by Dan Dowhal
“Ah, Shane, there’s a lot you don’t know about women. Don’t let her display of temper fool you. The fact that she stayed and listened to me before blowing up was a good sign in itself. Actually, I think that last outburst may have been for your benefit.”
“And you’re not worried about what she might do to you if she ever got you naked? I mean, given her history and all.”
The doctor delivers one of his patented belly laughs. “A naughty man like me needs incentive to keep from straying. And thanks to the way my sainted madre raised me, I’d never strike a woman. Actually, it’s you being here that seems to have put a bee in Yolanda’s bonnet. If I was you, I’d sleep with one eye open and my hands over my crotch.”
“Gee, I thought she was starting to warm up to me.”
“Ha! Then we’re both optimists. But listen, like I said, I actually came here to talk with you. You remember me telling you about my friend Don Aléjandro Arguijo?”
“Yeah, sure, the school chum who owns your hockey team and the new arena across the border. The Lobos, wasn’t it?”
“You remember. Si, Los Lobos de Chihuahua.” Shane finds it fascinating how the doctor’s accent transforms seamlessly between the two languages. “Anyway, I mentioned you in passing to Don Aléjandro, and he’s invited us to dine with him at his rancho tomorrow night. I’d really like you to meet him.”
“Um, aren’t you forgetting something, Doc? I’ve got no ID. How am I supposed to get to Mexico and back without a passport?”
“Ah, Stupido!” the doctor exclaims, slamming his palm into his forehead. “I’d almost forgotten. I’ve got great news for you. Wait a second.” He climbs into his van and returns with something in his hands. Shane’s eyes widen when he sees his stolen toiletry kit.
“Holy shit! It’s my bag. Where the fuck did you find it?”
“Talk about luck. A colleague found it by the roadside.” He watches Shane unzip the bag and start to examine the contents. “It’s all there — your money, your credit cards, your driver’s licence, your passport.” Sanchez lowers his voice. “Even your, er, recreational stimulants.”
“That’s so weird … I mean, that everything’s still in here. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining, but I figured the kid would at least have stolen the cash.”
“Must have been in a hurry to get rid of it. Perhaps he was being chased.”
“Maybe. It’s really whacked that the only thing he took out was my dental plate.”
Sanchez shrugs. “Don’t try to understand the criminal mind, and don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. So, dinner tomorrow night, then? Or were you planning to take off, now that you have your stuff back?”
It has not occurred to Shane that his primary reason for staying around the ranch has just disappeared. He turns to stare at the ranch house.
“Actually, I just started some projects around here. Think I’ll stick around for a while.”
“Ha! I can just imagine what kind of projects you’re talking about. Okay, amigo, I’ll pick you up tomorrow about six o’clock.”
Shane drops off the groceries and pays Tammy the next installment on his room and board, but he does not tell her that he has recovered his stolen money and papers. His conscience throbs because of it. Back in the stable he opens his reacquired toiletry bag and pulls out a plastic baggie of cocaine. Thanks to some binging during his ride south, there is not much of the drug left — barely a pinch. He pours it out onto the top of the workbench, uses a utility knife to form a straight thin line of powder, and snorts it down.
The familiar euphorigenic head rush and wash of energy comes over him. It seems more intense than usual due to his recent forced abstinence. Riding his hyperactive buzz, he collects some tools and starts out to tackle his first chore, feeling like a superman who can accomplish virtually anything.
It comes as a bit of a surprise to Shane at the end of the afternoon, after the high has worn off, that he has flitted from task to task like a manic moth, but hasn’t actually accomplished anything. When he hears the voices of the children coming down the driveway, he realizes that he’s lost track of time, and Tammy has gone out to meet the school bus without him.
He ducks into the stable, unsure whether to go out and greet the children now, or busy himself with some task and act like he was just preoccupied. He wonders why Tammy didn’t fetch him and worries she somehow knows he has been snorting. He paces back and forth, causing the resident snakes to stir in their cages.
