Redemption's Warrior (4 page)

“You’ll work for me in maintenance. My men know nothing of mechanics.” He grins, “after all they are thieves, drug dealers. Are you skilled with machines?”

Years of working side by side with his Dad on household repairs flashes through Christopher in condensed thumbnail sized images. Memories layered throughout the years hit him individually and simultaneously. Christopher staggers. Edged in black the visions of their heads together under the hood of his Chevy make him want to weep. Visitations from his Mom supplying them with cookies and drinks, the memories overpower him. His body starts to shake, violent tremors.

Checo notices Christopher’s wobbling and pulls him beneath the shade of a banana tree. Steadying Christopher’s elbow he lowers him to sitting. He picks a banana handing it to Christopher. “Eat. Banana trees were planted by pirates. We can thank them for the banana, mango and papaya on the island.”

Checo drops to sitting, Indian style, next to Christopher.

Feeling like an invalid Christopher slowly unpeels the banana. He asks “How did you come to
Islas Tres Marias
?”

Out of the corner of Christopher’s eye is a flash. Green and blue, a blur in a steep dive hurls at them screeching a high pitched warning.

Without thinking Christopher throws himself onto Checo.

“Watch out. “Arghhh,” he screams as his ribs make their own screeching protest. The banana flies out of his hand.

When they are not hit by the incoming projectile Christopher lifts his head. A parrot watches him. Hovering in the air by Checo’s bicep, she clutches Christopher’s banana in her talons.

Slowly, agonizingly Christopher pushes himself off Checo’s lap. Ribs grating, Christopher grinds his teeth to keep from groaning.

The parrot drops the banana, landing on Checo’s shoulder. Catching the banana mid-air Checo watches Christopher. Taking back the banana Christopher asks, “Did I over-react?”

The parrot rolls her beak under Checo’s chin. He grips her curved beak pinching and tugging his greeting. Her yellow head, cocked sideways, gazes at Christopher. He returns her stare with wonderment. Offering her a piece of banana, he asks, “Have you named her?”

Checo rubs the bird below her formidable beak, scratching the soft downy feathers of her neck. “I call her
Ave Bonita
, Sweet Bird.”

Christopher finishes the banana feeling steadier. He hesitates, than asks again, “How did you end up here? I mean on the island, in prison?”

Checo’s growls, “Do not ask inmates how we ended up on
Islas Tres Marias! Comprende
?”

Christopher drops his head embarrassed.

The silence stretches.

Checo sighs. “I was a professional
Futbol
player.” Another pause while he scratches
Ave Bonita’s
chest. She coos softly. Checo’s voice is rough with emotion when he continues. “I was injured… drunk… jewelry store………… motorcycle cop… accident…
Islas Tres Marias.”
Checo blows out air; frustrated, embarrassed and tired.

Christopher doesn’t know what to say. He mumbles, “Thanks Cheeco.”

With a grunt Checo stands. In a flash of green
Ave Bonita
flies to a tree branch. Offering him a hand, Checo pulls Christopher to standing. Christopher grinds his teeth and steadies himself.

Leaning in Checo gives Christopher a penetrating glare. “Listen
gringo
. My name is ChecKO, not Cheeeco. Got it? ChecKO.”

Christopher nods, “Got it.”

Muttering Checo marches off. Christopher hurries to catch up. The trail coils deeper into the forest. Sunlight slants through trees and green leaves. The forest is filtered in golden light and lush greenery. The air is alive with golden beams and each leaf etched in a diffuse glow is another wonder. A day filled with wonders and horrors.

Shaking his head Christopher continues down the dirt path ending in… shacks. The canvas tents surrounded by jungle are nothing like the thick adobe walls of the church or the town surrounded by security fencing. He follows Checo inside. The screen door slams behind him.

A
half hour before dawn, a damp darkness clinging to his dreams, Christopher wakes in a panic. A voice thunders, “Marcos! Get your ass up and out here now!”

Christopher tumbles to the floor. He gasps at the pain while leaping to his feet. Pushing open the screen door the first thing he sees, Checo’s stormy face. Christopher winces. A double duty grimace encompassing the pain of his ribs and the trouble he’s caused.
Ave Bonita
adds her own “ACAWK” stalking the tree branch punctuating Checo’s upset.

