Indian Country Noir (Akashic Noir) (21 page)

There was no dog. I was on the ground outside of the hut.
My head throbbed.

Soon I heard sirens.

I tried to get up and quickly realized there was a gun in my
hand. I saw the body, still lying there. Poor bastard, but there
was nothing I could do.

"Fuck," I said.

The dark sky was circling, moving fast. Set up. The gun in
my hand-it was a setup.

"Fuck," I said.

I pushed myself up, felt nauseous.

I stood, threw the gun away, then I said, "Stupid. Stupid." I
went to pick it up again, fell down, got up again, began running.

I saw the batey courts and tried to remember where we
had come in. I fell. I heard the sirens approaching. I got up
and ran toward where I thought we had come through the
trees.

I pushed back through the trees, saw the big space in the
fence, tripped, got up, got to my car. I opened the door, sat
down, wiped the powder off my face, checked the back of my
head. There was a little blood.

I went to start the car. "Keys," I said. Itaba had the keys.
"Fucking fuck fuck fuck."

I grabbed my duffel bag and wobbled away from the car.
How far was I from San Juan? Blackjack, I thought. Julie.
Blackjack. The cops. I had to get out of there.

I walked five feet, got down on my knees, and felt the hard,
wet, cold road, considered laying down, considered throwing
up again. Then a vehicle stopped in front of me.

There was a big canoe on the back of the guy's truck. He was
an old man, with white, kinky hair, and his skin was as dark as
an overripe banana.

"Necesita ayuda?" the man asked.

"I need to go to San Juan," I said. My voice sounded thick,
garbled.

"Venga. Entre."

I got in the truck. I thought I looked normal but I was
worried that I looked slow, drunk. The man asked if I was
okay.

"I need to get to San Juan."

In a thick accent, the man said, "You look bad. You better
see a doctor."

"I'll be all right."

There was a big crucifix hanging from the rearview mirror.
The radio played old tunes, singers picking at a cuatro. The
saddest music ever, the kind of music to slice your wrists to.
One song after another.

We drove on, and I concentrated on the blacktop and
the highway signs, mile after mile. I saw two more dead dogs,
ripped open, lying there like pieces of meat on the road. I had
the kind of aching hangover that makes you want to split your
own head open and take your brain out to rinse it in cold,
clear water. My mouth didn't feel like it belonged to me. My
head was numb, throbbed.

All of sudden I said, "You ever heard of the Taino Indians?
The Tainos?"

"Si, los Tainos. A long time ago. In school," the man replied.

"You think you have Taino blood? You think you're a
Taino?"

The man laughed, kept his eyes on the road. "My abuela
was. At least she said so. Who knows? I respect the history. I
respect where I come from. Pero soy lo que soy ahora, en este
momento. Puertorriqueno, to sabes? Boricua."

"Uh huh," I said, although I didn't understand. I felt like
sleeping but somehow knew it was important not to.

Mile after mile of blacktop went by. The sky grew darker.
Rain started to pelt the windshield.

"My name is Papo," I offered.

"Angel Luis," the man said and stuck out his hand. We
shook and he kept on driving.

When he dropped me off at my hotel on the Condado
tourist strip, Angel Luis warned me about the hurricane.
"Storm is coming," he said. "Dios to bendiga."

I waddled with my duffel bag toward the hotel. I was tired all
the way to my balls. I was just about to walk in when I saw
these two men through the glass doors. Talking to the front
desk lady. Plainclothes cops look the same wherever you go.
Bad suits, lots of attitude. There was no way they could be after me already. I mean, they could trace me through the rental
car, but not that fast.

Still.

I turned around and walked a couple blocks to a cash machine, got out my last five hundred, then headed to a little
hotel outside of the Condado.

It was a small room with smelly blankets. One chair, one
desk, an AC that rattled. I pulled the blanket off the bed,
folded it neatly. Then I sat down, opened my flask, took a
shot. It hit my stomach like a bull-I ran to the bathroom to
puke. I got some soda, mixed it with another shot. It stayed
down, but not for long.

I laid on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. Mosquitoes
had arrived from somewhere and were biting me.

