The Delivery (18 page)

I make a mental note to reach out to Gunnar Anderson when we stop for the night. He still works in the system, and he could do a run on Brisa’s first name at least. It probably won’t yield much, but it’s better than nothing. From what Mozey has told me it sounds as if she was taken to be raised by that woman and not just kidnapped randomly with some unknown motive. I’m sure they changed her name, if they even ever knew what it was. Gunnar could run age and ethnicity but that would put us in the thousands. Thousands of lost youth, and that’s only LA county. Brisa could be anywhere.

She could be anybody.

I reach my hand out and touch Mozey’s arm. He’s asleep. He’s probably emotionally exhausted. I want to do two things simultaneously. One, I want to start on forever with him, consummate our relationship and then spend the rest of my life with him. And two, tell him it’s over—that we’re completely done. It was a mistake to take it as far as it’s gone. Tell him I’m sorry, drop him off in Mexico City and then just fucking run.

Chapter 27

D
riving into Mexico City at night is like arriving at a vast sea of lights. Once you get past the volcanoes, there is nothing but sprawl that goes on for as far as the eye can see. On the ground it’s a bustle of taxis and small passenger buses with slick, sure-footed drivers screeching on brakes at every single stoplight. Everyone is either rushing or immobile, stuck in perpetual traffic.

The good news is Dale’s Marriot rewards card goes through at the downtown hotel located right by the Angel of Independence. This is a city so large that it has it’s own heartbeat. I consider getting separate rooms but fail when Mozey grabs my hand while the front desk runs the card. I want to be close to him. I don’t want to just deliver him. I want to stay with this package.

The hotel is nice, very cosmopolitan. It’s much fancier than Paradise; there are red velvet pillows on the cushions in the lobby. I’ve got a cold sweat gathering between my breasts and along my upper lip. Once we have sex, I don’t think there’s any turning back. I want to say something, but I’m too weak to protest. Mozey is charging on ahead and dragging me by the wrist. But when we get to the room, he doesn’t attack me. He puts all of our stuff in drawers and tells me I can shower first while he orders room service. I take a long, hot shower, erasing the trip.

We’re almost back to where Mozey started, and it must be emotional for him. I should stop thinking about myself and have some compassion for his situation. When I come out of the shower with a towel wrapped around my head, Mozey is studying the guidebook and pamphlets he picked up at the reception. He’s ordered us hamburgers and French fries and a bottle of wine.

I dip my fry in ketchup and smile at Mozey’s industrious note taking from the tour guides.

“Are we doing some sightseeing?”

“There’s so much to see here, Lana. Prepare to be busy,” he says as he bites into a burger.

“I love that you are interested in this stuff. It really comes through in your art. Did you learn about Mexico on your own or from school? Was your mom into it?”

“
This stuff
is my history, Lana. It’s not like I have a whole lot going for me. I’ve always been autodidactic.”

“I totally get your motive. You don’t have to explain. I’m just trying to compliment you. I envy it. I wish I were more Russian. I couldn’t be more American,” I say as I dip another fry in ketchup and pop it in my mouth.

Mozey showers while I watch TV. He comes out in a towel
again
, probably with the intention of driving me crazy. I just sent an email to Gunnar and another to Janey who still works in the system. I think some of his guilt and pain would be absolved if we could find Brisa. I hope she’s alive. I don’t even want to imagine the alternative.

Mozey stands and stares at me, sitting in the chair. I look down at my night shirt and pajama bottoms with the fry frozen mid-way to my mouth. He sighs out loud, and l look up at his face. He runs his hands through his wet hair and sprays drops every which way. He’s looking at me like he’s hungry, so I inch the plate with the rest of my burger towards him and shrug, my mouth full of food.

“I’m not hungry for that, Lana. I’m hungry for you.”

I look down again to make sure he could really be talking about me. This look that I’ve got going on, wet hair—no make-up, glasses, red face—is the definition of not sexy.

“I really. Really. Really want to fuck you.” He licks his lips and runs his hands through his hair. I love how his mouth is so wide. It makes him look lupine, like he could devour me in a bite.

“Would it be pretend or would it be real?” I ask him, licking ketchup from my pinky. I’m rubbing vinegar into the wound on purpose. His genius plan of pretending hurts my feelings, maybe even more than I first noticed.

He lets out a sigh because I’ve ruined the mood.

“It would help me out if you pretended to be my girl when we go to see my family. I’m probably the only hope of success they have—so yes, I would like you to pretend for me. Other than that, you can do what you want. If you don’t want to be with me, Lana, I can hardly blame you. But if you want to get physical with no strings attached… that’s something I would definitely be into.”

I push my forefinger into my lip, considering his claim. I can no longer tell who’s rejecting who or if we’re even asking for the same thing. No strings attached sounds like casual sex.

