SMOKING MIRROR BLUES_The Return of Tezcatlipoca

by Ernest Hogan

  Phoebe smiled and sipped a little more of her drink. There she was, in another Lupe's, sipping iced tea – with nothing in it – after midnight, and Beto – No, Tezcatlickwhatsis – No, Smokey . . . Wait a minute. She just met Smokey. So why was this whole scene with the indirect lighting and the eight-foot tall Zulu waitress coming out so déjà vu? Smokey did look like Beto, a little, like in the movies they could use one for a double for the other in longshots, but these two guys were so different.

  Beto would have been nervous about talking to a whole group of armed gangsters, but hey, Smokey was so sumato they couldn't help but be impressed.

  When the big acne-scarred latio with not quite enough fur on his upper lip to qualify as a moustache came up growling, swept their iced-teas and Ho Chi Minh City-style chips & salsa all over the nonscuff floor, and said, "Hey, like, man, y'know you killed our leader, like right in front of everybody," Smokey just smiled and said:

  "He challenged me. That's what I do to people who challenge me."

  The acne-scarred latio's face went blank. He backed off.

  Then a little blonde asio girl in full Olvidadoid gear stepped up, leaned on the table. "Hey, we're not just any freelance gang, y'know, we got corporate connections. You can't just kill our main guy and expect us to disband. We got corporate connections. Y'know."

  "Yeah," said a skinny afro Olvidadoid boy, "like, who's supposed to tell us what to do now?"

  "Yeah," said a few of the others, not quite in unison.

  *

  Tezcatlipoca was sure he was a god. He had so many advantages over these mere mortals. It was so easy to manipulate Phoebe that he didn't have to try; it was as if she lived to be manipulated. Los Olvidadoids were lost without their leader, desperately needing to be told what to do. The same with the crowd, the waitress, the family dressed as Trappist monks eating vegetarian sausage. All these people, this strange civilization, were crying out for gods, and it must have been a long time since they had seen a real one.

  How had they gotten along without gods for so long?

  "You will do as I say," he told the Olvidadoids. "I am a god."

  "Sumato" said the blonde asio girl, with a dreamy look in her eyes.

  "Ya gotta make it official," said the one with the acne-scars. "Ya gotta contact Novacorp, get everything filed."

  *

  Since he could be in more than one place at a time – the coffee shop, Beto's conapt, the mediasphere, etc. – he used Beto's infosystem to contact Novacorp.

  *

  "A surge of activity," said Zobop, "centered on Hollywood and Vine."

  *

  "It's already done," said Smokey.

  The blonde asio frowned. "Don't play with us like that. You can't do it that fast."

  "Call Novacorp." Smokey waved the wrist where he wore his phone.

  Simultaneously, the Olvidadoids dialed Novacorp. Out of sync, they looked up at Smokey, stunned.

  "It's impossible," said the acne-scarred one.

  "You're already registered as leader of Los Olvidadoids," said the blonde asio.

  "I told you. I am a god."

  *

  "Got a call between the Hollywood and Vine conapt, the Novacorp, and the nearby Lupe's," said Zobop, "the name 'Smokey Espejo' is mentioned. I got it traced."

  *

  We're getting matching voiceprint signal on a three-way call. It starts at a local business – a Lupe's – then goes through a conapt – it's on Hollywood and Vine, if you believe that! – then goes to the global headquarters of Novacorp in New Zealand. I sure hope they don't own him yet! Anyway, he seems to be in the Lupe's on Vine. Better send somebody out there.

  *

  "Your – I mean, my gang owns a group of musicians called Los Tricksters, doesn't it?" asked Smokey.

  "Yeah," said the skinny afro, "but how would you know that?"

  "I have my ways," said Smokey, with echoes of "Tezcatlipoca Blues" in his mind, and a call from a recording company being fielded by his computerized soul. "They could come in handy."

  "Yeah, sure," said the acne-scarred one. "So what ya want us to do?"

  "Ah, yes," said Smokey. "There's a conapt I want you to seal off and guard."

  *

  Phoebe leaned over, letting her breasts embrace Smokey's arm. She thought she heard Smokey say they were all going over to Beto's conapt. Yes, that sounded like the right address. But then all the Olvidadoids left, and Smokey didn't move, so she stayed with him, and things got quiet for a little while. She ordered another iced-tea from the Zulu waitress. She wished she had some more Fun to suck. Then more people came over to talk to Smokey. Lots and lots of them.

