A Gentle Rain

by Deborah Smith

  Upswept spotlights flung inverted pyramids of dramatic light on the fading race number painted in red-and-white on the car's dulling blue sides. An aged Valvoline Motor Oil decal looked down at me from one of the car's fenders, like a staring red eye.

  Framed by a pink sunset on that summer evening, the race car seemed to be crashing in a blaze of roof-bound glory. Clearly, native Floridians could not resist mounting large vehicles, either automotive or aeronautical, atop their buildings.

  "All that tableau lacks is a plastic deer sprawled on the car's hood," I said as Ben and I shepherded everyone from the truck and the van. More than three-dozen of the Kissme Woomee mermaids and guests awaited us inside. "After all, what good is a `Road' without a `kill?)"

  Everyone but Ben hooted at this bon mot. Ben merely straightened the collar of Joey's neatly pressed chambray shirt. "I'll tell Phil you and him think alike."

  "Oh?"

  Lily, limping along beside me with one hand in Mac's and the other hooked affectionately around my elbow, nodded up at the airborne car. "Phil used to have a deer on the roof But somebody shot it."

  "Blasted the plastic head clean off," Miriam added, chortling. She and Lula were lighthearted in shiny knee pants, lacy tank tops and miles of costume jewelry with a mermaid theme. Both tiptoed among the pot holes on high, spiked heels.

  Lula hooted. "At least the deer didn't suffer."

  I caught Ben's weary smile. His mood had gone downhill, lately. Still, he managed to look rakishly desirable in jeans, boots, and a crisp dress shirt. He had even donned a handsome leather belt with a silver horse head buckle. Worn with just the right amount of style and swagger, a large belt buckle draws the eye directly to the territory beneath it. I found myself helplessly drawn to Ben's horse head.

  A distraction was needed. I raised my gaze to his face. "And who, by the way, is Phil?"

  "Some kind of secret agent," Miriam said.

  "Gov'ment hit man," Lula said. "Or maybe a spy."

  Ben pushed Joey's wheelchair up a ramp to the porch. "Phil's awright. Just a businessman who bought this place a few years ago. He needed a vacation."

  "He's our friend," Joey said brightly. "Since way back in Mexico. Ben saved his life."

  Ben wheeled Joey faster.

  "Mexico," Miriam whispered to me. "Part of the history Ben don't talk about. You'll see. I'd bet money Phil Montegra's a cold-blooded killer for the CIA or something. Don't look in his eyes."

  Ben

  The first time I saw Phil Montegra, he was staked out in the south Texas desert wearing nothing but his tuxedo pants and a whole lot of blood. I happened on the scene around midnight, while I was night-huntin' for rabbits so Joey and me could eat. Joey was asleep in the back of the pickup truck I stole when we left Florida.

  Phil's blood gleamed in the firelight like cherry juice on leather. Phil's skin is the gold-brmvnn color of oak stain on pine boards. He's some part black, some part white, and some part unnamed. He's got a high forehead, a ,aide African nose, light-blue eyes and rust-brown hair that'd be fuzzy if he didn't shave his head to a scruff He's tall and thin and odd lookin', like a color-by-numbers picture of a Zulu businessman with the colors all wrong. Even back then, when I was a teenager and he was just twenty-something, he could scare the shit out of people with a single ice-blue stare.

  He was covered in little knife cuts on his chest and arms. Five big, quiet, white men-they weren't drunk cowboys or lowlife troublemakers, no, they were professionals of some kind-were trying to get him to tell `em something he didn't want to tell. They were about to quit playin' sweet and start cuttin' Phil's more tender parts. They'd already cut off one of his nipples.

  Phil stared up at the men around him like he was just waitin' to die. Like as soon as they killed him his soul'd rise up and rip their guts out. I didn't know what the hell I'd walked up on but I knew those five big guys weren't gonna let me walk away.

  I seated the butt ofmy squirrel rifle on my shoulder and looked down the barrel at `em. The rifle was just a .22 "I figure I can hit two of ya in the eyes and one in the balls fore the last two ofy'all grab me, I said. "Y'all wanta draw straws?"

  They grinned at each other. One said to the others like an exasperated daddy, "These fuckul' kids, today." Just as they were about to make a grab for me, three pairs of headlights came out of the dark, heading our way in a hurry. The men scattered. I just stood there, swinging the rifle barrel this way and that, in case one of `em doubled back.

