Last Call Lounge (18 page)

TWENTY-TWO

I drove back to the house to get Ruby, then drove the back roads out to Sarah’s house in the Heritage. I took the back roads this time because the main highways were clogged with those trying to get out of town ahead of the hurricane.  The sky was flat gray and low.

Ruby sat silently as I told her everything.  She looked at me a few times as I explained everything I knew, everything I understood, but mostly she stared out the window.  Her face grew more pale.  She pressed herself harder and harder into the passenger door, farther away from me.  As I talked, she sunk.  She collapsed.  She stared out the window and tears soaked her cheeks.

At Sarah’s, I sat for a moment in my truck, the air conditioner whirring.  The wind was starting to strafe through the tree tops and leaves and paper swirled down the street.  I pulled my cigarettes out, then tossed them in the glove compartment.  I left the car running.  Ruby was still silent.

Sarah opened the door.  She had not put on makeup and her morning straw hair was pulled in a loose ponytail off her neck.

The lights in the house were on against the dim gray of the day.

“Little John,” she sighed.

“Hi,” I said.  My eyelids were heavy and thick.  I rubbed them and was surprised to find tears.

Suddenly, I wanted to tell her everything, about Worm and Tracy and how I had caused their deaths.  About the cocaine and the money and the gun and everything.  But I couldn’t.  For the first time in a long time, I truly wanted to share my pain with her.  But I knew that, if I did, she would try to talk me out of what I had to do.  She would want to apply the rules of a logical world to the moment I found myself in.

“Are you okay?” she asked. 

“Yeah,” I said, rubbing my face with my hands.  “I came to say goodbye to Jake.”

“We are leaving in five minutes,” she said.

“Okay.”

Sarah gave me an old stare, then stepped out of the doorway to let me in.  The house was evenly chilled.  Sarah led me down the hall to Jacob’s room.  He was sitting on his bed with a scattering of toys around him.  A rolling Star Wars suitcase was stuffed and propped up by the door.

I sat down on the bed next to Jacob.  Sarah stood just inside the door, watching me.  Then, in a last, generous gesture, she left me alone with my son.

“What are you doing, kiddo?” I asked.  Jacob was touching each toy around him, as though he were counting them.  He did not turn to me.

“Jacob,” I said, scratching at my neck.  “I came to say goodbye.”

“Okay,” he said.  He had a Playmobile horse in his hands and he was turning it over and over, inspecting it from all angles.

“You and mom are going to Austin,” I tried again.  “I have to stay here and take care of some things.”

“Okay,” he said again.  He picked up another toy, a wind-up duck, and studied it, too.  For just a second, I felt relief flash across my back – I had said goodbye and he’d heard it.  I got up to leave.

In that moment, though, I thought of my mother.  It was a memory I hadn’t bothered with in a long time.  She was sitting at the kitchen table in our little yellow apartment.  It was a morning when I was nine.  She was drinking coffee and I was trying to sneak past her out the door.

Life with my mother had, by then, become weighty and gray and I had structured my life around avoiding her.  I dressed in the bathroom with the door shut tight.  I stayed late after school so I missed dinner.  In the mornings, the school bus stopped directly outside the front door of our apartment building, so, if I timed everything just right, I could slip out and onto the bus and not have to say a word to her.

Much later, of course, I would realize that she had been depressed, but at the time, all I knew was that her need was crushing me and I had to get out.  When she did happen to catch me, she’d grip my hand and raise her wet brown eyes to me.

“Mijo,” she’d say and I’d squirm and look at the floor.  She’d grip my hand, sometimes pull me in for a kiss, sometimes just stare.

So, this one morning, she was sitting at the kitchen table in our little yellow apartment.  My father must have been asleep in the room in the back.  She had a cup of coffee on the table in front of her.  I peeked through the kitchen door and shouldered my backpack, ready to bolt.

I put my eyes down and made it almost to the front door when I heard a clanging so loud it made me drop my backpack.  I stopped to pick it up and looked back at my mother.  She was still in her seat, rapping the side of her coffee mug with her spoon.  When I met her eyes, a weak smile came to her lips.

“Mijo,” she said and held out her hand.

I picked up my backpack and crossed to her.  She took my hand and pulled me into the seat next to her.  I could smell the coffee.  Her eyes were red.  She took a deep breath.

