A Savage Mystery Story

by John Downey

_{It's one of those days
when the sky matches the asphalt and the world just feels stifling. Sometimes,
on days like this, I want to get out, just run out, and keep running, see how
far I can get before it sinks in, before I realize I can't escape this gray
expanse of sky, and I can't escape my obligations, and I can't escape Emilio.
They'll swallow you up like drugstore aspirin after a heavy night. That's what
I hate about this weather; it makes you realize you're trapped.
Rock and a hard place. It's perpetual; that rock
never crumbles and that hard place never gets any easier. That's been the last
five years, and that's what days like this say to me; the sky is the same as
the gutter and the gutter is the same as the sky. They tell me, 'you can't
win.'}

_{Dalton comes in to the shop today, and he's looking haggard as usual, and he
tells me that we have that shipment to get out, that it's due in a couple
hours. I'm working on a maple bed frame for some lawyer's kid out in the
valley, and it's turning out really nice actually. The Mayan symbols I'm
sanding flush all flow together and the depth and texture is just right and I
tell Dalton I can't get on it until I finish this frame, because it's due
tomorrow, and the only thing that really keeps us up to par with the whole
furniture game is my reputation, and part of that is that I'm never late.}

_{Dalton sighs and scratches his neck and flicks a piece of cork off my
workbench in the flippy way he has of moving his wrists. His hair is greasy,
and he wipes it away from his eyes, and stares at me like a panther. When
will the thing be done, he asks in a soft, violent
voice. Soon, I tell him, soon. Come back in three hours. His eyes snap at me,
but his body is loose, and he shakes his head. I don't know why I make
concessions for you, Louie, but you got it. Three hours, he says, and then he
walks out the door in that breezy way, like he owns the shop. Even nods at
Farima from the Ethiopian restaurant next door, who waves back at him
enthusiastically, stupidly happy.}

_{It actually only takes an hour to sand everything perfect, apply glaze and
that hardwood lacquer the lawyer insisted I put on because he read some
consumer report about how it was less likely to catch fire, even though it
completely ruins the effect of the maple, and he might as well have saved a
thousand dollars and gone with oak. I've found the customer is always wrong,
but the richer they are, the more they're willing to pay to feel like they're
right, so I finish the thing and call the guy and tell him it's finished and
settle into my chair and think about what I'm going to tell Jose when I call
him. God knows how things are going down there; mama died two months ago and
the last I read, some militant group was getting a lot of attention with
threats of revolution. Jose gets tense easy, and I could almost hear the
acidic tone of his voice, answering the phone.}

_{I sigh and unlace my boots, rest my feet up on the table. One hour and forty
five minutes. On the television, there are workers protesting at the docks,
their angry faces muted, heavy words echoing into silence, the hum of the old
TV set. It's union things.
Ethnic things. A good cover. When we were
little, in Peru, we would play soldiers; try to imitate the troops that
marched through the streets. Sometimes, Jose and me
played war, hiding in the woods, throwing rocks and sticks at each other until
mama would call us in and scold us for our bruises. I always had more. Jose
told me once, you can't win anything if you don't
take cover sometimes. You need to have a cover.}

_{It's almost noon, and I haven't eaten since seven, so I figure maybe I'll take
a walk across the way to Gallegos. Down san pablo, past the no-ID-necessary
check cashing place, past the jack-in-the-box and the little group of black
children who hang outside all day, past the used car lots and all the mechanic
shops to the barbed wire fence (even though the gate is always wide-open) that
surrounds Gallegos. Inside, it's the same old greasy-Mexican joint you find
anywhere. Five dollars gets you five fresh-fried tacos and a corona, and that
sounds pretty good to me right now, so I give my money to the droopy-eyed lady
at the cash register, and sit down. All the tables are empty, and I figure the
tacos will take a minute, so I step outside to the pay phone, get out my
calling card, and punch in the numbers. Might as well be
now. The phone rings twice before Jose picks up.}

_{'Bueno. Bueno?
Ahhh, that breathing.
Louis, que paso?'}

_{'Hello, Jose'}

_{'He only speaks in the ing-gleese now, eh? Okay. We will speak American. How
is everything coming?'}

_'Good.'

_{'Yes? You call to tell me things are good?'}

_{'We're delivering a piece in an hour,' I breath and
pause, 'Emilio is going to—'}

_{Jose interrupts me, 'Emilio! Ay, hermanito, you know how important Emilio is.'}

_'Yes.'

_{'Well, you do what is best for us, then. Nothing else to
say. When you call again, I want to hear good news.
Good news, Louis, yes?'}

_'Yes.'

_{He hangs up. I don't even get to ask him about anything else. Resigned, I go
back inside and eat my tacos. There's mariachi music playing, and with no one
else to feed, the cooks are watching a soccer game, laughing and shouting.
After I suck the last drop from my corona bottle, it's 1:30, so I head back to
the shop. Dalton is outside with the truck, tapping his foot, and he gestures
to his watch accusingly as I walk up. Our client called, he breaths at me, we
only have an hour to get this thing out to the hills. I have to go take care
of some business, you think you can handle this one
yourself? I know you don't normally do this, Louie, but I think you'll be
fine. You'll be fine, okay? He hands me a slip of paper, an address with
directions written on it, and helps me load the cabinets into the truck bed.}

_{I get in the old ford, turn the key and let it roar to life. On the radio,
Bruce Springsteen is born in the USA, and I change the station to the traffic
and news channel. The drive up to the hills is pleasant; the houses are nice,
and the people look clean and happy, homogenous. The anchor for the radio is
reporting on the strike at the docks. Hundreds of workers are rallying around
better wages, and political figures are speaking out on loose regulations.
There's been a bit of a scandal recently with immigrants being smuggled in
through the ports and taking jobs from the good ol’
Americans and now everybody is upset about it. I turn the radio off, and miss
the turn I'm supposed to make, veering off towards Oakland. I suddenly think
of Dalton, what his face must’ve looked like, exaggerated in consternation
when the water begin to seep from his floorboards. I smile a little and think
of him frantically moving himself around, yelling at the plumbers on the
phone. Hatchet in the main water-line. It won't
take them that long to find it and fix it. Just long enough.}

_{I make a turn off the main road I'm on and look for the house.
It's Mediterranean style, soft brown colored
stucco, faux embellishments painted along the edges. The address is 1412. The
name on the deed says Emilio Vasquez, union leader. I park in front, stop my
engine, and get the pistol from under the seat. The sky is still grey, and
as stifling as it is, I think how much better it is than
the Peruvian sky. A sky that holds you down,
oppresses you. There's hundreds of people that
would rather live under this sky, this nasty asphalt sky, than stay in Peru.
Hundreds. That’s what Jose does. You pay some
money, you get here, and you get a job. Who could want anything more? I
couldn’t, back when I first came. Fingering my pistol, I thought about all my
brothers who would feed their families in this country. I thought about my
obligations.}

_{I'll be honest. I don't like my line of work. It gets messy sometimes, and
sometimes it involves late nights. Sometimes I really don't know why I'm in
it, except that I have to be; there's too much vested to quit on it now. I
like making furniture, and I'm good at it, but it's only sticks and stones in
the forest; you need a cover, or else you can't accomplish what you need to.
Emilio will organize everyone. He’ll only let the Americans keep the jobs. We
could just get him, but people would catch on. You need a cover. Nice little
Louis, the woodworker.}

_{I sigh, get out of the truck.
Emilio is just coming out of his house, briefcase in hand. I tuck my pistol
and get out, flag him over, force a smile. It's just one of those days.}