Fever Tree

by Tim Applegate

  Then a commercial came on; halftime. Gene offered him a wry, weary smile, like a man who had just finished a strenuous workout.

  You ready for another one, D?

  Right on, Gene.

  Old Blue?

  You bet.

  Old Blue. That’s what they called it back home, not Pabst, not Blue Ribbon, but Old Blue. When he was a kid, his dad used to take him to Mallory’s Tavern for lunch, and that’s what the old-timers would say. Gimme an Old Blue, willya Mac?

  Trapped in the acid’s steely grip, Dieter was having difficulty breathing and he wondered if his lungs had collapsed. Eventually he lost track of time, but in comparison to not breathing this seemed like a minor development. Was it midnight, 2:00 a.m., a day later? He glanced down at the floor, relieved to discover that Jen was still there and that she had apparently crossed over some kind of psychic divide, her fear coalescing into sorrow. If it was nearly dawn—and the view out the window seemed to confirm this—then they had already peaked and they would begin the slow freefall now. The despair on Jen’s face was heartbreaking, but at least she was safe.

  He scanned the room. Spotting a stack of albums on the floor next to the turntable, it occurred to him that music might be the best antidote for Jen’s emotional distress. So he grabbed hold of the arm of the futon and stood up to cross, on sea legs, the wobbly floor.

  So whatdya think, D?

  About what, Gene?

  The game!

  Dieter tried to formulate an appropriate response. He had never been much good at this kind of macho banter but his imagination was creative and rarely let him down.

  I’ll tell you what I think, Gene. He raised his voice for emphasis. I think those fuckin’ refs need an eye exam, that’s what I think. Gene slammed his fist down on the bar, maniacally grinning. His deepest desire at that moment was the simple assurance that Dieter was, after all, just one of the boys. Goddamn right they do!

  Dieter flipped through the albums until he found the one he was looking for. He slid the record out of its sleeve and placed it on the turntable and carefully set the needle down in the fifth groove. And there, all of a sudden, it was, the piano’s first lovely phrases—solemn yet airy, pastoral, light—grounded, moments later, by the bass.

  Hearing the music, Jen unfolded her body and sat up. Her face was so puffy and sallow Dieter wanted to flail himself, like Hazel Motes, for feeding her the drug.

  What is that, Dieter?

  What’s what, hon?

  That song.

  It’s called “Jokes Are for Sad People.”

  In a reverent voice she repeated the title. And then she began to cry.

  Dieter held her for a long, long time, rocking away her tears. Then the song ended and the next one came on and in a quiet, muffled voice Jen asked him the name of the band and Dieter answered Fever Tree, they’re called Fever Tree.

  The band’s name seemed to amuse her, which made Dieter’s heart leap. It was over. They would crash now, eat a little breakfast, and sleep. Outside, the rain had finally let up, and the moon, paled by dawn, appeared in its quadrant again and Dieter knew that it wasn’t going to explode after all, despite his earlier paranoia. It was going to rise and fall, night after night, over the sands of Quintana Roo and the cornfields of Indiana, and eventually over a tavern in Crooked River where men talked to television sets and Dieter sat alone at the end of the bar, mourning Jennifer.

  10

  The moment he entered the tavern Colt paused, his gaze raking the room for possible enemies. You could never be too cautious, and you could never let down your guard, and yet as far as he could determine the Blue Moon was safe tonight, Gene washing glasses while the usual suspects gaped, like zombies, at a football game on TV. There was a stranger at the end of the bar who appeared harmless, late twenties with a Beatle’s pageboy haircut, an Indiana University T-shirt, and a nonchalant expression that might mean anything at all. Good looking, if poorly dressed, but not a threat, Colt concluded, definitely not a threat. He chose a stool two down from the stranger’s, greeted Gene with one of those bizarre choreographed handshakes—an elaborate sequence of high fives and fists bumps followed, at last, by a manly thump to the chest—and ordered a draft beer.