  *

  "Hey, you the guy that does that great stuff on the electrified wooden drum?" said the young euro woman in the severe black suit. "I'm a representative of Postdigital Entertainment Associates, Music Division. Several of our audio headhunters have been scanning the Dead Daze scene here in Hollywood and have registered some impressive reports on you. We'd like to know if you'd be interested in discussing business with us, you know, a recording contract, getting you a band, marketing you globally."

  "I already have a band," said Tezcatlipoca. "They are called Los Tricksters."

  The rep frowned as if she were going to swallow her faint moustache, "They are a Novacorp subcontract, through a local gang. Aren't you doing business on a global scale?"

  Tezcatlipoca glanced at his phone. "Things are going through some changes. I believe that we – myself and Novacorp are willing to discuss reorganization to expand our – my influence."

  *

  "We gonna have to break in?" asked the acne-scarred Olvidadoid.

  "No, Chucho, you dope," said the red-haired asio girl. "He gave me the security code."

  "You think you're so sumato, Lila." Chucho stepped closer to her. "One of these days, I'm gonna . . ."

  "Enough, Chucho." The skinny afro grabbed the acne-scarred one's shoulder. "We have work to do."

  "Let go of me, Zen. What kind of xau-xau work is this?" said Chucho. "We don't get to trash the place or take anything!"

  "Smokey said 'secure' the place." Lila opened the door. "So we secure it."

  "Nacho would have never given us such a boring job," said Chucho.

  "At least we got the Bics and the people prods," said Lila.

  "Smokey's the new boss." Zen pushed Chucho into the conapt. "So we do what he says."

  "I hate it when things change." Chucho entered the conapt. "What a weird place. Think Smokey lives here?"

  "Don't touch anything," said Lila. "We have to make sure nothing happens to the equipment."

  *

  Xochitl's eyes crossed. She was having a hard time telling the Spanish page from the English page in her book. It was time for a little rest. She looked out the window and saw, through her reflection, the flickering lights from candles in a graveyard on a distant hill. In the sky, a huge, glowing balloon shaped like a feathered serpent hovered, glowing.

  Something tapped her shoulder. It was a little old man of pure Mexican natio stock. He was dressed as a traditional peasant: straw hat, white cotton shirt and pants, huaraches. These days most farmworkers wore baseball caps, T-shirts, jeans and sneakers. Was he in costume for Day of the Dead? His face looked like a wrinkled old treestump, with only faint sparks of reflected light indicating eyes.

  "Xochitl Echaurren," he said. "We know where you are. You cannot run away from us. We are everywhere. We will get you and your god-simulating program soon."

  Then the bus stopped. He hobbled to the door and got out. Slowly making his way down a dirt path into a cornfield, he vanished into darkness as black as interstellar space.

  Had that really happened? She couldn't tell; maybe it had just been some strange, half-waking dream. One thing for sure now – she couldn't sleep, even though she wanted to.

  She wished Santo was with her; it would be comforting to stroke his papier-mâché head and see his eyes light up. She wondered if he could be re
paired.

  By the side of the road, she glimpsed the dehydrated corpse of a mule.

  *

  Back at Hollywood and Vine, Zobop, wearing a matching black trenchcoat and turban, stood across the street from Beto's conapt. Through the window, he could see activity. Three skillful fingertaps upped the magnification on his infrared nightshade so he could see Lila, Zen, and Chucho. Lila danced to the ambient combination of musics with one eye on the computer. Zen leafed through a Mexican comic book based on an old William Gibson bestseller. Chucho sat cross-legged by the door, looking bored and annoyed.

  Zobop brought his wrist near his face and said via a hotlink to Tan Tien, "Looks like the focal point is occupied. Gangsters. Olvidadoids."

  "The system is talking to people and organizations all over the planet," said Tan Tien. "Tag this spot and proceed to the secondary."

  Zobop put a couple of fingers up his sleeve, then touched the building behind him, just above the average head-level of the crowd. He left a barely visible stain of grimy Ultra Cyberstain.

  "That do?" he asked.

  "Nicely," said Tan Tien. "I see the three of them, and the system. I'll examine it."

  "Go," said Zobop. "I'm moving."

