Not given to revery, Pasqual wasn’t sure how to process his feelings of that moment. He’d been raised on the “Tejas” border in Brownsville, TX and only through a series of fluke accidents ended up married to Angela Vigoda, a Jewish American Princess (JAP) from North Hollywood, CA - his now ex-wife and concubine to his current employer Mordecaise Lizt’s best friend Guildern Seur owner of the “Crocodile Cafe.” Pasqual and she had barely escaped the 1st Wave Lockdown at the end of 2021 - “the year that was, still”, 9 years and a 2nd pandemic later. Pasqual’s mother was full-blooded Chiricahua Apache - a direct descendent of Geronimo, and his father had been an apparatchik with the Partido Communista Mexicano (PCM). Angela materialized at his elbow, and what ever revery he’d been feeling vanished like a coastal vapor.
“Well done vaquero.” Angela sounded quietly in his direction glancing at the more muted agitation of the roped, gagged and no longer stepped on Tito. “Guildern is much appreciative for your help.” Pasqual, didn’t turn or look, but nodded to the gelded threat. Their dead baby David Jesus still floated over every exchange they’d had since his death from the more contagious strain of Covid-19 months after their arrival in Montevideo when Pasqual was inconsolable and out of his mind with grief until Angela inadvertently stabbed him through to his liver one night as he descended into his Mezcal stupor - after that it was “heal or die,” for Pasqual.
“Yeah, that brought up a lot of shit I didn’t see coming,” looking deeply into Angela’s emerald green eyes for maybe the first time since that fateful evening she’d stabbed him in the gut some 7 years ago. Angela didn’t turn away from seeing the deep remorse in Pasqual’s expression.
“Lad.” Guildern’s gentle voice burst through their fog of memory; as he cloaked Tito’s quiescent form with a canvas cloak amidst the gathering evening crowd nodding first to Pasqual, then to the backed up Toyota pickup that had materialized in the darkening entryway. “Give us a hand, will ya’ friend?” Pasqual shifted the weight away from Guildern’s wounded arm and they lifted the inert form into pickup’s bed, as Mordecaise shifted into gear and very slowly moved truck down the alleyway. Guildern took Pasqual’s hand, murmuring into his ear, “I owe you, Again.”
Angela had vanished inside as the two stood side by side watching the evening descend along with the advance of the night’s clientele looking thirsty, fresh, and oblivious to the drama of the past 18 hours.
+-+-+-
Mordecaise navigated toward the wharfs North of Old Town careful not to disturb his cargo or draw attention to his coffee cup full of Tinto Rojo. The warehouse door was ajar and two figures dropped the tailgate, transporting the draped figure through to the inside of the cavernous building before Mordecaise had turned off the ignition.
“Da’ fuck are you doing?” Tito hissed as Modecaise ripped the Duct Tape from Tito’s haggard, unrepentant face. This is “Fucking kidnapping you dumb ox,” Tito snarled, too whacked to understand the delicacy of his circumstance. “I got friends that are gonna fuck you up;” he blustered trying to patch together the ‘how and wherefore’ from his spotted memory. The ache in his head from the night before and had receded into a clocklike tic in his right eye that made it appear as though he was winking with each empty threat.
Mordacaise seated Tito in the dead center of the large empty space on a stool with a single pole to lean against right at the height of Tito’s solar plexus. He had to splay his legs to seat comfortably, but found when he leaned forward the pole would impede his breathing, his restrained wrists were draped to the outside of the pole preventing him from any real leverage; it also kept him from pivoting in his seat limiting any peripheral vision. What there was to see radiated from a small circular window high on the wall behind him lighting the wall in front of him with a luminous orb that was slowly rising, dimming and diminishing with the setting sun, giving the bizarre impression of sunrise in an alternate universe . . . Tito began to “jones” for a fix, or from fear; he had trouble distinguishing the two. “¿Comfy amigo?” Mordecaise voice was close, flat and icy. Tito began to tremble.
“I’m gonna fuck you up, pinche guay.” Tito said more to himself than the disembodied voice. “I got friends; you fuckin’ with the wrong guy;” gasping from the pressure at his solar plexus when he thrust out his chest for effect, just as a talon-like grip grasped his head and pulled it up and forward.
