Roachkiller and Other Stories (4 page)

Not that kind of friend, my aunt said. Itaba was very nice, she added, a professor, even.

I took my sweet time with my hair, getting it just the way I like it, and trimming my beard to make sure it was the same thinness along my jaw. It’s hard to get it right sometimes. One little misstep and I got to shave the whole thing. Then I splashed on my cologne and was good to go.

When I came out, Itaba was sitting in the patio with a purse and that big gift bag.

“Grácias tanto para esto,”
she said, standing up and smiling this big bright smile at me. I walked past her.

When we got into the little car, I noticed that she smelled good, not sweet like perfume, but like trees, like soil, like wood. For some reason it made me hungry.

“Tu huele bien,”
I said.

At first she looked at me like I said something nasty. Then she smiled and thanked me. So I played it off, stayed quiet.

We drove like that for five minutes before she started talking.

“What do you do?” she said.

“So you speak English?”

“Of course,” she said. “Look, I promise not to torture you anymore with my Spanish, and you do not have to torture me anymore with yours.” She gave me that smile again, full of brilliant white teeth. I wondered if she bleached them.

“Funny lady. Very funny.”

“So what do you do?”

“You mean for a living? This and that.”

“Is that what you tell everybody?”

I could’ve told her I had gotten out of prison a while ago and couldn’t find anyone who wanted to hire me. Not that I’m ashamed of that. I just didn’t think it was her business. “I do fine. I have money.”

“So why are you going to San Juan? To gamble?”

“I like to play cards, you know what I mean? And I’m meeting a friend.”

“A lady friend?”

“The best kind.”

“I’m sure you’ll have a good time.”

We were quiet for a while, then she said, “Listen, negrito, we first have to make a stop in Utuado.”

“What? That’s out of my way. It’ll take hours to get there.”

“It will take all day with the way you drive.”

“Fine.” I pulled the car sharply to the side of the road. “Take the wheel.”

She got in the driver’s seat and pressed on the gas. We burned rubber. I put my seat belt on.

I looked at her dark caramel fingers on the wheel. No ring.

Just then my cell phone beeped. It was Julie—I had forgotten all about calling her. I looked at Itaba, then took the call.

I tried to whisper. “Nothing’s wrong. . . . No one’s here,” I said, but when she said she couldn’t hear me I had to speak up. “Yeah. Hey. How are you? What time’s your flight get in? . . . That’s ridiculous. This is just a tropical storm. . . . Hey, I know you’re nervous. But we’re going to have a terrific time. . . . C’mon, you’ve always been my good-luck charm. . . . Hey, that’s not going to happen. He’s not going to find out. . . . Call me when you know the new arrival time. . . . Yeah. . . .  It’ll be great. Don’t worry.”

Itaba kept her eyes on the road and said nothing. I looked out the window. The sky was dark gray, the clouds looked as fat and angry as my old mother-in-law. Palm trees bowed in the constant wind. I watched the road and—this was funny to me—I realized I was keeping an eye out for more dead dogs.

“You ever notice all the dogs that get run over around here?” I said.

“Yes. It’s a tragedy,” was all she said.

*  *  *

Itaba parked the car on the side of the road. We were somewhere near Utuado.

“What the hell is this?” I said.

“We are going to the Taino village at Caguana Park.”

All I saw were trees. “This doesn’t look like anything.”

“We are taking the back way.”

“Is the front way closed?”

“Do you know anything about the Tainos?”

“The Indians? Oops. Sorry. Native Americans.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Tainos were the indigenous people of Boriken, the real name of Puerto Rico. Don’t you know anything about your history?”

“I was born in the Bronx, lady.”

“The Tainos were the first people Columbus met. In a few hundred years most of them were wiped out of existence.”

“I heard they all died. Measles and shit. And stuff, I mean. See, I’m not as stupid as I look.”

“Smallpox,” she said. “But, no, some survived and continue to survive. I am one. And there are many of us who want to reclaim what is ours. Negrito, I need your help. And for your help I will give you a reward.”

I looked at her lips, tried to imagine what she would look like during sex, if she was a screamer or a moaner or a quiet one.

“No me mires así,”
she said. “I can give you money, so you can show your friend more of a good time in San Juan.”

“How much?”

“A friend was supposed to drive me but he was delayed. I was going to give him a thousand dollars. I will give you two thousand because I have inconvenienced you.”

I pursed my lips. “That’s sweet money for a cab ride. But I’m curious to know what this is about.”

“Look in my bag,” she said.

I took the big gift bag from the back. There was something wrapped in plastic and then bubble wrap. I began to unwrap it.

“Be careful!” she said.

The stone had three points and was the size of my fist. One point had large eyes and teeth bared like a mad dog.

“You probably do not recognize it. It is a carving of Yocahú, a Taino deity.”

“Looks like an animal. Check out its fucking teeth.”

“Yocahú was the god of good, with no beginning and no end. This was discovered in an excavation at Jacana, near Ponce. I have been working there. I am an archaeologist. Thank you for asking. The Army Corps of Engineers was clearing land in order to build a dam. They uncovered some of the most important archaeological treasures ever found in Puerto Rico. This one piece is priceless.”

“Okay,” I said. It was still ugly.

“An American buyer is waiting for me in a hotel in San Juan. But he wants to make sure it comes with a certificate of authenticity. That is why we are here.”

“So you stole this?” I waved the stone.

“Please be careful with that.”

“It’s a rock.”