His current agitated state is totally at odds with the peace he has felt while staying at the ranch. It is like he found a sanctuary from the demons that have been plaguing him for the past few years and then invited them to walk right in. He realizes the cocaine is to blame, even as part of him aches for more of the drug. Feeling ashamed of himself, he retreats to the toolroom and flops onto his bed.
As he tosses on the mattress, feeling the darkness ooze out of the corners of his thoughts, there is a loud smack against the side of the stable, like some hard object has been flung against the boards. A few seconds later, the sound repeats then continues intermittently.
Feeling equal parts annoyance and interest, Shane goes outside to investigate. He finds Vern with a hockey stick and a puck, taking shots against the wall where a rectangle of the same dimensions as a hockey net is crudely painted. Shane has noted the shape a few times before, but never understood its significance.
“Hey,” he calls over to Vern, just as the boy takes another shot against the simulated net. Vern drops the stick and backs away, as though he’s in trouble.
“Whoa, relax,” Shane says, coming closer. “That’s a pretty good wrist shot you have there. Your bottom hand’s too far down the stick, though. And try launching it from a little farther behind — you’ll get more of a snap.”
Vern still doesn’t move, so Shane picks up the hockey stick and hands it over. “Go ahead. Try again,” he urges. He holds up his casted hand. “I’d show you myself, but —”
Vern accepts the stick, and Shane helps him reposition his hands. The boy takes a few more shots using the suggested technique, and when he lets loose one especially hard shot, he breaks into a big smile of delight. “Cool!” he says, beaming.
“See?” Shane says. “But power isn’t everything. A goalie will stop even the hardest shot if it’s right in his pads. Accuracy’s way more important. You need to learn to shoot for the corners.” He points between Vern’s legs. “And the good ol’ five hole. How about tomorrow I paint some corner targets onto that net for you? But let me show you a drill they used to give us — I’ll call out a spot, and you try to hit it.”
“You played hockey?”
“Yeah, since I was five.” He debates whether to confess to playing in the NHL, but doesn’t want the information to get back to Tammy, who assumes Shane is some underpaid minor leaguer and doesn’t know about the accident. “Keep it up, and who knows? Someday Vern … er, what’s your last name?”
“Draper.”
“Well, keep it up and Vern Draper may become a household name someday.”
“It’s a stupid name. Who ever heard of a hockey player called Vern.”
“Trust me, I’ve heard names a lot weirder, especially those Russian and Finnish ones. But, if you want, we’ll give you a nickname.”
“Did you have a nickname?”
“Well, it’s kind of a no-brainer. My last name’s Bronkovsky, so what do you suppose people called me?”
Vern thinks about it. “Bronco?”
“That’s it. Pretty obvious, right? So, what should we call you?”
Vern shrugs. “I dunno,” he says, although there is a hopeful tone in his voice.
Shane tries rhymes and alliteration, but Vern proves to be a thorny candidate. But then, as he thinks of the snakes on the other side of the wall, it comes to him.
“How about Viper?” he suggests. When the boy says nothing, Shane explains further. “You work with those rattlesnakes all the time, and you’re not
afraid of them … at least not compared to most kids. Think about it, a viper can strike as fast as lightning, and its bite is deadly. Plus, it begins with V, same as Vern. Well, what do you think?”
Vern shrugs. “I guess it’s cool.”
“Darn tootin’ it is. Come on, Viper, we’ve got some time before supper. Let’s practise some corner shots. And then I want to see your backhand.”
As Shane is being ushered out of the house at bedtime, he catches Maybelline’s eye and gives her a significant look to indicate she should join him in the stable later. While he awaits her arrival, he cracks open a bottle of mezcal and takes some preliminary swigs.
When she finally dances into the stall, Maybelline sees the amount that he has consumed and chides him.
“Hey, Piggly Wiggly, you started without me.”
“Well, go ahead and get caught up.” She dives onto the bed and snuggles up right beside him. Shane finds himself unnerved by her closeness. He is concerned that she may try to initiate sex with him, and he has kept his clothes on for this reason. He is unsure how to handle it if she starts coming on to him. A few days ago, he imagined making a pass at her. Now, he is hoping their relationship stays platonic. It is his growing attraction to Tammy that spurs fidelity, although she has not yet displayed any reciprocal interest. Even the fact that he is drinking behind her back tweaks his conscience. This is becoming a persistent feeling.
