The Transmigration of Bodies (7 page)

And she left.

The Redeemer leaned back against the wooden table by the bed and tried to look Baby Girl over with a professional eye, but it was hard since what he really wanted was to sit and hold her hand. So that was what he did. She was cold but still a little soft.

We’ll get you cleaned up, young lady, he said.

He stood, smoothed her skirt, closed her eyelids all the way, combed her eyebrows. He found an iron he hadn’t used in months, carefully removed Baby Girl’s cardigan and ironed it on the table and then put it back on.

What else? He knew there was more but he had no desire to do those things and didn’t know how. He’d ask Vicky to help. He pulled out his cell: no signal.

He went out to the street, arranged to go pick up Vicky, then called the Neeyanderthal. Get over here, it’s almost time.

The Redeemer was about to go back into the Big House when he saw Three Times Blonde turn the corner. He stood waiting for her at the entrance and, when she arrived, gestured with his hands to say Huh?

Three Times Blonde tossed her head and said Seeing as you’re so useless…

She took him by the hand and pulled him indoors. She walked in front, smiling at him—this time most definitely at him—with her little pantyline.

Before going into her place the Redeemer said Let me lock up.

Like you have treasure in there, she said, not knowing that today more than any other day he would have happily stabbed someone to protect what was inside.

He turned the key in his lock and went to Three Times Blonde’s place; she took him to her room and pointed to the bed. Lie down.

The Redeemer lay down and in the time it took him to wriggle out of his clothes she’d taken off all hers. That was the first time he’d seen every bit of her, a burning miracle of flesh. He thought he might come just from staring at her waxed lips, her landing strip; that he might come in the anticipation of sucking her breasts, which looked larger and more obliging than last time; that he might come just from envisioning the feel of her ass in his hands and the way he’d lay her down on the bed and this time, yes, o thank you most holy saint of horndogs, finally they would fuck; and he tried to get up but she said No: I said lie down!

He lay down and watched Three Times Blonde touch herself with both hands; then she knelt on the bed and slid him into her mouth.

The Redeemer clutched at the sides of the mattress as she ran her mouth and hands over his cock. He wanted to say Stop, but never ever ever ever would he tell her to stop, and just in time she pulled him out and said There. She opened the little box of condoms she’d placed on the dresser and as she took one out the Redeemer said Weren’t you scared of going out on the street?

What scares me is the stupid shit people are doing on the street. Not being there.

And she put the condom on him.

Don’t do a thing, she said.

She knelt over the Redeemer and began very slowly to lower herself down so that he entered her. He could feel his cock changing temperature as it made its way inside. Three Times Blonde began moving in circles, moving almost without moving, from the inside out. Then she let herself fall over him, brushing his chest with her nipples, and slipped her tongue into his mouth, and he ran his hands down her back and held her hips, which never stopped grinding. Everything was better. She was better, life was better, this woman wetting herself with his cock—nothing better could possibly occur in the rest of his everloving life. He made no attempt to show her what he could have done, and she fucked him at her own sweet speed, all by herself, until she straightened back up and came as if her bones were going to burst through her skin, arms back, stuttering one single vowel with each spasm. Then she fell back on top of him and he rocked her hips with his hands, and she continued to come in little splinters, in quick intakes of breath, until he too was done.

What colors did you see? he asked.

Black, she said.

He heard noise outside. His other instincts activated immediately; he moved Three Times Blonde gently, got up, put on pants and shirt, and left.

Dolphin was inside the Big House. He was bent over the Redeemer’s door trying to work the lock with a credit card. By his side, the Unruly looked on anxiously.

What’s wrong, Chief? the Redeemer asked.

Dolphin turned, looked the Redeemer over from head to bare feet, and said You didn’t tell me you were bringing her over here already. Didn’t even give me a chance to leave her a little token of appreciation. You go on back to whatever you’re up to, don’t mind me.

Fraid you can’t do that, Chief.

Dolphin straightened up with difficulty and gazed into the Redeemer’s eyes.

Trust me, kid, I got your back.

And lightly palmed his cheek several times, pat pat pat.

The Redeemer sensed his black dog there behind the door, silent, hulking, like the very first time he appeared, when Dolphin had said exactly the same thing, years back.

He wasn’t the Redeemer back then; back then he was nothing but a brickshitting ambulance-chaser carving out a career in fifth-rate courts.

