DARK BLISS (Dangerous Games,)

by Smart, Madison

  It was a delicious meal, built around a tasty corn soup. “This is wonderful,” I told Lucía. “What do you call it?”

  “Posole, Señorita Rory,” said Lucía. “I make it out of the parts of a pig. The hardest thing is the corn. You have to work each kernel so it will blow up like popcorn and give it…” She paused, searching for the English word. “You know, textura.”

  “Texture?”

  “Sí, texture.”

  “You said parts of a pig. Which parts?”

  “The head and the trotters.”

  I was sorry I’d asked but I pressed gamely on. “And what are trotters?”

  “The feet.”

  “Is this your recipe?”

  “Oh no! It is a very old Indian dish.”

  “An ancient dish actually,” said Rock. “Aztec.”

  “Pero ellos no lo hacen de la carne de porcino,” said Tío Luis. Everyone laughed.

  “What did he say?” I asked Rock.

  “Well, ah, he said they didn’t use pig meat.”

  “What kind of meat did they use?” I asked. Rock hesitated and suddenly it came to me. “Oh, my God,” I exclaimed. “You mean…”

  Rock nodded. “The Spanish made them substitute pork. By accounts, they tasted pretty much the same.”

  I must have looked a little green because one of the children asked if I was all right. If I had been back in Boston, I would have pushed the plate away, maybe even left the table, but I was a guest and the soup was good and filling and I was hungry and this was made from a pig and not a person. I tried not to think about which parts of the pig and took another spoonful.

  We had coffee and flan for dessert. The flan was light and sweet, the coffee strong and bitter. Lucía, who apparently was practiced at reading the faces of diners, said that at breakfast she would make American-style coffee for me. I politely declined. During my stay in Mexico, I’d done what every novice tourist does, stayed in hotels where the meals and accommodations were reassuringly like home, with just a dash of foreignness. Now that I was with Rock, I’d gotten to see something of the real Mexico and wanted to discover more.

  Lucía and her two young daughters firmly refused my help in clearing the table and I reminded myself that while she wasn’t treated like a servant, this was her job. I’d grown up with uniformed maids around. I was taught to be polite and respectful but it never occurred to me to help them dust or change the bed. I shouldn’t do that here.

  Tío Luis rose to go. As I hugged him goodbye, he said, “Rory, your true hair was worth the wait. Muy hermosa!” Rock told him we needed someone to drive us to Hermosillo and he provided the names of several men who he thought would be available. Then he was gone.

  Rock turned on the television and we watched a popular Mexican sitcom with Lucía’s children. I didn’t understand the jokes but the kids gaily provided explanations that were more entertaining than anything on screen. When it was over, their mother told them it was time to finish their homework and go to bed. A little later she and Carmen together came in to say goodnight and welcome me again to Casa Paradiso. I stood and thanked them both. I would have hugged them but both had kept a careful social distance from me that I gathered was appropriate to their stations.

  For the first time since the night before, when we’d made our hasty departure from the motel, Rock and I were alone together. Though I hardly knew anything about him, I felt I knew him well, better than many people I’d known for years.

  And every time I saw another aspect of him, I wanted to find out more. He was more complex and sociable than the taciturn, scary fellow who’d saved me. If you were a criminal or a thug or even just a bully, he was someone to fear. If you were little or weak or in need of protection, he was someone to count on. A natural fighter, he’d learned how to kill in the army. After that, he’d done something else – exactly what wasn’t clear to me. Whatever, he wanted to leave it behind, so much so that he’d moved to Mexico. The man had more layers than an onion.

  I wondered what he thought of me. There was a certain disdain in the way he’d dismissed me as a “rich girl,” as if that explained and encapsulated me, as if I had no layers of my own. Yes, I aroused him, but did his interest go any deeper?

