Planet Willie

by Josh Shoemake

  I pull myself out of the water and up to the observation platform, where I accept congratulations all around. The cape has slipped around front of me and is looking more like a skirt, so I adjust it back up around the neck again and pose for a few photographs with a group of fraternity brothers from Montana. As we’re posing I catch a glimpse of a couple of nuns in the distance, and dammit if it isn’t Lulu and Twiggy. From the looks of things, they now appear to be together. I watch as Lulu turns to say something into Twiggy’s ear, or at least into her wimple, before I lose sight of them in the crowd, at which point I make a note never to work with partners again. I mean one’s in jail and the other’s socializing with the principal suspect while you’re out making the real sacrifices. These thoughts are interrupted by one of Queso’s white-suited goons, who’s pushed his way through the crowd to offer his congratulations. He tells me his boss would be pleased to meet me, which pleases me even more. Any way you look at it, this is just sheer brilliant investigating. Chalk up one point for Willie E. Lee, that E as in Elvis for special occasions.

  The goon leads me up and around the cliff and into the Mirador, where the names of famous stars of the fifties are carved into the walls and Queso sits at his table by the windows accompanied by half a dozen white suits. He’s more or less like Kafka described him, but even fatter than I imagined, so fat that it’s impossible to imagine he ever fit into a Speedo and plunged from the cliffs. I mean, I’d pay an entrance fee just to see him attempt getting out of his chair. One of the suits pulls a chair over next to the boss, and I take a seat. Queso grins at me like he’s sustained some serious damage to his head, and I don’t mean the toupee, which is sitting crooked like it’s trying to break free. Queso’s drinking beer and asks if I’d like one too. I tell him nothing would taste better, and a suit goes off and brings us back two cold bottles of Dos Equis, which he sets on the table in front of us. I take a sip, and it’s like the first sip of the first beer I ever drank. Everything’s fresh and new after a baptism. I’m feeling so good it may be weeks before I’ll need to imagine myself a death scenario again. I’ve done it for real this time, and nothing makes the beers taste better.

  “You are super, Mister Lee,” Queso says, laughing from his belly and nudging the suit beside him, who laughs and nudges the suit beside him, and so on. They’re like the Rockettes except they’re big and ugly.

  “I just try to give people their money’s worth, Mister Queso,” I say. “And you can call me Willie. Everybody does. I think it’s important to remain accessible in this business.”

  Queso does some more laughing for Los Blancos, and they all laugh back. His laughter’s got an edge to it that gives an employee a pretty clear idea of what might happen if he didn’t join in. “This business?” he says. “Are you a professional cliff diver, Willie?”

  “Not like you were, Mister Queso,” I say. “Believe me, I’ve heard the legends. But while maybe I haven’t yet acquired the more subtle techniques of the sport, I do like to think I make up for it in presentation.”

  “You mean this cape and that hat of yours.”

  “Did you see the hat?” I say, looking around to see if maybe one of Los Blancos got it. They’re all just dying with the sheer humor of it, which I don’t take too kindly, but then I don’t imagine anybody takes anything too kindly from Los Blancos.

  “My men find you very amusing,” Queso says under his mustache. “I could use a diver with your…presentation. Sometimes even I find my show a bit boring. You have seen one dive, you have seen them all, no? So tell me, Willie – would you ever consider staying here in Acapulco and working for me?”

  “That’s deeply flattering, Mister Queso,” I say, “and I do feel I was born to entertain a paying public, but I’ve got to be honest with you here. I’m a businessman myself. I happen to have a very sizeable fireworks operation up in Arizona that I just don’t think I could abandon at this time. I mean it’s quite profitable, and I just don’t think I could make my partner understand how cliff diving might ultimately be more fulfilling to my higher self. The summer season’s approaching, and we’ve got a lot of big events lined up.”

  I watch Queso go real serious as I’m talking. Then I watch him set his elbows down on the table, almost bringing it down with his weight. “You disappoint me, Willie,” he says, “but then I am hearing you talk about fireworks. This might be very interesting.”

