Chapter 28

Chapter 28

Table of Contents

The noose was tightening around the Gasden Motel like Grant around Vicksburg, like spandex around cellulite, like a plastic bag around the neck of an auto-erotic asphyxiation enthusiast. In the case of Mike Gasden, the latter may be the most pertinent comparison, for this slow strangulation was largely self-inflicted.

The little town of Cornudo, hardly bigger than a bug splat on the windshield for the motorists who buzzed by it, had never gotten this much attention. Choppers whirred by overhead several times a day, hovering over the resident's sand-filled swimming pools, monitoring their lack of phone calls, intruding upon their heat-induced apathy for anything resembling a clue. G-men tramped around the desert, cursing their luck for having pulled this bullshit assignment.

The epicenter of this half-hearted scrutiny, of course, was the Gasden Motel. These twin lumps of stucco, splattered atop the oven rack of the Sonoran Desert, were now the black hole at the center of the Universe. But Mike Gasden, the motel's proprietor, was too absorbed in his own affairs to notice it.

A day and a half absence from his air conditioned oasis had caused Mike to think happily ever after might be possible, even here. Little did he know the tectonic plates of his heart were about to shift again, causing little earthquakes of unhappiness along his ticker's fragile fault lines.

Mike returned to Cornudo, praying to the God of Thunder and Rock and Roll that the Herr was wrong, that the old fart was just a butt-hurt Nazi who could not get over losing the war. Now that he had found a peaceful place in the cool mountain meadow between Marisol’s majestic twin peaks, Mike did not want to believe he was being played. He did not want to accept that he should cut und run.

In this state of blissful denial, Mike now sat with Marisol on lawn chairs in front of the office, drinking beer and looking out over the scraggly expanse of creosote. Each twisted, skeletal plant had created a miniature sand dune at its base, grain of sand by grain of sand, over the course of an interminably long existence that numbed the mind and the eyeballs. Hypnotized by this bleak monotony, Mike decided to wax philosophical.

“My Dad once told me, when we were driving through here, that if you really fuck up in life you come back as a creosote bush.”

Marisol gave a cute little beer belch that only she could make charming. “I’m doomed,” she said.

“The thing is, they can live like 10,000 years, so you would have to spend 10,000 years staring at other ugly ass creosote bushes, waiting for a chance to be reincarnated as something better.”

“Holy fuck I hope that’s not true. I'm glad I'm Catholic, not Hindu.”

Mike turned toward her, finding the sight of her creamy tanned skin, slightly moistened by perspiration in the more forbidden spots, to be much more pleasant than the miserable gnarled clumps that stretched forever on the horizon.

“But even if you were, you my dear have nothing to worry about. You’re a candidate for sainthood. Look at how much that little boy loves you.”

“You mean the one we have locked up in his room now so we can have sex when we’re done looking at the creosote?” She cracked another cold one and squealed as it sprayed across her tight wife beater, stolen out of Mike’s underwear drawer after she soaked her own outer garment sweeping the parking lot. Marisol was definitely a minimalist when it came to clothing, and this electrified Mike in certain quarters, like when the TVA brought power out of nowhere to the hinterlands of Dixie. He thought he would never wash that T-shirt again.

“Which reminds me,” Mike said. “Now that we are on the subject of holiness, there is something I have been wanting to ask you, but you might think it’s a little pervy.”

“Oh please. How could you get too pervy for me, of all people. Ask away."

“Do you own a rosary?”

Marisol wrinkled her nose in a peculiar way. Mike was thinking it was because where the hell would she hide a rosary beneath that tight wife beater, or in the strangling cutoffs she wore.

“I’m Mexican, Captain Obvious,” she said.

“Do you have it on you?”

“I said I’m Mexican. Where is this going?”

Mike sunk his teeth into his upper lip, winding up. Even though she was always willing to act out his increasingly kinkier fantasies, for some reason he felt the need to tread lightly.

“I don’t know where you stand on blasphemy, but there’s a certain fantasy I’ve been having, ever since I met you.” He leaned in, just in case someone might hear him out there in the unpopulated 50 mile radius that separated them from civilization. A sanctimonious packrat in the creosote, maybe. “I want you to say the rosary while you’re riding on top of me.”

Marisol belted him. It wasn’t a ladylike slap of affronted female dignity, she reared back and slugged him in the cheek, striking so hard that Mike toppled off his patio chair into a puddle of his own beer, which hit the deck before he did.

“You pig! You lying pig!” Marisol shouted, poised with fist clinched above him to deliver another, while Mike cowered on his back, flopping in the dusty beer, which made a kind of fermented mud. At the same time he held his hands up, to shelter his face from further battery.