“Stay just like that if you wish to continue breathing,” commanded a voice just as a knee pressed his thorax into the pole for emphasis. Wheezing assent, Tito’s frame became uncharacteristically compliant and still. From his days working, Tito recognized the smell and feel of a welder’s helmet as it was set tightly onto his pained cranium. With a hiss, the sound of gas from an open valve startled the already terrified tough guy to a pitch. . . What was that odor¿ Tito frantically searched his blunted memory for an answer; he knew what it was, but couldn’t reach what he knew, like so much of his life . . The knee pressed again; now into the small of his back forcing him to gulp air; instead he laughed out loud - way too loud, instantly rememebering that odor - Nitrous Oxide. “¿What are you laughing at Tito?” The tiny orb of natural light had risen and vanished into the ceiling to be replaced by a flickering red beacon that began to strobe, brighter and brighter; then painfully bright.
Tears were streaming down Tito’s face from laughing so hard, and still that icy voice at his shoulder pressed for an answer, “Tito, you stabbed my friend - I’m not laughing, why are you?” Though addled by substance abuse from an early age; veteran of many gun battles and dodgy drug deals with vicious clients, Tito did not know when he’d been so confused, or frightened - he began to urinate, only to find the stool electrified with a low voltage charge at his damp crotch. Now he was weeping and peeing; from a distance, if one’s vision was not too clear and in possession of a vivid imagination, it would almost appear as though our hapless victim was a cheerful welder dancing his/her day through another day’s labor with hysterical gales of laughter.
“Tito; what is so damn funny? You stabbed my friend; I’m not laughing.”
+-+-+-
“Angela, table 3 is on their 4th round of “White Russians.” She glanced out over the crowd easily spotting the seated 5, who were beginning to spill out of their seats; their drinks and from the sound of it - the deepest recesses of their souls. “Shall I cut them off, or can you ween them slowly?” Guildern had great respect for Angela’s people skills and relied on her to calm the waters.
It was close to the witching hour when clients began to shed more than their inhibitions. There was a fine line between commerce and mayhem, to which Guildern’s bandaged arm testified. “Let me see if they can be cautioned back to the hotel by imaginary muggers lurking in late-night old town.” Angela kissed Guildern’s cheek, and caressed his wounded arm, before she balanced her tray full of drinks out over the crowd, whispering something to table three which had the effect of a storm cloud over a spring picnic.
Mordecaise was just returning through the door as table 3 hailed the check. When he’d retrieved his full goblet of Tinto Rojo, Mordecaise ambled over to Pasqual who’d been quietly on the phone at a back table the entire night. “Where’d ya’ go boss,” searching the face of his bemused mentor; “What’s so damn funny?” Pasqual’s question only served to brighten the twinkle in his friend’s eyes.
“Business Lad, always business.” Mordecaise checked over Pasqual’s copious notes, beginning to recognize some of the ciphers and notations of Pasqual’s unique script. “How far did you get with Sr Schmuck?” Mordecaise had developed a deep respect for Pasqual’s research skills and relentless curiosity, but wasn’t prepared for his report.
“This one is fucking strange, and just gets stranger the deeper i dig.” Peering into his notes, Pasqual bent back his hunched shoulders while taking a deep breath, trying to distill his thoughts into a single thread of simple facts.
“The decedent Domhall Schmuck, until a month ago had two brothers: Demsford and Reynaldo Schmuck; the three had been orphaned in 1976, when their parent’s private plane crashed while in transit between NYC and their hometown Philadelphia. They were raised by their guardian and family attorney Lammele Dama. Domhall was the eldest at 16, Reynaldo 14 and Demsford 12 - each inherited 1/3 of the $3.3 million estate on their 21st birthday; Reynaldo died in Hoi An Vietnam 6 months ago, and Demsford in Paris France, 1 year ago to the day that Domhall died here in Montevideo” Pasqual let out a small sigh, like a young student who’d just recited his first book report, while Mordecaise marveled at his dumb luck to have found such a gifted investigator without even looking - fucking synchronicity he thought to himself while beaming with genuine affection at Pasqual. “Like i said, boss - this is the strangest thing i’ve seen yet.” oblivious to the admiration in his mentor’s cobalt blue eyes.
jts 01/17/2021
http://stoanartst.blogspot.com
all rights reserved
∞
No comments:
Post a Comment