Back at the other hotel, there were six dozen roses in vases
waiting. A box of candy. Champagne. I had called ahead to
prepare everything for my night with Julie. All on credit.

Then I remembered to check my cell phone.

There were two messages, both from Julie. "Papo, where
the hell are you? Call!" The second: "I don't know, Papo. The
flights are all being delayed. This must be a sign. I don't think
I can do this. He's your best friend and it's not right for you to
do this either. Goodbye, Papo."

"Fuck," I said.

I turned facedown on the bed and thought of Julie's fine
perfect-handful breasts and her pale freckled skin and I woke
up twenty hours later.

It was dark outside, and rain hit against the sliding door of the
balcony. I took a hot shower, did my hair and beard, put on
a jacket, put on cologne. I smoked at the table. The curtains
were pulled back and I watched the rain beat at the glass, a
million tiny liquid bullets trying to get in.

I had the gun on the table. I knew I should ditch it but it
made me feel safer to keep it. I thought about finding Itaba and
the man with the flat head. But San Juan was a big town.

Hell, I was here to have fun, to do some gambling. I would
cope with whatever hand I was dealt. Why not live it up until
the cops found me?

I headed for the casino at the Caribe Hilton-the rain
moved in thick, slow strokes across the streets, palm trees
were flopping about like they were dancing the salsa-and
went inside and warmed up with the slot machines. I ordered
a Jack and Coke, but only sipped at it. After $200, I went to
the blackjack table. I played without caring, losing deal after
deal. This gay couple laughed and joked with the dealer, and
I felt like a fourth wheel.

"Lady Luck is not with me tonight," I said to no one but
myself.

I turned to order water and that's when I saw her. Straight back, head held high, firm ass in a tight red dress, Itaba walked
past the slot machines. Gift bag in hand.

"Lady Luck." I cashed out and followed her.

Itaba was in a ground-floor suite outside, past the pool. There
was tape on all the windows, for the hurricane. When she
opened the door, I moved. I pushed her into the room, pulled
out my gun, and aimed it at her.

"Bruto," she said.

She was on the floor and her wet skirt was up around her
waist. Her thighs were smooth, copper.

"Don't even think about it," she said.

"I wasn't," I replied, and then she kicked me hard in the
shin. "Fuck," I said.

"I know men."

I smirked at her. "Sure you do. You led me to that park and
left me to hang out for the cops."

"That was not my idea."

"The guy with the weird head?"

"Yes. Kaonabo. It was his idea."

"Ka-nabo?"

"He's my husband."

"No shit," I said and went to close the blinds and the curtains on the windows. I kept my eye and the gun on her the
whole time. "So what's up with his forehead anyway?"

"The Tainos believed that a flat forehead was a sign of
beauty. Taino mothers carried their babies on their back on a
board secured to the baby's forehead to make it that way. His
real name is Pedro. He is very serious about the Neo-Taino
cause.

"Shit yeah."

"Oye me. I wanted you along, negrito, because I knew he would do something like this. Like I said, he's very serious."

"You were looking for a bodyguard, then, not a patsy? I
don't know about that."

"You have to believe me." She kicked off her shoes, lay
back on the couch, her body open. Her wet hair covered part
of her face. She looked delicious. "I wanted protection. Your
cousin used to talk about you all the time. A big man. She told
me you do karate."

"Aikido. I used to." Suddenly I felt like I needed a drink.
But there was still a knot in the bottom of my stomach.

"She had your picture in her room. You had a kind face, a
vulnerable face. I liked it."

I was standing above her. Water dropped from my hair
onto her thighs.

"What was that stuff your husband made me inhale?"

"Cohoba. A hallucinogenic."

"I've had worse. I saw a dog that couldn't bark."

"The Tainos had mute dogs," she said.

"Nice." I didn't want to tell her that the dog saved my
life.

I could smell her scent, musky and earthy. Her dark, wet
clothes clung to her body like a glistening second skin.

"What happened to your lady friend?"

"Her flight was delayed. Where's your husband?"

"He went to meet the buyer."

