Mile Zero

by Sanchez, Thomas

  Angelica prided herself in slipping with equanimity between the steamy sheets of perverse moments, but in this instance she glimpsed a shadow far darker than that on the dark side of the moon and wanted to travel back to earth quickly as possible. She offered Brogan another drink. There was no expression on his face, only the curious red in his eyes. She tried to get through to him again, she was beginning to think he might not come back this time, just orbit out there in darkness with his thoughts of MK. “Why don’t you and Bubba-Bob come over to my house after I close for a little blowfish?” She watched Brogan’s expression to determine if she registered on his Richter scale of existence. She didn’t. Brogan’s slurred words continued.

  “After that MK couldn’t come unless a woman spat in his face. There’s only one woman he doesn’t need to do that with anymore.”

  “Lucky girl,” Bubba-Bob blustered. “What’s MK do to her, stick a grenade up her ass?”

  Angelica interceded, still hoping for a lighthearted conclusion. “Sometimes, you know, a girl can use a good tie-up job to get the juices flowing.”

  Brogan didn’t take the bait, but Bubba-Bob did. “Yah! Once I tied up this old girlfriend of mine, she started screaming rape. How could I be raping her? That was the third goddamn time we were doing it that night.”

  Angelica saw her chance to lead Bubba-Bob further away from a dangerous situation. “It all depends on who is the tie-er, and who’s the tie-ee. Maybe your girlfriend was just on the wrong end of the rope.”

  “You like that stuff, don’t you?” Bubba-Bob asked the question as if he were about to stumble onto one of life’s elusive truths. A simple vision was visited in the part of Bubba-Bob’s brain linked directly to the numb region below his belt. In the wink of an eye Bubba-Bob glimpsed Angelica tied in a maze of knots, the tattooed squid surrounding the nipple of her left breast swelling to life, crawling off her body in quick escape. Bubba-Bob winked again to get the image back, but it had fled. Bubba-Bob considered himself lucky to have caught it the first time. A smug expression of sexual martyrdom spread from the corners of his thick lips and puffed his cheeks.

  “Now here comes a man whose bed any woman would like to find herself handcuffed to.” Angelica nodded toward the door, then quickly turned to fish a special bottle of gold rum from the hundreds of choices rowed behind the bar. She poured a glass of the rum and offered it to Justo as he slid heavily onto a stool. She poured another glass for herself and held it up. “Anejo time.”

  “Anejo time.” Justo raised the glass to his lips and savored the sweet liquid, trying not to focus on the near nakedness revealed by Angelica’s behind-the-bar attire. Justo could arrest her for contributing to the delinquency of adults for wearing those shorts, or whatever that strip of cloth was called. If he wasn’t a married man he could … well, if he wasn’t a married man. “To la cucaracha.”

  “Salud, to the roach.” Angelica rubbed her newly filled glass against Justo’s, joining him in a pledge of allegiance to the Cuban Death’s Head bug, who will, local legend had it, spin on its hard-shelled body, then stop, its gnarly antennae pointing the direction from which El Finito will roar ashore. It was bad luck to crush these hurricane-predicting insects scurrying by the thousands across the island’s cracked sidewalks and shiny tiled kitchen floors. The myth the insect would one day stop dead in a furious spin, indicating the direction from which the end of the world would occur, could be taken seriously or not. Some thought it less of a myth and more of a joke played by local Cubans on the unsuspecting. Others believed the tale, that to squash a bulky Death’s Head bug invited one’s death by hurricane. Angelica never knew, when Justo offered his undying pledge of fellowship to the roach before downing a shot of anejo, if he was serious or not. She had the suspicion he was. After several shots of anejo Angelica became convinced he was.

  “My brother,” Brogan emerged from the original starting point of the meandering trail he had been wandering for the past hour, “says the buck bucks in Central America.”

  “The buck bucks for anyone who tries to ride it, bubba!” Bubba-Bob slammed his empty glass on the bar. “Nobody’s ever ridden that one to the grave.”

