Big Maria (9 page)

Frank grabbed the kid by the hair and pulled his head back. Harry handed him a cup of water, and Frank threw the water in Ricky’s face.

Ricky’s eyes opened wide. There was a crowd standing over him. He recognized old Frank Pacheco and Shitburger. The two serious-looking Indians or Mexicans behind them were new to him. A fresh slap struck his cheek.

“Okay, okay. I get it. I’m slapped. You don’t have to do it again.”

“You ain’t got chairs? I’m an old man.”

One of the big Indians or Mexicans exited the trailer and came back with a bucket. He turned it upside down and Frank sat.

Frank looked tired, his skin more ash than rust.

Ricky began to say something, but Frank didn’t let him.

“I’m going to talk. You’re going to listen. Harry here has a proposal for you. No matter how stupid it sounds—and it’s going to sound stupid—you’re going to say yes. Got it?”

Ricky looked up at him but didn’t respond. Frank slapped him again.

“Yeah, yeah. I got it. I get it.”

“Go ahead, Harry. Give him the rundown.”

Harry whispered something in Frank’s ear. Frank shrugged and turned to the big Indians or Mexicans. “Ramón, Bernardo. Need you boys to wait outside.”

They didn’t appear offended. The sound of their cigarette lighters fired up the moment they stepped out the door.

“Remember, Ricky, you’re going to agree. You’re going to do it because I say so. You’re going to do it because if you don’t, when you’ve finally finished killing yourself, I’ll find your daughter and tell her you drank yourself to death because you stopped loving her.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“From what I can see, it’s the truth.”

Ricky broke down crying. Frank and Harry waited. When Ricky was done, he looked up at them with red, wet eyes.

“What do you want from me?”

Frank turned to Harry. “He ain’t going to be able to do squat ’til he’s dry.”

“Ain’t like an everyday drinker can give it up like that. Trust me on that one.”

“Sure they can. Just got to have no other choice.”

B
ernardo and Ramón roughly pulled Ricky from the back of the pickup. They stood him against the rear panel, but Ricky hadn’t quite woken and his legs spaghettied beneath him. The Indians looked at each other and let him fall to the ground.

Ricky had fallen asleep on the bumpy ride, one side of his face burned red from the sun. An uncomfortable, prickling heat made his cheek itch. The other cheek had gravel embedded in the skin. His body hurt and his throat scratched.

Ricky scanned the landscape through squinted eyes. Twenty acres of dry wheat fields spread along the base of scrubby desert hills. A small house that looked like it should be condemned was visible past a graveyard of rusted farm equipment. Dogs barked somewhere. Big dogs. A couple of burros watched with more interest than burros should be capable of. There was no shade, and the two big Indians didn’t look happy, their smooth, hairless faces dripping sweat.

They each grabbed an arm, fingers digging into Ricky’s armpits, and dragged him toward the small house. Ricky didn’t struggle. Being dragged was easier than walking, and these guys looked like they could bench a steer.

“Where am I?” Ricky asked.

No answer. Not even a look or grunt. Ricky wondered if he had even spoken.

“Hello?” Ricky said.

Still nothing. But Ricky knew that he had said it, because he had concentrated. He heard the thing he said. He listened and heard. He had definitely spoken out loud.

Up close, it was clear that they were Indians, not Mexicans. Their skin was the same color as a Mexican—not red like people said Indians were—but they had those profiles that looked more natural on five cents than five centavos. He wanted to tell them that they were fulfilling a stereotype through their silence, but he kept his mouth shut. Two could play their game.

The interior of the house fulfilled every expectation that the exterior had established. It looked like a squatter’s corner in a condemned building. Mattresses on the floor, garbage everywhere, and three big pit bulls staring and drooling. Squalor with monsters. The big-screen plasma TV on one wall and the leather sofa that faced it were definitely out of place. Just the revelation that the house had electricity was a bit surprising.

It smelled like all the colors of the dog rainbow. Dog food, dog hair, and dog crap. The air should have been desert dry, but it felt damp in the dog stink.

The Indians dropped Ricky onto one of the mattresses. The bigger Indian, who Ricky would eventually learn was Bernardo, leaned in. His voice was deep, each word slow and enunciated. “Do not move. I am very serious. If you move, the dogs will bite you. Maybe they will kill you.”