Some buzzmen had stopped by the pen to beat the everloving life out of a man who was already all bloodied up, a mess of a man kicked more times than he could take. Don’t let him get away, they’d said on their way out, as if the man could do anything but cower in a corner and swell up.

The man was fading in and out and on one of the ins stared back with his single working and seriously crapkicked eye. It was an empty stare, pure light in a pure state, until he managed to force all his strength into it and said something, his pupil dilating. Help me, or Don’t leave me alone, or Touch me, or Release me. He approached the man, who made slow mysterious gesticulations in the air. What, what, what do you want me to do? The man kept his good eye glued on him, and it slowly shrank smaller and smaller then opened wide one last time along with his one last breath and he couldn’t even take the man’s hand, so he crouched down before his face, not voicing a word but with his eyes saying Hold on, hold on, we’ll work it out.

A few minutes later the buzzmen were back, and wordlessly one grabbed the man by the armpits and the other by the ankles and they began to lift. That was when the Redeemer came to life and, in an authoritative stance he was only just learning, stood blocking the cell door and said Hold on now, hold on, we still have to issue the paperwork. The buzzmen glanced at him and took no notice, as tho he were a frail little boy talking to his stuffed animals. They went back to what they were doing and he said No! I said no! We haven’t contacted his next of kin! He’d raised his voice but beneath the words could be heard the start of a sob. This time, for the first time, the buzzmen stared at him with faces that said The fuck does this little shit think he’s doing? and put the body down—a body they knew was not the kind of body you take to the family—and stood clenching and unclenching fists, reconciled to a whole other asskicking, but suddenly it was not their fists but someone else’s hand he felt on his shoulder, and he turned and saw the biggest bastard in the barrio, the one who’d gotten him this gig, who said: Thanks for everything, counselor, we’ll take it from here. And the big bastard smiled at him like a brother.

He thought of the man’s look, which he’d never gotten out of his head; of what he himself looked like in the other man’s eyes; of the fact that some sort of agreement had been reached in that final moment, when he shook his head mechanically side to side, more an entreaty than an order.

The barrio bastard, who at the time had a whole nose and both lungs, gestured affably to the buzzmen to take the body out as tho waving them into his house, then faced him and said it: Trust me, kid, I got your back.

And he decided not to keep shaking his head, not to keep blocking their way with his own body to prevent them from removing the other, not to say a word. And that was the precise instant when he first felt the presence of the black dog, who would never again leave him, who might sometimes slip out of sight, but would always be there.

He learned to live with the cur, at times even to conjure him. Yes, something inside him broke, but that’s what made it possible to go places and make decisions he could never have stomached on his own. His black dog was a dark mass that allowed him to do certain things, to not feel certain things, he was physical, as real as a bone you don’t know you have until it’s almost jutting through your skin.

The Redeemer recalled all of this and brought his face up close to Dolphin’s and said again, nearly touching his nose, Fraid you can’t do that.

Dolphin pulled back a bit and eyed him with scorn.

Why’s that? Because you got your little door locked?

So the Redeemer pulled out his key, slipped it in the lock, turned it, opened the door and stood aside.

Still can’t do that.

Dolphin, face still full of scorn, said You’d drown in a glass of water, and placed a hand on the doorjamb, but at that moment the Unruly grabbed him by one wrist.

The man said no.

Dolphin turned to her in utter astonishment. There had to be some mistake.

We can talk later, now stop fucking around and behave.

But jerking his arm, the Unruly spun him around.

No. It’s time for you to grit your teeth and swallow.

Dolphin was about to say something but she squeezed his wrist a little tighter.

Enough. Don’t be stupid.

Dolphin glanced down at the arm cuffed by his own daughter’s hand for a few seconds, perhaps listening to himself wheeze, then nodded as tho he’d been the one who decided to go. He cast the Redeemer a casual sidelong glance by way of farewell and ambled slowly toward the entrance.

At the door he turned for a moment and said One of these days something terrible is going to happen.

And left.

That it might, the Redeemer thought, But no way am I letting you in to despoil a dead body.

