“You’re okay with this?”
“Yep. No problem.”
And then suddenly he felt that same panic that he used to get right at the beginning of their relationship when he tried to walk away and she would blow him off. What had he done? It was a mistake. Could he take it back? He didn’t mean it. He was just about to tell Ellis to forget what he’d said. He’d been under a lot of stress. He was sorry. He loved her and could he come over right this minute and show her how much? But then Ellis started talking. She said that Janice was down on the beach at Pablo’s birthday party right now. She told him who was there and outlined exactly what would be going on. She said it looked like Janice was already having a pretty good time with Pablo. They seemed to have a special connection. And then she said she had to get off the phone and asked that he never call her again.
Frank carefully hung up the phone and took another big sip of his drink. He was sitting in the green leather chair and had been there most of the night, drinking vodka, thinking about his future. It had all been so clear: End the affair. Re-focus on the vineyard. Make a bigger effort socially so Janice wouldn’t feel so isolated. Maybe take her away for the weekend, just the two of them. She’d seemed a little down lately. And perhaps he would really start to work on that memoir he’d been thinking about all these years—his journey from the corporate world back to nature. But fucking Ellis Gardner had once again ruined everything. God that girl was a curse. And what the fuck had she been talking about? Janice at Pablo’s party? How would Janice even know Pablo? That was bullshit. She was off with her brain-dead yoga friends. She didn’t even know any surfers. Janice didn’t even like the beach.
He got up and poured himself another drink. The bottle was almost empty now. How full had it been full when he started? He pulled his chair to living room window and sat down to wait.
TECHNICALLY JANICE SHOULDN’T BE DRIVING
PABLO VOLUNTEERED TO WALK JANICE UP THE TRAIL AND back to her car. It was a good thing because she was having a bit of trouble standing unassisted. She took one more look around before they left the beach and made a mental note that she hoped would last until morning. She had not done anything embarrassing this evening. Yes, she had had far too much to drink—and smoke—but she didn’t kiss anyone, she didn’t tell any shameful stories, she hadn’t cried or laughed too loud, and so far she hadn’t thrown up. Tomorrow, when she woke up, she could reassure herself with this memory. Janice Bane had behaved herself at Pablo’s birthday party. There was nothing to be ashamed of, nothing at all.
“Got your keys?” Pablo had his arm around her and he was whispering in her ears. It tickled.
She rummaged through her purse, throwing her stupid sandals down on the sand. She carried far too many things in there. What was all this stuff? She kept swiping her hand around, stirring the chaos. She could hear the keys jingle but she couldn’t get a grasp on them. Finally she felt the woven loop of the key fob. She grabbed and held them up to Pablo like a trophy.
“Want to put those on?” Pablo pointed down to her shoes then wrapped his arm around her ribcage, fingers extremely close to her right breast.
She giggled, pushed his hand away. “I’m fine.” She bent down for her shoes, almost fell over, then straightened up and headed towards the path.
Pablo took her hand as they started on the dirt trail. “You shouldn’t be driving. Why don’t you just sleep down here with me tonight?”
“My husband.” Janice didn’t feel like she had to say more. People always used too many words.
“Right. What are you gonna tell him? Will he wait up for you?”
That was such a good question! Would Frank wait up? It was well after midnight and Frank liked to get up before sunrise so he could do his precious surfing…
“Hey Pablo, do you know my husband? Frank Bane? Surfs every morning. Black BMW?”
“Nope. Never heard of him.”
Janice stumbled over a root that grew across the trail and Pablo grabbed her waist so she wouldn’t fall. Her feet were very tender—she never walked barefoot—but somehow they weren’t hurting too much. She concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and told herself again that she was a good girl, that she hadn’t done anything wrong, and tomorrow there wouldn’t be a single reason to feel guilty.
“So what are you gonna say?” Pablo’s voice sounded far away. She checked to make sure he was still standing beside her. Yep. There he was.
“Not sure.”
