“Tambor.”
“Exception proves the rule.”
“Worse than the Scientologists are the fucking born-agains and the-”
“Oh, I saw this bumper sticker today, ‘Come the Rapture, Can I Have Your Car?’ ”
“Man, that’s funny, I got to get one of those.”
“No, dude, it’s only funny if you got a shitty car. You drive a fucking Porsche, that’s not funny.”
Paco looked at me. “We need more water,” he said. I didn’t answer. The pot was tripping me.
“María,” he said and snapped his fingers in front of my face, his gesture the reversal of me to him, yesterday.
“Sorry, I was listening to their conversation,” I told him.
“Dope bullshit,” Paco said with contempt.
Paco took my arm and helped me back to the kitchen. I opened a window and breathed cold air.
“Where’s the garbage bag with all those bananas and oranges?” I asked Paco.
“Why?”
“I would love an orange.”
Paco fished out the oranges, the kiwis, and the bananas and washed them off.
“Take them with us. We’ll have them later,” he said.
We went back into the living room with clean water and a new sponge. Two of the men had now gone and there were only four left. I recognized one of them from Ricky’s photographs. Jack Tyrone, a minor film star and, more important, someone on Ricky’s list. I wondered if this was his house. I looked around me. Was this the home of a movie star? It was hard to tell in the dim ambient light. It was certainly huge but weren’t all American houses huge? The apartments on Friends were fucking enormous.
Tyrone’s picture didn’t do him justice. He was more charismatic and certainly more handsome than Ricky’s snap, even now when he was stoned and obviously on the verge of passing out.
We got back to the stain. More snippets:
“Yeah, you don’t fucking know.”
“I do know. I am a connoisseur.”
“Just as Christopher Hitchens is no George Orwell, so Beth Gibbons is no Sandy Denny.”
“Yeah, the way Cruise is no Gary Cooper.”
“Shut up, he might still come.”
“Fucker’s not coming.”
“The way you talk, I should tell your mother.”
“My mother’s from Brooklyn. Outswear you any day.”
“Well, he’s no actor.”
“Sure he is. You ever see that Oliver Stone one?”
“He can’t be a good actor because he holds back. You gotta give everything. You gotta commit to the truth. If he’s gay and he’s not out how can he give us anything but a shadow performance?”
“That’s bullshit. Spacey’s not out and he’s a hell of an actor.”
“Dude, pass that over… thanks… Shit, can you get me some of that?”
“Maybe. What’ll you do for me?”
“I’ll get you a part in the new J. J. Abrams.”
“Really? I’d do anything to be in a Star Trek movie.”
“He’s shitting you.”
“Are you shitting me?”
“Yeah.”
“You fucker. Christ, Jack, you’ve got more mood swings than Robin Williams backstage at an awards show.”
“Leave him alone, he’s just a kid.”
“Jack’s not that young. On his headshots he says he’s twenty-nine. And on Wikipedia it says he’s thirty, but really he’s thirty-one.”
“Damn it, Paul, you’ve got a big mouth.”
“I think that’s it,” Paco said, looking at the stain.
It was it. The stain was mostly gone. Baking soda might have done a faster job, but muscle and hot water can do just about anything.
We went back into the kitchen. Paco couldn’t stand to listen to any more of their dialogue so he closed the shutters to the living room. I sat on a stool at the marble breakfast bar and got a glass of water.
“What now, do you think?” Paco asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
We killed ten and Esteban came in through the back door.
“All set?” he asked.
I could see by his watch that it was nearly one in the morning. No wonder Paco and I were both exhausted.
“We’re done,” I said.
“You did well, guys. I threw you right into the fire and you did well,” Esteban said with a wide, expansive grin.
“Can we go home now?” Paco said.
“Yeah. I’ll say our good nights.”
Esteban went into the living room and after a moment he came back with Jack Tyrone. Jack’s eyes were red and his face puffy.
“I want to thank you for helping out tonight. You guys were probably on the go from early this morning,” he said.
You don’t know the half of it, I thought.
We nodded and Esteban said, “Well, good night, Señor Tyrone.”
But Jack wasn’t ready to let us go just yet. “Wait a minute,” he muttered, then yelled “Paul!” back into the living room.
Paul was another giant. This was the land of the giants. I wondered if this was Paul Youkilis from Ricky’s file?
If so-
“What is it?” he asked Jack.
“Tip?” Jack wondered.
“Oh God, yeah, fantastic job. Where’s what’s-her-name? Left already? You guys did the hard work, I’ll bet,” Paul said. Jack opened Paul’s wallet and gave us each a fifty-dollar bill.
“Oh, come on, Jack, a hundred bucks?” Paul complained.
Paco took the bills quickly. We nodded a thank-you.
“Job well done, even if fucking Cruise or Travolta didn’t show. Pitt came and he can buy and sell those guys,” Jack said and leaned against a door. He shook Esteban’s hand. “Esteban, is it?” he asked.
Esteban nodded.
“Yeah, I swear to God, I’m on your wavelength, man, Mexicans are just like us Micks, we’re Catholics, we have lots of kids, we’re religious. Difference is that you guys work harder and, truth be told, you have better food.”
Esteban faked a laugh and Jack started laughing. The laugh turned into a hacking cough. Paul got him a glass of water and led him back to the others.
“Let’s go,” Esteban said with disgust.
We grabbed the fruit and went outside into the cool mountain air.
At the side of the house I noticed a white Bentley. The white Bentley. No chills this time. Over that.
“Whose car?” I asked Esteban.
“Señor Tyrone’s, I think,” he said.
It was too dark to examine the paintwork but I’ll bet the garage had done a good job. Invisible mending. All traces gone.
“Home?” Paco said to Esteban.
“Wait a minute,” Esteban muttered, then took one of Jack’s fifties from Paco and pocketed it. “I take fifty percent of all tips. You two can split the other.”
Paco was too tired to complain. I was hypnotized by Jack’s car.
Esteban drove back to the motel and showed us to our room. Clean, small double with two beds, a shower, and a heater that you had to feed with quarters.
Beat as we were, we were too pumped and hungry to go to bed just yet and we found ourselves in the second-floor communal kitchen.
“Beer?” Paco asked and passed me a Corona.
I knocked it back in one and he cracked me another.
“What’s there to eat around here?” he asked.
“Let me see,” I said.
I opened up cupboards. An embarrassment of riches. Cilantro, chives, tomato, onion, garlic, peas, lettuce, peppers, and a fridge full of meat and cheese and beer. Like the house of a Party member.
I found that I wanted to cook for him, this kid, this man. I wanted to provide, the way you couldn’t in Havana.
“Put some rice on,” I told him. “And look for tortillas.”
While he did that I chopped an onion, mashed the garlic, diced a jalapeño, and fried them in olive oil. I threw in some cooked chicken and chicken stock and when they had all gotten to know one another for a while I slid in chopped tomato and minced cilantro and let them cook. When the chicken was brown I added a can of black beans and a can of red beans and let it reduce while the rice finished. Finally, I took a couple of tortillas and placed them in the oven.