Fifty Grand

I’ll never find out why you left. You had a wife who loved you, two kids, a good job. You were never a political person. You didn’t care about politics. Why did you jump? Where did you get that gun? I don’t know. All of that information died with you on the mountaintop. But it doesn’t even matter.

Do you hear what I’m saying, Papa?

I didn’t come for you! I’m here for me! I’m here for us!

Cold.

Freezing.

Not the cold of Santiago.

Winter cold.

The cold of frozen water.

Ice.

My mind aswim. Shouting. Gurgling.

Blood in my mouth. Cold grabbing my shoulders like the secret police.

I sink into consciousness.

They’re talking.

Their song swells.

I find that I understand them.

I reshape the world. Gone is the palm tree. The ’izos. Here is the wind, the wet.

Voices.

“Fucking one shot. Blew her the fuck away.”

“We got ninety-nine problems but the bitch ain’t one.”

“Paul, you ok?”

“I don’t think he’s still alive.”

“Get him out.”

“He’s breathing.”

“Get him out and put her in the fucking hole.”

“Shouldn’t we call the, the federal authorities?”

“We’re all in too deep for that.”

“I want no part of this.”

“A part of it you have got, a big fucking part. Now shut up. Take his arm. We might be able to save him.”

“Call a helicopter. We’ve got to get him to a hospital.”

“No hospitals. We’ll get him back to the car.”

“We have to take him to a hospital, for Christ’s sake, man.”

“Listen to me. I’ve got adrenaline and a CPR kit in the prowler, we’ll do this ourselves. We’re fucked if we go to a hospital.”

“Jesus! Wait a minute. Wait a fucking minute. I think she’s still fucking breathing.”

“Is she now? Have you got her gun? Good. Ok, lemme see, lemme-Fuck me, would you look at that, you’re right, all surface, only grazed her.”

“Told you, you should have used the three-oh-oh.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Well, we’ll soon put a stop to her fun and games.”

I open my eyes. Deputy Klein. He’s holding a 9mm, a meter from my face. There’s a halo of water vapor around his head. He looks like the Angel of Death.

Is that one in your tarot cards, Mother? Did you see that one in your voodoo ceremonies?

Breathing hard.

Grinning.

Excited.

Spittle frozen on the lapels of his coat.

His eyes iron planets. His mouth a gutted fish.

“I don’t know what you wanted, you crazy fucking bitch, but I hope you find it at the bottom of the lake. Say your fucking prayers.”

He lifts the gun, rests his finger on the trigger, takes careful aim, squeezes…

19 OUR LADY OF MERCY

I am copied in your eye, mother of the golden breeze, lady full of grace, lady of the moon. Between ice and the gilt morning. I am copied in the patterns of your stars.

You don’t get two chances. One they’ll give you. But not two. Not at point-blank range. Not so close that you feel the powder burn. Prayers, you say? Well, again it’s that old dilemma. In Cuba the state religion is unbelief. The high-church religion is Catholicism. The street faith is Santería. Who would I pray to? Who would I pray for?

And yet.

A breath escapes. And every breath a petition.

The muscles in his face as taut as a halyard on a sail.

Smile not, friend.

Lillies grow from your mouth. Think not of drinking blood from my skull. Your corpse is food for trout.

Don’t you see her? She is the image in your eye too.

His face relaxes, transfigured by the mystery.

Death has made him special, given him a secret that I do not possess.

A full second after the bullet strikes I hear the crack.

I roll to the side.

He falls where I have been.

A puff of ice. Another crack.

Preoccupied with Youkilis, Sheriff Briggs belatedly turns to see his deputy lying next to me, the back of his head caved in like a melon that’s fallen off a truck.

Briggs looks at me, sizes up the situation immediately.

“She’s got a fucking accomplice. Everybody hit the deck.”

“What?”

“Hit the fucking deck, assholes!” he yells but only he and Jack fall fast enough to escape the gunman.

A sound like sssssipppp and Deputy Crawford gets one in the leg. Gravity does the rest and he’s down too.

Briggs pulls out a.45 and shoots randomly at the tree line.

I count them off. BOOM, BOOM, BOOM. One, two, three.

“What’s happening!” Jack screams.

“You see anything?” Crawford yells.

“I don’t see a goddamn thing,” Briggs replies and turns to his deputy. “How you doing, buddy?”

Crawford grunts. “I’m ok. Fat shot. No arteries or veins.”

“Thank God. Get your gun and look for the muzzle flash,” Briggs says.

“Shouldn’t we kill her?” Crawford wonders.

Briggs slides his body around to look at me. “Yes, we fucking should.”

Another puff of ice, another crack.

Briggs arcs the.45 in my direction. Mierde. I grab the body of Deputy Klein and drag him-it-in front of me, blood pouring from the hole in the skull, coating the ice beneath us in a red film. It pools under me, sticky, warm. The.45 slugs punch into Klein. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. At this range they could easily burn right through Klein and into me, but I get lucky, they snag on bone and muscle and internal organs.