“Deny everything,” he said. “ ‘Wasn’t me’. Can’t go wrong with that.”
Suddenly they were at her car and Pablo was opening her door. “You sure you’re okay to drive,” he asked as he helped her into the driver’s seat.
Janice stamped her foot on the brake and pressed the ignition button. Somehow starting the engine served as evidence enough that she was perfectly fine to operate a vehicle.
“Take the back way, stay off the highway. And drive slow.” Pablo leaned in the car window and kissed Janice on the lips which made her realize that she really wasn’t feeling all that well and she’d better get out of there before she made a fool of herself.
“Thank you.” She shifted into gear and Pablo pulled his head out of the window just as she started to roll. Janice hit the gas and the car lurched forward. She drove about twenty feet then stopped, opened the door, leaned over, and vomited without taking off her seatbelt. She could hear Pablo yell something. Never mind. Time to get home. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and set out.
The speed limit in a residential area is twenty-five miles per hour. Janice did not go any faster or slower. She stayed well to the right of that center dividing line and was careful not to swerve. She was sure, absolutely positive, that she’d be fine even if an officer did happen to cross her path.
Frank opened the front door just as she was about to use her key.
“Where are your shoes?”
Janice patted her purse.
“Your feet are bleeding.”
“No, they’re not.”
“That’s blood, right there.”
“Nope.”
“Did you have a good time?”
The question stumped her. Should she deny having a good time? Probably. “Not so much.”
“You’re pretty loaded, huh?”
“It was a yoga party Frank. We don’t drink at yoga parties. I’ve got the flu.” Janice started down the hallway towards the stairs. One foot in front of the other.
“You were at Pablo’s”
“Nope.” She got to the stairs and grabbed the rail. Halfway home. Just make it to the bed.
“Janice, come back here.” Frank stood at the bottom of the stairs. He was talking way too loud. “Talk to me!”
Janice turned and held her finger to her lips. “Shhhhhhh.” Then she continued up the stairs. Almost there. Slow and steady.
Frank came bounding up the stairs and grabbed Janice’s wrist just as she got to the top. “You talk to me. I demand an explanation. Now.”
“Go away Frank.” Janice pulled her arm away. “You’re not my father. Leave me alone.” She picked up the pace and made it down the hall to the bedroom. She looked back and saw that Frank was still just standing there at the top of the stair. She almost had the door shut; she was going to lock it, when Frank shoved his way inside. He was mad. Furious. His eyes were blood-shot and his face was red. He grabbed Janice by the shoulders and started to shake her.
“You will tell me.”
Janice let her head fall back and forth with each of his shakes. She was a rag-doll.
“Tell me.” Frank slapped her across the face.
Suddenly everything got very clear for Janice. This guy was a total asshole. She looked him straight in the eyes, opened her mouth, and vomited all over his lavender cashmere sweater. Then she walked to the bathroom and locked the door.
FALL
FELIX
FELIX STOPPED SHAVING. HE STILL HAD SOME DISPOSABLE razors left but what
was the point? Somehow the thick, dark facial hair made him feel less vulnerable and more a part of his surroundings. He had never grown his beard before and now saw that his father had been right. You had to shave both sides of the face in the same direction. Otherwise whiskers won’t grow symmetrically. When he first stated shaving, his father reminded him, over and over. He’d never listened. It was easier to shave down on the left and up on the right. And now the hair was growing in the direction he’d trained it, sort of a swirling pattern. If he had facial hair on his forehead, it would form a perfect ring encircling his face with just his eyes and nose sticking out, like a whisker wreath. Felix looked in the small mirror he’d hung on the branch. He liked the idea of his face covered in fur. So did Rigoberta. She thought he should keep the beard because it made him look older, more virile. He told her he’d take it off when he left the camp; Violeta wouldn’t like it. Rigoberta thought she might. Anyway, they both agreed that for now his circular beard would stay.