  Dieter contemplated the new customer, intrigued by his elaborate outfit, the sharply creased jeans and checkered western shirt with pearl buttons no less, and that outlandish white Stetson. Clearly a clothes hound unashamed of his vanity and well aware of the impact he made walking into a room even if there wasn’t a single female in the Blue Moon tonight to admire his élan; because men stole glances too, suspecting that this was the kind of guy their wives thought about when they made love. A real peacock with a tense look in his eyes indicating, no doubt, a trigger temper. Dieter took out his notebook and wrote a peacock with claws, and when he looked up again Colt was staring at him hard, questioning the notepad.

  Then the two Mexicans walked into the tavern and Colt’s attention was drawn elsewhere.

  One was tall and slender with a drooping Zapata mustache and lank black hair. His companion, short and barrel-chested, wore a Yankees baseball cap and appeared to be the point man, the decision maker. Placing a five-dollar bill on top of the bar he signaled Gene with two upraised fingers before waddling across the room and sliding into a booth directly behind Colt and Dieter, waiting for the tall one to bring the beers.

  After placing the bottles on the table, the tall one slipped a quarter into the jukebox and played a song by Bob Seger while his companion tipped his baseball cap back, took a long swallow of beer, and met Colt’s gaze in the mirror behind the bar. He opened his mouth to say something to his companion and Colt glimpsed the gleam of the gold tooth and recognized him from the Black Kat Club. His name was Raul and he was Jimmy Santiago’s cousin, a notorious badass with a rep for bare-knuckle combat mastered in the back streets of Guadalajara when he was a boy.

  Raul took off his baseball cap, scratched his head, and put it back on. His dark eyes remained fixed on Colt’s reflection, and when he began to speak he made sure his voice carried across the room.

  A broken bottle. What kinda shit is that, camarada?

  Taking a seat, the tall one remained silent, letting his friend do the work. Macho shit, Raul continued, that’s what kind, macho bullshit.

  Nodding, the tall one turned around to look into the mirror also and his eyes were just as flat as his friend’s, just as unfeeling. Dieter watched the muscles in Colt’s face grow stiff and he understood that even though the Mexican was ostensibly addressing his compañero, the words were aimed at Colt, and that there was some kind of history here Dieter wasn’t privy to.

  Fucking Jimmy, man. I hear he had to have one of those what do you call its, they stick the needle in?

  The tall one’s voice was tight, more confined than his partner’s. Transfusion.

  That’s right, one of those transfusions. It’s what you get, when you use a fucking bottle. What you get when you coldcock a guy.

  Out of the corner of his eye Dieter saw Gene reach down below the counter to grab something. At the same time Colt stood up and turned toward the two Mexicans but Dieter had already made his move, blocking the mule’s path. Adrenaline flooded his body, a strange surge of joy.

  The tavern fell silent. In the old days Dieter would have frozen at that moment but fear died one night on a rainy highway outside Bloomington. Now, in the face of physical danger, he just didn’t care. He lifted his hands to show the two Mexicans his lack of weapons. Buenas noches, amigos. ¿Como estan?

  The tall one seemed reluctant to answer but Raul was not so bashful. Buenas noches, señor. Emboldened, Dieter started across the room, mouthing an apology. Disculpe, no quiero molestarle.

  Raul shrugged—No es ninguna molestia—it was no bother at all. His gold tooth gleamed again, reminding Dieter of one of those Mexican bandits in American westerns w
ho smiled like that right before he unsheathed his machete and cut off the gringo’s hands. Gracias, amigo. Dieter pointed at the Mexicans’ beer bottles, which were almost empty. ¿Dos cervezas mas?

  Raul lifted his palms in surrender; if the gringo wanted to buy the next round, who was he to disagree? So Dieter turned back to the bar and said three beers, Gene, and three shots of tequila, and the bartender gladly let go of the billy club he had been holding on to for dear life. In the two years he had worked at the Blue Moon he had been forced to brandish the club three times but never, thank God, to swing it.

  Cuervo?

  Let’s make it the good stuff. Dieter pointed at the top shelf. Give me the clear. And three Buds, please.