Before going back inside Three Times Blonde’s he went to the Big House door to make sure it was actually locked but first stepped out on the street. Still an overcast morning, he thought. Afternoon, he corrected himself. We’re still alone, not even anyone to offer wrong directions. And then he thought he heard a muffled sound to his left, but didn’t bother to turn and look to see what it was, since nothing but the lingering trace of silent complaint seemed possible in that bleak and stricken city. Or because his black dog wasn’t there to remind him that anything was possible. And he felt a cold wooden crack! on his cranium and saw the sidewalk rush up at his face and then took the tip of a shoe to his ribs and then to his cheekbone and a heel rammed repeatedly into his ear. It hurt like a bitch, he had to start hitting back, beat the motherloving life out of someone, he said to himself, and still hoped he might as he clamped onto a fist that he used to raise himself, but then came another blow and something in him disconnected, like he’d been detached from a rock and was falling through an open pit, dark and icy, a pit with no walls and no end.

He awoke and saw the overcast sky falling onto his eyes. It felt as tho the darkness had gone on for hours, but it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, since there was the Neeyanderthal, who’d said on the phone he was on his way over.

He’d dreamed. Or more than dreams he’d seen snapshots of a devious Egyptian bug clamping gleefully onto his neck.

It looked like a block party, with all the people there outside the Big House: a white-shirted, blue-trousered buzz-cut heap of a man lay sprawled a few inches away; the Neeyanderthal stood effortlessly restraining Three Times Blonde’s slicked-back jack on the ground; and Three Times Blonde herself was peering from the half-open door of the Big House, her face fearful but also sort of fascinated.

No, really, it’s all over, here, let me help you up, Neeyan was saying to the guy. Let me give you a hand.

The little jack made as if to accept the offer and the Neeyanderthal pushed him back down, all the force of his open hand on the man’s face.

Don’t raise your hand to me, you little shit.

And he laughed and said No no, sorry brother, I was being a dick, here, get up, we’ll talk.

Little slick conched himself into his tiny shell of a world there on the sidewalk and the Neeyanderthal smacked him again.

Answer when you’re spoken to.

Enough, Neeyan, the Redeemer said from his own piece of sidewalk. It’s not like the little prick doesn’t have motive.

We’re just having a chat, the Neeyanderthal replied.

The Redeemer himself had been shitkicked in seconds, so who knows how the Neeyanderthal had managed to take the two of them down with no help from anyone. Maybe he should feel guilty for mixing his friend up in fights that weren’t even his, but some time ago he’d decided that if the man wanted to kill himself anyway, why worry about it. I am one lowly sonofabitch, he thought.

From the corner of his eye he glimpsed something stirring, but by the time he turned to look, the heap that had accompanied little slick was already on his feet and wielding a blade with the resolve of a man who doesn’t carry it for effect. He lunged at the Neeyanderthal, who for a split second made no move, his face saying Whatever shall be shall be—like this was some sort of favor—and when the tip of the blade was almost to his stomach he snatched the heap’s wrist with one hand and twisted, but the rest of the body failed to turn at the same speed and you could clearly hear how his wrist went snap before the whole heap of him slammed against the sidewalk.

The Neeyanderthal looked happy, as tho just bathed, or even born.

Maybe it’s not that he wants to die, the Redeemer thought, but that what he wants is not to stumble.

Damn, Neeyan, he said, We ought to get you on TV.

Nah, the Neeyanderthal replied. No point being famous; then they’d just say I never existed.

The Redeemer got to his feet and said to the two bruisers: Go.

The heap crawled a few feet, then pulled himself up and quickly scampered to the corner. Little slick sat still in his own world, exploring the insides of his arms. Finally he stood and went to the Big House door. On seeing him Three Times Blonde slammed it shut.

You think you’re coming in here? Look at you!

What?

There’s an epidemic out there and you got nothing on. I bet you’re already sick.

I had a mask on, whined her beau. But that bastard smacked it off.

There ensued a brief silence. Three Times Blonde cracked the door for a sec and stared him in the eye.

That’s what they all say, she said.

And closed it again.

The minute Not-so-slick took his leave, Vicky turned up. She saw them all in the distance, standing before the Big House, and surveyed the terrain on approach. Before saying a word she followed him with her eyes, then looked at the Neeyanderthal, then at the bloody splash-up on the sidewalk, and finally at the Redeemer.

Want me to tell you about it? asked the Neeyanderthal.