Ricky looked at the dogs. They were looking at him like he was a porterhouse. Like a man-shaped meatloaf. They were not tied. Not even collars. He followed the line of drool from one dog’s mouth to the floor.

“Their Christian dog names are Blondie, Angel Eyes, and Tuco. They are hungry. Always hungry,” Bernardo said.

“Maybe you should feed them.”

The Indian stared.

“How long do I have to stay here?”

“Papa Frank will tell us. We are to keep you safe. We are not to harm you. But we will hurt you.”

“Don’t harm and hurt mean the same thing?”

“They are different.”

“I don’t want to know the difference.”

“No. You do not.”

I
t wasn’t going to be fun for the kid, but Frank knew that Bernardo and Ramón would keep Ricky safe while he dried out. Frank laughed, finding it funny that the kid was going to get sober in the middle of a marijuana plantation. Frank had no idea how much drinking Ricky had been doing, but a little sweat, fear, and pain would clean his system out better than any meeting in the basement of the Baptist church.

While Ricky was at the ranch getting his head straight, Harry and Frank prepared for the dive. It would require a couple trips to San Diego for equipment. They had to schedule the rental of a boat. And they needed some books on the subject of freshwater diving. All said and done, they had no idea what they were doing.

Harry’s primary concern was that his last busted-leg check hadn’t come from the prison. To that point, his medical-leave money had arrived like clockwork, but it was Tuesday, four days late, and still no check. That was bad. He needed that cash to finance the dive.

“Department of Corrections. Payroll. How can I direct your call?”

“I have a medical claim and my check has not arrived.”

“I can help you. Name and ID number.”

“Schmittberger. Harold Schmittberger.” After he let the female voice complete her giggle, he spelled it and gave her his identification number.

“Okay. It’s on my screen. How can I assist you?”

“You owe me a check.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Shitboarder. You are a month overdue for your medical reevaluation. The grace period has expired. You
should have received a letter. We can no longer accept your injury claim until a doctor has examined your leg and confirmed that the injury is still negatively impacting your ability to perform your job.”

“I was just in the hospital. They were supposed to contact you. I’m still healing. Else why would I go to the hospital?”

“Yes, that shows on my screen, but those recent injuries were not sustained at the workplace. They are unrelated to the compensation that you have been receiving. Only the injury to your leg qualifies you for benefits.”

Considering that his leg was completely healed, that was going to be a problem. The teat had run dry at exactly the wrong time.

The voice continued. “I can make an appointment for you. Once the doctor confirms, we can continue your claim, including any retroactive payments. Is Friday morning convenient?”

I
t had been two brutal days and Ricky hadn’t moved from the mattress. His legs had cramped and he had screamed, but he hadn’t ventured off the foam island. Ricky discovered two new hobbies: vomiting and sweating. His skin itched, his head pounded, and his bad arm throbbed like the day of the accident. His pinky and ring finger involuntarily twitched.

With the Indians outside cultivating their stinkweed, Ricky decided to test the limits of his tether. To that point, he hadn’t wanted to move. The pain had kept him obedient. But he was feeling slightly better. There was a chance that the dogs had grown accustomed to him, maybe even considered him part of their pack.

Ricky stared at his reflection in the dog’s black eyes. Dark and carnival-mirrored, but it was him all right. The dog’s focus was unnerving. Maybe if he concentrated super hard, he could hone his mental abilities to control the dog’s mind. The dog stared back lazily.

Ricky slowly shifted toward the edge of the mattress. With each tiny movement, the dogs’ cumulative growl rose in volume. A few inches and the low rumbling sounded almost playful.
A few feet off the center of the mattress and the growl built to deadly. Ricky plopped back defeated. The dogs continued their bored vigil.

The Indians could have at least left him the remote for the TV. It was sitting on the counter across the room. Just far enough to get him eaten. They were supposed to dry him out, not torture him.

He wanted a drink more than ever. Out of habit. Out of need. Out of boredom. He wanted a drink because it was better to be drunk than not to be. Sitting in a hot room all day with three slaughterous dogs baring their teeth and crapping on the floor warranted at least one cold beer and a half hour of
Oprah
.