“What the fuck! Why did you have to do that!” Mike knew religious people, but most of the time they just wanted to pummel him with Bible verses, not with their fists.

“You know damn well why you lying bastard!” she said as she delivered a kick to his exposed ribs, then stuck a triumphant foot atop his chest. Lucky for Mike she was wearing flip flops not stilettos, but it still hurt.

“Since when are you so sensitive about your religion?”

“It’s got nothing to do with religion and you know it. You swore to me you wouldn’t look at any porn with me in it, and you did. How could…” She kicked him again.

"I didn’t! I swear I didn’t!”

“Oh come on Mr. Innocent! Then how could you know the exact scene I played out in Naughty Nunnery 3? Do you think I’m proud of that? You’re just like all the other dogs, taunting me, using me like a cheap piece of meat! I’m…”

She reared back to kick Mike again but her flip flop flew off. She scampered for it and put it on with as much dignity as the circumstances would permit, looked at Mike with outrage, then strode on two splendid long legs across the lot, toward the gas station.

Now safely out of range of fists and feet, Mike propped himself up on his elbows. “Marisol! Marisol!” he shouted, but he knew the rage of a scorned Mexican woman ran deep in the genes, and she wasn’t just going to shake this one off.

Mike sat stunned and empty, watching her go. He had never heard of Naughty Nunnery 3, much less watched it. Up until now his taste in skin flicks had been largely limited to Asians. He felt compelled to run to her to plead his case, but the scowling shadow of Danny Valero waited in the gas station doorway. Even from here Mike could feel the omnipotent penumbra of scrutiny he cast over all those in his thrall, including his niece. When Marisol reached him she tensed up like a dog who has been chewing up the newspaper and knows the slipper waits. Danny said something to her that made her flinch, then scamper quickly toward the house in back.

"Bastard," Mike growled. This girl had just beaten the bejesus out of him, and he still took her side.

Meanwhile, a helicopter rumbled overhead, but Mike didn't hear it.

He went to lick his wounds in Little F's room, which in the distance of time was losing its designation as Tony's room. At least the boy was happy to see him. Still dressed in his towel-head terrorist attire, and carrying his Osama action figure in his forbidden left hand, the boy embraced Mike's legs warmly.

"Mike," he said, looking up with wide, smiling blue eyes. Like a dog, the kid could smell when somebody needed love.

This show of affection reminded Mike that there was something he had to do for the boy, though it pained him. He and the kid had bonded in the crucible of mishaps and misfortunes, but this Union could not last forever. The child should not live in a closet the rest of his life. From a bunker to a vermin-infested motel room was no great improvement, even if the vermin were mostly in cages. The boy needed a legally sanctioned family where he could run around openly. The aunt in New Jersey, revealed by the Herr's translation, was the only way out. It was selfish of Mike to keep Little F around just to ease his loneliness in the desert, which had grown more painful in the few minutes since Marisol raged off.

One thing about Mike that was different from other young men his age, caught in the formless limbo between puberty and adulthood, was that he wasn’t a procrastinator. Once he decided on something, he did it. It was part of the reason for his wunderkind success story. So Mike didn't hesitate to dial the number translated from the postcards. As the phone rang he looked over at Little F in the corner, who was scattering a pile of toothpicks to simulate a suicide bombing, while shouting a series of curses against unbelievers. Yeah, Mike was going to miss this kid. He already felt an even deeper pang of loneliness in his heart.

A man with a thick accent picked up at the other end. The voice was so typically middle eastern Mike could hear camels clomping and goats bleating, in New Jersey of all places. "Hello," the man said with bearded swarthiness.

"May I speak to Kalisha Safar, please," said Mike.

A long pause ensued. Even in the silence Mike could hear the man's accent, it colored his heavy breathing. "Who is calling, please?" the man finally asked.

"A friend of her sister. I have important news about her sister."

Another protracted pause. "You are going to have to contact her in Syria. She went back for the funeral of her grandfather, and was detained.”

"Detained? What does that mean?"

"You tell me. It could mean anything."

Mike's gray matter sloshed audibly in his skull. "When do you expect her back?"

The man laughed, which produced a severe smokers hack. Mike wondered if he smoked Camels - how effin ironic that would be. If you wanted to cast a jaded, chain-smoking middle-eastern cab driver for a movie, you couldn't go wrong with this guy. "Sorry. We don't expect her back. In our country, detained doesn't mean you got pulled over for a traffic ticket. Who is this, really?"

