Kaonabo cursed me more in Spanish.
Itaba came to my side. “Negrito, he won’t listen. You have to stop him.”
“Wait a second.”
She took another step toward me, and I turned to point the gun at her. There was something in the look of her eyes that was hitting me wrong. I never said I was smart, but she seemed a little too excited to get rid of her husband.
The flat-headed man took a step forward. The buyer took a step back.
Then there was a knock on the door.
It was a man from the hotel. Through the door he said, in Spanish, something like, “We would like you to move to the main part of the hotel. For safety. The hurricane is here.”
“Itaba, get that,” I said. I turned to face her and, in that instant, Kaonabo picked a glass from the table and threw it at me. It smashed against my skull and I dropped the gun. I was reeling.
He grabbed Itaba, pulled the door open, and ran out. The buyer ran too, in the other direction. I got the gun, wobbled on my feet, and moved to the doorway. The confused hotel man looked at me. It was wild outside. The rain came down in black sheets and the wind howled like a baby giant dying for attention. I could barely see more than a few feet in from of me. I ran after Itaba.
I saw a flash of color ahead — Itaba’s skirt — headed down the path toward the beach.
I followed through the throbbing storm, onto the sand.
“Stop, you son of a bitch!” I yelled into the wind, then remembered I had the gun. I shot into the air. The pop barely registered in the storm.
But Kaonabo let go of Itaba and turned. “Nuyoriqueño!” he shouted.
Just then the giant got nasty, smacking us down with a huge slap of wind.
Kaonabo was on me, elbowing my head and kneeing the gun out of my hand. I tried to get up, but the wind kept me off balance.
I really should’ve gone after the guy with the satchel. Stupid.
Kaonabo head-butted me in the stomach and, as I bent over, in the chin.
I fell back on the sand. The wild surf curled in large, foamy waves onto the shore, only a few feet away. The sky over the sea was dark, but there was something black and gigantic on the horizon, moving closer.
I reached for Kaonabo, but he ducked and kicked me twice in the ribs. His sandals were not soft. I went down, spitting up, almost vomiting. We wrestled, moving closer to the waves, getting wet. Kaonabo was about to hit me again, when I moved, then used his momentum to throw him to the ground. He came at me, I turned on my left foot, and dropped him down again. He got right back up, came in low. I smacked my flat palm into his nose, hard, and Kaonabo fell back. I went to stomp him, but he kicked my feet out from under me. I fell on the cold, wet sand — it was like hitting concrete. I felt the ocean spraying on my back.
Kaonabo got my head and neck in a choke hold. “Hijo de la gran puta,” he said.
Then there was a shot. In a haze, I turned, looked up, and saw a small hole in Kaonabo’s flat forehead. He fell back onto the dark sand.
Itaba stood there with the gun. The gift bag lay on the wet sand between us, closer to me. She ran toward it, and I leaped like a frog across the beach. Our fingers closed on the bag at the same time. I yanked and she fell on the sand.
She sat up quickly and pointed the gun at me.
“Itaba. Wait,” I pleaded, standing, the bag in my hand.
“Lo siento, negrito. But I need this,” she said and fired. The bullet whizzed past my face. I fell back; a wave clawed at me and pulled me under.
I don’t believe in magic. I pray at night but don’t expect any answers. I do it just in case — like making a side bet.
I went deep. I swallowed water. There was darkness and cold and then maybe even small glowing lights. I could’ve imagined that. But somehow I survived. Clutching the plastic bag with the stone cemi inside. I can’t explain it. If I had to give an answer, I’d say it was just dumb luck.
This time there was barking. When I lifted my face from the sand, there was a small, hairy dog yelping at me, stepping forward, moving back, stepping forward. Sand in its fur. I glanced up and saw dull sunshine. All around me — seaweed, dark wood, things tossed out by the ocean, just like me.
I turned my head to one side and saw Kaonabo’s body on the drying sand. Moving toward us were police and paramedics. A gurney. Some tourists.
It began to make sense. I think Kaonabo wasn’t the one who wanted to start a drug empire. It was Itaba. She’d wanted Kaonabo out of the way, maybe because he didn’t approve, maybe to keep the money for herself. He could’ve killed the doctor for her. But my money was on her — she’d had plenty of time to do it then come back and pick me up to be her patsy.
Now all she had was her gift bag with the little coquí on it. Bienvenidos a La Isla del Encanto. I thought about what was going to happen to me. I didn’t know.
I thought about what was going to happen to the dog. It kept licking me. It was still there. It existed. It looked like a stray. “It’s my dog,” I told the first policeman who bent down to see if I was alive. “Mi perrrro.”
He must’ve thought I was crazy. I was glad to be alive. But my hair must’ve been a mess.
Part III
WEST
Janejohndoe.com
by David Cole
Tucson, Arizona
I’m watching Ronald Jumps the Train speed-shop through Safeway. He crams his cart with frozen pizzas and Hungry-Man dinners, corn chips, Cheetos, potato chips, a case of Negra Modelo, two sixes of Classic Coke, and another two sixes of Mountain Dew — all the quick-to-cook, quickly eaten, and sweetish crap that crystal meth tweakers often devour.
“Ma’am? Can I help you, ma’am?”
“No.” An eager Safeway employee. Do I look that much like a geezer?
I’ve been tracking Ronald for five days, ever since dark rumors swirled up from Sonora about a drug cartel takedown war against La Bruja de los Cielos, the rarely seen head of the methamphetamine cartel in northern Sonora. The war brought assassinations by the dozens. La Bruja, herself a vicious stone killer, was believed to have planned last week’s assassination of Sonora’s state chief of police at a Nogales hotel, AK-47s and grenades pouring down from an upstairs window just as the chief entered the place. Federal pressure got intense. La Bruja’s world collapsed, her smuggling routes hijacked, her truckloads of drugs no longer safe because bribed U.S. Customs guards were arrested, and nothing made easier by increased U.S. Border Patrol arrests running parallel to the fence along the P-28 Tucson section. The border was sealed, the border was chaos, the border was dangerous. All of these things shredded the previous maps and players in organizational drug trafficking from the border north through Tucson and Phoenix. Nobody knew anyone they could trust. Including me.
I do intel surveillance of meth dealers on Indian reservations; I’m a private investigator working for the Navajo Tribal Police. Despite the chaos in Mexico, nothing much had happened for me until I tagged Ronald in the Safeway around 10 in the morning.
I knew the drug cartel world was in turmoil, but I’m just a small player. I track Navajo meth dealers off the rez, but nobody else. An hour ago, I’m thinking it’s mainly another beautiful, quiet Tucson morning. Kids in school, parents working, geezers shopping. Now, watching Ronald cram his cart full, I’m realizing that he’s stocking up to lay low, to take a forced vacation from dealing crystal meth up on the Gila River rez and east toward Casa Grande.
But why?
Ronald’s a shrimpy guy, half Apache, half Mexican, an old-time tweaker born on the Ute reservation in Colorado. He runs across the front of the store, kinda dancing behind the cart, he so wants to get outta there quick. So, why? He can’t possibly know I’m tracking him.