Felix and Rigoberta, with the help of Don Jefe, had come up with a few other ways to make the camp safer. For one thing, they’d built snake pits in key areas around the crop lines. It was actually Don Jefe’s idea. He helped Felix figure out how to capture the snakes. At first Felix had been fearful, a rattlesnake bite would be a real problem, but Don Jefe reassured him and, with a little practice, he got good sneaking up on the snakes, pinning their heads with a forked stick, then grabbing them behind the jaw and dropping them into the deep pits. Rigoberta had taught him that it was important to only go after fully extended snakes; once they were coiled it was too dangerous because they felt threatened and would strike. Rigoberta was the smartest of the group. They had about twenty snakes now, split between five pits. Felix made some box rat traps that didn’t kill the animal so he’d have something to feed the snakes. He sprayed them down with water once or twice a day to keep them cool enough and fed them all the rats he could catch. They seemed to be thriving down there in the pits and Felix felt much safer.
It was true that nothing had been stolen since Felix told Hernando about the missing sprayer. Hernando said that Ramon would talk to his boss, who would talk to the other boss, who would contact the guy who was in charge, who would have a word with the neighboring cartels. Everything would be taken care of. Felix shouldn’t worry. But of course Felix did.
Hernando hadn’t been back in over two weeks. He’d been angry last time because he got hit in the face by several of Felix’s whip-traps and almost fallen into one of the spike holes. Next time he came, Felix suggested he whistle once he was close to camp and Felix would come and guide him in. Hernando had told Felix to tear out his booby traps, that the whole thing was ridiculous, but Hernando didn’t live out here all by himself. He went home every night to his wife and family. They cooked breakfast burritos together and held each other’s hands. They had a house and a life. Who was Hernando to tell Felix how to survive out here when all he knew was comfort?
Felix increased the water flow to the marijuana and they stood thick, brushy and tall. The buds were sticky and full; it should be an excellent yield. When were they going to give him his money? They’d told him when it’s all finished but when exactly? The day they cut the plants? When they drove him to the bus that would carry him home? He would ask next time Hernando came. He wanted the details of how he was going to get back. He needed to know.
Rigoberta was starting to get a little funny about his leaving. She wanted him to take her back to Mexico. She said she could live with he and Violeta, maybe watch the kids once they started having babies. Felix had got to laughing out loud one afternoon when he envisioned himself climbing on a bus bound for Michoacan with Rigoberta slung over his shoulders. Maybe they could tie her to the top of the bus? What a silly idea. Sometimes she would get too whiny and that’s when Felix would have to break the connection and walk away. She was a bear made out of sticks. Nothing more. He wouldn’t talk to her for a day or so and when he came back she always behaved herself like a perfect lady and his best friend.
PABLO ON PATROL
I MIGHT HAVE GONE A LITTLE OVERBOARD WITH THE WHOLE camouflage thing. There are those who would probably say that I’m obsessed but I like to think of myself as a collector, a camo connoisseur.
I started out where most people do, with your straightforward American Woodland BDU (battle dress uniform), pants and a multi-pocketed jacket. Seemed like a good choice considering we were in America and crawling in amongst a bunch of green bushes. Not only do I blend in well, but also my uniform protects me and I do not end up with scratched arms and bleeding shins from scrambling through the undergrowth. The main thing is to stay covered and remain hidden.
I branched out from American Woodland to other military patterns. There were just so many, and not all of them were appropriate for my work, but who could resist the black and white urban camo, the tiger stripe, the tri-color desert, the smoky branch or, my favorite, the underwater camo? Certainly not I. I bought t-shirts in every pattern that the Army Navy Surplus store offered. But I didn’t stop there. When I had everything the U.S. had to offer, I shifted my sites across the Atlantic.
I started with a simple pair of vintage German Flectarn pants. I liked the lively orange fleck in the pattern. Then I splurged on and entire suit of Swiss Alpenflage, the chili pepper red and black accent really made this camouflage ensemble stand out.