Hands on his hips Checo bellows. “Do you think you can wander on to the job site when you please? We walk out together and work until 3PM
. El Jefe
will punish us all because you couldn’t get out of bed on time!”

Christopher nods, making eye contact, “It won’t happen again.”

Checo takes a calming breath. “No one in my crew has been cut by
El Jefe’s
whip.”

“I understand.”

Checo says, “I don’t ever want to talk about this again.”

His lips sealed Christopher nods.

Ave Bonita
puffs her chest filling her feathers with air. She squawks making sure Christopher knows she holds him accountable for Checo’s upset. Walking into the still dark jungle, Christopher can just make out in the shadows Checo’s Jaguar pacing at his side. Dawn approaches with a pale light.
Ave Bonita
sails ahead in the shadowy growth. The trail moves up a gentle slope.

At the equipment shed Christopher finds duct tape and wraps his torso, immobilizing his ribs. The attendant hands each man a tool. Risking putting a hand on Checo’s arm, he warns, “You’re late. Fat Luis looks for you.”

Checo nods, giving Christopher a hard stare. To the group he announces Checo announces, “Today we swap out the salt pumps.”

Each man carrying supplies follows Checo the trail becomes whiter with salt. The granules crunch under Christopher’s feet as they approach the plateau. The pits are long and narrow
. Solid white
! Christopher stares in surprise.
White as fresh snow
.

Several inches of spring water feeds into the designated pits. Pumps pour in water softening the encrusted salt. Christopher immediately understands the problem. Salt dust combined with island humidity and spring water has frozen salt to bolts on the pumps.

He watches the crew struggle to free the bolts. By the time the grip of petrified salt is broken the men are fatigued. Christopher shuffles thru the pile of equipment. Finding a length of pipe he slips it over his wrench handle. The added length gives him more torque and he easily frees the bolt. Soon every man on the crew has extended the length of their wrench.

Checo slaps Christopher on the back. “Explain this to me.”

“Argghhh. Ouch. My ribs! Don’t touch me again and I’ll explain it to you.” Christopher leans into the pipe, “Extending the length of the wrench provides torque.”

Checo laughs. “I was a professional athlete,
amigo
. I don’t know this mechanical word. Explain ‘torque’?”

Raising his eyebrows Christopher replies “Torque. Umm. Torque creates twisting power.”

Amused, Checo slaps him on the back again. Christopher moans. Checo’s several steps into his stride. Christopher shakes his head and calls out. “Wait. Why didn’t anyone add length and torque before?”

Checo grins. “I told you
amigo
. These guys are criminals. They know how to play cards, steal, distill agave making tequila, grow marijuana and beat the crap out of you.”

Christopher shrugs. “You mean instead of acquiring skills that translate into work these guys planned their slash and grab robberies.”

Checo smiles revealing a tooth framed in gold, “Yes. Now you understand my problems.”

Mid-morning Fat Luis comes by to inspect the work. Checo pulls a reluctant Luis out of the jeep for a demonstration of torque. He twists a frozen bolt with the extended wrench. “Observe my invention! Lengthening the wrench gives me power. ‘Torque.’“

Hearing Checo’s explanation Christopher smiles, amused.

Fat Luis grumbles, “
El Jefe
will be pleased.” Lumbering back to the jeep the effort creates a line of sweat down the back of Luis’s uniform.

As the heat of the day builds Christopher’s body is lost in the work. In the muggy glare, sweat pouring he understands why these men are emaciated. His mind wanders.
Martial arts tells me I have the resources to master each day, each problem. Just like adding length to the wrench handle… If I can perform daily tasks in new ways…… maybe an escape plan will evolve.

Master Jojo’s voice echo down the corridors of time, “Christopher, strength is an element of mastery. The totality of mastery is morphological field formed by truth, acts of power, the alignment of your words and actions. Your congruency ignites positive possibilities and magnetizes beneficial circumstances.” He stomps the practice staff on the floor adding, “The mastery of martial arts.”

Leaning his weight into the extended wrench handle Christopher thinks
I need to heal, gain strength and figure out what Master Jojo meant. Prison schedule ends at 3PM. We are free to walk the island. Yesterday I saw banana and coconut trees. There may be more food to find
. Looking around he sees hunger on all their faces.
Even Checo, a leader, looks hungry.

