Bigger Than Jesus Page 8

  “Where is Marv?”

  “Waiting for Denny. He hasn’t shown up at his place yet. You weren’t at your apartment, so I figured you’d be here.” Harv looks over his shoulder, studying Lily’s ass like he’s cramming for an exam. “I sure would be here all the time if I were you.”

  “So the cops have the key,” you say. “What was the key for? Safety deposit box?”

  Harv shakes his head. “Storage locker.”

  Lily starts up the loud buzz saw in the stainless steel box she calls an espresso machine to grind beans and Harv looks back to study Lily’s ass again while you bend a knee and reach for the switchblade in your sock.

  “Where’s the storage locker?”

  “Dunno. Bob ditched us like once or twice a week. Said he didn’t like all the babysitting all the time, but we figured he was sneaking off to make deposits.”

  “Then how do you know it’s a storage locker?”

  “We saw the key. You sure you don’t have it?”

  You’re weary, but your switchblade opens at Harv’s throat in such a casual move of your arm, he doesn’t see it coming. “Where’s the storage locker, Harv? Let’s not let this get weird.”

  As the espresso machine’s blades wind down, you hear the hammer of Harv’s pistol click back. He’s scared but he manages a smile.

  You take the blade from his throat. You took a knife to a gun fight. Rookie mistake. You’re going to have to talk your way out of this. You talked Pete out of killing you, but Harv was Bob’s bodyguard. He knows too much. The counterfeit grift won’t work on him. Or you could just give up the location of the key and Harv could kill you. That might be a mercy after all that’s gone on tonight. But then he might hurt Lily. He’ll kill Lily for witnessing your murder if he really plans to make a run for it.

  You don’t just retire from The Machine. You ask permission to retire and usually that’s refused unless you’re too old for the life. Harv’s desperate and just wants to get the key, hit the storage locker and get out of town. He probably dreams of a beach in his future, too. A care-free beach is the American dream, as far away and unlikely as a lottery win.

  “Harv, we need to talk about this. You have to think about what side you’re on.”

  “What? You think I should be on your side? I be Batman and you be Superman and we team up? I never liked those comic books.”

  “No. It’s not about that. Everybody’s on his own side, but if you give me a minute, I can show you how pulling that trigger is not in your interest.”

  “I got a bead on you right through the back of this couch, man, so tell me where the fuckin key really is.” His tone is scary because it’s flat. You see fear in his eyes, but his voice is steady. He won’t hesitate to pull the trigger. “Are we going to stay friendly or am — ”

  Kang!

  Kang!

  Harv’s gun goes off, a crack that echoes off the walls. There’s a new hole in the leather couch that’s even with your heart. You feel the bullet whiz by, missing you by maybe an inch.

  BONG!

  Whiff!

  BONG!

  BONG!

  Pete gave Lily fancy cookware when she moved out of the house. One of those gifts was a heavy iron skillet.

  Lily’s eyes are wide and she’s breathing hard. Her pulse races in her neck. She drops the skillet with a clang into the pool of blood flooding from Harv’s skull. She comes around the couch, listless as a zombie, and falls into your arms. Her tears are hot on your cheek.

  “You did a good thing,” you say, “especially since I had no idea what shit I was going to tell that fool.”

  Lily’s breath is fast and shallow on your neck. Her voice is muffled. “I told you you needed eggs. God! When do I ever cook for you? Take a hint next time! What happens now?”

  “Which would you prefer? A life of riches on sunny beaches or to disappear into the country?”

  “Do I get to be wealthy in the country, too? I can’t be a hick.”

  “Yes, of course, you can be wealthy in the country, too.”

  “I want to go to Paris and I want to go to Spain. I want to see the Salvador Dali museum. I want to be anywhere but here now.”

  “Agreed. But first, I suggest you pack a bag quick and we have to do something about the corpse behind the couch.”

  “Solid thinking, Ace.” But she doesn’t move. She’s still crying.

  Lily dials her father and hands her cell to you. “Clean up, Aisle 3. The key’s under the mat.”