Vicky scanned the scene again with something like a surplus of sadness and began to examine the Redeemer, feeling his neck, looking at his eyes, the cut above one brow, the split lip. The Redeemer’s ribs were still shaking but she didn’t think they were broken.

Open your mouth, Vicky said. The Redeemer opened his mouth and Vicky prodded a canine with one finger.

This tooth’s done for, she said. But the rest of the prick’ll survive.

One more thing, said the Redeemer: Check and see if I have anything here.

He pointed to his neck. Vicky tilted his head a bit and looked. She stood back, looked at him again.

What do you think you have there?

You see a welt?

Vicky looked again.

I see something, but it could be a heel mark. If you were going to die you’d feel awful by now. That’s what I’ve been seeing at the hospital. Things don’t usually escalate this quick, but sometimes these fuckers can remember if they’ve been in a certain place before, and that makes them really hard to stop. Things do more damage the second time around.

If it was merely a question of feeling awful, the Redeemer was infected as shit, but for now he felt the contamination was contained to the places he’d been kicked.

Let’s go look at Baby Girl, he said.

I’m staying here, the Neeyanderthal said. More fun.

He opened the door and at that moment a call came in. Vicky went ahead.

Friend—it was the Mennonite—all good over there?

All good, why?

Just got word the Las Pericas place is on fire.

What the… ? he thought. How would the Mennonite even know to associate Las Pericas with Dolphin?

The place is on fire… And you’re telling me the Castros aren’t behind it, the Redeemer said.

I’m saying the Castros aren’t behind it, the Mennonite replied. Been here the whole time. All the father wants is his daughter back, and at a time like this his boys aren’t about to do anything without his say-so.

Got it. All good here. Anything happens I’ll give you a call.

They hung up. It was time to try Gustavo again. He dialed and found him in. Come on over, the man said.

He walked into the Big House. Inside his apartment, Vicky was washing one of Baby Girl’s arms with a wet rag. Some bodies need to be assessed; this one needed to be dressed.

I’m leaving you here with her, he said. Won’t be long.

Vicky nodded without turning to look, and the Redeemer walked out.

Be right back, he said to the Neeyanderthal.

Where you off to?

Going to see Gustavo, but I need you to stay here.

Bet you’ll smoke a blunt, the Neeyanderthal said.

The Redeemer got into the Bug and drove off. On the way to Gustavo’s he stopped a second in front of Las Pericas. The facade was still standing but the flames inside the place were devouring it all and already licking at the windows. No firemen or onlookers to distract the fire.

He got to Gustavo’s. His was not a hood but a neighborhood, a bit better painted but equally as deserted as where the Redeemer lived. He got out, knocked and after a few seconds a girl came to the door. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen, and was pregnant. Come in, she said quietly, and turned.

The floors, walls, furniture, doorknobs, all of it possessed a soap-scrubbed shine, less a clean house than some sort of mausoleum holding the outside world at bay. Gustavo was sitting in an armchair in the living room. You could tell he’d just come from court because he’d yet to take off his coat and tie. The Redeemer hadn’t laid eyes on him for a couple years. The man was still in shape, but his chin-sag and dark-circled eyes said he’d seen the better side of sixty some time ago. The girl handed the Redeemer a facemask. She looked sleep-deprived or anemic.

Mamacita, bring the attorney here a beer, Gustavo said.

On his way in, the Redeemer had not noticed that behind her was a boy with a baby-walker. Something was the matter with him. He was smiling and moving his legs but not making much progress, his eyes unfocused.

So, you working too?

Fraid so.

At the foot of the sofa sat a metal pail of marijuana. Gustavo took out a sheet of rice paper, then another, and licked the length of both to make one long sheet. He rolled a leisurely spliff as fat as a churro and when he saw the Redeemer eyeing it said I’m not giving you any; feel free to roll your own.

And toed the pail over to him.

I’m good, said the Redeemer.

So. How can I be of service?

The Las Pericas place.

What about it?

It’s on fire.

Gustavo arched his eyebrows and opened his eyes wide but didn’t release the tank of smoke he’d sucked into his lungs. He held it a few more seconds and then, after exhaling, said: God’s will that was, I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.

Why?

Had it coming, that’s why.

Gustavo took another big hit of his spliff and waited, making the Redeemer work for it.

What happened?