  *

  Phoebe felt strange – and she liked it. The Zulu waitress just grew taller – taller than Caldonia – and her skin became a gorgeous purple-black – the black that mocha-colored Caldonia wished she was – sort of an insect exoskeleton with all kinds of glittering hairs and spikes. Other patrons at the coffee shop took on reptilian qualities, some looking like crocodiles or alligators, the others like lime-green iguanas. Smokey – who looked so cute and sexy, and kinda smiled like Beto, sometimes – was talking to a person that became a colorful, fat, Dead Daze skeleton.

  She giggled.

  Was it because she needed sleep? Or was it the Fun? Or the caffeine rush from all the iced-tea? Or the white powder that someone had sprinkled on the salsa a little while ago?

  She put her head on Smokey's shoulder, and thought, Life sure can be beautiful, Phoebe-babe!

  *

  Tezcatlipoca grinned – a shit-eating grin more intense than any Beto could manage. His eyes burned as they scanned other eyes, then shot to his wrist from time to time, tapping into the mediasphere and his computerized soul. He had the energy of an exploding sun.

  "Tex-atly-polka?" someone with a microphone said.

  "Call me Smokey." His eyes smoked into Phoebe's.

  "Did you intend to take advantage of the Sepulveda law?"

  Tezcatlipoca instantly looked at it up on his computer. "He was a member of a gang with corporate connections who was threatening me – so I killed him. The law makes sense."

  *

  Chingow! Chingow! Chingow! This is such an outrage!

  How can they let this maniac kill my son, and then say it's all perfectly legal! There's something wrong here!

  People are still thinking in old stereotypes. It's not like gangs are what they were thirty years ago! Nachito worked his way up through the gang to leader honestly, and the corporate sponsors had their eyes on him – I'm sure he would have ended up an executive in a few years.

  I was so chingow proud of him! And now he's gone!

  (She sobs. The camera zooms in to get her tears.)

  Chingow! Chingow! Chingow! Chingow! Chingow! Chingow!

  *

  "Did you intend on taking his place as leader of Los Olvidadoids?"

  "It's a good idea, isn't it?"

  "Could you play us some more music?" asked a whitefaced woman with white hair and white clothes. "I'm a music critic for the L.A. Beat Channel."

  "Yes!" said the Fun-crazed Phoebe. "More of that Smokey Espejo music!"

  Tezcatlipoca sat down in front of his teponaxtle and played, hypnotizing the expanding crowd as he probed Beto's mind for information about music, bands, and Los Tricksters, who then walked into the coffee shop.

  "Somebody offered us a lot of money to come here," said Lobo Baker, the leader of Los Tricksters.

  *

  Chingow! This is so sumato! Phoebe tried to say, but for some reason couldn't, so she just thought it. It's like in a movie when something so convenient happens that you kinda groan because you know that things like that never happen in real life, but you just love it because it's so sumato. And this is real life. This is Hollywood. Home sumato home.

  *

  "Hey," said Lobo Baker, looking at Smokey. "You're that guy who's been all over the mediasphere tonight doing that sumato drum stuff!"

  "Yes," said Smokey. "I would like to jam with you. Why don't we do your song 'Tezcatlipoca Blues.'"

  "You know it, great," said Lobo. "Give us room to set up, folks."

  "We're not licensed for musical performances!" said the Lupe's manager, a cute, middle-aged asio woman in a dress with a photo-print of a business suit on it.

  "Relax," said Smokey. "It's Dead Daze."

  "Yeah." One of the Olvidadoids drew his Bic. Other Olvidadoids did the same.

  The manager of the Lupe's shook her head and walked away.

  *

  Xochitl was back to reading Mexico City Blues, and was irritated by the way Kerouac kept mixing up religions from all over the world – like Beto. It seemed that recomboculture was the American way. And since the Portuguese-speaking Japanese kids had dominated the bathroom for the last hour, she took advantage of the mid-desert pit stop where the bathroom was a clogged, overflowing horror, as usual.

  As she washed her hands, her feet brushed something under the chipped sink. It was a big, fat frog-like thing with way too many legs. Somebody's bizarre idea of decorating this hellhole; terracotta, no doubt.

  Then the frog's eyes blinked, and the mouth opened and closed.

  Kerouac would have written a poem about it.

  "As if Beto hasn't made my life surrealistic enough as it is," Xochitl said.