  Two of the jeeps went off after Phil's knife-wielding enemies, and shots peppered the night. I don't think any of the five knife-happy men survived, but no one let me see the bodies. The third jeep slid to a stop near Phil. I didn't even have time to say, "Oh, shit," before armed men were pointing guns at me, really big ones.

  "He's with me," Phil shouted. He spoke with an accent. I couldn't tell you then, or now, what kind of accent, anymore than I tell you what Phil was doing in the desert in nothing but his tuxedo pants, being sliced up. The men who rescued him were mostly Americans, and they had some serious equipment with them. That's all I know for sure.

  Phil owed me a favor, and he takes favors seriously. I told him flat out that me and Joey had lost our mama and had to go on the run, elsewise Joey'd end up in foster care or an institution. I told him I stole the truck when we left Florida. I told him I was lookin' for work and a place to live.

  I told him I'd do anything.

  The next day he and the men who rescued him loaded me and Joey in a military helicopter and flew us deep into Mexico. We set down in the Sierra Madres mountains, just outside the small city of San Miguel de Allende. That name meant nothing to me then. Phil said it was special, it was beautiful, an old colonial mountain city, but where we landed was just a lot of scrub trees and sunshine. Joey, just seven years old, stood close beside me in the cool mountain sun, holding my hand. "Are we on the moon, Benji?" he asked.

  Eventually we saw a big, dark sedan heading our way on a dusty lane between the scrub trees. Even then I recognized a Mercedes when I saw one.

  Phil, stiff from painkillers and bandages, wasn't in the mood to explain much. "Cassandra Dumone is very rich. Her ranchero is beautiful. She is Canadian by birth. She had a son like your brother, so she'll be happy to care for him. And she'll arrange plenty of work for you. Are you willing to do whatever job she gives you in return for your brother's excellent care? If you're willing, you may come out of this far better off than you can imagine."

  I was sixteen and dumb-smart. I'd taken care of Joey all my life, worked like a grown man on ranches, loved a girl or two already, held Pa's head while he died with his chest crushed by a falling bronc, watched Mama stop breathing in the waiting room of an emergency ward while the admissions girl dallied cause we had no insurance, and now I'd gotten Joey and me to Mexico without gettin' caught or killed. I was a man, yeah, and I could handle anything some rich Canadian senora threw at me. Fetching drugs, running guns, smuggling people over the border. What could be worse than any of that?

  "Yeah," I told Phil. "I ain't scared of nothing, and I'm willing to get my hands dirty, if that's what it takes."

  He arched a brow. "I doubt she'll want you to get dirty."

  Oh, yes, she did. Just not in the way I expected.

  Kara

  I hated to admit it, but the infamous Phil ran a surprisingly excellent dance club.

  The house band was far more talented than the average roadhouse crew, playing a heady mix of country-western, Zydeco, the blues, Elvis, and even some classic sixties' pop. There's nothing like a slow song by The Righteous Brothers on top of a fast Cajun two-step followed by a cowboy line dance to melt inhibitions.

  Joyful music is irresistible and classic, no matter the setting or culture: A Greek wedding dance, an African street festival, a Latin fiesta, or the honky-tonk world of a Florida Cracker roadhouse on a hot Saturday night, even under the watchful eye of a reputed hit man. All are filled with the rhythm of life.

  Roadkill'sint
erior contributed to the freewheeling atmosphere. It was a mixture of old wooden booths, scarred tables, seductive shadows and a friendly bar. The bar, I noticed, was stocked with imported beer and quality liquor brands. Ask About Our Wine Selection, a sign taunted.

  "All right, I'll take that challenge, Phil," I said under my breath. "Lily, do you like wine?"

  She huddled close to me, holding my hand. "I don't know. Me and Mac don't drink much. Glen said their mama and daddy drank too much. Glen told us not to drink. Ever."

  The sins of the parents, conveyed to the child.

  "Well, if Glen told you and Mac not to drink, then I shouldn't tempt you by buying you a glass of wine. Hmmm?"

  Lily leaned close. She whispered in a conspiratorial voice. "I've learned bad words from Miriam and Lula."

  "Say them. I won't be shocked," I whispered back.

  "Screw Glen."

  I held up my free hand. "Bartender?"