As if reading his thoughts, Maybelline hands him the bottle, looks him in the eye, and says, “I ain’t gonna fuck you, just so you know.”
“That’s cool. But we’re still friends, right?”
“Of course we are, Silly Billy. Silly Shaney.” She takes another sip. “This doesn’t quite have the same kick as the moonshine, but it sure tastes better on the tongue, don’t it?”
Shane grunts assent, just relieved to have avoided any sexual awkwardness with her — but he’s not out of the woods yet.
Maybelline suddenly looks serious and sits upright. “You do want to fuck me, right?”
Shane chooses his words carefully. “Are you kidding me? What red-blooded man wouldn’t want to make love to someone as beautiful as you, Maybelline? But your friendship means more to me, and I don’t want to mess that up.”
Seemingly satisfied with the answer, she collapses back against his body. She takes another sip of mezcal before elaborating. “Tammy told me she told you I used to turn tricks. I just didn’t want you to think bad of me.”
“Yeah, she told me, but it doesn’t matter, May. What’s past is past.”
“The thing is, I never wanted to do it. I was all messed up. And my boyfriend, Jimmy … he … he made me do it.” She starts to blubber and presses her face into his chest.
“That guy was an evil prick. If I ever came across someone doing that to a woman, I’d punch his face in.”
“It’s okay, he’s dead. He ODed last year over in San Antonio. And I’m clean now.” She takes another swig off the bottle when she says it and giggles. “Well, I still like to drink booze, but that doesn’t count, does it?”
“Not in my books. But I guess Tammy would disagree.”
She nods. “Yeah. Geez, that girl can be a tight ass sometimes. Don’t get me wrong, I love her to death. She looks out for me like nobody ever did before. But sometimes I wish she’d just lighten up. She needs to get laid.”
Maybelline’s hand slides down and starts playing with Shane’s zipper. “Hey, maybe you should screw her. I think she kinda fancies you.”
“Why, did she say something about me?”
“Ha! I knew it. You like her, don’t you?” Maybelline squeals with sophomoric delight. As she says it, she starts to rub Shane’s crotch, and to his surprise, an erection starts to burgeon.
“Hey, I thought you said no sex,” he protests.
“Well, I said I wasn’t going to fuck you, but there’s lots of other things we could do. And I said that before I got a nice mezcal buzz on and you started sweet-talking me about how beautiful I was ’n’ all. Besides, you ain’t a half-bad-looking guy, once you shave and get your teeth in. But I can stop if you want me to.”
“Aw, fuck,” Shane moans. It is not usual for him to achieve this state of sexual arousal. From a head that’s always either throbbing or feeling like it belongs to someone else, to a gut that seems to be perpetually churning, problems above the beltline have monopolized his vitality. But despite this stimulation, his thoughts guiltily flow toward Tammy, and he is just about to tell Maybelline to stop when she ceases rubbing on her own and gets up from the bed wearing an elfish grin.
“Well, I’d best head back to the house before someone comes fussin’ after me. I guess you’ll just have to finish by yourself.” She bends over and presses her lips to Shane’s ear. “You can even think about me while you do it. I don’t mind. It ain’t really cheating if it’s only in your imagination.”
She waves at him from the doorway. “Bye bye, Sugar Pie, I gotta fly. Thanks, and save some drinks for me. But to answer your question, yeah, Tammy did say something about you.”
She giggles, clearly not intending to elaborate, and skips out of the stable. The noise of her departure causes some of the rattlesnakes to stir, and Shane wonders if the serpents are waking from the torpor caused by their recent feeding. After that, he is too busy dealing with his own trouser snake.
FOURTEEN
Doctor Sanchez arrives punctually the next evening to take Shane to their dinner at Don Aléjandro’s rancho. At the border crossing, Shane fumbles for his passport. Seeing his nervousness, Sanchez pats him on the shoulder. “Relax, I checked, and no warrants have been issued for you, yet. There won’t be any problems.” In fact, the guards seem altogether disinterested; they are waved through the border without scrutiny.
