by A. L. DeNova
She would make those arrangements when she had time. She would have to come back to the garage later to strip the Chevelle and store the cocaine. She had to use her assets wisely and like all things in life timing was everything. Carmen took a moment and looked at her trembling hands. She said a prayer to the only power that could help in her in this place, in this time, with one thousand kilos of cocaine. Jesus Malverde, the patron saint of drugs smugglers. She unclasped the gold chain around her neck and pulled the medallion of Jesus Malverde, the talisman JC had given her. With no time left and in need of some holy help, the decision came easy.
She kissed his gold lips and dropped the medallion down between the cracks. She thought she heard a faint plop on the soft dirt. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed intently for a miracle while on her knees in the garage.
Carmen put the grey boards back in their slot, wobbling it over the oil pit. She returned the screwdriver to the tool box. She carefully carried her high heels back to the Chevelle on the driveway. With a tender turn of the steering wheel, she eased JC’s pride into the ancient garage.
She put on her high heels and closed the garage. She pulled down the clasp and bolt on the outside of the garage door.
Carmen was back to the party in fifteen minutes with a single bottle of Mexican Coca-Cola.
Carmen closed her eyes for a moment and opened them with a smile. She tossed back her hair and unbuttoned her blouse. She brushed off her dress with her right palm. She stepped towards the house and her new friends, inhaling the fragrance of the night blooming jasmine, suffocating the summer breeze outside the old garage.
Carmen walked in the open door to find Jo talking to a slender blonde woman in pink canvas shorts. They were standing in the small living room, sipping white wine from long-stemmed glasses. Carmen looked to Jo, her face flushing uncontrollably. She had been gone for only a brief time. Out of sight, out of mind. Carmen knew she had just the antidote for that. She was a virtuoso when it came to playing libidos. Oblivious to Carmen’s mood, Jo was focusing on introducing the two attractive women and making a good impression on each.
“Carmen,” Jo said, gesturing to the blonde, “This is Lana Del Rey,” and this is Carmen—ah Cortez,” pausing as she remembered the last name.
“Can we get you some wine or sangria? Rosie is whipping up some of her Spanish favorites, including paella.”
Sangria sounded good for Carmen, and she helped herself to a glass as Jo poured.
“How do you know Jo,” Carmen asked in her lightly accented English.
“I live down the street, and surf at Tourmaline,” Lana said.
Carmen glanced at Jo with her short tidy dark hair and fair skin. “Girls, surfing?” Carmen continued.
“Yeah, that’s why we go in a large pack,” Lana said. “Sometimes the locals can be real assholes. Cutting us off from the good rides. Saying stupid things about girls.”
Jo nodded her head in agreement and she smiled at the two women absorbing their good looks more than the conversation.
“We go five at a time and surf long boards and over the years most of the time the dudes tolerate us, Lana said.
“Why don’t you get some guy friends to go along with you?” Carmen asked.
“It’s a girl thing, we do it because,” Lana flipped her sun-bleached blonde hair, put her hands on her tight pink shorts and looked into Carmen’s eyes “we don’t want to be with guys,” she stated slowly pausing between each word.
“Yucky container, that’s what they are. You should come surfing with us and check it out,” Lana added.
Jo’s living room was filled with women. The conversation rang with laughter and talk of surfing Tourmaline, and then the pleasures of straight girls. With the last subject, Jo turned to see Carmen talking with Lana, and feeling uneasy.
Rosie emerged from the galley-like kitchen to herd the surf-pack and Carmen down to the meal, and into the dining room.
Rosie declined offers of all help from her seated friends. She deftly carried in a heavy plate of paella, the steam rising up. Carmen inhaled the enticing smell of the garlic shrimp, sweet paprika and ripe tomatoes. Seated next to her, their bare elbows occasionally touching, Jo smelled the same dish. She imagined that Carmen’s aroma would be very much like paella, spicy, aromatic, shrimp.
Over pitchers of Sangria and plates of paella, the dinner party of women filled the house with giggles and banter. Carmen learned she was the only woman had never gone surfing.
“We will remedy that,” Jo said. “That’s all settled! We
will take you out. You will you stand on a board.”