  "Yes, ma'am," a child in his early twenties said.

  "What's your recommended cabernet sauvignon?"

  "Well, ma'am, by the glass, we have ..."

  "No. Tell me what you have by the bottle, please. I want something special."

  "Ma'am, we've got a 2002 Quill River cab. But it's two-fifty a bottle."

  I was impressed. A Quill River 2002? One of the best recent vintages out of Napa Valley. A bargain at only two-hundred-and-fifty a bottle. All right. Ben's notorious friend, Phil Montegra, Satan's henchman, had a decent wine cellar. "I'll take it, thank you."

  "Two dollars and fifty cents for a whole bottle isn't so bad, is it?" Lily whispered.

  "Very affordable," I told her.

  Ben disappeared upstairs into the forbidding world of the mysterious Phil. "Phil's behind that one-way, tinted window up there," Miriam told me. "Him and Ben, they're like something out of that movie, Roadhouse. You ever see Roadhouse?"

  I racked my brain. Cannes? Sundance? "I don't believe so."

  "Patrick Swayze, kickin' ass as a bar bouncer. It's a classic."

  "Sorry, my education has been woeful. Can you tell me exactly what Ben sees in Phil?"

  "Loyalty. Phil made sure Joey got taken care of in Mexico. Ben don't never forget that kind of loyalty. If this was Roadhouse, Ben would be Patrick Swayze and Phil would be Sam Elliott, his bar bouncer idol. A black Sam Elliott."

  "Pardon me?"

  "Phil's colored, to put it the old-fashioned way. Personally, I don't expect Phil cares what anybody says about his color. With Phil, it's like asking a gator whether he cares if people think he's green. The gator says, `Call me whatever color you like, I'm eatin' you alive in the meantime."'

  With that fascinating conversation in mind I stayed among our crowd at a special section of tables roped off for our private party. Lily held my hand on one side, Mac's on the other. They sipped the Quill River cabernet like teenagers sneaking an illicit taste of homemade wine. This night out was a highlight of their summer; Lily had pinned a bright new Daisy pin to her denim jumper, and Mac wore his plaid shirt and jeans with the flair of Lily's extra ironing and a new silk daisy on his suspenders.

  "You look so good," I told them. "You should dance."

  They shook their heads. "We just w-watch," Mac said.

  Lily nodded. "I can't dance. I limp. I look silly."

  My stomach twisted. How many times had they wanted to dance, yet been discouraged by Glen?

  "I like all this noise!" Joey yelled.

  I sipped my glass of wine. But my eyes kept going to the loft space above us, where that large, dark window marked the notorious Phil Montegra's office.

  Miriam downed another shot of bourbon and leaned close. "He's got a toady who manages this place for him, so he just sits up yonder in an office, watching the action. Phil showed up in these parts a few years' back. Just showed up outta nowhere, toting a bag full of cash. Ben doesn't talk about Phil's business, but I'm tellin'ya, Phil's laying low. That's why he's set up this joint in the middle of nowhere. Just layin' low for awhile. One day he'll up and disappear, just go back to whatever murderin' or cut-throatin' he does for a livin'."

  She waved a red nail toward the window. "Ben's up therewith him smokil' a cigar and talkie' man talk. And they're watchin' you. Phil's got an opinion of you, you can bet on it, and Ben's listenin'. You betcha. They go way back. Whatever happened in Mexico, it made `em like blood brothers."

  My skin prickled. Being judged, was I? Blood brothers, were they? "Blood is a metaphorical link to all that makes us civilized, my friend," I told Miriam. I looked at my birth parents. "Love is in the blood." I pulled Lily's hand. I felt reckless. "Let's dance."

  She gaped at me. "We're girls."

  "It's all right for girls to dance. It doesn't have to be romantic."

  "I can't dance. I told you. I limp."

  "I'm going to teach you a dance that has a limp in it."

  Her mouth opened in disbelief, but she let me lead her to a corner of the busy dance floor, where bluejeaned couples danced the Texas twostep in rhythm with the band's cover of Alan Jackson's heavy-hoofed Chattahoochee.

  Lily and I faced each other. I took her hands. "We're going to move in a kind of square pattern. A one and-a-two. Very simple. And we'll bend our knees a little on the two. Like a carnival horse going up and down. This is called a samba."

  "A what-a?"