  Later, when Gene reconstructed the evening, he would swear Dieter winked at him at that moment, as if sharing some kind of private joke, before focusing on Colt, who was still standing next to the bar watching the two Mexicans.

  How about you, friend? Ready for another beer?

  Keeping Raul in his peripheral vision, Colt considered the offer, but not for long. I don’t think so, pal. Reckon I’ll buy my own. Picking up his glass, Colt sauntered over to the end of the counter and sat down on a stool with a clear view of the Mexicans’ booth. He wasn’t about to turn his back on Jimmy Santiago’s cousin but he wasn’t leaving the tavern either. This was his local watering hole, and no one was going to scare him away.

  Dieter set the bottles of beer on the Mexicans’ table and returned a minute later with the tequila. Still smiling, Raul patted the seat cushion.

  Por favor, señor, como en su casa.

  Raul raised his shot glass—a su salúd—and Dieter and the tall one repeated the toast, to your health, clicking their glasses in midair. Then Dieter slammed the shot back and chased it with a swig of beer, his hand steady, his nerves calm. He let the silence build for a few minutes to show them he wasn’t afraid, a trick he had learned in Mexico. Like boxers, you met in the center of the ring and you didn’t blink, you never blinked.

  De donde es usted?

  Raul waited a beat before replying, as if considering whether he should.

  Guadalajara.

  Ah sí, Guadalajara. Lo conozco bien!

  Dieter recalled, with an ache, the old town. Dusk. In the zocalo, a shoeshine boy polished a tourist’s jet-black shoes while a group of musicians gathered in the shade of a fig tree to tune their instruments. The sun plunged over the steeple of the grand old cathedral and then the shadow of the steeple inched across the square, spearing the walkways, as Jen took Dieter’s arm. They stepped into an elegant café just off the plaza, where the proprietor, an old man with a cloud of white hair who remembered Jen from the old days before Quintana Roo, pecked her on the cheek and clasped Dieter’s right hand in both of his. Calling out to one of his waiters, he escorted them to a corner table, Jen’s favorite, with a view of the courtyard’s gurgling fountain and caged macaw.

  Dieter named the restaurant and Raul’s expression softened, for he remembered it too. And when Dieter began to describe, in great detail, the extravagant feast the old proprietor had prepared for them, Raul and his compañero leaned over the table, impressed by the respect the gringo, in excellent Spanish, paid to their native cuisine. Dieter’s narrative had brought their hometown back to them, and in gratitude Raul refused to let him pay for the next round, placing a twenty on the table and making sure that Gene picked it up when he came over with their next tray of drinks.

  Now that he had the Mexicans’ attention, Dieter made his pitch, lowering his voice and speaking this time in English. I do not know, my friend, what the trouble is between you and the man at the bar, but I know it is none of my business. He let that sink in for a few moments. Unless, that is . . .

  Unless? The word seemed to pique Raul’s interest.

  Unless you choose to tell me.

  Taking his time, Raul lit a thin, slender cigar, watching the smoke curl like a question mark into the stale air. I see.

  Jimmy, for instance. Would Raul be willing to tell him who Jimmy is?

  The two Mexicans exchanged a look and then the tall one replied, in his rasp of a voice, he is Raul’s cousin.

  On his father’s side? Dieter asked.

  Sí, señor, pon parte de su padre.

  Dieter sipped his tequila, introspective now, weighing the odds. One false move and it could all unravel at once. And now he is injured, no?

  Sí, señor.

  And the man at the bar, he is the one who cut the cousin?

  Behind a veil of smoke, Raul nodded.

  Then I understand, Dieter stated, your anger.

  Raul contemplated the ash at the end of his cigar. Cutting a man with a bottle, he hissed, is the act of a coward.

  Yes, I understand. Dieter chugged the rest of his tequila, throwing caution to the wind.

  And yet still I must ask you, with all due respect, for a favor.

  Raul lifted his brows, intrigued. What, he wanted to know, would that favor be?

  That you take your fight elsewhere. Dieter waved his right hand, indicating the room. This is my neighborhood tavern. This is where I drink. And I like to drink, as I’m sure you do, in peace.