"A friend," Mike repeated.

"A friend? As far as I know, she doesn't have any friends that sound like you."

Mike didn't know how to respond to that, so he ignored it. "Are you her husband?"

"No," he sighed, as if the question had stirred emotions. "I am only the roommate. There are many of us here. She has no husband anymore. Her husband is dead. Her husband died in the war. Funny you are a friend and don't know that."

Mike took a chance, because he didn't know what else to do. "I'm going to give you my number, in the off chance she comes back. Don't worry, I'm not from the government. The message I have for her in regard to her sister is very important, but I can only tell her. Do you understand?"

"Not really, but I've heard weirder things. Just don't hold your breath waiting for her to come back."

Mike gave the man his number and hung up. He had no idea if this roommate was being monitored by the NSA and FBI. Probably he was not a terrorist, but he sounded like what a five year old would produce if given crayons and asked to draw a picture of a terrorist. He probably really did drive a taxi to boot, because come on, what else?

Mike chilled there with Little F for a while. He rubbed the cheek where Marisol had slugged him but it wasn't pain he felt, it was love. It was going to leave a bump, and he did not want that bump to go away. "Looks like you and me a little while longer," Mike told the boy.

"You and me," Little F aped. Shit, could he make this any harder?

Mike wondered what Marisol was thinking right now. He thought about calling his Dad, but he already knew what his Dad would say. Shit son, most guys would be thrilled they got the chance to nail a certified porn star. Carve a notch in your bed post and move on.

His Dad liked to throw around the word certified a lot. Where was this review board that certified porn stars? He didn't call his Dad.

The next morning, as Mike buttered his misfortunes for breakfast, the Earl swung by the office. The Lord was attired in full golf regalia, including beret and knickerbockers. Out in the parking lot, the unflappable Lady Dumley sweated beneath the strain of his golf clubs, loading them in the car.

"I thought I would swing by and square up, my boy," the Earl said cheerily. "We've been taking in the local links. I must say, I thought the Royal Birkdale had some rather wicked sandtraps, but I've never fished a ball out of the rough there and found a centipede crawling over it. Well, off for another 9, my good lad. Charge us for another week. Afterward, we are heading to the mountains to take the air and chase broad-bills and blue-throats. I'll fetch my card after the game, good fellow."

Mike swiped the card and it came up declined. He swiped his own and faked a receipt to give the Earl later, because he liked having the accent around. It looked like even globe-trotting royalty fell on hard times.

Mike watched Lady Dumley strain to lift the Earl's clubs while his lordship perused a bird book. Immediately they left and Danny Valero arrived. It was as if people were lined up outside, waiting their turn at him. Danny looked cold, his mustache was so stiff it could have been frozen, and he had his hands shoved deep in the pockets of a wool overcoat. He was dressed for January on Lake Erie, not June in the Gadsden Purchase, where it was 106 degrees.

"Chilly today," said Danny. His serious mien changed to a wry smile as he spied Mike's swollen cheek. "I can't wait for summer."

"Just a couple more days," said Mike.

"I would like to talk for a minute," said Danny.

"Sure, come inside."

"Let's just chat out here. You probably got the air conditioner running. Big waste. Pollutes the planet."

Danny lit a cigarette without asking if Mike minded. He knew these California faggots were prissy about smoking. Truth was, Danny was in a foul mood, ever since yesterday when Marisol had screwed up, and he had to send her on an errand to remind her who she worked for. She had been getting too cozy here anyway. Danny had not intended for her to hang out at the hotel for days on end, he wanted her here just enough to keep Mike coralled. Furthermore, her eyes had turned dreamy and distant. He sent her out into the desert to refocus. Isn’t that why the prophets all went out into the desert, to refocus?

"You like that kid Mike, don't you?" He asked her when she ran back from the motel, after he had given himself a moment to cool off, because his temper could get carried away.

"No,” she said, but her words did not match her face.

"Don't be a pendeja, mija. Keep it business, and don't kid yourself. A rich guy like that doesn't want to get serious with a little hussy like you. He wants you for his plaything. Face it, you got nobody but me. Your own family threw you out when they found out what you were doing. Where is your loyalty?"

A strained smile had creased Marisol’s face. It was the same smile she used in the porn flicks, when she was supposed to fancy some well-equipped stud. "With you, dear Uncle."

"Don't forget that. I might have to put it to the test soon."

"So what’s going on?" Mike asked, turning Danny's thoughts back to the present.