  "A samba. It's the national dance of Brazil. In Brazil, the women at Carnivale perform a very racy version of the dance. They're dressed like showgirls."

  "What's that? What's a showgirl?

  "They dance on stages. They're nearly naked."

  "In front of people? Dancing? Without any clothes on?"

  "Oh yes. They're beautiful and joyful and everyone loves to look at them. It isn't considered shameful."

  "But they're ... they don't have any clothes on?"

  "Not exactly. They wear giant headdresses and little sequined bras and thongs with fringe across their bare behinds."

  "They wear fringe on their ... Oh, my goodness!"

  "Hmmm uh. They shake the fringe when they shake their hips. And you can see their entire ... their backsides."

  "On purpose?"

  "Yes."

  "I want to see a picture of that. And I bet Mac will, too. He looks at pictures in the Victoria's Secret catalog. I told him it was okay to look. Mac asked Ben about it, and Ben said a cowboy has to keep his eyes sharp, and lookin' at ladies' underwear catalogs is good for a cowboy's eyes."

  "What an interesting perspective. I'll have to ask Ben for more details."

  She clamped her fingers around mine. "How do you know so much about the samba and other smart things?"

  "I've traveled a lot."

  "You've really seen those girls with their bare behinds dancing that dance, in Brazil? Wherever that is."

  "Yes, Yes, I have."

  "I'd like to go to Brazil one day, with you. And see what you see." Her hands were warm and soft against mine. I looked at her and saw myself peeking from her blue eyes. Suddenly, I loved her. I loved my earnest, simple mother. She bent her head to mine and whispered, "Do I have to show my behind to dance the samba?"

  My throat ached. "No," I whispered back. "There is nothing embarrassing in the samba you dance with me."

  "Good," she whispered. "I don't want people to see my fringe."

  Ben

  "My friend," Phil said dryly, watching the floor below us as he rolled an illegal Cuban cigar between his fingertips, "your woman is dancing the samba in a country-western bar."

  I couldn't take my eyes off Karen. I followed every graceful move she made. Even in a white t-shirt, plain khaki skirt and oddball earth sandals she stood out like a red-headed flamingo in a flock of two-stepping gray pigeons.

  Lily shuffled and limped, missed steps and got confused, but Karen patiently coached her until finally, on about the third song, Lily got the rhythm right. Suddenly, Lily's samba really sorta looked like a samba. She clutched Karen's hands, stared down at her dancing loafers
and white ankle socks in amazement, then swiveled her head and grinned at Mac. Him and everybody else in our party-two dozen mermaids, regular humans, and Joey-whooped.

  Unbelievable. Karen had got Lily, shy, limpid' Lily, to dance the samba. My own expensive Cuban stogy smoked itself, ignored, in my fingertips. "Dancin' a samba in a two-step world. That pretty much sums Karen up," I said. Talking to myself more than Phil. I felt Phil giving me a slit-eyed once-over. I sat back in a leather armchair and took a drag on my stogie. "She's not my woman. Yet."

  "You say she's very familiar with South America?"

  "Yeah."

  "And she speaks a number of languages?"

  "Yeah."

  "Which ones?"

  "All of `em, I think."

  It takes a lot to make Phil smile. That almost did it. "I could find out more about her, if you like. Invite her up here. We'll have drinks. All I need is a fingerprint on a glass."

  "No. She'll tell me her story in her own time."

  "Set a good example and discuss your history with her."

  "I guarantee you, Miriam's told her I was a wrestler. And that I was Cassandra's show pony."

  "Perhaps my conscience is pragmatic. But I don't regret taking you to Cassandra."

  "I've never blamed you for what happened after that. I made my own choices."

  "Then be proud of them."

  "Look who's talkin'."

  "I'm not one to settle in a single place for long. But you, my friend, you have that middle-class American desire to be one with the land. To sing songs to your cattle and grow edible roots in your kitchen garden. And to plant your roots with one woman."

  "Just leave me be. I'm working on her. But here's the problem. I got to win her over by the end ofthe summer, or she's leaving. I got a lot on my mind. So ... let's not talk about it. Awright?" I'd said more'n I intended. I sat back and smoked, hoping Phil would let that sleeping dog He.

  He took a long sip of a hundred-year-old Scotch and poked the dog with a stick. "Joey's dying. Just tell me so."