We snaked along a lonely, unlit back road. The woods that surrounded us were etched in black ink, against a deep purple backdrop. The blackness was speckled with silver moonlight.
Our headlights cut the path. Tony and Cabezón were in the backseat. Pelón and I were up front. Pelón drove. I was wet to my knees and cold.
It had been three or four minutes since we got away from the river, but I was still out of breath.
Tony said, “We fucking blanked ’em, Pelón. I can’t believe they laid down so easy.”
Pelón stiffened at the wheel. “Tranquilo, nene. We ain’t done yet.”
“Fuck yes, we are. They ain’t stopping us now.” Tony put his hand on my shoulder. “Ready to count some money, G?”
I pushed his hand off, but did not look back at him. I heard Tony lean back in his seat.
“Now it gets easier,” he said. “I need a light.”
Tony’s elation turned the screw for me—the fact that he could even pretend to be at peace and satisfied, so soon after the horror of what he did to Roach and Chulo. I don’t know why. I twisted in my seat to look at Tony and say something. I don’t know what. Maybe I meant to curse him. Maybe I wanted to blame him for my own actions.
When I turned, I saw Tony’s greasepainted clown face all white, with the big red smile painted on, turned all the way up. The rock-and-roll shades were cocked at an arrogant angle on the top of his head. A celebratory cigar was pinched erect between his teeth. The depth of Tony’s eyes was there, even in that dark interior, connected to me like we were fifteen again.
He said, “It gets easy now. Doesn’t it?”
And that’s when Cabezón pulled the trigger on a .357 Magnum that must’ve been stashed in the backseat. The fucking thing detonated like a whole universe being born. And poor Tony missed it. He never saw a thing. His brains burst out the other side of his head in the rough shape of a thick black rose in bloom. What remained of Tony’s head snapped limp as the gray matter, which once contained his thoughts, smeared and peppered the backseat, the ceiling, the side and rear windows. The clown smile flipped upside down and the cigar dropped as Tony’s face became a mask of instant self-grief.
I screamed.
Cabezón swung the Magnum at me. I threw my left like a boxer and jerked to the side just enough to swat the barrel away and feel the fire of a second discharge burn the back of my hand, the back of my wrist, my forearm. I felt the heat of it on the side of my face. The POP! was so loud, it cracked my eardrum. I grabbed the barrel with my right and pushed it away from me.
Cabezón pushed back and tried to point the smoking barrel. He cocked the hammer, and on instinct, because I’d seen it on TV once, I slipped my thumb into the space between the hammer and the firing pin. Cabezón gritted his teeth and squeezed. The hammer snapped onto my thumb. I winced, but the gun didn’t fire. Then the Magnum jerked free from my grip. I fell back into the dash. I rebounded toward Cabezón, arms out, only to catch an explosion at an angle across my chest.
The pain was shocking, unbelievable and immediate, even as my body flew backward into the dash. Still, I understood that Cabezón was about to bring that Magnum back down, and point it at my forehead.
I flopped myself, with all my weight and all my pain, against Pelón, and the steering wheel flipped 180 degrees. The car cut across the road at an impossible angle, tires screaming over the double yellow line, across the edge of the road, over the gravel on the side, down an embankment. I think now that Pelón must have tried to throw the wheel back toward the road, because the car flipped like it had no weight at all. We rolled, turned, and crashed into each other like lottery balls.
Metal crunched. Glass turned to dust. Somewhere in the backseat the gun went off. I thought I saw Pelón fly through the driver’s-side window, but then my head slammed into something, and everything was painted black.
It ain’t like you think over there. Saint Peter doesn’t wait by the entrance. Neither does Satan. I did hear music. Ancient, childish music. Simple, but not crude. I can’t say if it was harps. But everything was crisp and clear, like when you try on prescription glasses for the first time. Except that isn’t the sense I’m talking about.
I spun, like when you fall asleep, or maybe fall in love. There was fog. I recognized the music. I was going in circles.
I was at Coney Island again, on the merry-go-round. The horse was wooden, but it had a heart that pumped buckets of blood. The beast twitched between my legs.
I saw my father. He stood by the side and watched me go round. He still wore the suit that he was buried in, but he was not dirty, and there were no maggots. I wanted to call to him, to get off the carousel.
A poem formed on the blackboard of my mind:
Remember when I was a crow,
Perched at the end of a limb,
At the edge of a forest
Of headstones,
And you dropped to one knee,
Because you thought you were alone?