  Pete says Jake is on his way back to take care of the spilled ketchup and the broken bottle, but you and Lily are already in her car driving away. You hang up on Pete without going into any more detail and turn it off. You tell Lily to slow down and drive the speed limit. After a couple of blocks and several urgent warnings — okay, pleading — that she’s going to get you both pinched, she listens and eases up on the accelerator. After another few blocks, Lily speaks for the first time since she closed the door to her apartment. “Has everybody gone crazy? Harv… He was at Dad’s barbecue last summer.”

  “The Machine’s broken. It’s already a civil war. Jimmy’s going to make it bigger. Jimmy has his way? There’s gonna be no crew left.”

  “Harv said it was all about Uncle Bob skimming.”

  “He did, huh? What else did he say?”

  “He said he wasn’t going to hurt you. He just needed to go through your stuff and ask you a few questions.”

  “You didn’t believe him.”

  “Maybe I did. I wanted to believe. He was rude about it, though. I told Harv he shouldn’t go through your stuff and he got very impolite about it. The way he talked to me…he talked to me like I didn’t matter.” Lily’s upper lip curls. “When I got pissed about that, he softened up and apologized and asked me not to tell Dad. As if I’m a little girl who runs off to tattle to daddy. What a punk.” She looks like an angry goddess. “Harv knows better now, doesn’t he?” she says.

  Lily really is like a goddess if it’s true you’re supposed to worship and love and fear deities in equal parts. You watch the streetlights flash by.

  “So where’s the money?” she says.

  “I don’t know exactly,” you say.

  “You better find out. I don’t know anything much about civil war, but Dad made me watch Gone With the Wind. If that’s civil war, I got an idea we should get out of town for a while.”

  “Absolutely!” But you don’t know whether to feed her the same bullshit story about counterfeit bills you told Pete or to tell her you really are after Panama Bob’s pirate treasure.

  You decide to shut up and pray to God for help while she picks an out of the way hotel. You don’t know which deity to fear more. God or the goddess? Looking at Lily, it feels like you are underwater, drowning again. You haven’t felt trapped like this since…since when? Since the tire.

  This is somehow worse than getting tied up and sitting in the chair at Pete’s mercy. Lily’s beside you, but you are so close to losing her. You close your eyes. You can’t tell Lily the truth, so you pray silently, your head against the cool glass as the indifferent city flashes by. What can you tell her?

  THE TIRE

  The men who smuggled people weren’t called coyotes back then, not in Cuba or Florida, anyway. It’s only 90 miles of open water. America used to worry about nuclear missiles just off their coast, with Castro’s finger on the button. Castro worried about Marines landing on his beaches. Your parents weren’t political. They just wanted a better life for their sons. That, and there was the incident over the Montreal Expos baseball cap.

  Marco Diaz worked as a bartender at the pool of a major hotel. Maritza was a maid at the same hotel. They met in May and married by the end of June. The ceremony was held in your father’s childhood home in Pinar del Rio and Maritza gave birth to you eight months later. A couple of years later, you had a little brother. Rodolfo looked like you but thinner and more frail.

  Your family was poor, but still better off than most. Your
mother got the best tips. The tourists, especially the ones who returned year after year, were often generous. The newcomers left money behind at the end of their stay and wondered why the hotel help was surly. The seasoned travellers brought an extra bag filled with toothpaste, small toys and spare clothes and dealt out their goods for services on a daily basis. Those people, your father said, always left thinking how happy and cheerful all the people of Cuba were.

  One day, an old French Canadian tourist arrived with a charter group. The man sat by the pool for most of his stay, slowly burning himself lobster red and ordering a steady supply of daiquiris. He wore a Montreal Expos baseball cap your father admired very much. Marco served the man well and spent much time engaging him in discussion about the Expos.

  “I told the man how much you would love to own a cap like that,” your father said. “I told him how our favorite pitcher was Nelson Santovenia. He was born just down the street from me in Pinar del Rio!”