  *

  Zobop couldn't get close to the Lupe's. The crowd was too thick to pass through for blocks around it. The music blared and filled the grey night sky. It was good music too. He found himself dancing to it.

  "This is big," he reported back to Tan Tien, "real big."

  *

  Phoebe decided that this had been the most sumato night – not to mention Dead Daze – of her life. The music was eating everything up – her, the Lupe's, all the people in it, all of Hollywood, the Earth, the universe – transforming it all in a cosmic acid/enzyme bath and vomiting it all out as something totally new. Smokey instantly figured out how to communicate with Los Tricksters with subtle gestures and facial expressions, inventing the language as he went along, looking so sexy that Phoebe wanted to just flow over and engulf him with her entire being. Then it felt like she really was flowing over and engulfing him. Her vagina was wet and hot. She had an orgasm – she was sure of that. Smokey would fuck her with his eyes for a while, then he'd look away to take control of somebody else, then those eyes would be back on – and inside – her before she had a chance to get jealous. So, so, so sumato! Smokey was a god, maybe even God! Phoebe loved him so much she cried and didn't care that all kinds of people in sumato outfits and even some with telecameras were watching the tears-mixed-with-makeup flowing down her cheeks, onto her chin, dripping onto her sumato voodoo kimono.

  *

  Zoom in on the girl sitting next to him – the one that's crying. Just let her face fill the screen. Yeah. Fantastic, just fantastic. Whoeverthehell's producing the video for this will definitely want this footage. Better get online and establish copyright immediately.

  *

  Oh, Smokey, though Phoebe, who wasn't sure if she was thinking or screaming out loud, Oh god! Oh God! Oh Smokey/God/Smokey/GodSmokeyGodSmokey . . .

  PART TWO: TI-YONG/HOODOO INVESTIGATIONS

  The delivering of messages in a song is the blues, but today, people don't look into a song to get information.

  – Willie Dixon

  7. SMOKEY DAWN

  . . . four . . . three . .
. one . . . There! The Sumato Channel presents, Dawn, kicking off Dead Daze, Day Two, with an absolutely beautiful, smog-enriched and colored sunrise over Hollywood Boulevard, where – as you can see, the Dead Daze revelers are still filling and milling around on the asphalt that's still moist with dew. Some are looking a little ragged, a little like zombies though they are dressed as something lively. But they're still having lots of Fun – heh, heh! You can take that any way you want . . . though,it is the official policy of the Sumato Channel to recommend to all its viewers to stay away from dangerous illegal drugs like Fun. Have fun without having Fun, so to speak. Sort of zen. Every now and zen. Here on the Sumato Channel in beautiful, dangerous, outrageous El Lay!

  *

  Tezcatlipoca felt strange as the sun rose. Could it be Tonatiuh, the Sun God, was jealous of him, giving him some illness?

  "You okay, Smokey?" said the director of Instant Live Productions, who had been kidnapped by several Olvidadoids from an exclusive Beverly Hills party for this meeting.

  "I don't know," said Tezcatlipoca/Smokey Espejo/Beto Orozco.

  Beto Orozco? thought Tezcatlipoca. No. I am Smokey Espejo -- I mean Tezcatlipoca. What's happening to me?

  He looked at his wrist. It took an actual effort to focus his eyes on the screen of the phone. The wrist shook. On the screen words flashed:

  CONTROL THE BODY. CONTROL THE MIND. HEH, HEY, THIS IS ME, BETO, ALIVE AND WELL AND LIVING INSIDE A CYBERGOD. HOW'S IT GOING TEZCATLIPSMOKEY? IT'S WAKE-UP TIME, HERE IN THE CITY OF THE ANGELS AND IN OUR AND/OR MY NERVOUS SYSTEM. HAVE YOU HAD ANY FUN YET?

  Fun? He was Tezcatlipoca. Fun was what he was all about. Wait. This alien language was so strange and illogical. Words sometime meant many things.

  Seizing control of the computer, the screen said:

  OH, SHIT – FUN IS ALSO A DRUG. IT KEEPS BETO FROM TAKING CONTROL.

  "I'm okay," said Smokey. "I just need more Fun."

  "I know what you mean," said the Instant Live Productions guy. "You can't have enough Fun. I just happen to have some right here. Want a stick?"

  "It'll be fun," said Smokey, taking the stick, putting it in his mouth, lighting it, sucking it, and feeling in control again.