  I tell him that I’m prepared to interest him in any way he sees fit, within reason, and he tells me about his daughter’s birthday party. “I honor the whole town,” he says, sweeping his arm through the air to indicate the town and rattling our beers in the process. Then he tells me how he’s lost his fireworks man. Been thrown in jail, alas, on drug charges.

  “The party is tomorrow night, Willie. Can you do my fireworks?”

  “I would be honored, Mister Queso,” I say. “My partner and I find it especially gratifying doing family occasions. Is there anything special you’d like done?”

  “Si,” he says, his dark, dead eyes appearing to fill with some kind of emotion. “I would like my daughter’s name spelled out in the sky. I would like for all of Acapulco to look up at the stars and see mi niña’s name.”

  “Well that sounds just beautiful, Mister Queso,” I say, seeming to recall that I’ve seen Fourth of July shows that spelled out a few patriotic sentiments and hoping that Billy does spelling. “What’s your daughter’s name?”

  He bites his lip and sets his watery eyes on me again. “Maricruz Xochitl Encarnación de Guadalupe y Queso.”

  “Lovely name,” I say after a moment. “I once dated a girl called Maricruz in a little town north of Shreveport.”

  “Not Maricruz,” he says with a tight smile. “This is not your Shreveport. Her name is Maricruz Xochitl Encarnación….”

  “Fair enough, Mister Queso,” I interrupt. “If you’ll just have somebody write it down for me, we’ll get it up there. I’m assuming one of these fellas can write.”

  Queso snaps his fingers and the literate one, I guess, goes off to find pencil and paper. “One of my men will meet you at your hotel at nine tomorrow morning and bring you up to see the house,” he says, liking me again. “I have a large pleasure garden where you can set up your equipment. And then after the party, perhaps we can discuss diving again. I like to think we could have a future together, Willie.”

  “Who knows,” I say, shaking his hand. “High divers are a proud fraternity, and your career has been an inspiration to us all. Wish I’d gotten down here sooner, really, to see you dive in your prime, but I’ve been fortunate enough over the years to pick up a few pointers from the celebrated Rock Lightford. Ever hear of him?”

  If I’m expecting any kind of reaction, it’s not the one I get. Queso’s face falls, and he reaches out to place a beefy hand on my shoulder. “I met him once,” he says, “very early in his career. He lacked talent, but he made up for it with heart. I admire that, Willie. Un gran corazón. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  And before I can figure out what I’ve lost, two Blancos have helped me out of my chair and are escorting me out of the Mirador.

  23

  Before dawn there’s a knock at my door, and I open it to Billy Sidell. He’s dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and looks like hell. It’s been just over a week since I last saw him, believe it or not, but he appears to have aged. He sits down on the bed and tells me he’s been doing eighty five in a flatbed truck for twenty-something hours and could use a drink. We break into the minibar, which is exactly what I don’t need at five in the morning, but they tend to go fast, the mini-bottles. Soon enough we find ourselves contemplating mixtures of Grand-Marnier and Kahlua as I catch him up on Queso and how I’m intending to recuperate the Madonna. Billy doesn’t like it much, even with the kind of mini-bottles he’s killing. He likes it even less when I tell him we’re going to spell Queso’s daughter’s name out in the sky.

  “I can’t do that, Willie,” he says, murdering a bottle of Bailey
’s.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say. “I just need you to create a diversion. Ten minutes or so should give me enough time to get inside the house and exchange the Madonna for one of Kafka’s fakes. We get you paid up front, and then we never see Queso again.”

  At nine o’clock sharp we get a call from Queso’s man. We meet him downstairs and agree to follow him up in Billy’s truck, which is parked down in the garage. Che is parked down there too, and I take a fake virgin out of the trunk before joining Billy. Then we pull around front and follow the suit’s black Mercedes out of town.

  After a mile or two we leave the city behind. The road winds through a dense green growth of palm trees and cacti and bushes sprouting beautiful red and orange flowers. The landscape is more stunning than anything else I’ve seen in Mexico, and it makes me wish I could spend a little more time down there exploring the area. Maybe working on my Spanish a bit and sampling those other varieties of tequila I’ve missed. If tonight goes down as planned, however, I don’t imagine I’ve got much more than twenty four hours left in sunny Acapulco, or for that matter on Planet Earth.