“Do you want to know why I’m crying, Juanito?” she asked with a small choke.

I hated her for that question.  At that moment, and for most of the rest of my life, I hated her for it.  At that moment, I felt fear and disgust crawl down my spine.  I looked at the floor.

“Okay,” I said.

She held my hand until I looked into her face.  She was a beautiful woman, with large black eyes and thick hair that flowed like black liquid across her shoulders and down her back.  She stared at me, her lips pursed.

Then she gave me a small smile.  She let go of my hand.  I felt a wash of cool where the air-conditioned air hit the sweat on my palm.  She put her hands in her lap and smiled up at me.

“It’s okay, Juanito,” she said.  “I’m okay.  Go to school.”

I turned and ran.  Out the front door, down the dim stairwell, past the mailboxes, and out into the yellow-blue morning.  The bus wasn’t there yet, so I just kept running.

I hated her for that moment, for taking my hand and then for letting me go, for my entire life.  Hated the manipulation, the burden.

But, this day, standing in Jacob’s bedroom in his grandparents’ house, I realized what my mother had done.  Or tried to do.  She was weak and had been her weakest when she asked me that awful question.  But when she let go of my hand, when she let me leave, she was trying to be the adult.  She was trying to shield me from the stupid, petty, meanness of my father.  Of life.  Of her own soul.  One last time, she was trying to be my mother.

Jacob was on his bed.  Stuffed animals lined one side of the bedcover, plastic cars and horses lined the other.  The ceiling fan turned below the blue ceiling.

“What are you doing with the toys, kiddo?” I asked at last.  He glanced up, maybe surprised that I was still there.  He looked back at the rows of toys and his brow furrowed.

“Mom said I can bring two stuffed animals and two toys,” he said.  I sat on the edge of the bed next to him.  “I can’t choose,” he said.

“Well,” I said.  “Let’s start with the stuffed animals.”  He put down a plastic horse and gave the row of plush animals a stare.  “Which one is the best on to sleep with?” I asked.

He reached out and grabbed a blue dog with shiny black eyes.

“Bluey,” he said.

“Well,” I said. “You definitely want Bluey, then.  So you can sleep well at Aunt Steph’s house.”

Jacob nodded and gave the dog a tight hug.

“Okay,” I said.  “Now, which one would miss you the most?” He turned his face up to me.  “Which one would be the saddest that it had to stay here?”

He turned back to the animals and his eyes became serious slits as he examined the row.  Finally, he pointed at a large turtle.

“That one,” he said.

“Well, then, take that one.  You’ll need to take care of him.” Jacob picked up the turtle and hugged him to the dog.

Next we went through the toys, discussing their merits and uses, until we had narrowed his choices down to three -- the plastic horse, a red race car, and a Spider-Man action figure.

“I’ll tell you what,” I said.  “Pack the car and the horse and stick Spider-Man in your jacket pocket.  He can sneak along for the ride.”

Jacob grinned and shoved Spidey deep into his pocket.  I leaned over and kissed him on the head.

“Okay, mijo,” I said.  “I better get going.”  I opened my arms and leaned forward for a hug.  Jacob’s arms came tight around my waist.

“You be good,” I said.

“I will,” he said.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Jacob sat on the floor with his toy choices.  I closed the door behind me and stood for a moment in the cool dark of the hall.

Sarah was in a big brown armchair.  I stepped into the light of the living room and she looked up at me.

“Thanks,” I said. 

She sighed and shrugged her shoulders.  Then she slowly pushed herself up from the chair and followed me to the front door. 

I stepped out the door, out of her parents’ house, into the flat gray light and closed my eyes.  I couldn’t tell Sarah about Worm and Tracy and what I had to do.  But there was something else I had to tell her.

I turned to face her and reached out for her hand.  Sarah stared at my hand before she took it.

“Sarah,” I said.  “I need to ask you a favor.” 

Her hand went slack in mine. 

“I need you to take Ruby with you,” I said.

Sarah’s eyes darted to my little truck, to Ruby sitting there. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she snapped, pulling her hand away.

“Sarah,” I said again.  “She’s my sister.”

Sarah gasped and her hand flew to her mouth.

