Planet Willie

by Josh Shoemake

  “Actually the word mariachi is a relatively recent bastardization of the French word mariage,” the Professor is saying, “which means marriage, the traditional occasion for this sort of music.”

  Bella rolls her eyes like Barry’s the bastardization, then gulps down some gin and eyes the mariachis like what really interests her is tight pants. I slip away into the crowd before they can see me. They know Queso’s Madonna is the original by now, and I’m not too interested in testing their fidelity to truth and beauty when Queso’s got money and power and could kill me if anybody like Bella tipped him off to the real purpose of my visit to Acapulco.

  It ends up being quite a perilous walk through the garden, and I don’t just mean keeping that Madonna concealed. First of all, I meet the Chief, who’s well into cerveza and is happy to see me. I tell him I’ve got a little problem named Kafka that I’d like to speak to him about, he tells me I’m welcome to stop by the station any time. I refrain from mentioning that I’ve already stopped by for an extended period and thank him kindly for the invitation.

  Then I discover that there are nuns present. Seems like everywhere I go, nuns keep popping up, specifically Lulu, whom I find standing in a tight little cluster with her nun friends, none of whom is Twiggy, and none of whom look too friendly. I can’t imagine what they talk about in a fiesta setting, but I don’t guess it’s Lulu’s gambling problem. As far as the debt problem goes, the Madonna must have resolved that, which explains Queso’s invitation. Maybe he loves the little orphans too, considering the money he’s lent them at twenty five percent interest. That’s a scene in the library I would have liked to see. Queso telling a nun called Lulu that he’ll hurt her if he doesn’t get his money back, and Lulu offering up the family Madonna because the money’s been invested in a little venture in a back room that didn’t pay dividends. Sort of puts Cipriano and El Gordo’s begging into perspective, not that they’re not enjoying the adventure of it at age thirteen.

  Then over by a bar under the trees, there’s a face I actually want to see. It’s Fernanda, she’s drinking alone, and she’s wearing a little black dress that shows off what was recently sunburn but is now a nice tan. Also she’s on crutches, and her leg’s in a cast.

  “Miss Shore, I presume,” I say, walking up to her. “What the hell happened to you?”

  She smiles like a woman made to smile, which is a smile I haven’t yet seen from her. “I strained it sun tanning,” she says.

  “Well the tanning worked,” I say. “You look good.”

  “Maybe I didn’t put on enough lotion,” she says.

  “You could have called on me,” I say. “Or maybe the cast comes in handy when the purse is too small and we’re both here for the same reason.”

  “The music?” she says.

  “That and the fireworks,” I say, “which I am happy to be assisting in providing this evening.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “For once I’m serious, sweetheart. Why don’t I get us two more drinks, and then I’ll take you over and introduce you to Billy. I think you two might be a good influence on one another.”

  She offers her arm, and we hobble over to my third bar that evening, where she’s doing bourbon too, still a Southern girl despite it all. “Have you seen your sister?”

  “I saw her,” she says. “She didn’t want to see me. She knows why I’m here. It was wonderful, really. For the first time in my life, she’s the bad girl, and I don’t know what she can ever do to make up for this.”

  “I always said it, Fernanda. You were never bad enough.”

  “Is that a line?”

  “Interpret it as you will, sweetheart, but it’s true.”

  “The night’s not through, Willie,” she says. “I know why you’re here too, and there’s still time left for me to be bad. And no, that’s not a line.”

  “He’s already got it. You’re not going to sell it to him.”

  “Maybe not, but I’ve got leverage. I know he stole it, and I’ll talk if I have to. But somehow I think if it comes to talking, Mister Queso and I will find an arrangement.”

  “Fair enough,” I say. “But here’s Billy, Mister Pyrotechnics of the Eastern Arizona Fireworks Association three years running.” Billy looks up from his control panel and gives us both a smile. “Billy, this is Fernanda,” I say. “She’s a bad woman, and I hesitate to introduce you, but what she lacks in morality she sometimes makes up for in charm.”