  For all his attentiveness and blatant hints, Marco went unrewarded. The day the man left for the airport, his Expos cap still on his head, your father came home, determined to go to America. “I crawled,” Marco said. “What more could I have done? I wanted to get you that hat, Jesus!”

  “It’s okay, Papá. I don’t need the hat. Don’t be angry.”

  “I’m not angry at you, mijo. It’s not even really about the hat. I’m angry at callousness. That man took advantage of me. I have a job, but still no respect. I fetch drinks for drunks. I’ve got no power or pride.”

  “We are servants,” your mother said. “If we go to America, we can still be servants. This is our home. Different countries, same problems. Where’s the pride in that?”

  “It’s only ninety miles away!” Marco thundered. “A better life where at least we have a chance. We’ll have lots of friends there. So what if we’re servants there? At least I could buy my sons baseball caps.”

  “The Expos don’t play in Florida,” you said. “They’re in Canada.”

  Marco’s laugh was a bark. He rubbed your short hair. “Montreal is too far to swim, even for men like us.”

  “Florida is too far to swim,” Maritza said.

  Your father found a man with a boat willing to ferry his family safely.

  It wasn’t safe. It was a dirty, old fishing trawler manned by the Captain, a strong-looking fellow with a stubbled chin, and his mate, an older fat man with a long gray beard. You shivered, surprised at how cold you could be on the water at night. You huddled with Rodolfo and your mother, trying to comfort your brother and warm him.

  The boat’s engine droned on through the night and, as the waves grew in height, the bow rose and fell. You and your brother vomited over the rail until there was nothing left in your stomachs. Next came the dry heaves. With each tortuous spasm, it felt like your scrotum might come up through your mouth. You can’t remember how long you were on the boat. All you know is that you promised yourself that, after this trip, you would never set foot on a boat again.

  You woke around dawn to a loud argument. You rose from the deck and saw land ahead. It didn’t look far, but the Captain of the boat refused to take your family any closer.

  “The weather slowed us too much. We spent more fuel. The Coast Guard will spot us any moment. Give us more money if you want me to risk my boat!”

  Your father refused.

  “Fine,” the Captain said.

  You thought it was over. The man shrugged, his palms out, with a “What more can I do?” look, but a minute later he returned from the cabin with a rifle. Your father’s back was turned. He was still staring at the Florida coastline, smiling, as the Captain swung the rifle’s butt into his temple. He was knocked cold, a red gash gushed crimson blood down his neck and across his white shirt.

  Maritza screamed but she did not run to her husband. Instead, she pulled you and Rodolpho to her and cried, burying her face in your shoulder. She begged for her family’s lives. She had hidden a wad of American bills wrapped in a white handkerchief in her underwear. She reached under her skirt and threw it to the deck at the Captain’s feet. The Captain laughed and handed the rifle to his mate.

  Marco Diaz, helpless, moaned and grabbed at his head. The Captain and his mate swung your father overboard. Then the Captain held up the rifle and pointed over the side, toward land. “Jump!”

  “The children can’t swim to shore! It’s too far! You’re killing us!”

  The Captain considered for a moment and his gaze flickered. He ordered the mate to cut the rope that held a truck tire to the side of the boat. As soon as the black tire hit the water, the Captain pointed again to the water.

  Maritza shook her head.

  He and the mate picked up your mother and threw her overboard. You grabbed Rodolpho’s hand and pulled him over the side with you.

  Rodolpho panicked and flailed. You had underestimated the strength terror can bring. He wrapped himself around you and you had to fight him off, kicking and pushing, trying to stop him from pulling you down, drowning you both. You had tried to save him, but then you wanted to kill him to save yourself.

  When you began to choke, you tried to swallow the saltwater rather than drown. You thought you could but it was too much and you choked more. Your brother was killing you. Your father’s pride was drowning you and your mother was helpless. The light in the water dimmed. Dark depths called up to you.

  A strong hand thrust down and grabbed you under the chin and hauled you up to the air. Your father, his head still leaking blood with every heartbeat, had one hand on the truck tire. He pulled you and Rodolpho to it. Rodolpho sputtered and choked and held to the tire as tightly as he’d held to you. Maritza cried. Marco smiled at you, but one eyeball was rolled up so all you could see was the white of his right eye.