“We are so taking this party to DeFcon 2,” said Rosie. “What does that mean?” said Carmen.
“It’s just a gay bar down in the warehouse area near the old train tracks.”
Carmen said nothing.
“The first Friday of the month, they have a drag king and drag queen show. I have it on good authority somebody from this dinner party could be crowned royalty tonight,” Lana explained.
Stomping to the door with VW keys swinging about, Rosie shouted: “Women, I’m driving, I can get nine in my van.” Rosie led the way to her van. Rosie called back to Jo behind her. “Jo, you can take Carmen in your car, let’s go.”
10
Behind the Orange Curtain
Friday, July 15, 1988
2:00 a.m.
Interstate 5 North
Orange County, California
Only ninety minutes had passed since JC had last kissed Carmen good bye on a desolate road in Tecate but J.C had no time to think, connect the dots, plan. From the time he began jogging towards a pay phone, he was in reaction mode. He was just trying to find time to breathe, to stay alive, to grab some quarters and call his uncle in Tecate and explain how he and the 1,000 kilos had been separated.
Instead of sipping Patron in San Diego he was in the driver’s seat of a furniture truck, moving pollos north, with a fat man with a fatter following him. They made it easily enough past the Border Patrol check point at San Onofre. Those nuclear power plants were large and round, with a red lighted dot on top. JC turned to the left at the plant, lighted in the dark, glowing with the radiation of two large illuminated breasts. He daydreamed of the preposterous concept to form a nuclear power plant to look like giant breasts, to distract him from the present pressures.
JC drove on for another twenty minutes when there was a pounding noise on the dividing wall behind the driver’s cab and the cargo area. Shouts of “Necessito! Baño!” followed by a series of pounding. JC listened to those pleas and pulled to the side. Kiki immediately stopped behind the truck driven by JC.
“Flaco, what’s up with you, hombre?” Kiki said. “This is not it Dreamland. Dreamland is on Katella. This is not it.” JC nodded. Kiki put a foot on the side rail of the truck and leaned his head down, so that his jowls were inches from JC’s face. “No stopping, you understand we are almost there.” “Necessito, Baño!” the cries erupted.
Kiki shrugged. “We are stopped already, this one time, next exit though, farther away from la migra, outside of L.A. County. Only the U.S. Attorney in San Diego prosecutes alien smugglers, Los Angeles does not care. We need to get over the county line. Follow me, we’ll get off in San Juan Capistrano, like the swallows. I know a side road by the orchards. There will be nobody there.”
The convoy turned right back on the interstate, without answering the call of nature. Up the highway, three men and a pregnant woman hopped out of the back of the furniture truck, and disappeared into the dark dirt agricultural road. Minutes later, they returned to the crowded truck. The rest of the people, seventy-nine in all, remained crouched and dozing, packed in like fruit, on the hard metal floor of the furniture truck. They waited for the trip to end, and the road to riches to begin. Kiki closed the doors and locked rear door.
“Flaco, first get off at Katella, yes, the Disneyland exit. You will make a left. It’s the Dreamland Motel. I will give you the address.” Kiki
pulled a pencil from his jeans, and scribbled an address. “You will get paid when we get up to Anaheim. After the pollos unload.” JC stared at Kiki and said nothing.
“Look for Dreamland Motel, it’s got a fluorescent sign in pink.” Kiki got out and walked down the dirt agricultural road.
JC headed back onto the highway and followed the signs for Disneyland. He pulled onto to Katella, found the Dreamland Motel. There was a flashing pink and blue custom neon sign which illuminated each of the letters in sequence. D-R-E-A-M-L-A-N-D in pink with a white cumulus cloud flickering on and off. Emphasizing the contrast also in neon lights M-O-T-E-L. Continuing the explosion of light was a sketch of a castle in white, and in flashing red “no vacancy.”
JC decided to follow the instructions he was given, for a change and drove to the parking space assigned to room number 117. He parked the truck and left the engine running. He turned on the dome light, and checked his Rolex 3:55 a.m.