"I have another list for you." He pulled a sheet of paper from his shirt pocket. Riding underneath his wool coat it should have been soaked, but there was not a drop of sweat on it. This man never perspires, Mike noted. It made him queasy.

"Get on it quick," Danny demanded. With each visit he was becoming more pushy and abrupt. Cut und run, he heard the Herr goosestepping in his head.

"Excuse me? I can't run a motel and do this ‘quick.’ Where's Marisol?"

Danny threw down his cigarette and snuffed it out. He made no effort to pick up the butt. He couldn't get his bones warm in the June heat, but Mike’s attitude heated him somewhat. Frankly it didn’t matter. Mike was well on the way to being his bitch.

"Marisol is my niece, and she works for me. She's running an important errand right now. If I can spare her, I'll send her over."

Mike unfolded the list in his hand, without taking his eyes off Danny. The man's desolate black eyes were as barren as the creosote flats, devoid of any June monsoon to make the grass grow and the arroyos flow.

"I need to remind you you're too deep into this to back out now," Danny growled. He raised both palms skyward, as if his power came from the heavens, like Moses against the Amalekites. "What are those helicopters doing anyway? You know something about it? Ever since you showed up here to run a motel, there they are."

"How should I know? They've been snooping around here for weeks."

Danny softened a little. He bowed his head slightly, hiding his hard eyes. He swept the cigarette butt toward himself with his foot and picked it up. Stick and carrot, in that order.

"Look Mike, I'm being rude. I apologize. I had a little fight with Solita. She's talking about going back."

"Going back?"

"To San Diego. That's where she's from. She's tired of taking care of her dear old Uncle. She's tired of helping me in my business. She hates it here. I don't let her run the air conditioner. She sleeps on the porch sometimes and the mosquitoes eat her alive. But believe me, Mike, you're doing the work of the work of the Lord by taking care of that list. It's strictly on the level. Nothing bad will happen. I was just in a pissed off mood."

Mike wanted to see the man's eyes before he accepted the apology, but Danny kept them to himself, lighting another smoke as pretext to look elsewhere.

"What exactly is your business anyway?"

Danny had the answer prepared in advance, because it wasn't the first time he had been asked such. "Outside of running my little gas station, you could say I'm in import-exports. I specialize in antique rosaries and icons that I bring up from Mexico. You'd be surprised. It's a lucrative business, and nobody does it here on the border except me."

"Who buys it?"

"Mostly churches, but there are a lot of individual collectors too. That's where the real money is, with the collectors. Take your time, see what you can do, Mike. I don’t mean to rush you."

Danny walked away, wrapping his wool coat tighter around him.

Cut und run, the Herr repeated.

Fact was, summer was not exactly the busy season in the Gasden Motel. The snowbirds in the surrounding trailer parks had long since packed up, flapped their tiny wings, and flown away. The Earl was off on the golf course, which was completely at his royal disposal. Mike was a little bored, so losing himself in Danny's hack list would take Marisol off his mind. But leaving? Would she really leave because of one stupid misunderstanding?

Mike peered down the list of victims, if you could call this collection of perverts and twisted psychopaths such. It was the same stomach turning array of child pornographers, sex traffickers, and assassins. Mike had no compunction about nailing these scoundrels, he just wished there was some variation.

Then he saw an item that didn't quite fit in with the rest. The Sesame Street jingle One of these things is not like the other, played in his head. Smith's Sonoran Safaris, it said. Mike opened his Tor browser to see what the hell they might be hunting on these desert safaris. Rattlesnakes?

It was a hunting website, all right, but not for pursuing whatever pack rats, jackrabbits, or other critters that might dare to raise their scalded heads above ground this time of year. It was for tracking and killing human beings, presumably illegal aliens. For a considerable fee, Mr. Smith would take his clients on a nighttime hunt, then dispose of the bodies for them. There was no bag limit. For an additional charge, taxidermy was also provided, in case the hunter wished to display his quarry's stuffed trophy head above the fireplace.

Righteous fervor flamed in Mike's belly. He thought about Little F, out in the desert, getting chased by these creeps. "These bastards are going down," he swore.

The time passed quickly as Mike hacked and Little F doodled in the corner on Motel stationery. Meanwhile, a bemused James Gadsden looked down from his perch on the wall. It was hard to say if there was any familial pride in his expression.

At one point Mike forced himself to go relieve his bladder. On his way to the bathroom he chanced a look down on Little F's writings. The series of swirls and dots did not appear to be the random scribbles of a child. Mike picked up a postcard from Little F’s neat stack to compare to the kid’s doodles.

"Holy shit he is really writing," Mike said out loud.