  The fishing boat roared away. Your mother was still pleading for the boat to come back long after you couldn’t hear the engine’s drone.

  “We have to kick,” your father said. “We are going to make it to land. When we make it to land, everything…everything will be fine.”

  You kicked. Your little brother complained until your father slapped him. It was the first time he had ever raised a hand to Rodolpho. “Mijo, you kick so we swim this tire to shore, or we all die.”

  Your little brother shut up and kicked.

  You remember the burn in your calves and thighs. The salt stung your eyes. The brine splashing down your throat made you vomit again. All you had was more salt water to throw up. Your arms and shoulders ached and your hands cramped in their death grip on the tire. Waves slapped your face and splashed water into your gasping mouth. You choked and sputtered and puked more brine in a torturous cycle. The land didn’t seem to get closer or farther away. It hung in sight, mocking and full of bright potential you were sure you’d never see.

  But you kicked. Little Rodolpho kicked. Your mother stopped crying and she kicked. Soon, your father could not. He slipped in and out of consciousness, at first for less than a moment. Draped over the tire, he dropped out of the waking world. He slept more and longer each time, losing the battle for light. Each moment he did not kick was another moment you were all losing to the ocean’s waves.

  The last time he awoke, he asked his wife how long he had been asleep. She didn’t know.

  She blamed him for getting all of you onto, and then into, the ocean. In the end, she blamed your father for being dead weight. You’re sure of that. She didn’t look at him. The care drained from her voice. Her eyes were fixed on the far away land. She did not turn her head to look at Marco. She only kicked.

  “Boys,” he said. “Take care of each other. Take care of your mother. And keep kicking. Always, keep kicking.” He shrugged. His last words were, “Se mire como se mire, te quiero.” However you look at it, I love you.

  Marco Diaz let go of the tire and slipped down and away.

  Maritza Diaz said, “Don’t look back. I told him we should have tried for Isla Mujeres.”

  You could hear your f
ather struggle weakly, trying to swim or float, but he had too little strength left. You heard a few weak splashes and then only the welcoming ocean and the crash of the next wave over you as it tried to tear you away from the tire and swallow you as well. You imagined him dropping away, deep and below you, from light into darkness. Looking up with two eyes — one ruined, one keen and sharp — Marco Diaz would be looking up at you and your brother and Maritza through a thin cloud of the last of his blood.

  In your memory, Marco Diaz has faded like an old photograph — there, yet not all there. You can still see him on the deck of the rusty fishing trawler, smiling at the beckoning coast, an oblivious, dreaming fool. The day he came home angry over his wounded pride is vivid. Your father held a beer but was too upset to drink it. He could only complain about the Canadian tourist. You see your father in that vignette as a broken man, bitter that he could not give you a baseball cap you didn’t want.

  In your clearest memory, you see Marco Diaz for the best of the man he was: You see his smile as he lets go of the tire.

  And you see him in your nightmares: a one-eyed, white-eyed zombie, still searching for you on the sea floor, clawing and scuttling through the dark in warrens and labyrinths of cutting coral.

  You gripped the tire, gritted your teeth and held your breath through relentless, crashing waves. You, your brother and your silent mother came shoulder to shoulder to push the tire to the beach. You did not swim toward America and the dream of a better life. You kicked harder and swam in terror, swimming away from that vision of your drowned, grasping father, somewhere below and behind you, watching in a solitary death…and waiting.

  To die with those you love and to be responsible for their deaths is a horror beyond measure. A lonely death is bitter solace.

  THE FUTURE

  You wake up in a cheap little motel in Jersey and no one wants that. You don’t remember falling asleep last night and this morning, Lily doesn’t want to get out of bed. She’s not hungry. She just wants to sleep. She’s never killed anyone before, so she’s feeling a tad sensitive about the whole episode with Harv. The fact that Lily saved your life by crushing his skull with an iron skillet doesn’t appease her and when you make a zombie joke, it does not go over well.