The merry-go-round spun faster. My father became a strobe. He winked. And then he was gone. The music got loud. The horse began to snort. It arched its muscles like a giant bow that would make an arrow out of me. The spinning got faster. I floated to the surface.
When I came to, I was facedown. My face pressed into what had once been the ceiling of the car. I was disoriented and did not immediately know where I was, what had happened, or, for that matter, who I was. All that existed was ignorant consciousness. Awareness of nothing.
But then, I felt something warm on the back of my neck, heavy and thick as ink. I tried to move, and it was as if my body did not understand what I wanted it to do. Finally, like some insect when it breaks its cocoon, I was able to move my arm. And then I touched what was on the back of my neck, and understood what it was. I didn’t scream. It was too late for that.
Tony’s corpse was on my back, bleeding onto me. I struggled out from beneath him, and pulled myself from the wreckage, through the tight opening that had once been the front windshield. I scraped myself on the twisted, jagged metal and shattered glass.
I threw up while still on all fours, heaving until I had nothing left, just air and acid that burned my throat in a way that confirmed that I was still alive. This was not Hell.
My chest hurt. I pulled myself up, leaned against the car like a drunk, looked around. Nothing. No bodies where they had been thrown from the car. No money bags. Pelón and his brother were gone, like true thieves.
There were no witnesses around. No sound of police in hot pursuit or an ambulance. Nothing. Nothing but the trees, and the sound and smell of the trees, and the stars, and the slight, faint, unhappy moon. Slowly, in excruciation, I peeled off the gorilla suit. It was heavy with river water, my sweat, and Tony’s blood.
Beneath the costume I wore black jeans, a T-shirt, and a bulletproof vest Coltrane had given me as part of our deal. I removed the vest and looked at the Magnum-sized dent in it, felt it with three fingers, and dropped it to the ground.
I peeled my T-shirt up and looked at myself. A magnificent bruise the size of a large grapefruit had formed on that part of the chest reserved for pledges, where a child believes his heart is. The skin was unbroken. I touched it. It was so tender, I almost yelled and had to gnash my teeth to absorb it. At least I was intact.
The knife I bought at the army/navy surplus store was still sheathed and fastened to the holster on my calf.
I got down on all fours again and looked inside the car. Tony, the clown, faced me, his sunglasses lost in the tumble, his eyes open, but lifeless, like stars gone black. His face was stiff already in the horrified expression of his final moment. I pulled him from the wreckage and it hurt, because of my injuries, because of his, because of the broken glass. A smell of shit and piss came from the corpse. I loved him so much.
I pulled Tony from the wreckage completely and rolled him onto his back so he could face the stars. Some of what remained of his brain leaked out of the opening in the side of his head into the wet grass. I kneeled by his body, and felt a new pain in my stomach, but I held it down with my eyes closed. I watered, but held it down. I put my mouth next to Tony’s ear, near the entry wound that smelled of gunpowder, and burnt flesh, brains, and blood. I talked to him softly and told him the things I never said. I prayed a quick prayer for his soul, then kissed his forehead. I closed his eyes for him, and kissed his forehead again. I didn’t want to leave him. He was my brother. But he was already gone.
I stood, a little stronger, and looked around. Tony’s body was still warm, which maybe meant I had not been knocked out for very long. The killers might be close. I walked up the hill to the road, and followed the path cut by the car, where it had disturbed and upturned the earth. Nothing in either direction, except dark horizons. It occurred to me that Pelón and his brother would not take the road, since police were certain to scour the area, and they would not want to be seen out here at night, in the middle of nowhere, carrying money bags. The wreckage would not be visible to any cars on the road, so unless some helicopter searched this particular area, the wreckage would remain undisturbed and unnoticed for a while.
I looked down the hill. Tony looked hopeless down there next to the car. Ridiculous in that clown getup. Not at peace. I looked along the line of trees that formed the edge of the forest at the bottom of the hill. I walked down the hill, searched the earth for some sign of the villains, some trail of blood or torn clothing. Footprints. Something. I found nothing.
I walked along the edge of the trees for a spell, where the forest began, and still saw nothing. It occurred to me that they could not have made so much headway, because Pelón limped, and the crash must have injured one or both of them. I turned back until I returned to where the car and Tony lay, and it was there that I realized they must have headed straight into the woods.
I cut into the trees, downhill, and strained my eyes in search of some evidence. The land sloped downward for a bit, then turned sharply up. It was hard to walk. Much of the land was covered by thorny bushes that grabbed and tried to ensnare you, cut you, slow you down. A fever grew inside me, and I did not tire. For the first time since childhood, I was afraid of nothing. The land sloped upward, and drew my sweat. I knew that if they came this way, the terrain would drain them. I picked up my pace, looked, and listened.
