Give us a minute, the Redeemer said, not turning to anyone in particular, and the Castros left the room.
By the way, the Mennonite said. Someone’s out to jack you up. Boyfriend of one of your neighbors. Watch your ass, amigo.
Fuckit, how did little beau slick get word? And how did the Mennonite, who wasn’t even from around here, know about it?
You giving me a tip-off or a warning? he asked.
Both, but not cos anybody told me to. Little punk’s got no balls of his own and was looking for a hardcase to rough you up. Guy I know got asked and I’m just passing it along, free of charge.
The Redeemer shrugged no-big-thing shoulders and asked So, what about this?
The Mennonite crossed his arms and eyed Romeo.
I think they’re telling the truth.
Not entirely, said Vicky. I buy the story about the truck but that doesn’t explain his hands.
Oh, the Mennonite said. That was me.
The other two stared.
He looked a little too tidy to have died in a brawl.
He didn’t die in a brawl.
But his father isn’t going to believe that, is he? Why make matters worse by saying they didn’t lay a hand on him? Those two families got bad blood between them. So let them believe what they want to believe, let them bury their boy like a hero. They’re not going to simmer down when someone tells them to, they’ll do it when they’re worn out. So tell them what happened, but let him look like he had a fight first.
Vicky looked as if she was about to say something but thought better of it. And then she said: Why wouldn’t he want to be taken to hospital?
Now that part I can’t explain, the Mennonite replied.
They walked out and Romeo remained alone once more. They went upstairs to the Castros and before they left the mother appeared, frightened and pale, and demanded Now tell me what they did to my little girl.
The Redeemer decided the Mennonite’s strategy wouldn’t wash with her and said: More or less the same as what happened here. A tragedy with no one to blame.
What are you saying? That she’s dead? That each of us ended up with the other’s body by accident? Is that what you’re telling me?
Something like that, yes.
The mother stared straight at him and said Those things just don’t happen.
Some sad fuck so much as takes a bite of bread and we got to find a name for it, he thought. Or an alias anyway. That’s about as close to the mark as we get.
Banished man alias Mennonite. Broken man alias Redeemer. Lonely old soul alias Light of my life. Ravaged woman alias Wonder where she’s gone. Get revenge alias Get even. Truly fucked alias Not to worry. Contempt alias Nobody remembers him. Scared shitless alias Didn’t see a thing. Scared shitless alias Doing just fine. Some sad fuck alias Chip off the old block. Just what I was hoping for alias You won’t get away with this. Housebroken words alias Nothing but truth.
I got to buy condoms, the Redeemer remembered aloud.
Vicky eyed him mockingly.
What, your hands are too calloused?
No. From time to time there occurs a miracle.
Vicky gaped as if to say You got to be kidding — you, talking miracles? But Vicky didn’t get it. Vicky was beautiful and a hardass and used to striding across a room and grabbing any man she wanted by the balls and dragging him into her bed without losing her head or getting quixotic. She’d never had to work to find someone to fuck, and he pitied her that a bit, just as he pitied those who don’t know what it feels like to see a big city for the first time because they grew up in it, or the guy who can’t recall what it is to feel handsome for the first time, or to kiss someone who seemed impossible to kiss for the first time. Vicky knows nothing of miracles.
Yeah, sometimes the ladies let their guard down, right? the Neeyanderthal said.
Oh god, said Vicky.
Here we go, she’s going to tell me off.
No, I’m not, it’s just that you don’t get it. At all. See, men will fuck a chair, even if it’s missing a leg, but when women fuck an ugly man or a jerk it’s not because we’ll fuck any old thing, it’s cos that’s the way things start and we know there’s more to it. Men don’t come to see that till years later, once they’ve stopped mounting anything that crosses their path.
Thanks, sweetheart, I knew one of these days you’d come to appreciate us.
This only applies to men with a soul, Neeyan.
So maybe Vicky simply understood different things. Either way, the Redeemer braked and left the two of them there in their silence when he caught sight of a pharmacy. He got out of the car but immediately saw it was closed, and the metal shutters had been beaten repeatedly with a pipe or a club or a desperate fist, and beside the shutter hung a penciled sign reading No facemasks.
Dammit. Oh well, he had work to do. Maybe he’d find somewhere open on the way. He returned to the Bug and rolled down the window so as not to hear the silence between Vicky and Neeyan, but the silence of the street slipped in instead: a stubble field of frantic signals emitted from the antennae that fear had planted in people’s heads. He could sense the agitation from behind their closed doors but sensed no urgent need to get out. It was terrifying how readily everyone had accepted enclosure.
He drove back to the Castro house, didn’t stop, circled the block twice and headed for Las Pericas. He had to see where he’d hit a checkpoint, which he would: no such thing as a free ride, no matter how hard you hope. A block before Las Pericas they came upon another funeral procession. Normally he’d have passed it, to avoid waiting out the whole mournful motorcade, but this was the saddest cortege he’d ever seen: in the hearse no one but the chauffeur, and behind the hearse one lone Bug with a single person inside, facemasked.
He circled the block Las Pericas was on then headed to the Neeyanderthal’s, assessing the street all the while. One would think he’d find fewer obstacles than ever, but the fear seeping from beneath people’s doors threw him off his game; he stopped at every corner to look both ways, glanced in the rearview every twenty seconds, and each time he did he saw the same thing: asphalt about to rear up at him. Things had been roiling in the background for some time, but now you could see the bubbles starting to rise.
He dropped the Neeyanderthal at his place and the man got out without a goodbye for anyone. Next he headed for Vicky’s. They passed the funeral procession once more, stopped now at a checkpoint. One soldier was opening the coffin and two more interrogated the chauffeur and lone mourner.
Assholes, said Vicky. As if the corpse is armed.
They passed one more pharmacy, also closed, with a sign in the window: Closed for funeral. He dropped Vicky at her place and made for his own. Perhaps he should do the swap there, given how riled up both families were. When he got back he saw that on the house next door someone had written on the wall Clean up you pigs that’s why we’re in this shit. And sure enough, there was a black puddle running from the front door to the gate, tho no insects hovered over it. He looked up. In truth there was nothing to see but a wall of tepid clouds blocking the stars.
He walked into the Big House. Standing a moment at one end of the hall he debated which of the four doors to head for: the anemic student’s, to smack him around for being a shitstirrer; Three Times Blonde’s, where he’d fall to his knees and beg Please please please, for the love of all good things, wait for me just a little longer; his own, to see what was going on; or la Ñora’s, to sound her out about the body swap. Bingo.