“My half-sister, I guess,” I said.  “Her mother’s name was Katherine,” I said, “but everybody called her Kate.”  I explained to her, quickly, about Dad and Kate, the bartender with the hair.  “She didn’t know.  Dad didn’t know, I don’t think.  I don’t think he ever even knew Kate was pregnant.  Nobody had any idea.”  My eyes and my jaw ached.  “Ruby didn’t even know until I explained it all this morning. Just now.”

Sarah’s eyes were big and wet.  Her hand was still at her mouth.  We both turned to look at Ruby.  She was still curled in the truck, pressed against the passenger-side window, her back fully to us.  Her lava hair spilled down her back into the shadows of the cab.  She had lit a cigarette and a thin, twisting trail of blue smoke struggled in the air above her.

“Oh, God,” Sarah muttered.  “Oh, God.”  She looked up at the sky and looked back in the house, toward where Jacob was waiting.  Then she squeezed her eyes tight, drew in and long breath, and looked at me.

“Of course, John,” she said.  “Of course I’ll take her.”

I trotted out to the truck and grabbed Ruby’s bag out of the bed.  I opened the passenger door.  Ruby stood mechanically and followed me up the path to the front door.  I set her bag down outside and Ruby pushed past, into the living room. 

Sarah took my hand.

“You can still come with us,” she said. 

Tears came quickly and I had to blink hard.  I wiped my face with the back of my hand and nodded.

“I really wish I could,” I said.  “But there’s something I have to do.”
She nodded and held my hands for a long moment. When I let go of her hands, she slumped against the wall of the house.

I leaned past her and looked into the living room.

“Ruby,” I said.

He eyes came up, the eyes no one else would ever have, and she looked at me for a long moment.  Then she closed her eyes and I closed the door on her, there, in the dark room.

At the door, I said to Sarah, “I’ll call you tomorrow.” I knew she thought that was a lie, but I hoped it would be the truth.

TWENTY-THREE

The drive back to my house was quick – traffic going out of town was thick with evacuees, but the highways heading in were empty.  My neighborhood was flat and quiet.  I parked my truck on the street instead of the driveway, right in front of my house.  If anybody was looking for me, I wanted them to know I was home.

Frank was still asleep. I took the bar key off my key chain and left the rest of the keys for Frank, along with a brief note saying he could use my truck and my house until I got back.  Then I went in the kitchen, drank half a cup of coffee, washed the cup in the sink, and put it on the dish rack. I grabbed a light rain jacket out of the closet by the front door and went outside.

I sat on the front porch, rain jacket folded across my lap. Everything was gray and shadowless.

I smoked a cigarette and then another. Nothing happened. I watched the wind push through the tops of the trees across the street. After a while, it stopped, then started pushing slowly from the other direction. The neighbor across the street, an older Mexican man with a preference for plaid, long-sleeved shirts, locked his front door and jogged out to his truck, suitcase in hand. His house windows were covered in plywood. He backed out of his driveway, tires crunching on gravel, and drove away.

Nothing happened. The sky was flat gray, motionless. I lit another cigarette. Through the leaves of the azalea, I could see a blue SUV pull up to the intersection to my left, stop at the stop sign, then turn and drive away.

Rain drops started to fall. Not much, but fat, heavy drops. Maybe I fell asleep. I thought about what I was going to do, what I could do. Probably I thought about Ruby. Probably I thought about Worm and Tracy. I rubbed my eyes, shook the fatigue out of my head. I went inside and made another pot of coffee and brought it outside. The rain was steadier, now. The blue Jeep rolled slowly through the intersection to my right.

I could hear Frank, inside, get up, use the bathroom, and go back to bed. The rain fell. I lit another cigarette. The Jeep drove past my house. I could see the driver, but was fairly sure he couldn't see me. The wind picked up and the sky darkened. I took the coffee pot inside, rinsed my cup again, and came back out.

The rain was thick now. Solid gray clouds hung low. The blue Jeep was idling at the corner. I lit a last cigarette and smoked it. When I was done, I ground it out in the ashtray on the railing, pulled on the rain jacket, and stepped out into the street.

Oscar stared at me for a long moment through the window of his Jeep. I held my hands high above my head in surrender. He pulled the Jeep up close to me, then opened the door. He was wearing a dark denim jacket over his white shirt. He stepped around the door, raised his gun, and aimed it at me.