• • •

He has found wild chickens! He spends Sunday, always a free day on the island, fashioning his hen house. Arranging rooster’s visits evolves into a thriving egg farm. He’s started a garden. Additionally several times a week he harvests bananas, papayas and mangos. Sundays he prepares fruit salad and scrambled eggs. He shares the brunch with Checo.

Selling eggs, saving the
pesos,
will fund his escape. But each morning he finds himself chasing off inmates hungry for food. Working manual labor sucks up calories. Prison food consists of rice and beans and more rice and beans. Inmates are half starved.

They might pick fruit off a tree if it’s handy. Most spend free time drinking, smoking, playing cards, or distilling the pina of the agave to produce tequila. Growing and distributing marijuana, the group culture dictates these behaviors. As the
gringo
Christopher is exempt.

Before the sun comes up Christopher is standing by his chicken coop. It doesn’t take much to fight off men scrawny with hangovers. A sweeping kick, a thrust of his palm connecting with a nose, stomping on a foot; eventually inmates take the easier route and buy the eggs.

Christopher says, “I’ll set up a rotating system. Everyone will have opportunities to purchase eggs on a schedule.” Sunday as he and Checo shovel in eggs and fruit he’s inspired. “Hey
amigo
, if I pay you twenty-five percent of my profits for your protection will you put the word out? I could use another deterrent keeping the inmates from stealing my eggs and vegetables.”

Checo grins. His gold tooth flashes. He whistles for
Ave Bonita
to join him. A blur of green and blue she lands on his shoulder. He hands her a chunk of banana. Cocking his head eye to he whispers, “What do you think Sweet Bird shall we help the
gringo
?”

Fluffing her chest feathers
Ave Bonita
sings, “Sweet Bird, Sweet Bird.”

Checo looks at Christopher. “
Si amigo
, we’ll help you.” He waves his finger, “On one condition.”

Christopher stiffens, his momentary joy leached from him in the blink of an eye. “The condition?”

Checo slaps his shoulder. “Eggs,
hombre
, I want two or three eggs a day.”

Christopher smiles and extends his hand. “Deal.”

As a final discouragement to thefts Checo announces, “Anyone stealing eggs will never again be eligible to purchase eggs, barbeque chicken or garden items.”

Watching the routine, putting the pieces of prison life together, it’s not a leap of imagination to conclude there is a short expiration date etched on his life. Watching Daniel’s beating he promised himself to fly under the radar. He will not draw attention to himself with fights or drinking. And Checo takes the kudos for any invention or creative solution he designs. It brings a smile to his face watching Checo hog the glory.

The only
gringo
on the island, this status alone makes him stand out. Beaten and kidnapped, by the police! His car hijacked. Brought to the island on charges never filed and without a foundation in reality, he is a messy problem for the prison bureaucracy. Eventually they will kill him. Problem solved.

Betrayals, deceit, beatings: The circumstances leading to his incarceration replay over and over. He cannot find the pause or stop button. First a burning sensation in his gut and he grits his teeth, tightly shut. Nothing stops momentum of fire pouring through him. Outrage singes muscles. It burns through veins and arteries. Countless times a day he is singed by his outrage. He does not know how in the world to contain or release his violence.

After work he takes to the trails running. He channels anger that will not be denied.  Other inmates babysit bootleg stills transforming the agave plant into a rough version of tequila or harvest marijuana farms deep in the island foliage. Christopher runs the trails. He hunts food to fuel his strength. Running teaches him the topography of
La Luna.
The gift of running; anger spills from him in sprays of sweat that disappear instantly in the semi-arid atmosphere.

While he has found an abundance of food he has not been able to find Daniel
.
The prison population located and stationed across the island. Inmates harvest agave on the northern side of the island. They are located near the dense growing areas. Prisoners harvesting the salt, west of the town and dock, are stationed near the salt pits. At every location supplied with dormitories, mess tents, and supplies Christopher inquires after Daniel. Paths connecting the groups are interspersed throughout the island. Daniel has vanished.

Recalling Daniel’s soft voice his warning haunts him. “No status or role can keep you safe on
Islas Tres Marias.
”