As they drive into Puerto Palomas, Sanchez points toward a large domed building to the west adjoining the border fence. “There … that’s our new arena. The ice-making equipment was just installed last month, and the players have already started skating. We’re paying them to practise all summer so they’ll be ready when the season opens.”
“Why here?” Shane asks. “I mean, there must be bigger cities around with, like, a million people to support a franchise. Why put your team in a small town across the border from an even smaller village?”
“I told you. Don Aléjandro grew up in Palomas and went to school in Columbus, so this is his community. Besides, the arena isn’t that large. It only holds thirty-five hundred fans. He’ll easily fill that many seats. But, if not, Don Aléjandro’s other business interests will offset any losses from the hockey team.”
“So I take it the Don is loaded.”
“Quite wealthy, yeah.”
“Where does his money come from?”
Sanchez takes his time answering. “Import-export. But I wouldn’t go probing into the man’s business affairs at dinner if I was you. It would be considered indelicate. Just stick to hockey … or whatever topic Don Aléjandro chooses to discuss.”
“Don’t worry, Doc, I’ll be on my best behaviour. I know how to suck up to these robber barons. He’s not the first rich guy to buy himself a hockey franchise as a hobby. Still, if they really care about the team, then the right owner can do a lot of good.”
“Even though he’s a self-made man who comes from humble roots, you’ll find Don Aléjandro is a gentleman of the old school. And, yes, he’s really passionate about hockey … believes it’s the sport of the future. You should have seen how excited he got when I told him we had a veteran NHL player staying right here. He’s really looking forward to hearing your insights.”
“I’ll have to come up with some, then.”
They leave the outskirts of the town and head out into the now familiar Chihuahuan Desert landscape. After about twenty minutes, they reach the ranch, which is surrounded by a high stone wall. The entrance onto the estate is blocked by massive spiked iron gates, which swing open automatically with a clank and a whir after Doc Sanchez announces their ar
rival into an intercom.
As they ride down the asphalt driveway, Shane can see that the place is Rancho Crótalo’s complete opposite. Lush and well tended, there are trees lining the road on both sides. The fences are all painted an immaculate white and form a line that ripples off into the distance with the terrain. Atop a faraway hill, Shane can see men on horseback ushering a small herd of cattle.
The two-storey ranch house itself is huge, certainly as big as any mansion Shane has ever been invited to in his time. It is done up in the traditional Mexican rural style, with a terracotta tile roof crowning white stucco walls and brightly coloured ceramic tile inlays throughout. Through an archway, Shane can see a massive inner courtyard surfaced in shiny old cobblestones, with a fountain bubbling away in the middle.
As soon as they clear their vehicle, the main door of the house opens, and out steps a middle-aged Hispanic man casually attired in blue jeans and a cowboy shirt, his arms spread wide in welcome. He sports the obligatory big moustache, but his greying hair is neatly coiffed and greased back. Although the man appears to be of the same vintage as Sanchez, he is trim and solid looking in comparison to the doctor.
“Francisco! Cómo estás?” the man says, and the two wrap each other in a big hug.
“Muy bien, gracias, Don Aléjandro. And may I introduce Mr. Shane Bronkovsky of the Columbus Blue Jackets.”
“Welcome to my home, Mr. Bronkovsky,” the Don says in flawless English, flashing a bright, toothy smile. “You honour me with your presence.” When he shakes hands with Shane, there is iron in his grip. “Please, come inside.”
It is only then that Shane notices the two moustached men who have followed Don Aléjandro out the door. They have the same sombre and dangerous look as the men who stole his Ducati. It is clear they are not run-of-the-mill domestics, but provide some kind of security. Both are wearing loose-fitting denim jackets which no doubt conceal firearms.
Don Aléjandro doesn’t seem to even notice the men. He guides Shane into the house, jabbering away about his first boyhood job selling refreshments at a hockey game. He proves to be a very charming and hospitable man, and Shane soon forgets about the bodyguards. Although Doc Sanchez and his long-time friend are obviously on intimate terms, Shane notices that the doctor never drops the respectful honorific don before his host’s name, and thus Shane adopts the same formality.