As you might expect, our French cousins have a wide array of designs. Why, just in the woodland category there are multiple offerings: F1 Lizard, CE, Leopard. The French will hide you in the mountains, the desert or the forest in ultimate style. Of course I had to have an example of every pattern.
Austria’s basic camouflage is a bubble-like pattern of brown, green and khaki. Belgium offers a delightful composition of forest green, brown and tan all in the shape of fluffy clouds. And who could live without a complete East German camo coverall with the gray and green raindrop pattern? Not I.
Now, the problem with my vast and fascinating wardrobe is that it will not fit into the confines of my limited abode. My camper doesn’t have much of a closet. And so, somehow, I’ve managed to talk Ellis into allotting me one half of the storage closet by the kitchen. I keep most of my clothes here. I treat it like a store. Every couple of weeks I bring in my dirty clothes, wash them, then shop through the new outfits in my closet, pack ‘em up and head out.
Today I’ve chosen Smokey Branch as my camouflage strategy. We’re heading into fall, Santa Ana winds have started to pick up, things are drying out, and I need more browns than greens if I’m truly going to blend in.
I’m heading out on recon. Another couple of weeks and we’re going to be busy, busy, busy with the harvest and all. Yes, I will arm myself. I’m not crazy, nor do I have a death wish, and so yes, I will carry a firearm. I hope to hell I never have to use my gun but it’s important to be prepared.
What am I packing? I’m glad you asked. After a tremendous amount of research I decided that The Judge was the only gun for me. It’s a beauty, all business, nicely finished with black rubber grips and fiber-optic front sight and the load is either Winchester 2-1/2” number 4 or .45 colt. That’s right, shotgun shells or bullets. It shoots both plus it looks real mean. Awesome. So, if I get in trouble with a rattlesnake, I’m covered with the shells and if I need some man-stopping power I’ve got that too; the .45 is a potent projectile. My personal plan, if I should encounter hostiles, is to start with the shells as a kind of warning—I don’t really want to kill anyone—and if things go downhill I’ll switch over to the .45. I just think that it’s so beautiful that we live in a world with these kinds of options—shells and bullets. Can’t buy this beauty in California. I drove to Arizona to get my 6-1/2 inch model and it was well worth the trip. I wear it in my Grizzly Tuff holster, which holds it close to my chest, right over my heart. It doesn’t get in the way when I’m scrambling through underbrush but it’s there, handy, if I need it.
In addition to the gun, I always carry my Benchmade
551 Org Griptilian knife. It’s got excellent release action and the blade holds its edge much better than any switchblade I’ve been able to find. Yeah, if you’re looking for a knife, you can’t go wrong with the Griptilian.
I do my scouting missions during the day. I know that sounds crazy but I’m not going into the camps, I’m just looking and I want to be able to see as much as possible. With a few of the sites up north I can actually get up above on the rocks and look down on the garden. But with most of the camps I have to get really close if I want to get an idea of how things are going. It’s dangerous because the guys guarding those sites are up and around during the day. I try and wait until the hottest part of the afternoon, when they’re good and lazy, hiding under the shade of some tree, hopefully having a little siesta, and then I follow one of my secret trails and check to see how they’re doing with this year’s crops.
I went out a couple weeks ago and everything was pretty much status quo except for this one PBJ camp. The dude that lives there is one crazy sucker. He’s a short guy, looks like he’s in his early twenties and he’s got all these weird animals made out of sticks and vines. Carries his shotgun with him everywhere he goes, talks to this big bear-like creature he’s got set up near the kitchen. I don’t know Spanish so I can’t tell you what he’s saying but he does both sides of the conversation. The bear-thing must be a girl because he uses a real high, squeaky voice for her. Sure wish I knew what they were saying. Anyway, aside from his camp, it’s pretty basic out there. Everyone’s got a shotgun or handgun. Everybody’s plants are coming along nicely. Right on schedule. But that was a couple of weeks ago. Things can change. Got to go have me a look around.
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