“I want out,” I said, loud above the thumping of the rain. “I'm done. I wanna give you your money.”

He looked up at the house, then back over his shoulder.

“If the cops show up, I swear to God I'll fucking kill you. Before they can do shit, I'll fucking shoot you.”

I stood still, arms in the air, rain running down my face.

“No cops,” I said. “I just want to be done with all this shit.” 

He moved toward me, slowly, the gun aimed at my head. I kept perfectly still. He moved until he was close enough to press the barrel of the gun to my head. He looked left and right.

“I'm done,” I said again. “I just want out.” 

He cracked the gun, hard, on my temple. Everything went red then black and when I opened my eyes I was on my knees and Oscar was checking my pockets.

“Please,” I said. “There's no cops. I just wanna give you your money back.” 

He grabbed me by the collar and dragged me to my feet.

“Get in the car,” he said and pressed the gun to the base of my neck. I walked to the car with my hands above my head. Oscar held my jacket in one hand and the gun in the other. When we got to the Jeep, he shoved me into the side of the car, pressed the gun into my neck, just under my chin, and opened the passenger door. I climbed in.

“Hands on your fucking head,” he said. “Move and I shoot you through the fucking glass.”

I put my hands back on my head. Oscar slammed the passenger door and moved quickly around the front of the Jeep. He jumped in the driver's side and pushed the gun again into my temple.

“Now,” he said. “Where's my fucking money?”

My ears were still ringing from the blow.

“At the bar,” I said. The butt of the gun smashed into my chin and I tasted blood.

“Don't fuck with me,” Oscar yelled. With his left hand, he hit the switch on his door and the doors locked.

“I'm not,” I said. “I swear to God I'm not.”

“I tore that place apart.” 

“It's there,” I said. “I swear.”  This time he brought the gun backhanded into my stomach. I fell forward.

“Where?” he yelled.

I drew in a painful breath, then pushed myself back against the seat.

“No,” I said. “If I tell you, you'll kill me. Take me there. I'll let you in, you get the money, then this is over.”

He stared at me, his black eyes perfectly still. Then he raised the gun and again pressed it into my temple.

“If I see one cop,” he said, “I'll fucking kill you. And, tomorrow, I'll get up, I'll find your son, and I'll kill him, too.”

“No cops,” I said. “No cops. I swear to God. I just wanna be done with this.”

Keeping the gun against my head, he reached awkwardly with his left hand, across the steering wheel, and started the ignition.

“Put you hands on the dashboard and keep them there,” he said.

The sky was almost slate gray now and the rain was coming down so heavy it looked solid. No one else was on the road. Under the highway, water was filling the gutters. We skidded a little as we went through the intersection. I was cold from the air conditioner and my mouth was filled with blood. I swallowed hard and a giddiness came over me, a shaky flash of adrenaline. Oscar hit another puddle and skidded again and I giggled. Oscar turned to look at me and I giggled again, unable to stop it. He rapped the barrel of the gun against my forehead.

“What the fuck are you laughing at?” he said.

“I wish you would drive slower,” I said and giggled some more. My hands were shaking on the dash. Oscar squinted at me.

“Yeah,” he said. “I bet you fucking do.”

I drew in long breaths. My teeth were chattering, but I breathed in through my nose and willed myself to calm down a little.

“Let me ask you something,” I said. Talking sort of stilled my head, gave me something to focus on. “How did a guy like Worm manage to steal all that money from a guy like you?”  He squinted at me again but stayed silent. “I mean, I knew Worm a long time and he was dumb as mud.” 

Now Oscar grinned a little.

“It was during the raid at the Galaxy,” Oscar said. “When the cops came in, Worm grabbed the bag and ran out the back. I guess he thought I didn't see him and that I was gonna be arrested.”  The gun hadn't moved from my temple. “But I knew the cop who ran my license. I slipped him a hundred bucks and he let me go. Worm did me a fucking favor.  If those cops had found that bag, I would have been fucked.”

We drove for a while. The wind whistled in through the window seams. Trees swayed across the road. Everything was gray.

“It's not my money,” Oscar said, more to himself than to me. “If I don't get it back tonight, they'll put a bullet in my fucking head.”

“The Latin Lords would kill you?  Even though you're a member?”