  Angelica was thinking how slender her ankles looked with the straps of her high heels around them. She gazed into Justo’s brown eyes, thinking them dreamy and easy for a solid cop whose body bulged with such intentional strength. Her desire was to tie Justo’s thick leather belt close about her waist, cinch the cold holstered gun against her hips. “When are you going to carry me away from all this?” Angelica pushed the intention of her solicitation deep into Justo’s eyes.

  “I’m a married man.”

  “Honey …” Angelica poured them both very tall anejos. “Just because you’re on a diet doesn’t mean you can’t eat.”

  A good thought. Justo chewed on it for all it was worth while eyeing the more delectable parts of Angelica’s fleshy exposure. There were times Justo ached to the marrow of his bones to be an unmarried man, matter of fact, twenty or thirty times a day; then, when day went into night and back into early day, like this one had, and he was worn to raw emotion, that was when he ached most, and the bed that contained his sleeping Rosella across the narrow streets of the town might as well be clear over to the Abacos for all the difference it might make. Who knows? Only Justo and his conscience. Mister Conscience was a formidal opponent Justo preferred not to go up against, especially since he needed all the Saints’ help to rid the island of the evil he sensed swelling the heart valve of public decency. All through this night, and now into the early morning, Justo was a man on a mission; his persuasive call of ideals was more of a lure than Angelica. “Better not to stir the rice, although it sticks.”

  “Always got some great saying, Justo. But you know your problem? You think too much. Cops should act before they think, it’s what gives them their edge. Some day you’re not sharp it’ll be too late, opportunity will have flown.” Angelica pressed her lips to the rim of the shot glass of rum to indicate the true meaning of her intentions. “Have you ever whipped anyone with that thick belt of yours?”

  “Don’t stir the rice.”

  “I might be a lousy cook, but I never let my rice stick to the pan.”

  Justo could not keep a smile from his lips, first time he had smiled in twenty-four hours. The marrow in his bones started to melt.

  “Where’d you get that don’t stir the rice stuff?”

  “Cervantes.”

  “If Don Quixote were to come back today he’d be a Colombian cocaine cowboy.”

  “Or a cop in the Florida Keys.”

  “No, he’d be a drug runner, I’m sure.”

  “Tilting at windmills in fast cigarette boats?”

  “Something like that.” Angelica laughed, then she went very serious. “Come home with me. I’m not like your wife. I’ll let you read in the bathtub. What time do you get off?”

  “Never off.”

  “Perfect couple, I’m always on.” Angelica poured herself another anejo. She hated the stuff, liquid honey to stiffen the arteries and pickle the brain. Couldn’t tell a Cuban that though, the older ones drank nothing but anejo, recalling the days when anejo was Cuban-made. Now it was distilled in Florida, had become the all-Cuban-American drink. From Angelica’s side of the bar it appeared that, for the most fervent members of the jingoistic Cuban-American tribe, drinking anejo was a passionate mixture of confused national prides, a declaration of twisted allegiances. To kick back shots of anejo, until the tongue swelled and the lips forgot how to pronounce words the brain no longer remembered, had become a near patriotic act of contrition. Angelica drank anejo only with Justo. Justo drank nothing else, but not, Angelica suspected, simply to run his conflicting flags of national faith up the flagpole. No, Angelica sensed Justo was a hard man who liked soft things, a tough spirit who suckled life’s sugars. Angelica assumed there were times Justo simply wanted no fanfare, longed to get sweetly drunk. Times like these Angelica harbored the fantasy of slipping
clothes from Justo’s muscled body, handcuffing his dark feet by the ankles so he couldn’t run screaming for his Rosella when the cock crowed at dawn. Times like these Angelica was not above slipping Justo a mickey in order to slip him in. One woman’s game is another’s pain. Angelica was not about to give up so easily or gladly as in the past. This early morning she would drive the hook of her red fingernails right through this latent Latin lover’s heart. She was going to have Justo so deeply within her there would in the end be for them both no way out.