  No, that was unfair. Despite his frequent brusqueness, Rock had been more than courteous; he’d been kind and respectful, careful not to take advantage of my fear and my dependence on him. He probably assumed that once I was back in Boston, he’d be no more than an anecdote to entertain my friends at college. Even if he wanted to know me better, the gulf between us might seem too big to overcome. A proud man, he wasn’t going to embarrass himself by trying.

  Maybe I was young and naïve but I believed same-souled people could surmount barriers like money and class. They overcame others that were even deeper. People from different races and religions fell in love and got married every day. I’d been brought up to believe that breeding mattered, was in fact almost all that mattered. The people I’d met on my journey—the García family, Tomás, Tío Luis, Carmen and Lucia, even truckers like Juanito and Jorge—had no breeding the way upper-class Boston defined it, but they were as well-bred—gracious, capable, stalwart—as anyone in my circle.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” said Rock, looing at me with interest. We were still on the sofa, sitting apart since the kids had sat between us.

  My thoughts? Oh, nothing really. Just thinking about same-souled people and falling in love and getting married. “Uh, I was thinking about all the wonderful people that I’ve met since yesterday.” I slid across the sofa next to him and he put his arm around my shoulder. I shivered at his touch.

  “They’re pretty special all right. What you’re seeing is what I think of as the real Mexico.”

  “When you talked at the cliff about the real Mexico, you made it sound dark and sinister.”

  “Well, that’s real enough, but so is this. It’s the bright Mexico. Shame you can’t stay and see more of it.”

  “I can come back. I will. Not just to help you get your motorcycle but to spend more time in that Mexico.” I nuzzled against his chest. “Will you show it to me?”

  “Sería un placer. It would be my pleasure.”

  The television was tuned to something that looked like a Mexican version of American Idol. A young man dressed in a wide sombrero and colorful caballero outfit was strumming the guitar and singing a melancholy tune.

  “What’s he singing?”

  “It’s an oldies number. This guy is dressed up like a ranchera singer from the Fifties or Sixties. The song’s a classic by Cuco Sanchez, who was sort of a Mexican Sinatra and Hank Williams combined. It’s called ‘La Cama de Piedra,’ which means ‘Bed of Stone.’”

  Rock provided a running translation of the lyrics. “Let my bed and headboard be made of stone. Ay-yay-yay-yay!”

  He turned and looked at me with those intense blue eyes. “I went to court and asked the judge if loving you is a crime. Ay-yay-yay-yay!”

  His arm around my shoulders pulled me tight against him. “He sentenced me to death. To death for loving you. Ay-yay-yay-yay!”

  I sighed blissfully as he softly stroked my hair with his free hand. “Gladly will I die if it is in your arms. Ay-yay-yay-yay!”

  He cupped my chin and tipped my head up, his eyes boring into mine. “My serape will be my casket. My crossed ammo belt will be my crucifix. Ay-yay-yay-yay!”

  The singer’s wail swelled to a crescendo. “And shoot a thousand bullets in my grave.” Under Rock’s fierce gaze, I closed my eyes in surrender and listened to the rumbly baritone of his voice. “Or I will rise from the earth to seek you. So strong, so strong is my love. Ay-yay-yay-yay!”

  I felt Rock’s lips against mine, soft and gentle. I pressed my own to his and opened my mouth for his invading tongue. The stubble of his beard tickled me. He crushed me to him. “Bella criatura,” he murmured, sliding his hand down my shoulder and along my spine.

  The feel of his hand sent an electric charge t
hrough me, and I arched my back in bliss. “What does that mean?”

  “Beautiful creature.”

  “Hmmm,” I purred. “Say it again.”

  “Bella criatura.”

  When linguists call Spanish a Romance Language, they don’t have its musical, seductive power in mind. Even so, as the song goes, “Spanish is a loving tongue,” and I couldn’t help falling under its romantic sway as Rock murmured in my ear.

  “Usted es tan suave.” This time I didn’t ask what he meant. I didn’t need to know, didn’t want to know, only wanted to be carried along by the lovely lilt of the language and his deep, husky voice.