  Soon enough the Mercedes is leading us off onto a dirt road, which we follow further up into the hills. We come to a gate guarded by two Blancos with machine guns, who step aside to let us through, staring like they’d be more than happy to make us target practice.

  “We’ll park the truck outside tonight,” I say to Billy. “I don’t want anybody setting off alarms when we make a run for it.”

  “I don’t like it, Willie,” Billy says for what may be the hundredth time since dawn. “I was getting into pheromones specifically because I didn’t want danger like this anymore.”

  “That was before your wife left you, Billy. That was before we had a few beers in New York City and you remembered your name was Mister Pyrotechnics. Now is it, or is it not?”

  “It is,” he sighs.

  “Then we are going to blow up things in the sky, Billy. You understand me? We are going to light fuses and detonate quantities of explosives. You with me here?”

  “I’m with you, Willie,” he says as we drive past a white-columned mansion fit for an American president. “I guess I’ve got nothing to lose.”

  “That’s the spirit,” I say. “Nothing to lose means we can only win.”

  Billy shakes his head and follows the Mercedes across a garden planted with palm trees and hedges. The driver gets out and tells us we can set up over by the wall, which is topped with razor wire. Queso wants the fireworks to burst out over the pool, he tells us, so he can watch them from the patio, a tiled area about the size of a football field between the pool and the house. Beyond the patio and behind sliding doors is what looks like some kind of living room, which I’m hoping is not far from the library. I tell the suit we’ll want payment in advance, which he drives off to see about. Then Billy and I get down to unpacking the truck. Meanwhile truckloads of caterers arrive and start arranging tables.

  Over the next several hours, Billy shows me how to set up these hard plastic mortar tubes he’s got, and then how to load the shells. He also prepares the ignitors and strings the fuses. Later that night we’ll attach the ignitors and hook the fuses into this electronic switchboard, he explains, which runs off a car battery and allows you to time all of your explosions real precisely. This takes us into the afternoon, during which time I realize that you don’t get to be Mister Pyrotechnics for nothing. It’s a complicated business. Once we’re finished with it, another suit comes out to pay Billy. The party starts at nine, he tells us, and Queso wants the fireworks for midnight. In the meantime, Billy and I head back into town for some well-deserved siestas.

  24

  Tiki torches line the driveway up in the mountains later that night, and at the front gate the white suits are wearing white tuxedos. White bow ties, too. It’s a nice touch. A line of guests waits outside on a red carpet to be waved down by these wands held by Los Blancos, which beep if anybody’s wearing a gun. Large men in suits and pretty girls in tight dresses with no place to hide firearms step up one by one with their hands in the air before being motioned through into the fiesta. Billy and I drive a ways down along the wall, our headlights picking out more guests, girls wobbling on high heels and men smoothing back slick hair. We find a distant parking place, and I tell Billy he may as well bring the pheromones. He’s got them in the back in a special suitcase, and I’ve got a Madonna rolled up down the leg of the suit, which has incidentally been cleaned and pressed. The silver buckle’s been buffed too, and though I’m unfortunately not wearing a hat, I have to admit I’m looking pretty good. Billy too – he’s brought along a light blue suit and a bolo that matches his belt.

  At the entrance Los Blancos pass a wand over us, and thankfully the Madonna keeps quiet. Billy beeps, but that’s just his bolo, and the beep’s just like an acknowledgment of his style. Then it’s fiesta time for two humble amigos charged with a most perilous mission. Back in my officially living days, this is the sort of moment when I might have said a little prayer, but now that I’m posthumous, I’m not even going to begin trying to explain this situation via prayer. Heaven can wait, so to speak.

  Within the walls Queso’s pleasure garden has undergone a transformation. Lanterns are sprinkled through the trees, and I spot at least five fully stocked bars within calling distance. They’ve built a sort of dance floor over the shallow end of the pool, and a band of mariachis is doing variations on what sounds more or less like La Cucaracha.

  “Holy smokes,” Billy says, as we stand there taking it all in.