"Holy shit," Little F agreed. He was learning English quickly.

The next morning, as Mike slept off his hacking hangover, another visitor arrived, ringing his doorbell at the ungodly hour of 9 AM. Little F was already up, creating a mini-jihad in the corner with his action figures.

"Hide, Little Fucker," Mike commanded. Little F scooped up his toys and scrambled for his safe place.

Two men and a woman stood in the motel doorway, wearing blue windbreakers that read AZDPS Criminal Investigations. Mike thought these jackets, though not woolen like Danny's, were still ridiculously hot.

One man said "Good morning," then presented Mike with a warrant.

"What's going on?" Mike asked.

"We are not at liberty to discuss the particulars of the investigation at this time, sir. We are here to search the room of Tony Vargas. By the way, your sign is spelled wrong. It should be GADSDEN. Are you aware of the whereabouts of Mr. Vargas?"

"No," Mike said truthfully. "He quit and ran off weeks ago. I haven't seen him since."

The man in the windbreaker looked at Mike's enflamed cheek suspiciously, then handed him a business card.

"Were you involved in an altercation?"

"Some drunk at the bar last night."

The investigator shook his head. "Please contact us if Mr. Vargas shows up or you hear from him."

"Is he in trouble?"

"He is wanted for questioning."

The man held up a composite sketch of a gray-eyed lady in a veil, whose tragic mood had been captured by the artist. "Would you happen to know anything about this woman? Her name is Rashil Babouk."

"I've never seen her," Mike said, but he could see Little Fucker's sad mouth in that sketch.

"She was traveling with a small boy, about two years old. If you learn anything about the whereabouts of either one, please call. Also, do you remember any suspicious activity on Mr. Vargas's part, prior to his departure?"

"No.” Tony was a pain in the ass, but he made his mischief in broad daylight, for all to see. He had major character flaws, including being a malingering, manipulative, not to mention uncouth bastard, but Mike was certain he did not kill Little F's Mother. She had a name now, Rashil. Rachel, the shepherdess Jacob met tending her flocks, the beloved one who ministered to him beneath the Terebinth.

Mike opened Tony's room for the investigators. The hardened detectives had laid eyes on all manner of butchered people, and mapped blood splatter at multiple crime scenes, but they were positively freaked out by the critters. They bagged and labeled the bed sheets, the socks and underwear, even Tony's collection of porno mags, but they left the critters alone, tiptoeing about the room like they could unleash a Biblical plague with one misstep.

They missed the uncaged striped snake, red on yellow, lying curled up comfortably in a hidden orifice. They also missed the half-empty mayonnaise jar, because with their skins squirming from the thought of the ungodly crawling hosts, nobody wanted to look under the bed.

When the cops were gone, Mike rushed to the café. Linda was standing behind the register like a late-blooming desert flower, looking lovely in a tight fitting chiffon blouse.

"Well look at you little Romeo ginger snap. You finally came up for air. When is it going to be my turn? I feel cheated. Your lovely auntie Linda needs a good dusting, dearie."

It didn’t surprise Mike that Linda knew everything about him and Marisol. Maybe later he could come back and cry on her shoulder about it, but this was not the time. He took her arm and led her toward the kitchen. "Ooh you want to do it over the grill. How fun! I'm glad you turned out not to be a Homo, like everyone thought. Except me."

Then she turned to less pressing business. “What happened to your face? I saw the cops over there? Did they rough you up, my bit 'o honey?”

"I’ll tell you later. It’s not really important. Tony is in trouble," Mike said in low tones. "You have to get a message to him."

"Tony drove off the map. What did he do now?"

"The cops think he killed that Arab lady they found in the desert."

"That's ridiculous. Tony is a lot of things, most of them negative, but he isn’t any killer."

"We've got to find Tony before the cops do."

"Don't worry, gummy bear. I know who to call."

Somewhat more at ease now, but not completely placated, returned to the motel. He paced the office floor, under the shadow of his forebear on the wall, while Little F improvised makeshift IED devices. The boy planted cars or stacks of Legos under Mike’s shuffling feet, unrelenting in holy war against his infidel captor.

Without thinking about it, Mike cleared the traps from beneath his feet, then cleared them again after Little F reloaded, all while some worm gnawed at his brain. What manner of worm was it? Did it have to do with Tony? Was it something that could vindicate him? Mike wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t give form to the idea. Finally he stopped pacing and went back to hacking, to kill time, time that stretched out forever in the Gadsden Purchase, unchanged, like the creosote.

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Image of "King Clone" creosote by Klokeid, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Altered by author