They aren’t two families is what happened, he replied: They’re one, or almost, his voice tight with smoke. The two fathers have the same father. That’s what happened.

And he expelled the smoke.

The Castros’ father married on the up-and-up, but one day he got the hots for this girl in the neighborhood, took off with her and started another family. All well and good so far, right? Just the way it is. But then the old fucker went and died, fifteen years or so after he and his second woman had been living together. And that’s when this all started up.

The girl came in with a beer for the Redeemer and Gustavo said Wait.

He stroked her ass and blew her a big smacking kiss. The girl remained motionless.

You’d never met my wife, had you? She’s a saint. Okay, mamacita, now run and make me one of those highballs you’re so good at.

The girl left.

Gustavo—this Gustavo—could never have existed in another age. For the first time in the history of humankind, legions of men his age could fuck like they were decades younger. The things they’ll never discover, these old men who can still get it up, thought the Redeemer. As if there’s nothing to be learned from defeat.

We live in extraordinary times, Gustavo said. People nowadays are aware of so much stuff going on in the world that they can handpick their memories. Didn’t used to be like that, people used to live in whatever world their parents had left them. Some still do, like this gang—holding on and holding on.

To what?

The body. The day of the wake, the other family—the first one—came out, just to pay their respects and say their goodbyes. The widows greeted each another, the boys ignored each other—each family had a teenager almost the same age, see—and that was it. But when the Castros found out they were going to bury him who-knows-where, well that was the fuckin end of good form. Turns out the Fonsecas belong to some sort of sect, call themselves Christians but don’t belong to the church.

It’s always the other guy’s religion that’s a sect, isn’t it? the Redeemer asked, unwisely, since he knew it was best to let people talk without rankling. Gustavo gave him a quick look like he’d had food thrown in his face, took another toke and continued.

After that, no surprises: widow number one asked them nicely not to bury him there, then demanded they not bury him there, but since the other one kept saying no no no, widow one said she wasn’t going to let them do that, she wasn’t the legitimate wife for nothing, they’d see. Off she went, lawyered up, and came back. The Fonseca widow said they better not think they were going to take the body, and the lawyers brought some cops along.

Did they get it?

Well sure—corpse was in their name. Son of the second family didn’t even get his dad’s last name, supposedly to avoid complications. Ha! So they kicked up a fuss, there was back-and-forthing, there were threats, but what I remember best is that kid, Dolphin. Back then he wasn’t called that. The way he clenched his fists and stared at the coffin as they carried it out, his eyes little slits full of rage.

Gustavo leaned forward to check if his drink was on the way but couldn’t see the kitchen from where he sat. The Redeemer could, tho, and saw the girl uncorking a bottle of brandy.

Thing is, he hadn’t left a will, Gustavo continued, And the house where he and his second lady lived was in both their names, but the house they were about to move to was only in his.

Las Pericas.

Right. And ever since then there’ve been legal proceedings to see who gets to keep it, tho I know Dolphin has a key and pokes his head in, time to time. Might just be a good thing it’s burning down. Nobody likes to share money, but it’s easier than sharing a fistful of ashes.

They’d had no Redeemer to lend them a hand, the Redeemer thought.

Well now there’s fewer to share them between, but more ashes to go around.

Eh?

Dolphin’s son died, and so did the Castros’ daughter. And each family has the other one’s corpse.

For a second Gustavo’s eyes popped out of their sockets.

Shoot-out?

Now the Redeemer was the one to enjoy letting the information steep a few seconds, as he took a sip of his beer.

Coincidence.

Gustavo narrowed his eyes.

Those things just don’t happen, he said.

He was tempted to smoke a joint but decided not to ask. It was time to go. He glanced toward the kitchen to say goodbye to the girl and saw her with one hand inside Gustavo’s glass, staring fixedly at the wall while she fingered the ice, as if cleaning it. The scene had the innocence of all unsettling things that take place in silence.

He bought more flowers on his way back and stopped to watch a madman who used to bounce around among the cars until one of them would whack him to the curb. Now, with no traffic, he was walking on the sidewalk.

What you doing? he asked. But the madman only stared as tho the question was idiotic.

He arranged with the Mennonite to make the trade on the corner closest to the Big House. With the way the city was, better to do it quick and out in the open than try to find some other spot. He called Dolphin, too, and told him it was time, that he should head over, but to let him do his job.