“Flaco!” JC opened up his eyes. A large man in a snug T-shirt slurped coffee from a large take-out cup. The stout man waved at JC. The man pointed and said - “Go underneath the lamps.”
“I’m Arturo, I will pay you once I count the pollos.” Arturo unlocked the rear of the truck. In the light JC read a large flat cardboard box at the front labelled “Dinette table and four chairs,” Arturo pulled himself up to the truck floor, hitting waist high for JC, but clearly lower than that for Arturo. Once a top the truck platform, Arturo unfolded a collapsing ramp and attached to the rear of the truck. He rolled and then pushed the large box down the ramp.
Arturo ordered “Hey, we are here. Quick walk down the ramp and we will wait for your family together. Come with me, we have good food and Coca Cola.”
Under his breath JC heard Arturo counting. Kiki smiled, “Oh, we love our furniture trucks. All here,” Arturo said. He jumped down and tossed JC a key. “Flaco, I am taking the first group to 10, you and Kiki go to 301, come get me.” Together, with JC following Kiki, the smuggled people straggled behind to room 301.
JC waved leaving the room key with Kiki. He descended the cement stairway back to the first floor and knocked gently. A woman who looked like she had lived six hard decades, stood in the threshold staring at JC.
“I was told to come here by Arturo,” JC said pronouncing each word slowly and clearly in Spanish for the woman. The woman gestured to enter and JC stepped into the shabby Dreamland interior. The room was dark except for a light from the adjoining bathroom. He saw the silhouette of a large man. As JC hesitated, Arturo walked towards the increasing light streaming in from the motel hallway.
Arturo pulled a wad of cash from his front jeans pocket. “Flaco, here,” said Arturo handing JC a wad of cash. JC took the money and put it in his pocket. “I’ll give you the rest of the money, the full $500, after we get paid from their relatives.” JC nodded in agreement.
JC walked quickly out the open door. He should have a lot more money coming. He felt the smooth, cloth-like texture of the money in his pocket. This was nothing, nothing compared with that fortune of cocaine waiting in the Chevelle’s trunk. The load in the Chevelle meant millions on the street here in Los Angeles.
Money aside, it was good to be out of that truck. The point was to get as far away from Arturo as fast as possible. JC walked slowly down the motel stairs, his hands shoved into his pockets. When he got some place alone he would count those dollars. Hopefully, it would be enough to get him back to San Diego.
JC walked onto to Katella Avenue. It was still dancing with activity, even at this hour. He walked down Katella for five minutes by his wrist watch. He scanned the motels that dotted the street. Ubiquitous like cactus in Tecate. He saw another neon side and this time, he turned towards it to read the promise. Green Mansions the sign read. JC yawned and walked down the circular drive to the glass motel door entrance. A bell tinkled, a fairy-chime, as he entered the faded green carpet that led to the night desk.
A gray-haired man with a short-sleeve collared shirt looked up. He approached JC, fighting to keep his lids from slamming closed. In clear English JC said, “I like to have a room, one night for one.”
“It’s late. Park closed at midnight,” the night clerk said, glancing at the large wall clock which was slipping close to 4:00 a.m.
“Yeah I know. I was waiting to meet up again with my girlfriend, but she must have just gone home.” JC tried to look disappointed. He didn’t have to act.
The night clerk, never a hit with the ladies, nodded in sympathy. “Tease,” is all he said. He conveyed a lifetime of shattered romance. “We’ve got ground floor, two twins, no smoking. Room 120 Mr.?” JC thought and the name filled the void, Guillermo Romero. “Ok. -“Gil can I see your driver’s license?”
JC fumbled in his rear pocket and pulled out a social security card he had lifted from the stack of documents he had found in the furniture truck he had driven early that evening. “I have my social but I left my license with my stuff in my girlfriend’s car.” That was easy to say, because it was a modification of the truth. Everything was in that Chevelle.
“I have $50.” “Let me see your card.” Milt glimpsed at the apparently valid social security card, returned it, and picked up the cash JC had subtly placed on the front desk counter top.
“We can take the cash. Do you need a receipt?” JC shook his head no. The night clerk placed the key on the desk, the keys displacing the same volume as the cash.