I felt strange. I realized that I could not hear out of my left ear very well. I heard ringing, but it didn’t bother me; it didn’t discourage me. My eyes were sharp and I saw in the dark. I felt like a bloodhound. Like I sensed my prey with faculties that I never knew I inherited.
I climbed the hill and looked, and as I neared the top, I heard something. I stopped and listened, and at first I did not capture it. I stood very still. I looked around. Then I heard it again.
An animal?
I listened. I recognized it now. Spanish. Coming from the right. I followed it and stopped when I saw Pelón’s white suit reflect the diffused moonlight. Pelón was sprawled on the ground, his back against a tree, his head cushioned by a money bag.
Cabezón stood over him and argued that they needed to keep moving, that he would help. Pelón shook his head and cursed and held his leg. I saw that Pelón’s leg was broken. A dry white point of bone stuck out from his bloodied pants.
I drew my knife and moved toward them, slow and careful not to step on any twigs or rustle any leaves. I saw everything in silver under the increasing wattage of the moon. I snuck behind a tree, right next to them. I could smell them. Their heat, the aroma of their sweat, the stink of their evil. I wondered where Cabezón’s gun was. Certainly, he didn’t have it out. I figured it must be tucked into his waistband. Pelón was incapacitated. The knife was in my hand, long and sharp. I listened as the brothers spoke Spanish.
“We have to tie it with something,” said Cabezón. “We have to continue.”
“That won’t solve anything,” said Pelón. “The pain is too great. We are cursed.”
“I’ll go find a doctor.”
“Not even a babalao can help us now!”
Cabezón said, “Stop it with your voodoo!”
“We sealed our fate.”
I jumped from behind the tree and rushed. Cabezón must have been descended from warriors, because he turned in time to see, then threw his forearm up to block me, which worked, because our forearms knocked into each other like two clubs, preventing me from stabbing him in the neck. He slapped me with his other hand in a way that he must have practiced on palm trees in Puerto Rico, because his hand was rough and hard, and the force was so powerful, it knocked the rest of the hearing out of my left ear. I went down.
Cabezón reached in his waistband for the gun handle, but I flung my right leg, caught him on the knee so that it snapped like a piece of hickory. I dove as Cabezón collapsed next to a fallen tree. The gun was in his right hand. It slammed against the trunk of the tree, and I was on top of him before he could raise it again. My left was on Cabezón’s wrist, pressing it against the bark, trying to snap his forearm, so he would drop the weapon. Maybe it was instinct, but Cabezón used his other powerful hand to dig into the bruise on my chest, even though he could not see it under my T-shirt. I screamed, swung the knife down with fury, and drove the blade through Cabezón’s forearm, nailing him to the fallen tree.
He cried, “¡Maldiiiitoooo!!!” and the Magnum flopped out of his hand. Cabezón kicked and threw his free arm and legs like a cockroach that’s been hit with the spray, trying to get to the knife handle, but I was on top of him with my knee in his neck. I pulled the knife from his arm and tossed it out of anybody’s reach. Then I jumped for a rock that was about the size and weight of a heavy bowling ball.
Pelón said, “Eddie, no!”
I dropped my knee into Cabezón’s chest before he could get himself up, and brought that heavy rock down upon his head. Again. Then again. Then again, as Pelón cried out and reached. The skull only cracked loud the first time. After that, each blow sounded like a thump. Cabezón’s head became soft with every shot, like wet earth. Every time I lifted the rock, his face shone in the platinum moonlight and he looked more deformed, until the final blow, when he no longer looked human. He was transformed into a toupee-wearing monster. It was as if that rock revealed what was underneath. I rolled the rock into the dark downhill.
Pelón crawled onto his brother’s corpse and howled.
In Spanish he said, “Look at what we did! Look!”
I jumped and grabbed the knife and the gun, but Pelón was not after those. Instead, he cried so deep, so hard. The sound was almost unnatural. It infected me. I fell to the ground next to the brothers and cried. I wept so hard it wrenched in a way that had nothing to do with the physical world. Pelón and I sobbed together, almost in harmony. After a time we subsided to just quiet llantos. The trees swayed and creaked in the breeze.