  “Estoy borracho con su pelo.” I felt like a señorita in a mantilla on a moonlit balcony, serenaded by a dashing, guitar-strumming lover.

  “El toque de su piel me vuelve salvaje.” What woman could resist such a sound? Not this one. I sighed and stroked the taut cords of his neck. He slipped off the sofa and onto his knees. He knelt before me and lifted my dress. I felt his hands on my panties. As he slipped them down, I suddenly remembered the hell I’d caught from my mother the morning after a particularly hot make-out session with my boyfriend on a vintage sofa in our living room.

  “No,” I protested. “Not here! We’ll stain the sofa.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Carmen does and I bet she’s not someone to cross.”

  He sighed. “No, she’s not.” He got to his feet.

  “And I don’t want to stain this dress. It’s Christina’s.”

  “All right, all right.” He bent down, slipped his arms under me and scooped me up, making me squeal with surprise and delight.

  “Where are you taking me, you… you animal?” I said in my best lady-protests-too-much voice.

  “Upstairs to my bedroom, me proud beauty.”

  “Ohhhh!” I pretended to faint, letting my arms go limp and my head droop so that my mass of curly red hair hung downward, causing him to chortle. I didn’t have to pretend too hard. Being carried upstairs by a muscular Aztec god who’d saved me from slavers was wilder than any fantasy I’d ever entertained.

  He carried me through the living room to the staircase, both of us giggling. His laugh now wasn’t the short, bitter bark that I’d heard on the road but the same as when he was among the García family, hearty and happy. It occurred to me that in all the time we’d spent together, we’d never had the leisure to be playful with each other, to just have fun.

  We were only halfway up the stairs when he suddenly froze. “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Shhh!” he ordered. After a moment, he set me on my feet. “Car. Someone’s coming.”

  A moment later I heard the sound of a vehicle on gravel. Headlights came through the window. He set me down and ran down the stairs. “Get upstairs,” he ordered. I went on up and looked down from the gallery. The car was still approaching. Rock had vanished, only to appear a few moments later with a shotgun. On any other occasion, I would think a man who got a gun to greet a late visitor was a maniac, but I knew Rock was only taking a precaution for that one-in-twenty chance. Still, I was scared.

  “It’s probably just Christina,” I called down.

  He broke the gun and loaded it. “No, Carmen said she’s not coming back tonight.”

  “Well, maybe Tío Luis forgot something.”

  “He’d call first.” Through the windows, I could see the headlights had reached the courtyard. The vehicle stopped and a moment later went out. A car door opened and closed.

  Rock glanced up at me. “Go to your room,” he said curtly. “Stay out of sight.”

  “Will you stop treating me like your teenage daughter?” I snapped.

  “Sorry but I don’t have time to be polite. Go!”

  I thought about repeating a favorite phrase of my grandmother’s, who used to primly remind me that “There’s always time for good manners.” I resisted the impulse and headed toward my room.

  “Wait,” Rock called. I turned back to him. “Your room overlooks the back entrance. Watch that and yell if you see anyone.”

  “All right,” I replied, glad for the chance to do something. Inside my room, I was about to close the door when I heard a loud knocking. Rock stepped into the hallway, gun leveled. He turned for one last glance in my direction and scowled when he said me standing in the open doorway. He angrily gestured for me to shut the door and returned his attention to the knocking.

  I closed it most of the way, leaving enough of a crack to hear what went on below. I went to the window and looked through the blinds on the back courtyard, brightly lit by security lights. I saw no one.

  “Who’s there?” Rock yelled.

  “Looking for Miguel Roca,” called a man’s voice.

  “Who’re you?”

  “Is this Miguel Roca?”

  “Who wants him?”

  “My name is Walt Turner. I’m with…” I didn’t catch the last word, but it sounded like he said “dark.”

  “Never heard of you.”

  “I’m new. Been with the agency a little over a year. Can I come in?”

  “No. What do you want?”

  “I’ve been sent to bring you back.”