“Mr. Romero turn to the right and room 120 will be five doors down. Check out time is 11 a.m. or you will be charged for another day.”
Only four or five hours had passed. He had not made the drop in San Diego. Was Eduardo pissed? Furious? Should he call Eduardo or Uncle Ramon? He was tired, so tired he could not think clearly. He needed sleep. If he called Eduardo now, what could he tell him? Or would he just say, “I am alive, I am in Los Angeles. But I got separated from the load, I have no idea where it is, or I do, but I am just not there.” He could stand here frozen in regret or he could act.
As with all important, unchangeable decisions, JC pulled out his lucky John F. Kennedy half dollar, that one that his father had given him for his first molar at 9 years old. In the light of the motel hallway, he flipped it high letting it land on the soiled and frayed carpeting. He said aloud, pledging to himself, tails I don’t call, heads I do call. Tails it was. JC turned the key in the room and opened the motel door to room 120.
He flipped on the light switch to see two twin beds with a mustard yellow bedspread, and large posters of Disneyland and Mickey Mouse decorating the motel room. JC kicked off his shoes and pulled his clothes off down to his underwear. The motel room was icy in contrast to the heat of the July night. He pulled back the thin bedspread and then walked over to the window, near the pressed door, and closed the curtains all the way. He turned the deadbolt on the door, and padded back in his black socks to the twin furthest away from the door.
He flopped on the bed, belly first, superman again if only for a second. He rolled to his side, facing the wall. Exhaustion defeated apprehension and his snores replaced his hurried prayers in the dark.
11
A Full Tank Of Gas
The loud metal clank, clank, clank of the cleaning cart caused JC to start up in bed. Disoriented in the dark, he had no bearings, no familiar landmark. He was tired. He knew that this was not his bed, this was not a bed for two. He saw no other person. He licked his lips. He was thirsty and hungry, and the dark room was hot.
Reacting to the noise, JC listened, this time with intent. He remembered. He had no gun, he had left that at home. It was a Smith and Wesson Combat Magnum that was his 17th birthday present. But only the truly weak of mind would ever cross drugs and guns into the United States. Mexico didn’t make guns. America made the best guns. “Better and easier to just buy a gun in San Diego if a man needed to,” Uncle Ramon had said. JC knew that was one piece of advice he always followed: do not take a gun from Mexico into the United States.
JC peeled his
weighted eyelids apart by rubbing his knuckles softly into his eye sockets. He opened his eyes leaving his head on the lumpy, synthetic pillow.
First the right eye opened and this was not his mama’s house, this was not his room in Tijuana. This was not Carmen’s house.
He opened up his other eye and looked around at the darkened room, with a slice of light pouring in from a sliver of an opening between the blackout curtains. He inhaled and listened to the rustling, and again some voices in Spanish. JC sat up rubbed his hair, and pulled himself out of bed switching on the light switch.
He looked around and noticed this room was not in Mexico. As his eyes focused the blur into recognition, he observed the garish posters of the Magic Kingdom. JC walked over to the telephone, looked at the number on the receiver, it had an unfamiliar prefix.
He shook his head accepting that he must be somewhere in L.A. or Orange County. He was behind the Orange Curtain. He then opened the drawer next to the bedside table. He pulled out the big book of yellow pages. On the cover was a large picture of the iconic Disney Castle, and in large cursive letters, all capitals and a vibrant blue the name: “D-I-S-N-E-Y-L-A-N-D. THE MAGIC KINGDOM. The respite of forgetting was over. JC remembered the hellish night, each unpredictable event, that he was forced to confront alone.
He had caught a dozen hardballs thrown at him last night, and he had landed here, in Anaheim. The time flashing in red lights from the plastic wood grain clock radio read 6:20. JC scrambled to the window, glanced out the drapes, exposing the penetrating sun. He felt like rolling back into the soft mattress.
So far, it was just, listening to all his relatives direct him. He generally conformed to their orders, but never with one hundred percent faithfulness. Last night, alone on the highway in Tecate, he was forced to choose. It felt unfamiliar and terrifying. In this dismal motel room he had a few moments, probably no more, to plan.