  After a long pause Raul took off his Yankees hat and scratched his head. But you misunderstand us, señor. We did not come here to fight. He pointed at the TV. We came here to watch the ballgame.

  Which might, Dieter thought, be true. Then I am pleased, he said, that you did. In fact, I am honored. I am very fond of your country. I miss it a great deal.

  As do we, señor. As do we.

  Eventually, three more rounds were consumed before Raul and his companion rose, a little unsteadily, to their feet. They shook Dieter’s hand and said sí, they would be pleased to have dinner with him down on the docks one night. And then halfway to the door, as if it were an afterthought, Raul wheeled around and raised a thumb in the air and pointed his index finger at Colt, pretending his hand was a pistol. Taking aim, he squeezed off a round, a gesture Colt, in disdain, refused to acknowledge. The blood feud was far from over but it wasn’t going to end tonight.

  At the bar, Dieter twirled his empty shot glass, his eyes a little unfocused now. You know I used to drink this cactus juice like it was water.

  Shit’ll kill you, man. Shaking his head, Gene grabbed the shot glass and set it in the sink. Now more than ever Gene was determined, like Consuela, to crack the Dieter code.

  That was some kinda chatter, D. Where’d you learn to talk Mex like that?

  Dieter let the question hang for a minute before answering, in a quiet voice, Mexico.

  That right? Spend some time down there did you?

  Some.

  Yeah? Like where? Cabo? Cozumel?

  Ah, you know—Dieter shrugged, giving nothing away—here and there. He rapped his knuckles on the bar. Look, I gotta go. While I still can. I’ll catch you later, okay?

  Colt waited for Dieter to disappear out the door before turning back to the bartender, baffled. What the fuck was all that, Geno?

  Damned if I know.

  Strange cat.

  Dude’s a paradox, man. An enigma.

  A paradox? An enigma? Colt frowned at his old friend. What the fuck, bro, you been readin’ books again or what?

  Two

  11

  The days drifted by in a glaze of heat, though the mornings were incrementally cooler now, particularly down along the harbor where gusts of wind rippled the sails of the pleasure boats anchored in the marina, their hulls at sunrise coated with a thin sheen of dew. Sailboats lying at peaceful anchor, even as those sheltered waters were transformed at first light into a hive of activity, stern captains manning the bridges of their vessels, while the worker bees below them scurried to and fro.

  Perched on the seawall that separated the harbor from the town, Dieter flipped open his notebook and
wrote, coated with dew? He’d have to think about that for awhile, when he returned to his room. Skim a finger down the busy margins of a Thesaurus until he latched on to something better—sheathed?—or decided that coated would do. For a rough draft, that is, of a note.

  To the deckhands fitting out their trawlers, he had become a familiar figure, the stranger who was staying at the Gibson, strolling past their slips, as he did most mornings, jotting down notes in his pad. Some claimed he was a writer doing research for a book about the fishing industry. Others concluded he was crazy, scribbling gibberish. While still others speculated that the notebook was therapeutic, a daily journal recording the thoughts of a man recovering from some kind of personal tragedy up north, the loss of a fortune or the death of a loved one or trouble with the law. They often spoke to him as they humped supplies from the docks to their boats and he was invariably cordial, inquiring about yesterday’s catch or the rumors of a hurricane gaining strength in the lower Gulf. Nights, he favored The Tides, a tavern with an excellent menu down on the marina where many of the deckhands liked to drink.

  If Dieter spotted a group in the bar, he would buy a round of beers and encourage them to talk about their work. He was a polite, careful listener, and as the deckhands described their days out at sea, a faint smile crossed his lips, as if he, too, could smell the brine in the air and see the black thunderheads of September blossom on the horizon. And yet, when the deckhands parried Dieter’s questions with a few of their own, he steered the conversation in a different direction. He mentioned a town in Indiana called Bloomington and a cabinet shop owned by his dad, but when they pressed him for further details he quietly replied that no, he wasn’t married, and he didn’t have children either, though he certainly hoped to some day. What about them? Did they have any kids?