In two days, Ricky had learned that Bernardo and Ramón were creatures of habit. During the day, they worked in their “wheat” fields. At dusk the truck would drive off. Presumably to head into town and sell some of their “wheat.” The Indians would return at night with eighty tacos from Taco Bell, hit the bong, and watch
The Muppets
. The tacos were the only food Ricky ever saw. They fed the Indians. They fed Ricky. They fed the dogs. The four major food groups represented: grease, filler, fat, and fried.

As
The Muppets
played on the big TV, nobody laughed. The Indians got high and appeared to enjoy the show, but Ricky had never once heard them laugh out loud. The dogs watched the TV too. It was the only time they didn’t stare at Ricky. They seemed to enjoy the colors and loud sounds, but the humor was clearly too sophisticated for them. The canned laughter from the speakers would have to do for all of them.

From the other end of the room, Ricky was too far to even get a contact high. He wanted to do anything but watch a kids’ show that only reminded him of the distance between him and his daughter. If this was part of the healing process, he’d take the wounds.

T
he biggest problem was that as he dried out, the repercussions of his past rushed back. The dog farts and snoring
Indians didn’t keep him awake at night. His conscience did. He had been responsible for the death of six people. Six people had put their trust in him and he had done more than let them down. He had utterly failed them.

What was worse, he had failed his family. He had purposely pushed them away. He loved Flavia and Rosie, he knew that for sure. But it was impossible to be happy, knowing what he had done. Had he protected his family from the attacks by the cops, lawyers, and insurance sharks? Or had he only protected himself from the shame that he felt when he looked in his daughter’s eyes?

Night was his best chance to slip out. The dogs slept in shifts, so only one was awake at any time. The Indians’ sleep was pot-heavy, dreaming of squaws or arrowheads or—more than likely—Muppets and tacos. Even if one dog attacked, he was sure that the Indians wouldn’t let it hurt him too bad. Worst-case scenario, Ricky would make his move and he’d get his leg bitten. Best-case scenario, Ricky could grab the keys off the coffee table, make it to the truck, and escape.

The dog that was watching him, Tuco, was the least attentive of the three. He was often distracted by sounds and movement. Particularly the cockroaches that dined on the growing mounds of garbage. Ricky didn’t even know cockroaches could fly until he saw the giant things moving from wall to floor in search of waste. Tuco would lunge at any that got close, but would quickly return his attention back to Ricky. The dog looked confused and disgusted when he caught one and chewed it, but he always went back for more.

Together, Ricky and Tuco watched a particularly juicy roach crawl along the wall. Ricky eyed the keys on the table, calculating the five steps that it would take to reach the couch, the jump over, then the four more steps to the door. He rehearsed in his mind. Jumping the couch between the two sleeping Indians would give him an extra second or two.

The roach crawled down the wall. Tuco licked at his drool, panting loudly. He focused on the insect, no longer interested in Ricky.

Ricky watched the dog. He watched the keys. He watched the cockroach. It was time. Now or never.

The roach flew off the wall. Tuco jumped, trying to chomp it on the fly. Ricky went for the couch, but instead of running he took one awkward step and fell forward. His legs had fallen asleep from being on the mattress for two days. He crashed face-first. His chin hit the ground, his teeth biting off a small piece of his tongue. Blood filled his mouth.

Then the dogs attacked.

The crash had woken up Angel Eyes and Blondie. One dog on each leg, and the other on his bad arm. They bit into him with ferocious abandon, shaking their heads wildly in an effort to rip off his limbs. Ricky screamed, words finding their way through the pain and panic.

“Call them off. Call them off.”

The Indians slept soundly. Not even a halfhearted mumble. The dogs bit deeper. Ricky could have sworn that Angel Eyes had reached his femur.

“Bernardo! Ramón!”

Ricky fought the dogs, but their jaws were like bear traps, latched deep into him.

Ricky slowly crawled back to the mattress. He wasn’t far, but the weight of the dogs and the excruciating pain made it feel like a lifetime. The moment he was back on the mattress, the dogs stopped chewing and returned to their posts. Tuco licked at the blood around his maw. It looked like the dog was smiling.