  Billy smiles even wider and shakes her hand like it alone is more charming than anything he’s ever seen, much less held. “You really do fireworks,” Fernanda says to me, clearly impressed.

  “Not me,” I say. “Billy. I’m just sort of an Assistant Mister Pyrotechnics.”

  “Well that’s just fascinating,” Fernanda says to Billy, moving around next to him to study the control panel with more girlish wonder than Maricruz will get from opening a thousand birthday presents.

  “Billy also does pheromones,” I say, “although maybe we should save that for another time.”

  “Actually, we met,” Billy mumbles. “I was at your gallery show in New York.”

  “Well I’m so sorry,” Fernanda says, seeming to mean it. “I was so busy that night, I didn’t get a chance to talk to all the people I wanted to.”

  “You looked pretty busy,” Billy mumbles, blushing a bit. He’s so impressed by Fernanda that he may well have forgotten that he was busy falling in love with Twiggy on the night in question. “So this one here will launch the first shells,” he says, moving her hand to show her how it will work. “I’m going to start it off with red and green, which you probably know are the colors of the Mexican flag. Then we’ll do lots of pink sparklers, since Maricruz is a girl and this is her birthday celebration. People like the personal touch.”

  Fernanda likes it too, apparently. She’s just captivated, and I’ve more or less become decoration, which wasn’t exactly what I was intending by introducing her to Billy, but then I guess the spirit moves in mysterious ways. So I leave them to talk fireworks and spend the next hour or so decorating various spots in Queso’s pleasure garden, nodding along to the mariachi music and sort of trying not to drink too much. Things never turn out like you plan, but then I guess it wouldn’t be too much fun if they did. That’s what I tell myself, at least. I try to remain philosophical. That’s what I do, because there’s really not much other choice.

  Midnight always comes soon enough, however, and when it does, the mariachis trail off at a signal from Queso, which admittedly comes as a relief. La Cucaracha has its limitations, and once I find the time for rehearsals, I’ll be needing to find something else for my repertoire. When the last trumpet finally blows its last note, Queso gets up from his lounge chair, which is a sort of entertainment by itself. Then he gives a lengthy speech, I’m assuming on the virtues of his daughter, who looks like she’d prefer to give up virtues forever if only he’d shut up. As he speaks, I make my way up to the patio, and once he finishes with some applause, he turns to me and nods. Ready for liftoff, the nod says, and so I turn and hoof it back to Billy to start the show, which should be memorable. Billy’s going along the line of mortar tubes making a few last checks. Fernanda’s nowhere to be seen. I ask him where she went, he tells me she had to use the ladies room.

  “I can’t tell you when I’ve had a better time talking to someone, Willie,” he says, moving over to the control panel and flipping a few switches.

  “She’s a charmer, Billy, and I wish you all the best, but for the moment I wish me all the best. I’m going in, and I want you to really unleash it. I’m talking World War Three, I’m talking the Alamo over Acapulco, except this time we win.”

  “This time we win,” he says nodding.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “I’m just excited,” he says.

  “Alright then. Let the show begin.” Billy grins at me and pushes a button, and five seconds later the sky explodes in green and red. It’s just incredibl
e. I mean you can’t help but shout and say ahh. Everybody’s oohing and aahing as another round explodes, and Billy’s staring up at the sky too, shaking with laughter, I mean just bursting with excitement as his explosions paint the air.

  “I’m off,” I shout over the roar, giving him the thumbs up, and then I’m moving fast along the wall, out of sight of the crowd, darting from bush to bush until I reach the palm tree closest to the house and stop behind it to scout. Queso’s still on the patio next to Maricruz, staring up into the heavens with everybody else. There are a few white suits around him, but they’re staring too. Even the maids have come out of the kitchen. They’re lined up on the far side of the patio, their mouths open and giggling with pleasure to be free for a moment to enjoy the spectacle. You have to give ol’ Billy credit. He’s got everybody’s attention. I wait for the pink sparklers to start up, and then with the air fizzing like pink champagne, I make my move. I dart alongside the house, aiming for the closest sliding doors, keeping one eye on Los Blancos while zipping along like a bottle rocket in boots, which isn’t as easy as it should be when one leg’s got a Madonna wrapped around it and won’t really bend at the knee.