Finally, Pelón spoke: “I knew this day would come. I knew it that day we killed your father.” He rubbed his face, his eyes. He nodded as if looking at a kaleidoscope of his life. “La bruja. She tole me. She say, ‘The evil you seek you must not do.’ ‘Why?’ ‘The seeing eye will make you pay.’ I say, ‘Give me protection.’ She laughed and said, ‘There is none. The truth shines in the dark.’ ”
Pelón looked at me. “Eddie, when I saw you between the cars that day, you was just a little boy, and you saw what I did. I knew you was never gonna feel right until you collect.” He rubbed his hands together. “I tole the bruja, ‘I saw him. I saw the eye. Can I cut it out?’ She tells me, ‘If you use you own hand, it will multiply your suffering.’ So I waited. I looked for you when you got big. I found you and I pulled you in. I wanted you with me, where I could watch you. I brought you into this work, praying, making offerings that somebody else would take care of you. A homeowner. A cop. Another títere. If somebody could just catch you where you don’t belong and shoot you. Or maybe you kill somebody in a robbery and you go away forever. I wanted you to disappear from this world.”
Pelón shook his head. He lifted his cane, turned the handle, and slowly pulled a long, shiny stiletto concealed within the rod. I leapt to my feet and tightened my grip on the knife and the Magnum.
Pelón let the stiletto reflect the moon. “I could have used this on you at any time. But I know it was pointless against you.” He resheathed the knife and tossed his cane away from himself. “My brother didn’t believe me. The armored truck? When I signaled that the police were coming so you all go inside? There was no police. I knew they had another guard inside the truck. I wanted you to be the first to go in and catch that bullet between the eyes. You was always the first inside. Remember? And you were supposed to go first that day too. But you never went. Instead”—Pelón held up his claw—“I lost pieces of myself as we went along. You was always destined to be the cacique.”
Pelón pointed at his brother’s corpse. “And now you see? You see what happens when you don’t listen to the voice of God?”
“Why did you kill my father?”
Pelón shook his head. “My brother and me, we had this plot. We buy properties and torch them. You father, he was the fireman. He started the fires and we collect the insurance. He wanted a bigger piece. So my brother and I, we decide we hire somebody else.”
“That’s it?” I said. “That’s why he died?”
Pelón said, “Is there an answer that’ll make you satisfied?”
Neither of us looked at each other. Neither did we look at the corpse. We just stared into the dark earth.
Pelón said in Spanish, “Everything comes to an end.”
I made eye contact with him. “Yes.”
He looked at the gun in my hand. “At least leave me a final dignity, Eduardo. You can take the money.”
“That isn’t what I came for.”
Pelón looked me in the eye again. “I know. But you and me is even now. Arrepiéntete. Repent.”
I stood over Pelón. The gun was in my hand. He was on his knees now next to his brother, waiting, eyes pleading. I paused. Then I turned the handle toward him, and handed him the gun. I waited. Pelón did not shoot me.
I sheathed my knife, and began down the hill, in the opposite direction of the point where I entered the woods. Five minutes later I heard the shot crack and echo across the dark silence. I paused for a second of grief over Pelón, which surprised me. Then I hiked and I sweated, and it was all woods, trees, thorny bushes, and soft, moist leaves underfoot.
I came upon a group of deer as they watered themselves at a stream, and froze. They stood in place, in silence, and watched me. They stopped drinking and stared at my strange form. I stared at theirs in a standoff of mutual wonder. Suddenly, without warning, the deer exploded into a sprint. Agile movements that barely touched the earth. They vanished into the darkness.
I dropped to my knees at the edge of the water and saw my reflection. So much blood had flown in the car and next to that fallen tree that it was all over me, all over my face, my T-shirt. I stuck my head in the water and washed my face and drank. The water was cold and flavorless and I drank until I was full. I felt tired, but I continued. After a long time the forest began to change. The edge of it became purple. The sky became purple, then violet, then red, orange, yellow. I headed east, and after another long time I found a clearing, and then a road.
In the early-morning mist I came upon a home at the edge of a suburb. I watched from the bushes as the family left for a day at school and the office, and was relieved that the husband was a large man, about my size. I let myself into their home through a kitchen window that faced the backyard and put on a flannel shirt and a hat and sunglasses that belonged to the man of the house. I watched the car in the driveway next door for twenty minutes.
Relying once again on the shit I learned on the streets of West Town, I walked out the front door, went straight to the car as if I owned it, jimmied the door open using a bent wire hanger from the house, hot-wired it, and drove myself toward Chicago. I found the Loop FM and left it there. They played a classic about rock and roll itself, by Neil Young, and when he launched into a guitar solo, I knew that Little Tony was with me on that road.