  “What for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who sent you?”

  “Zookeeper.”

  “What?” I heard surprise in Rock’s voice.

  “I said Zookeeper sent me.”

  “I heard you. Why didn’t he send someone I know?”

  “Shorthanded, I guess. He doesn’t confide in me.”

  “Well, go back and tell him whatever he wants me for, I’m not interested.”

  “Can’t do that. He said not to come back without Raptor.”

  “He said that?”

  “His very words. Now will you open the door?”

  “No. I'm still not interested.’”

  “Raptor, I—“

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Sorry. Roca, I’ve got a small jet less than thirty klicks from here. We can be in Washington before morning. I’ll take you back the same way.”

  “I’ll telling you for the last time, I’m not…” There was a long pause. “A jet, you said?”

  “Yeah, a Learjet 85.”

  “Bullshit. The agency doesn’t have its own planes. Where would Zookeeper get a jet?”

  “Like I said, he doesn’t confide in me. Elevator chatter is it’s on loan from the DEA.”

  There was another silence. “Hold on a minute,” Rock finally said.

  “All right.”

  A moment later I heard him calling softly up the stairs. ”Rory, can you hear me?”

  I went to the door. He was standing at the foot of the stairs. “I hear you,”

  “See anything?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “All right. You don’t have to play sentry anymore. I need to talk to this guy. Stay in your room.” He turned to go back to the front door, then turned back to me. “And close your door. All the way.”

  I glared at him but he didn’t turn away and I knew he’d stand there until I obeyed. The only man I knew as bossy as Rock was Richard, and he at least had a hand in bringing me up. I stuck my tongue at him and shut the door. Then I put my ear to it.

  Night Flight to Washington

  Rock went back to the front door. “Turner?”

  “Yeah,” said the voice on the other side.

  “Anyone out there besides you?”

  “No. I came alone.”

  “I’m holding a Remington 12 Gauge and if you’re holding anything but your agency ID when I open the door, I intend to fire both barrels. Got me?”

  “Got you.”

  Rock held the shotgun at his hip with his right hand. With his left, he unlocked the door. The man outside was stocky and muscled, dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. He held out a plastic card with his photo on it. Rock took it. The face on the card was clearly the man at the door: receding brown hair, intelligent eyes, mouth with the su
ggestion of a smile. Rock handed the card back but didn’t move from the doorway. “Guess you’re with DARC all right. So is Inez still putting out for anyone who asks nice?”

  “Who?”

  Rock’s eyes narrowed. “Inez. Don’t tell me you don’t know who Inez is.”

  “Well, I don’t. Maybe you mean Erica.”

  “Never mind. There’s a portrait on the wall in Zookeeper’s office. Who is it?”

  “I don’t know that either but I can describe the painting.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “It’s historical, some time in the 1800’s, I’d say. Young fellow, blonde hair, pretty lips, chin like a Mountie. Could have been a movie star if they’d had movies back then.”

  “Joseph Smith.”

  “Who?”

  “Founder of the Mormon Church. What’s DARC’s unofficial motto?”

  Turned sighed and said in a flat voice, “To serve and protect all—“

  “Not that horseshit. The unofficial motto.”

  “Oh.” Turned smiled. “’You don’t have to be crazy to work here but it helps.’ You want me to give you the secret handshake?”

  “Not necessary,” said Rock with a thin smile, stepping aside. “Come in.”

  He led Turner through the main room into a smaller, den-like room. It had a gun rack and a sofa and armchairs arranged around a large television where he and Tío Luis drank beer and watched soccer. Rock unloaded the shotgun and returned it to the gun rack. “Sorry about the welcome but you came late at night and unannounced.”

  “That’s all right. I was told to expect something like that.”

  “Were you now? Did they tell you I was paranoid?”

  “No one said you were crazy, if that’s what you mean. Just that you were very, very careful. As to being unannounced, if you’d known I was coming, you’d be gone by the time I got here.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been researching me.”