  The door slides open, I slip through and slide it shut behind me. Pausing behind the curtain for a moment, I listen to the sound of the room. Once I’m convinced that the only sounds are coming from outside, I risk a little peek around the curtain. The room is empty. Though the plate glass I can see the back of Queso’s toupee. Pink light floats down, covering the pleasure garden like magic dust.

  Across the living room is the swinging door to what I’ve figured is the kitchen. Nearer to me, across a shaggy white carpet, are two other doors. I choose door number one. The knob turns, I slip through and shut the door behind me to find myself in a pitch black room. The sound of my own breathing is near deafening. I fumble along the wall until I find a light switch, flick it and get the scare of a lifetime, which considering the lifetime is saying something. I mean, I just about leave those boots behind and shoot up like a pink sparkler myself. There’s a man in a sharp suit not three feet away. He’s staring me straight in the eyes, and the game’s up, I’m thinking, until I notice that this is not just any ordinary looking man, and that’s putting it mildly. He’s wearing what may be one of the classiest belt buckles I’ve ever seen, and if I weren’t pressed for time, I might honestly consider falling into his arms. He’s grinning at me now, I mean the kind of grin you could get lost in. I’m lost too, I see now – in a bathroom done up in elaborate gold fixtures, and the looker in the mirror is none other than yours truly. Boosts the confidence, it does. I mean when you’re looking like that, there’s honestly not a whole hell of a lot that could go wrong. At least that’s what I think. Of course I couldn’t be more wrong.

  With the living room behind me now, I figure I’m out of any immediate danger. There’s another door on the far side of the bathroom, which I take. That puts me in a bedroom done up in a hunting theme. Fake bearskins cover the floor, the bear heads still attached, white plastic eyes staring up at me with what looks like fear. I pull up my pants leg and shift the Madonna up under my arm, and then I keep moving. Dammit if this house isn’t a hell of a lot bigger than it needs to be. I move through at least two other bedrooms, a dining room decorated with portraits of the ancestors, generations of Quesos sporting pencil-thin mustaches. I find a steam room, which brings back some pleasant memories, but by the time I find myself wandering through the gym, where I don’t imagine the machines get used any more than Queso’s books, I’m in a state of sheer panic that Billy will run through his supplies before I manage to find the library, much less introduce my Madonna to her ancestor.

  By this point I’m more or less sprinting, counting on that law of physics that says every house must eventually come to an end, and it’s no small relief when I finally burst through into a room with walls covered in books. On one end of the room there’s a desk, on the other a gold table and a few chairs. Louis Quatorze, I think to myself, and head for the gold table. There’s nothing on the table, so I hop back over to the desk. There’s nothing there either. Through the ceiling I can hear the boom of fireworks, and my heart starts to beat faster. Where the hell is she? Spinning around in the middle of the room, I’m studying every inch of it for signs of virgins. Then, on the wall behind the desk, I spot her. Queso’s had her framed, and she is beautiful. I’ve seen her before, but somehow she’s more beautiful when she’s real. She’s the kind of woman who could make me an art lover, although maybe some of the impression she’s making in that library comes from everything I’ve done to get to her. Darling and Ava Gardner, ol’ Lenny and my dive from the cliffs, my own unresolved mysteries and Rock Lightford’s, too – maybe in some way that’s all a part of her now. Maybe that’s what real art is, and maybe Fernanda understands that too, unlike the rest of her family, which is maybe why I never doubted her. Even if I could find a way to explain all this to Harry Shore, I don’t imagine he would appreciate the Madonna any more. What that says about the true state of his own soul is another question for another day, and one that’s none of the department’s business, really. We just take orders, that’s all, and you can’t really complain when you’re in Acapulco getting the girl in the end. At least that’s what I’m thinking until I hear a doorknob turn behind me and dive behind a leather armchair, which could have a chance of hiding me if I suck in the gut and keep my heart from bursting.

