked up at Carrick. “I never doubted you.”

  “Children looked up to you, the citizenry of Lowell felt safe with you, and many killers, thieves, and drug-dealing dregs went to jail because of you.”

  “Mack Durgin, this is your life.”

  “No, you’re Mack Durgin. And you retired without ever making Captain.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.”

  Brodie smiled. “But your father and I decided that you deserve an appropriate honor for your achievements.”

  Mack pondered what those achievements might be. There were the usual citations, of course, a few successes that garnered clippings from the Lowell Sun, none of it quite the stuff of legend. When he retired, he and Mary had bought a half interest in a donut shop, Mack joking that it was a natural segue from the public safety arena. Cal remained quiet, her eyes alive with curiosity.

  “You have thirty years of great public service to your credit,” Carrick said. “Your diligent detective work brought down the notorious Canal Street gang. After the great mill fire of eighty-six, you relentlessly tracked down the arsonist and put him behind bars.”

  Mack shook his head and began to speak. He felt a sharp, painful kick in the ankle from Cal at the same time she reached out and held his hand and kept her gaze on his father. Brodie’s face glowed with admiration for her son. The litany went on—much of it true, but pumped up like the walk-on-water resume of a perfectly competent cop who was bucking for commissioner.

  “Your father and I thought you deserved a special honor,” Brodie said. “We called Northeastern University—your alma mater, you know—and they weren’t equipped to help us. Then we surfed the Internet at the public library.”

  “I’m a goofy foot when it comes to surfing,” Carrick said. “Did you read that David Daniel novel, Goofy Foot?”

  “Of course I did. So what did you guys find, Mom?” Mack’s ankle still smarted.

  “It means right foot first on a surfboard. Who says you can’t learn from fiction?”

  Brodie sipped her glass of Pinot Grigio. “We found that not all institutions of higher learning consist of bricks and mortar, son.”

  Carrick straightened himself in his chair, looking slightly embarrassed. “Therefore, by the authority vested in us by Cyberspace University, the most prestigious non-accredited distance-learning institution in America, we, Brodie and Carrick Durgin, do hereby present you with the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in Life Experience.” Together, Mack’s parents reverentially handed him the award. Mack felt the heat in his face, but Cal applauded. It was handsome calligraphy on parchment, with a cherry wood frame his parents probably added separately. Mack hugged and thanked them, then looked at the “degree” with Cal. He hoped his folks hadn’t been scammed too badly.

  “It’s going on my wall tonight,” Mack said.

  “Universitas Cyberiensis,” Cal said, her hand warm on his wrist. “Very impressive.”

  “Latin was extra,” Carrick said, “but you’re well worth it.”

  “Your parents are so cute,” Cal said later. She rode in the passenger seat of Mack’s car, her window down, her elbow catching the warm onrush of Arizona night. Rain had fallen briefly and laced the air with the tang of wet creosote. Tires hissed as the car sped past the Interstate sign, toward the Pincushion exit and Mack’s home. In the darkness lurked cactus ghosts and owls feeding off the night. Mack thought about his Mom and Dad, who had given him life, fed him, nurtured him, taught him. He remembered Mom reading Johnny Tremaine aloud at the dinner table, Dad teaching him to fish, Mom making him finish his math homework, helping him understand the quadratic equations he would never need to see again in his life once his finals were over. Dad teaching him how to box and how to walk away from a fight. To laugh a lot, keep your promises, toss back undersized fish, keep yourself clean, make your gray matter work for you, never take what’s not yours. Mom’s mind had been razor-sharp during all the years of Mack’s childhood and far beyond. When had her edge begun to dull? She’d always had the zinger, the punch line, the quotient just a breath ahead of Dad, while the answers or the wisecracks were still forming in Mack’s mind. Now she seemed unable to reason her way across the street without Dad’s help.

  “Are your parents still alive?” Mack asked.

  “It’s been years,” she answered. “Cherish yours while you can.”

  Mack slowed for the exit, hoping to slow down the evening and keep it from coming to a close. How much of the warmth he felt was the night air, and how much was Cal? It was a foolish question; the dashboard clock said 10:53, and the temperature had to be at least eighty degrees. A trace of moonlight brought Cal’s face out of the shadows for a moment and cause a sexual stirring in Mack. But he didn’t want any more one-night stands, no more bop-and-runs. If only he could persuade her to stop running, to stay here awhile where it was safe. He also thought about his obligation to his old friend, his old dead friend he carried around in a ceramic container in the trunk of his car.

  He dropped her off at his house. She hugged him and gave him her pursed-lip smile, her face aglow in the carport lights, maybe expecting a night in his bed, or a good-night kiss, or an invitation to mount his new degree on his living-room wall. “Good night,” he said. “See you in the morning?”

  “I’d better head for the coast in the morning.” She squeezed his shoulder and let him go. “Good night. You’re a dear man.”

  In a minute she was gone, the red tail lights of her Dodge receding into the night. Dear man? Only Mary had ever called him that. Mack felt like an idiot, just letting her go so easily.

  Poindexter didn’t know what to make of his situation. The humans who led him inside the shack were as naked as he was. The floor was dirt, and the air was filled with a smoky aroma that was new to him.

  “He has arrived,” said a human.

  “It is written, a beast with cloven hooves shall redeem us. We shall prepare the holy roast.”

  Poindexter was ushered into the middle of the room and surrounded by cross-legged, glassy-eyed humans. Mealtime, he thought. He peed with excitement. The smoke made him dizzy, though, so he didn’t object when they tied him to a long pole and suspended him by his feet above a pile of wood.

  A female human held a knife in her fist. “We must drink a cup of his blood before we light the holy spark. So it is written.”

  “So written where? The Book of Fred says he must be roasted alive!”

  “Apostate!”

  “Unbeliever!”

  “Fred-worshiper!”

  There was a lot of shouting and shoving, and then there wasn’t. Poindexter enjoyed all this attention and happily wondered what would happen next. Then a man squatted next to him.

  “Who’s got a match?” he said.

  Chapter 24

  Mack shook his head at his own stupidity as he unlocked his front door, his unearned degree under his arm. He’d have no way to get in touch with Cal once she left the area, and he definitely wanted to see her again.