“Don't fuck up,” he said. “That's one of the rules. Don't fuck up and they don't fuck with you. Anybody who fucks up has gotta expect to pay the price, even if they been in forever.”

“How do you get out?” I asked.

“That's another one of the rules,” Oscar said, giving me an empty grin. “You don't get out.”

We drove. Water slapped against the bottom of the Jeep as we hit a puddle.

“I got an idea, Oscar,” I said, feeling a giggle rise up in me again. “Is it too late for me to join the Latin Lords?”

“Sorry,” he said. “You said. You ain't a Mexican.”

We pulled in front of the bar, on the street but a half block away from the front door. Oscar reached across the wheel, put the Jeep in park and turned off the ignition.

“If I see one cop,” he said. “If I see anybody, I will shoot you in the skull.”  He grabbed me by the shirt and pushed the gun into my neck. “Open the fucking door,” he said.

I reached down and opened the door. Oscar swiveled out of the driver's chair and gave me a small shove.

“Get out,” he said.

I slid out and Oscar jumped out immediately behind me. I didn't try to turn, didn't try to run. Oscar quickly grabbed my left wrist and wrenched it up behind my back. Panic swelled up my throat for a second, but I fought it down. In the army, they taught us that you don't think during a fight, you think before a fight. I slowed my breathing, tried to trust that I had thought this out. Rain soaked under the neck of my raincoat, down my chest.

Oscar kept low and behind me, pushing up painfully on my wrist. He led me like this to the front door.

“Open it,” he said.

“The key is in my pocket,” I said.

“Get it,” he barked.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the key. When the deadbolt was unlocked, he said, “Open it and don't move.” I pulled the door open and we stood for a long moment in the doorway, Oscar hunched behind me. The power had gone off and the bar was lit by the white emergency lights of the exit signs.

Oscar pushed me inside.

“Lock the door,” he said, spinning me back around.

I reached down and flipped the deadbolt shut. Oscar pulled me back, backed up until he was against the wall next to the door. He stayed behind me, looking over my shoulder. I could hear his breathing, light and fast. Then he twisted my arm up higher. Sharp pain shot from my wrist to my shoulder.

“Where?” he said.

“In the office.” He twisted my arm again. “I swear to you,” I said, letting my voice squeak with fear. “It's there. It's in the office.” 

He shoved me forward. I stumbled a little and he pulled me up by the wrist. Pain shot again all the way to my neck. We walked slowly past the bar, past the stools. The middle of the bar was in shadows, the exit lights were at the front and back. As we walked, I was staring at the back door, at the place where Tracy died. Anger came over me, and calm, too. I tripped a little, to look weak, and fell against the wall. When Oscar righted me, I bumped into something. Pancho, hanging back on his nail. Tim Cole had brought him back. I fought down a smile.

Oscar pushed me to the door. He told me to open it and I did and we stood in the doorway while our eyes adjusted to the dark. The he pushed me inside.

“Where?” he said again.

“In the beer box, the bottom one. On the floor by the wall.” 

He looked around and I pointed. He looked for a minute, glanced back in the hallway. Then he released my wrist and hit me, hard, across the head with the barrel of the gun. I was ready for the blow and had already leaned the way I wanted to fall. As Oscar lunged for the boxes, I let myself fall onto the wooden chair and roll halfway under the desk. My right wrist fell onto the rim of the little trashcan and knocked it over.

Oscar stuck his gun in his belt and took the six pack, then the top beer case off the stack and set them on the floor. I shifted my hand a little and felt my finger brush against the metal of the Colt. A little wiggling and it slid right into my palm like it belonged there. Oscar pulled the bag out of the box and twisted it open. I coughed a little as I slid the safety with my thumb, to cover up any click it might make. But Oscar was caught up in the cash, making a quick assessment to be sure it was all there. I felt the adrenaline pour into my veins again and I started laughing. Just a chuckle at first, but then a full laugh that made my head hurt.

Oscar turned to me, his eyes blazing with anger. He knelt down across my chest and grabbed me by the shirt with his left hand. He cocked his right arm back, his fist straight above my face.

“What the fuck is so funny now?” he said.

I pulled my hand from the trash can and pressed the gun to his forehead, just above his left eye. For the first time, I saw his eyes open wide.

His mouth opened, too, but before he could speak, I said, “Viva Villa,” and pulled the trigger.