“It’s a cemi. It’s sacred. The Neo-Taino movement needs money to buy back land. To take back what is ours. This carving is a great sacrifice, but it will be worth it.”

“And what’s a Neo-Taino?”

“According to DNA, more than half of Puerto Ricans still have Taino blood in their veins.”

“That doesn’t make them Indians. They’re selling quenepas
on the side of the road, not doing rain dances.”

Her lovely hazel eyes rolled. “Listen, the buyer will pay one million dollars for this cemi.”

“For this?” I whistled. “So, why not just rent a car? Why did you need me? Or was it just an excuse to get to know me better?”

“Ay, negrito. I didn’t want to do this alone. Don’t you understand?” she said and got out of the car.

She went through the trees. I followed. The soil was wet and squished under my feet. We came to a wooden fence. With her boots, she began to kick it down.

“Let me do that,” I said. With a few kicks, I opened a space big enough for an SUV.

“You didn’t have to destroy it.”

“I don’t know my own strength,” I said.

*  *  *

We came out into a wide clearing. On one side were several rectangular spaces of cleared dirt. Around it were stone carvings, one foot to five feet high, with faces and figures in white. Animals, people, and people that looked like animals.

“That is a batey court,” she said, “where the warriors would play in order to settle disputes between different villages. We were a wise and peaceful people.”

“What did they play? Tennis?”

We circled the courts. Light rain began to fall. “There’s that tropical storm,” I said.

“Have you heard the story of Juracán, who was there at the creation of the world?”

“Nope.”

In the distance there were a few straw huts. Cone roofs, small doorways.

“He was the brother of Yucahú and the son of Atabey,” she said, “and he was created from elements in the air and therefore without a father.”

“Like me.”

“Juracán became envious of Yucahú when he saw his brother create the race of humanity, and so he tried to destroy his brother’s creations. He became known as the god of strong winds—you get the word ‘hurricane’ from his name. The Tainos feared him. When the hurricanes blew, they knew they had displeased Juracán.”

“Then something must be pissing him off today.”

She was headed toward what looked like an office building when we passed a hut. She turned and saw something and ran toward it.

The way she gasped, I could tell something was wrong. Then I saw it. Next to the hut, a man lay faceup on the ground. His face was stuck in a grimace of pain. A line of blood led from a small hole in the man’s bright white guayabera to a black-red pool.

“It’s Dr. Arroyo,” she said. “He was supposed to give me the certificate.”

I was about to bend down to enter the hut, when I heard something moving in the grass behind him. I turned. Somebody hit me.

*  *  *

I was kissing dirt. I heard talking, but it wasn’t English or Spanish. It was strange, rhythmic. Almost like a drumbeat.

I tried to move. My hands were tied. I looked up and saw the flat-headed man from the wedding coming toward me with a big stick like a giant pilón. His other hand was cupped. The man put the hand on my face, covering my nose and mouth. He said something in that strange language. There was a rotten-smelling powder in the man’s hand. I tried to shake loose but I couldn’t help inhaling the powder. I opened my mouth to breathe and more went in. It hit me like another smack to the back of my head. I began to vomit, all the eggs, platanos, mango slices, and buttered bread. He came at me with a knife in his hands and cut the rope around my wrists. I wanted to get up and hit him, I really did, but my body seemed to like being just where it was, thanks, while my bones had taken off for somewhere far away.

*  *  *

I lay there for a thousand years. The sky got brighter and brighter then dimmed like a flame going out. At the edge of my face tiny insects crawled up and onto my eyes and under my eyelids. I heard the sound of coquis, first low and quiet, then it grew and grew until I thought my eardrums would pop and bleed. I saw a dark beach, black water, black sky. The waves jumped onto the shore like the claws of a giant animal, tearing at the sand, reaching for me. There was a sound like a gunshot, and I tried to shut my eyes, and then I thought I was crying, and I looked up and saw a dog licking my face. Small, hairless. It moved its mouth like it was barking but no sound came out. My face felt so wet I thought the dog was drooling all over me, then I realized it was rain.

It was raining. There was no dog. I was on the ground outside of the hut. My head felt split open.

Then I heard sirens.

I tried to get up, then I realized there was a gun in my hand. I saw the body, still lying there. The sirens came closer.

“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 got up, threw the gun away, then I said, “Stupid. Stupid.” I went to pick it up again, had to look for it in the grass, fell down, got up again, began running.

I ran past the batey court. I fell. I heard the sirens coming closer. I got up and ran toward where I thought we had come through the trees.

I pushed through them, 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 duffle bag then 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 truck stopped in front of me.

*  *  *

There was a long refrigerator on the back of the man’s truck. He was an old man, with white kinky hair, and his skin was as dark as an over-ripe banana.

“¿Necesita ayuda?”
the man said.

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

“Venga. Entre,”
the man said.

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,” I said.

In a thick accent, the man said, “You look bad, my friend. You better see a doctor.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“Okay, my friend.”

“My name is Papo,” I said.

“Angel Luis,” the man said. He kept on driving. He drove fast. I liked that.

There was a big crucifix hanging from the rearview mirror. The radio played old songs, 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 a sudden a brown dog came from out of the trees on the side of the road and started trotting across the highway. The man didn’t slow down, not for a second. The dog and the truck headed right for each other, like destiny.

“Watch out,” I said.

The dog disappeared in front of the truck. There was a small thump, a slight roll up, and then nothing. Nothing changed on the old man’s face.

“What did you do that for?” I said.

“We got dogs everywhere. He don’t belong on the highway.”