  “Anejo!” Bubba-Bob raised his glass of rum in mocking salute to Justo. “Rhymes with asshole! Just you think about it, bubba buck!”

  Angelica’s intentions were thwarted by Bubba-Bob’s rude intrusion. This might not be a morning for romance after all, might instead be a morning for murder. Angelica pushed back from her provocative position, sauntering along the bar to where Brogan still wandered at the entrance to his maze.

  “I bet …” Bubba-Bob brought his flushed face up in front of Justo’s. “Bet you could jump backwards through your asshole and land on a peso.”

  “Glad to take that bet.” Justo pushed off the barstool and stood before Bubba-Bob. Both men appeared massive enough to support another five men standing atop each of their broad shoulders.

  Bubba-Bob let loose with a grin. After chasing Brogan through his maze without making contact Bubba-Bob was in luck, he finally had a player. Oh how Bubba-Bob loved these moments of random chance, when he could butt his bulk against other men in test of physical time. Everything else in life was just so much fancy talk and cute fiberglass boats. “How much you wanna bet?”

  Brogan spun on his barstool, up from the maze, banged Bubba-Bob on the shoulder with his fist to gain sudden attention for a line of truth which shined bright as the already wagered imaginary peso. “That’s it! MK was the one tied, not Joy-Joy. MK was on a leash the whole time he was in Nam. Now he’s down in Central America running with headless rats.” Brogan looked quizzically from Bubba-Bob to Angelica to Justo, confused as a downed prizefighter emerging from a knockout fog. “Christ! Why couldn’t I see it before? It’s all so clear now. MK’s got himself involved in the biggest tie-up game of his life.”

  Bubba-Bob did not hear a word of Brogan’s revelation. He was waiting for Justo’s proof of currency. Bubba-Bob didn’t like cops, especially the one standing before him now, the one he had known all his life on the island. To others Justo was a tower of karate-killer toughness, a bad nigger with a Cuban accent who spouted cornball sayings. Bubba-Bob knew better. When he and Justo were teenagers they worked shrimp boats together. First time out, when the long line of drag trawls were hoisted aboard, dripping and stinking with a load of fetid dross only hidden pockets of the Gulf’s bottom is capable of releasing, Justo ran to the gunwale and puked his guts overboard, the Conch shrimp-boat captain laughing in the putrid wind at the pukey boy: “Bettah go bhack to shore! Bhack to shore and be a bugheadah! Nevah gonna work nets wit dese mens! Ya gots a gurl’s stomack. Bye-bye, Bugs!”

  “El pez por la boca muere.” Sweet anejo gripped Justo’s tongue. “The fish dies from an open mouth. You’re a fisherman, you should know that.”

  Bubba-Bob’s loose grin grew wider. This was a corny Justo saying he liked. Bubba-Bob was going to remember it, but he didn’t see how it applied to him. The veins in his neck bulged, his hands clenched into fists, one went quickly into the air and crashed onto the bar, rattling glasses the length of the long countertop. “What’s your fucking bet?”

  The rattling glasses brought Brogan further out of his maze. “MK!” Brogan screamed at Bubba-Bob. “My brother’s finally over his head!”

  Bubba-Bob’s fist came off the bar in fierce rebound, catching Brogan under the chin, spinning him off his stool and sprawling across the floor. “I don’t give a diddily fuck about MK and his Nam bullshit!” Bubba-Bob spat at Brogan gazing up through an even more complicated maze. “MK doesn’t scare me! Neither do cops!” Bubba-Bob turned back to Justo. “Cops on the fucking take same time as they rides their high horses!”

  “Algunos caen para que otros se levanten.” Justo’s words came as an afterthought, as if the exploding motion of his body required a concrete beginning. He followed instincts flowing through anejo-thickened blood, force from fists, knees and feet rearranging flesh and bone of another human’s body. When a man becomes a weapon he surrenders to all consequence. The consequence was bleeding Bubba-Bob, thrashing on the floor next to Brogan, raising hands to ward off the weighty confusion of more blows.