I was on my knees, the gun still in my right hand. Then I
put my palms on her calves and began to move them up her
legs, pulling her dress back and dragging the gun across the
copper of her thighs. Goose bumps rose all up and down her
skin.

"What are you doing, negrito?"

"Nothing," I said, standing up. I leaned way down, looking right into her eyes. I kissed her. She let me. But her lips didn't
respond. I tried again. She stared at me.

"Are you done?" she said.

"Looks like I am."

"Your cousin also told me you were a mujeriego-a
womanizer."

"I know what it means. Wait till I see Carmen again."

I was half hanging off the couch. I should've seen it coming.

Itaba kneed me hard in the balls and yanked the gun easily
out of my hand. I curled up and she kicked me off to the side. I
smacked the coffee table with my head and hit the floor.

I wasn't hurt. Coco duro. I just looked at the ceiling and
sighed. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

She sat up on the couch and didn't even bother pointing
the gun at me. "Oyeme, negrito. Kaonabo is coming, and he's
dangerous."

"Looks like you can take care of yourself fine."

"He doesn't just want to sell the cemi to buy land. He
wants to become a drug king."

I got up on my elbows. "What?"

"He thinks we can get more land and more power if we
buy and sell drugs."

"He's right. You'd have money coming in all the time.
I-"

"It disgusts me," she said, getting up. "I knew he was coming to Ponce to try to get the cemi from me. I knew he would do
something stupid. But I didn't know he would kill Dr. Arroyo."

"Why did he?"

"To start his drug business without witnesses."

Outside the wind and rain had picked up and smacked
against the windows. The taped glass was throbbing like it
wanted to bust.

"I need your help. I want your help." She waved the gun
like it was no more than a hairbrush. "It's Pedro."

"So you want to stop him?"

"He is a very violent man. I may have to use this."

"I believe you could," I said.

We listened to the growing storm for what seemed like an
hour. It had begun a slow conga rhythm against the windows,
against the walls. I was itchy for a drink. I was so used to having a drink in my hand it was strange not to have one. Itaba
just sat there and stared at me. She kept the gun near her the
whole time.

When the man with the flat forehead opened the door, he
was drenched from the storm. He did not look happy to see
me. In fact, it looked like he wanted to rip my heart out of my
chest and eat it.

"Hold, Pedro," I said. "How's it going?"

He stood there, saying nothing. He had his dark shades
on. Behind him was a short white man, late fifties, I'd guess.
Bald head, yellow-white beard soaked with rain. He looked
even more shocked. Probably didn't expect a party. He had a
satchel in one hand.

The conga rhythm of the storm seemed to suddenly pick
up in intensity.

"This must be the buyer?" I said.

The flat-headed man said something to Itaba in that
strange language. His voice was deep and came out like a
growl. She spoke back to him and he seemed to calm down.

Itaba walked up to the white guy and they shook hands.
"Mr. Hubbard," she said. "Welcome to Puerto Rico."

"Thank you," Hubbard replied. "I look forward to seeing
the amazing cemi you've told me about."

He kept his eyes on me. I glanced at the couch. The gun
wasn't there.

"This is an associate of mine," Itaba explained. "Don't
worry about him." From where I stood I could see she had the
weapon tucked into the back of her belt. She turned and said
to me, "Please hand me the cemi, Papo."

I could feel that rhythm, that storm, beating in my own
head. I picked up the gift bag from where it sat on the couch.
I was tired of being at the sticky end of all this. I handed her
the bag and in the same motion I grabbed the gun.

"Get back," I said.

The buyer yelped. Like a puppy. Pedro muttered something
in Spanish, fast. I didn't get all of it, but I think he called me
a stupid, fat American. Itaba stared at me. Wondering what I
was going to do next. I had no idea.

"Give me that satchel," I told the buyer. "You guys can
divide up your rock. All I want is the cash."

The buyer stood still, hesitating.

Pedro spoke again before the buyer could move. This time
in English, with a heavy accent. It sounded like it hurt him to
say each word: "You fool. Destroyer of the Earth. You have no
regard."

"At least I try to recycle. I'm reusing this gun, for example."

The storm continued to bang against the windows and
in my head with that conga rhythm, hard and fast. And loud.