  From behind the chair I watch Fernanda Shore ease into the room, which goes some way towards bestilling the heart, though not enough to make me want to come out of hiding quite yet. What is a bit concerning, however, is that Fernanda’s leg has been miraculously healed, and although she looks even better with two tanned legs, I don’t like the looks of the canvas she’s got rolled up in her hand. It’s a nice trick, the fake cast – I’ll have to remember it for future investigations. In the meantime, Fernanda’s already spotted the Madonna and has unhooked it from the wall. She uses what she’s learned as an art dealer to remove the frame and detach the canvas within seconds, at which point I’m thinking I better join the proceedings before we’re all back to square one. She’s carefully rolling up the original when somebody says, “Hold it right there,” which is a nice line if only I’d said it. Fernanda looks up from the desk, I peek around the armchair. Bella Farsinelli, naturally. She has a canvas too.

  “Where did you get that?” Fernanda and I say simultaneously. Fernanda notices me and rolls her eyes. I figure I can come out from behind the chair.

  “One of our neighbors gave it to me,” Bella coos.

  “Bitch,” Fernanda says, and Bella, who’s apparently had quite a bit to drink, makes a run for her. Fernanda snatches up a paperweight from the desk, and things are about to get violent when the door opens and shuts again, admitting the Catholic church in the person of Sister Lulu. She doesn’t even notice us at first, she’s so nervous. She pulls a canvas out from under her habit, and only then does she look up, and what was becoming violent now gets downright apocalyptic.

  I’m the closest to Lulu, so as she panics she goes for me, and before I know it things have really gotten out of hand. I mean I’m nun-wrestling Lulu, thinking I’ve got a pretty good idea of where she got her painting, while the other two nuts are throwing haymakers like they’d just as soon steal the other’s head along with the original painting. Pandemonium, to put it mildly. At one point, I don’t even know who I’m wrestling anymore, but whoever she is, she knows the way a man’s put together. Also, I keep losing my fake Madonna as I try to defend myself, then grabbing for it as it rolls across the floor. At least I assume it’s mine, but when you’re in a room full of women with a blood lust, it’s honestly difficult to make any kind of assumptions.

  This goes on for a while, when a deafening explosion rocks the house and stops the fight in a flash. Our faces are still twisted like ninja killers as we begin to hear screams, distant at first, then coming closer. There’s a pause in the fireworks, maybe, but almost im
mediately they’re popping again. Then the door to the library bangs open, and a white suit comes running in. He freezes when he sees us. He looks from one of us to the next, and on his face you can actually see his brain trying to make sense of what he sees. When his brain can’t come up with an answer, he pulls a gun from his waist, and then we’re all screaming too. The gun’s waving all over the place while we scamper around trying to get our hands on at least one Madonna. One of them’s real, but given the circumstances, I really don’t feel I can take the time to unroll the one I’ve managed to grab and stare into her eyes to see if they’re right.

  Eventually the suit gets to where he just can’t stand it anymore and fires his gun into the air, at which point the ladies and I all decide to be happy with the Madonnas we’ve got, fake or not. We make for the second door, which I happen to know leads to the gym, and sprint through a series of steam rooms and dining rooms and bedrooms, where the fear in the eyes of the bears is nothing now next to the fear in my own.

  I race into the living room, and what I discover there is another mystery I can’t even begin to comprehend. The party seems to have taken a decidedly romantic turn. Couples, and not a few threesomes and foursomes, are draped over couches doing things to each other that I might find shocking if I weren’t all of a sudden feeling a bit romantic myself. Stowing the new Madonna up my pants leg again, I step out through the sliding doors into the pleasure garden, where everybody in sight is doing more than is strictly necessary to put the pleasure back in pleasure garden. I mean it’s basically an orgy out there. Fireworks still burst overhead, but in the bushes people wrap their arms around each other and declare undying love in Spanish. I wander back to the launch area, where Billy stands in a daze. The whole right side of his suit is covered in soot, and when he sees me, he smiles like I might be the next Twiggy.

  “What the hell is going on, Billy?”