  “Bubba-Bob’s not going to look the same after this.” Angelica edged along the bar to Justo. “Should we call a cop?” She thought the cleverness of her remark might bring Justo to his senses before he pulverized what was left of Bubba-Bob. Maybe it was time to set the hook. “Why don’t I sweep the drunks and deadbeats out? We’ll go someplace where you can read in the bathtub with nobody yelling at you.”

  “Where?”

  Set the hook and pull. “My place.”

  “Okay.”

  It was that easy. One last jerk on the line so the hook didn’t rip from this hard-won prize. “What was it you said in Spanish before you laid Bubba-Bob out with all that karate stuff?”

  “Some fall that others may rise.”

  Angelica’s provocative pout swept up in a victorious smile. She had her catch in the boat, only thing left to do was take it home and fry it. “Honey, you’re not through rising yet.”

  15

  OCHO dreamed of conch fritters and slick oyster bellies in the backseat of Justo’s car. Coming dawn pushed a swell of temperature before it, steam streamed heavenward from slick asphalt streets and steep slanted tin roofs of crowded houses, instigating a humid haze as Justo drove through damp heat ascending. The island wavered before him uncertain as an underwater vision, a glimpse of sun above glittered as if striking a vast watery surface, reminding of a far different universe. Rosella Rosella Rosella, ojos que no ven, corazon que no siente. Rosella, what you don’t see won’t break your heart. The anejo in Justo’s veins filled him with a leaded weariness, he was too tired to concentrate. He forced his eyes open to the crack of sunlight breaking through morning mist. It seemed in these modern times everyone was too tired to concentrate, especially on the consistency of their lives. It was a time when even five-year marriages were a big deal, not like Justo’s grandparents’ time, when people married for life, for better or for worse. It was for their own good, kept them from making the same mistake over and over. Rosella Rosella Rosella. Quien peces quiere, mojarse tiene. He who wants to catch the fish must not mind a wetting. Yesterday Justo had set out to catch a fish in a sea of fishermen, now he was headed for Angelica’s house, headed for a wetting.

  Everything was confused with weariness. Who was the big fish? Who was the little fish? Pez grande come al chico. Big fish eats little fish. Angelica and Justo were two anglers in search of a sucker mouth. Maybe he was the sucker, but he had to follow his lead. The first thing he had noticed when he walked into the Wreck Room, even before noticing Angelica’s shorts, was the day’s daily witticism chalked on the blackboard behind the bar. Justo knew he could not ask Angelica who had authored the scrawled message. To ask Angelica would have made her the she-shark and him the bonita. Angelica had something Rosella did not, and she was not about to sell short. Justo had tried to sit quietly at the bar and order his anejo, not wanting Angelica to seize upon the expression he felt covered his face, not wanting her to inquire, “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” There was always the possibility Angelica authored the message. If so Justo was swimming with someone capable of putting a harpoon through his neck as well as his heart. No one was above suspicion. Bubba-Bob had a detour in mind for him, he wanted to let Bubba-Bob run his mouth off, talk himself out of what little common sense he had, give up what information he might hold. Bubba-Bob had pushed Justo along the detour of most resistance, forcing him to rise to the occasion. So now Bubba-Bob as a possible source of infor
mation was closed. Only Angelica’s path of softest resistance was left open. It was Angelica’s handwriting on the chalkboard behind the bar, Justo knew, had seen her written messages many times. The custom in the Wreck Room was for one of the customers to come up with the day’s enigmatic quotation, then the bartender scrawled it in chalk across the blackboard to elicit further sagacious comments, or unleash a stream of derisive innuendo. A recent message inquired: HOW MANY HAITIANS DIE EVERY DAY TRYING TO SAIL TO AMERICA? The answer that made its way along the bar among the knowing during the long evening was simple: as many as can fit into a garbage can. The latest scrawled message was not so delicate as the one directing the Wreck Room habitués’ attention to the lamentable shortage of garbage cans in Haiti. The message was straightforward, soliciting no enigmatic response, offering only a puzzled beginning: