Lara Reznik - The Girl From Long Guyland (13 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Blood of Christ

New Mexico, 1970

After abandoning Peaches at the Texaco and stopping to call her sister, Rojo turned onto I-25 and we headed north toward Santa Fe. Sheets of snow descended on the windshield. The swishing sound of the wipers filled the car as we sat in silence. Rojo was no longer the least bit appealing to me. What type of guy deserts his pregnant girlfriend at a gas station?

He pulled a vial from the console, took two red capsules, and offered one to me, which I declined.

“How come Ben sent
you
?” he said. “You just don’t seem the type.”

“Type for what?”

“Jesus. If I have to tell you why you’re here, Angel will freak.”

I smiled for the first time since I’d landed in the land of weird. “I’m picking up a frickin’ suitcase. I get it.”

Rojo sighed. “Whew. Thought you might be a virgin or something.”

Oh my God. Did Ben and Chris tell him about my history? Did they sit around at night with Ivy joking about the Guyland Girl who screwed them both? I managed to keep my composure. “I’ve been around the block a couple of times.”

Rojo chuckled. We exited into Santa Fe with its flat-roofed, earth-colored buildings. The landscape soon transformed into red cliffs and sandstone canyons. Later, as we got closer to Taos we began climbing into the majestic snowcapped mountains. I was awed by the stunning landscape, but terrified we might skid off the edge of the road and tumble down thousands of feet to the abyss below. The car skidded on ice patches and I held onto the seat making small talk with Rojo. “What do they call this mountain range?”

“They’re the Sangre de Cristo,” Rojo said. “Blood of Christ.”

I imagined a catchy headline in
Newsday,
the Long Island paper:

JEWISH GIRL FROM LONG ISLAND DIES IN CAR CRASH IN NEW MEXICO’s BLOOD OF CHRIST MOUNTAINS.

After numerous turns off the main highway in Taos, we fishtailed down a side road to an isolated mud-brick home. A woman wearing silk pajamas and clown-white makeup answered the door smoking a cigar. She led us into the living room where a guy dressed in a Kimono greeted Rojo from a leather couch. Were there any normal people in this place two thousand miles away from every person, place, and thing I knew? My definition of normal no longer had parameters.

Rather than introduce me, Rojo grabbed my hand and led me to a small bedroom. I clenched my jaw, ready to set him straight if he came on to me. But all he said was to try and get some sleep.

I slept for what felt like hours in the darkened room. When I awoke, the familiar sound of the Doors on the stereo sifted in from the living room. Between the redeye flight and the drive through the mountains, I’d lost all sense of time. Yellow light filtered through a small window. Was it late afternoon or early morning? I had no idea.

I removed the dress and pumps that Ben had purchased and changed into the white peasant blouse and maxi skirt I’d packed. When I put the white wool dress on a chair, I noticed a pattern of tiny red spots on the back of it. Was it blood? I went to the bathroom and discovered that yes, I’d gotten my period. Thank you, God. While the dress was ruined, I was happier than I’d been since I’d left Connecticut.

Rojo and the strange couple from earlier sat in the living room drinking tequila. The guy in the kimono poured me a shot. As I gagged on the brown liquid, I made a mental note not to get too drunk. The tequila left me warm and tipsy and I gazed out the large picture window. The sun sat atop the mountains coloring the horizon in shades of gold, burnt-orange, and red. The skies of New Mexico were a major contrast to the grey smog of Bridgeport. Unlike poor Peaches, I was not pregnant. For a brief moment, I felt blissful.

Then someone yelled, “Jesus, goddamn it, ow, shit!”

I followed the others to the kitchen where a burly guy with a thick beard was splayed on the ground after tripping over an obtrusive extension cord that ran across the brick floor connecting the refrigerator to an outlet. He held his ankle wincing in pain.

At first, I couldn’t place where I’d seen him before. And then through the beard I realized who sat before me. “Oh my God, Joey. What are you doing here?”

He covered his face with his hands then tried to stand, but he fell back down. “Shit on a stick. Laila?”

Rojo’s face turned the color of the red chili strung along the wall. “You two know each other?

Joey tried to stand again and yelped like a wounded puppy.

Rojo’s eyes wandered from Joey to me. “I asked you a question. How are you two acquainted?”

Joey gave me a zip-your-lips sign.

The signal didn’t miss Rojo’s bloodshot eyes. “Who the hell you think you are, fat-face? Angel’s gonna kick your ass.”

His tone frightened me. He sounded like thug from a TV cop show. “Joey’s my roommate’s boyfriend,” I said.

Rojo’s raised an eyebrow. “No shit?”

I batted my eyelashes at Rojo. “We need to get him to the hospital.”

Joey winced through clenched teeth. “Fuck, no. I’ll be fine.” He turned to Rojo. “Can you give me a Quaalude and take me home?”

“What the fuck you doing here anyways? Angel gave you strict orders to stay away.”

“It’s lonely in that shithole you put me up in,” Joey said.

Rojo rubbed the back of his neck. “Angel doesn’t like when people don’t obey his orders.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus, this hurts,” Joey said.

I turned to Rojo. “Please, can we at least call a doctor?”

“Okay,” Rojo said. “We’ll drive to Ranchos. I got a friend there who used to be a medic in Nam.”

Joey bit his lower lip. “I’m good, man. Just get me a bag of ice.”

“She’s right, suck-face.” Rojo said. “Your foot may be broken. If you don’t get it looked at, you could end up a cripple.”

Propped up by Rojo and me, Joey staggered out to the truck. Once again, I was at the mercy of Rojo racing down the mountain on iced roads. I clutched the seat while Joey cried out several times in pain
.

A few minutes later, we slid into the driveway of a small pink stucco house. I held Joey’s arm as we stumbled up the icy path to the front porch. The front door opened and an emaciated dude stood behind the mesh of an old screen door. Rojo explained the purpose of our visit.

The skinny guy unlatched the lock and welcomed us into his house.

Rojo introduced us to his friend, whose jaw looked lopsided, like it’d been broken and never set. No surprise he went by the name Jaws. A sleeve of tattoos covered his arms.

The stench of cat pee and trash made me gag. Indian bedspreads covered the windows and a dozen or so pairs of cat eyes glowed in the dark room. Rojo whispered something in his ear and headed to the door. “I’ll be back in an hour. Got business to take care of.”

Jaws cleared off old newspapers, beer cans, and a kitten or two from the green corduroy couch and told Joey to take a seat. “Make yourself comfortable, dude, and let me have a lookie.” His voice was surprisingly soft spoken.

Joey cried out when he touched his ankle.

Jaws handed him a prescription bottle. “Take a couple of these.” He carefully felt around Joey’s swollen leg. “Don’t think it’s broke. Just a bad sprain.” He wrapped Joey’s ankle with an ace bandage, then opened a closet and pulled out a pair of crutches. “You can have these. Haven’t needed them since Nam.”

Joey tried out the crutches and thanked Jaws for his help.

The strange guy ambled to the door and pulled a parka and a ski cap off a peg on the wall. “I’m meeting my lady friend in a few minutes. You guys can hang out here until Rojo gets back.”

Joey and
I
sat together on the couch. I drew in my breath then exhaled. “Okay, so how the hell did you end up here?”

“I was gonna ask you the same question,” he said.

“Come on, Joey. You first.”

He shrugged. “All righty then. A few weeks ago that guy Chris from the demonstration said I could make a shit-load of money flying to San Francisco with his buddy Ben.”

“Oh my God. You’re the
U.B.
student who disappeared with the suitcase?”

“It’s not what you think,” he said.

“Well then, what happened to the suitcase?”

“Have you met Angel yet?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” I said.

He bit his lip. “Angel’s not who he appears to be. He may look like a hippie with his long ponytail and the peace sign he wears on a chain, but he’s no love child. He’s part of some big-shot family in Arizona.”

“Family. Like in the mob?”

He slapped my knee. “Laila, you’re not in Long Island no more.”

“How do you know all this?” I asked.

“I called my Uncle Donnie. He owns a pool hall in Jersey City and is well connected.”

“So what happened with you and Ben?”

“We flew to San Francisco to pick up a delivery from Angel. He met us at the airport with his girlfriend Peaches.”

“Little pregnant Peaches?”

“Yep, that’s the one. Anyway, we spent the night at Angel’s Victorian mansion. Next day he hands us this brown valise and we head back to the airport in a taxi. On the drive, Ben tells me we need to pretend we’re not together when we get on the plane. He wants me to wait for him to check in and reach the gate
before
I get in line.”

Clever, Ben. All the risk is Joey’s.

“When we get to the airport, I do like he says, and hang out until he’s through the gate. Then I get in line to get my boarding pass and check in the suitcase. I’m standing there, minding my own business when two guys tell me to come with them. And, they ain’t asking. One of ‘em says he’s got a gun under his jacket pointed at my balls. I nearly shit my pants.”

I interjected. “So you were busted?”

He shook his head. “Like you, I assumed they were narcs carting my ass off to jail. They take me out to the parking lot to this black van. The door glides open and this huge guy Paulie is sitting with a fucking 9mm in his hand. He holds it to my head and says that Angel wants me to drive the suitcase to New Mexico.”

“Who’s Paulie?”

“He’s like Angel’s lieutenant. Big as the Empire State building.”

“Oh my God. I think this chick Ivy was like forced to have sex with him,” I said.

“Sounds like Paulie, okay. Anyways I drove the van out here and delivered the suitcase to Angel. Then he offered me a job making deliveries for him in Taos.”

“Why didn’t you just come back to Bridgeport?”

“Trust me. You don’t mess with
hombres
like Angel. I was afraid he might hurt Denise.”

“Are you serious?”

“He knew all about her.”

“That’s outrageous. Who told him—?”

He rolls his eyes. “Who do ya think?”

I swallow. Ben or Chris. “I don’t understand what Angel’s motive was for the whole suitcase thing.”

“It’s done all the time in this business. Angel wanted Chris and Ben beholden to him. Now they gotta do whatever he says.”

“Ben sent me here to pick up another suitcase,” I said.

He lowered his head. “I was afraid of that.”

Tears stung my eyes. “I’m so in over my head.”


“You can’t deliver that suitcase,” Joey said. “It’s too fucking dangerous.”

“If what you say about Angel is true, what choice do I have?”

“You do have a choice. I’ll deliver the suitcase,” he said.

“What are you nuts? You said Angel—”

A pool of white light filtered through the window. “Hey, looks like Rojo’s back,” Joey said. “We’ll talk more about this later.”

We buttoned up our jackets and opened the front door. The wind whipped our faces. I helped Joey totter down the steps of the porch. Headlights bathed us in bright light. I shielded my eyes. Then a car with a Mercedes hood ornament rushed toward us as if the driver’s intention was to mow us down.

As I jerked Joey back to the curb, the car skidded, then jerked to a halt, and the passenger window rolled down. A guy with a black ponytail and gravelly voice yelled, “Joey, Laila, get your asses in the car.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Margaritaville (Chris’s Story)

Austin, Texas, 2012

I veer the Acura back on course to Margaritaville, the restaurant in East Austin that Chris chose to meet for lunch. He’d heard they served interior Mexican food, not the Tex-Mex fare you get in most city bistros. I turn into the parking lot of what looks more like a sleazy bar than an eatery. Empty beer cans litter the parking lot, and guys with shaved heads, multiple piercings, and face tattoos loiter about.

The digital clock now reads 12:05 p.m. I call Chris to see if he’s arrived. His cell connects straight to voicemail. “This is Dr. Reynolds. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you. If this is a medical emergency, please dial 911.”

Doctor
Reynolds
?
Who would have guessed?

It dawns on me he may be waiting inside the restaurant. I emerge from the Acura and sprint the ten yards past the skinheads to the entrance. Once indoors, I squint in the semidarkness. The aroma of spicy Mexican food permeates the air, reminding me of dinners at my mother-in-law’s house in New Mexico. Bottles of various brands of Mexican tequila fill a massive wall of shelves. Blue Agave, Mixto, Blanco, Reposado, Anejo. A waitress saunters by with a tray full of mouth-watering plates of
enchiladas, tacos, poblanos
and beans dripping in cheese. I give Chris an
“A”
for an excellent food choice, along with a
“D”
for seedy location.

The booths are full of Mexican workers and urban cowboy types on their lunch hour. Will I even recognize Chris in the crowd? I parade down the aisles in search of him. I’m about to give up when I notice a guy sitting alone at a booth in the back of the restaurant. His grey hair is cropped short, and he’s wearing a worn leather jacket.

I slip into the booth and sit across the table from him. He glances up at me through thick bifocals, does a double take, and quickly removes the glasses. “Holy shit, Laila?”

We both rise and hug. The cigarettes and beer on his breath jet me back in time to Bridgeport. I want to scream at him but suppress my anger. I remind myself it’s important I stay calm and collected.

“Ben was right. You look awesome,” he says.

He’s definitely changed a lot. The cute blonde guy I remember has vanished. His face has the bloated look of an alcoholic with his veiny red nose and blanched skin. In comparison, Ben looks much better for the wear.

He gestures to the waitress who drops off menus and a Budweiser for him. I order a glass of Chardonnay.

“So tell me about yourself, Laila,” he says.

Should I commence with what a son of a bitch I think he was for deserting Katie and me thousands of miles away from home? Or how furious I am that he broke the pact and deflected Juanita Bonita’s investigation from him to me? No, best to let the past go and mine as much information as I can about his conversations with Juanita. If it means acting friendly, then so be it. I’m a lot older and wiser now and can play his game. While I don’t like it one bit, I’ll do what it takes to survive.

I provide a brief synopsis about Ed, the boys, and my
I.T.
career, ending with the recent visit from our new board member. The part about Ivy is a test to see how he responds.

“Ivy Banter?”

Have they been in contact? Is she part of a conspiracy with Ben and him to play me in the twenty-first century? “She’s Ivy Foreman now. The congressman’s wife.”

His pupils look like big pebbles under the bifocals. “No shit.”

“You didn’t know that?”

“Last time I spoke to Ivy she was waiting tables in New Haven. Sounds like she’s done okay for herself.” Is he telling me the truth? Anything’s possible.

The cute waitress drops off our drink order.

Chris’s eyes follow her as she scurries away. He says he’s recently divorced from his wife of fifteen years. “Unfortunately, we never had any children.”

“I don’t picture you the fatherly type,” I say.

He laughs. “I’m not the same
hombre
from the seventies, you know. I regret not having a family. But I have a great career.”

“You’re some type of doctor?”

“You might call me a pop-psychologist.” He grabs the Bud and guzzles it down.

“Like Dr. Phil?”

He beams. “Kinda like that.”

“No offense meant to the female gender,” he says. “I just spend day in and day out listening to ladies’ problems. There’s never a shortage of bitches whose dudes have dumped them. A recession-proof business.”

Ben was right. He’s crazy. I feel sorry for those poor lambs hiring the wolf. Dr. Reynolds, my ass.

He clicks a few buttons on his smart phone. “Wanna see my fiancée?” He hands me the cell. The photo showcases a buxom blonde in her late thirties.

So ef’n predictable
. I try not to roll my eyes. “She’s very pretty.”

“I’m not robbing the cradle, Laila. She’s almost forty.”

I hand him back the phone.

The waitress takes our food order,
enchiladas de camarón
for me,
carne
adovada
for Chris. He requests a bottle of José Cuervo and two shot glasses.

“I’ll stick to Chardonnay.”

“Oh, come on, loosen up. For old time sakes.”

Against my better judgment, I agree. “One shot. But that’s it. I have to go back to work.” No way would I return to the office, but I’m not about to tell Chris that.
Inhale, exhale 
. . .

He takes a gulp of his beer and places his hands flat on the table. “Can ya find it in your heart to forgive me and Ben for taking off?”

The waitress arrives with the bottle of tequila, salt-covered shot glasses, and limes.

“It’s past history,” I say. “I’m over it.”

Chris pours us each a shot. The liquid burns as it rides down my throat, but the buzz tames the anxiety building in my stomach. It works quicker than Yoga. I ask him what he thought of Juanita.

He darts his eyes around the bar to gauge whether anyone is within earshot. The three construction workers at the next table are speaking in Spanish. “That hot little private eye knows a lotta shit.” He leans forward and pours us each another shot.

“I’ve had enough,” I say.

“You’re gonna need it, honey, when I tell you the news.”

I take his advice and down another shot, bracing myself for the worst.

His pupils glow. “That Juanita bitch thinks Joey was murdered. She’s calling in the
FBI.
”

“Denise said it wasn’t an accident in her suicide note. But murder?”

He rakes his fingers through his hair. “There’s things you don’t know about that night, Laila.”

I rapidly feel sober. “Like what?”

“Ben
 
. . . did some shit.”

“What are you talking about?”

We sit in silence for a few tense moments. Chris hunches his shoulders and his eyes glaze over. “Who the fuck did your friend Joey think he was dealing with?”

His snide tone frightens me. “What are you talking about?”

“The suitcase he stole. He screwed the family big time. Ruined our cash cow marijuana business.”

It takes me a minute to recall the suitcase fiasco through the tunnel of time and tequila. And then it all comes back to me as though it happened yesterday. “Joey explained everything to you and Ben when I brought him over to the house that night.”

“I remember the fat fuck’s lame explanation,” he says.

I remind Chris that Angel’s friend had put a gun to Joey’s head and forced him to take the suitcase to New Mexico.

Chris pounds his fist on the table. “We were indebted to Angel for losing that suitcase.

“Angel’s the one who played you, not Joey.”
Like you played me.

“Bullshit. We’d been doing business with the dude for years.”

I realize there’s nothing I can say that will change his mind. Not then, not now.

He winces. “Do you have any idea what was in the plaid suitcase you brought home from New Mexico?”

I whisper, “Marijuana. Not the shiniest moment of my life.” I remind myself I was just seventeen.

He guzzles the rest of his beer. “Ben and I tried to warn you when we dropped you off at
JFK
that night.”

I recall them yelling something at me as they drove off. “Warn me about what?”

Spittle forms at the corners of his mouth. “What do you know about
PCP
?”

I shrug. “It was a psychedelic drug in the sixties, I guess.”

“
PCP
is the common name for the chemical phencyclidine. We used to call it the peace pill in Berkeley.”

“Why should I care?”

“Pay attention, Laila. Angel was one of the early distributors. Back in the day they sold it as a crystalline powder. It made people too fucked up, so its usage dried up in the mid-sixties. Angel went back to dealing weed. He sent me and Ben home to Bridgeport to sell kilos to the
U.B.
students. Then things got too hot for him in Berkeley.”

“So he moved to Taos,” I say.

“Where he recreated a new form of
PCP
that you smoke. Have you ever heard it called ‘angel dust?’” Chris asks.

“I guess.”

“Google it. It’s named after our
compadre
Angel, who invented it. That’s what you brought home in the suitcase.”

“That can’t be.” But why would Chris lie about it now?

Chris’s voice softens. “Joey went crazy on it that night before Kent State.”

“And jumped out the window,” I say.

“Not exactly,” Chris says in a hushed voice.

The blood drains from my face. “What are you saying?”

“Who gives a shit now?” Chris says.

“I give a shit. Joey’s family gives a shit.” For years I’ve had dreams about Mrs. Costello desperately searching for her lost son. Her only son. Her only child. Ben and Chris had convinced me Joey’s death was a drug-induced accident. Had they lied? There’s always more with those two. Layers of bullshit to peel away to get at the truth. I feel a migraine coming on with a vengeance.

The waitress arrives with our food order. The aroma of the Mexican dishes is intoxicating, but neither Chris nor I touch the food on our plates.

Chris clutches my wrist with his hand. “I forgot how green your eyes are.”

For crissakes, he’s flirting now. “Please. Continue with what happened.”

He releases my wrist. “I shouldn’t tell you any more.”

Could he actually be on the level? “We’re all in this together,” I say. “You can trust me.”

“I told you I’m divorced. Ben and Luanne were having an affair the last three years of my marriage,” he says.

“What does that have to do with that night?”
Hello.

He tugs at his mustache. “If I held him accountable for all the girlfriends of mine he screwed
 
. . .”

I fake a cough.

“Of all the girls,
you
were the biggest disappointment to me. I believed you were something special.”

Has he known about Ben and me all along? Why is he bringing this up in another century? “I-I thought it was you in that dark attic.”

He transmits an acidic stare
. “
You think I give a shit? It was a million years ago.”

I have no idea if he cares or not. He’s downed at least two more shots of José Cuervo. His eyes are wild. Ben’s warning echoes in my ears.
He’s totally nuts.

He touches my hand. “I want to believe I can trust you now.”

I let him rub my palm with his fingers, feeling like I’m prostituting myself to allow him such a personal gesture. “For Godsakes, what happened that night?”

“I do trust you, Laila. Even if you slept with Ben.”

“Have we gone full circle here? I thought you didn’t care.”

He produces a pinched smile. “Just playing with you, baby. Where did we leave off?”

“The night I brought Joey and Denise to your house, I went to pick up my friend Katie at the airport. What happened while I was gone?”

He rakes his hands through is hair. “As I recall, we were all in the living room. Your friend Denise cozied up next to
me
on the couch. I tried to move over, I mean, she was your roommate and I wasn’t digging the attention. Ben kept refilling the pipe with the angel dust you brought back from New Mexico.”

“Please stop saying I brought it back.”

“Sorry, but it’s true, sweetheart.”

“Did Denise know what she was smoking?”

He looks at his hands. “I don’t remember if we told her or not.”

Of course not.
I shake my head in disgust.

Chris continues, “No one knew what the hell was going on. Ben suggested a game of strip poker. We played a few hands. Everyone was laughing except Joey who sat in his jockeys with a sour face. Denise lost the next hand and took off her blouse. Her tits were staring me in the face.”

I roll my eyes at him. “
TMI,
Chris.”

“What?”

“The breasts. Too much information.”

“Sorry. Anyways, I started to get real paranoid and went into the kitchen. Ben followed me in there and asked if I wanted to mess with Joey’s head. I told him we didn’t need trouble. And then I must have passed out.”