  “The smoke’s up to you, Billy,” I say. “In the meantime, what do you say we make up for any dignity lost with the mini-bottles by starting work on bottles suited for grown men.”

  Billy likes the suggestion, so we go over to the nearest bar and focus our efforts on a magnum of Jim Beam. Then Billy tells me he’d better have a look at his fireworks while he can still see straight and takes his suitcase of pheromones off through the garden.

  Which leaves me and the fiesta some time to get acquainted. It’s not yet ten o’clock, but there must already be several hundred people there. I take my stiff right leg for a stroll around the pool, practicing my holas on the chiquitas. Over near the dance floor one sweet thing in leopard skin and silicone lips wants to correct my pronunciation, and we stand there for several minutes doing holas back and forth before moving on to other subjects, I believe. After a few minutes with a girl in leopard skin, you don’t know what you’re saying anymore, particularly if it’s in Spanish. By the time she says adios with a kiss on my freshly shaven cheek, I don’t know for sure whether we’ve shared our views on Mexican politics or if maybe we’ve got a little rendezvous on the dance floor after midnight. She goes right on and kisses the other cheek, because lips like that were made for kissing. Two delicious gummy worms perched there fresh as daisies. A wonderful moment, which I choose to recognize with a little rarity called the Sleeping Beauty. You shut the whole face down for a moment, then bring it up ever so slowly like a spotlight. Ideally the eyes should flutter open naturally. Simple yet effective. It says: I was asleep my whole life till you kissed me. Nine hundred ninety-nine times out of a thousand they’ll just go right on kissing. Lose sight of the boundaries, so to speak, and I have no doubt she would have moved on to the third and fourth cheeks if a yacht in pinstripes hadn’t pulled her off towards the hors d’oeuvres.

  The band is five guys in mustaches assaulting the guests with trumpet fire. They wear black cowboy hats, short black jackets over white shirts, tight black pants lined with silver studs, and black boots with pointed toes. It’s a hell of a costume, which I acknowledge with an appreciative nod. I’ve always been partial to Italian style, but you see a costume like that and can’t help but thinking that someday you could make the switch to Mexican. Silver studs on the pants might go nicely with a fourteen-carat buckle.

  But honestly I’m not on the scene for fashion tips, so I head house-wards to do a little investi
gating. Casa, they call it in Spanish, although this is no casa. It’s more like a plantation on steroids, and I’d need to find the leopard skin again to know how to say that. Over on the patio they’ve got tables with white tablecloths set up for dinner. Through the sliding glass doors is a large room with a fireplace, couches everywhere, and two widescreen TVs. A couple of maids in white uniforms scurry in and out of a swinging door to the left, which I take to be the kitchen. To the right are two other doors, one of which I’m hoping leads to the library, although I don’t imagine too much reading gets done in Queso’s house. The library’s where he makes his death threats, apparently, which is a kind of philosophy you don’t really need to acquire from books. A man like Queso knows how to keep it simple, but then I’ve got a Madonna rubbing suggestively against my leg and an intention to complicate things a bit.

  As I study the house, I catch sight of the man himself on the far side of the patio, where he’s anchored on a lounge chair and is accepting handshakes from his guests. Next to him on a stool sits a girl who must be his daughter, Maricruz Et Cetera. She’s wearing a shiny black dress that covers her down to her ankles and wrists, and she looks miserable. She’s hunched down on the stool like she’s trying to disappear, although the chances of that are slim, considering she’s as wide as her padre. Every time he booms out a greeting, she winces, and then proceeds to die of embarrassment when somebody offers her a present. There’s a pile of them next to her that all look professionally wrapped. I wonder where her friends are. The only likely eighteen-year-olds I see are earning money catering or on the arms of men her father’s age.

  Queso sees me, and I give him a wave, with a wink for Maricruz, which unfortunately only embarrasses her more. Then I figure I’ll go back and see if Billy needs any help attaching his fuses, or whatever it is he’s doing, when I hear English being spoken and turn to find, not more than twenty feet away, none other than the distinguished Farsinellis of Denver, Colorado.