“Do you even like me, Lana? Or are you just trying to make sure I’m okay? Because I can handle myself. If you’re just here to patronize me, then you can back the fuck up.”

Mozey moves to the balcony in anger and shoves back the door before stepping onto the cement a hundred feet above the street. He wouldn’t jump, would he? Is he even distressed?

I gulp down the rest of my wine and turn off the TV. Then I pull my wet hair into a haphazard bun. I lean back in the plush chair and close my eyes. I wake up with him standing over me. He looks stressed and angry when he grabs me under the arms and lifts me to standing.

His mouth is on mine within a spit second. His kiss is soft but his hands are holding me too tight. He’s pulls me into bed with him but doesn’t attempt to remove my clothes. He just holds his body to mine and I swear that he kisses me and gently caresses me all through the long night.

When I wake up in the morning, Mozey has his street map spread out all over the table. He’s marking things to see—or do. I can’t tell what he’s up to. I put the pre-fab coffee pack in the coffee maker and head to the bathroom. I shower quickly and pull on some jeans and tank top, throw my hair in a clip and put on some pink lipstick.

Mozey has two mugs of the coffee now laced with packets of dry creamer sitting in front of him.

“Sorry about arguing last night,” he says, leaning in to kiss my forehead and sliding the mug toward me.

“I’m sorry too. Just so you know, consider this a fair warning, I suck at everything.” I take a sip of the coffee and frown at Mozey. He laughs at me while holding the warm mug to his chest.

“What?” I say almost painfully.

He loses it and guffaws, then leaning over brings his hand to his chest.

“You run against the grain so hard. It’s really endearing.”

“Oh,
I
do. Says the rebel muralist, graffiti artist. Are you a
Dibujero
? Or are you not supposed to tell me?”

“Speaking of that, I’m planning a really important piece. I’ve already got it all mapped out, but I’m going to need your help on this and it could be kinda dangerous.”

“I’m in,” I say without even considering it. I’m already here with him, I might as well conspire with him. He
so
is a Dibujero; they must have a code of silence.

“I like your enthusiasm, Doc. We’re going to wear ski masks.”

“Oh shit! Seriously? Are we biting the president again?”

“No, we’re tackling police corruption and the missing forty-three students.”

“Fuck. I heard about that on the news. No shit, huh? What’s our plan for when you get yourself deported from both countries?”

He laughs again and smiles, shrugs his shoulders at me.

“I don’t know. Maybe Russia?”

He reaches into his backpack and pulls out two black sweater-cotton ski masks. I grab the ski mask and pull it over my face then take a sip of my coffee.

Mozey laughs again and then snaps a picture of me.

We have breakfast at Sanborns in the heart of the city. Mozey tells me that Pancho Villa and Emiliano Zapata breakfasted there when they were taking the city.

“But we’re just painting, right Mozey? Not doing anything too crazy?”

Mozey drinks more coffee, his eyes all a-sparkle.

“Revolutionaries come in all different packages these days, Lana. Trust me.”

“But I didn’t come here to make history. I was just going to try to help you reconnect with your family. By the way, have you made any headway or should I take over that project?”

I take a bite of eggs and tortilla chips bathed in red and green sauce. I could get used to eating like this. I already am. I suddenly really like the idea of a little Russian Mexican. I’m daydreaming about mine and Mozey’s features blended together. He’s texting on his phone and constantly checking his Instagram.

“Are you plugged in already? I mean to the street artists here?”

“Are you kidding? It would be stupid not to be. I’ve got to get the right coordinates so that we can be safe. I’ve got to make sure we’re connected for this piece to gain any momentum on the internet.”

“Okay, what’s their last name? I’ll go hit the phone book while you rewrite your manifesto.”

“Whose? Oh, Robles,” he says, barely looking up from his phone. I snag a spicy sausage from his plate and head off toward the bathrooms.

The center of the restaurant opens into a grand room that holds high stained-glass ceilings. I find a payphone and a ridiculous phone book underneath. It looks like there are thousands of pages of
Robles.
I find the name and then just as quickly give up. I
pee in the ornate bathrooms and drop a peso onto the folded napkin by the sink put out by the attendant. I pull some makeup out of my purse and line my eyes with a kohl pencil and smear a red matte lipstick on my lips. If we’re going to be revolutionaries, I may as well look fancy.

Mozey has already paid the bill and is standing outside on the street, talking into his cell phone. He hangs up as I approach him and takes my hand in his.

“There’s a lot of you Robles in the phone book, I say eyeing the street because Mozey looks like he’s waiting for somebody.

“We’ll head out to my old hood tomorrow. Just bear with me through this,” he squeezes my fingers as he speaks to me, his eyes on my lips. I know he wants to kiss me, but all I can think is
what kind of life is this?
I’m not really a rebel, and I’m not cut out for danger and radical statement making. Even if the art is beautiful and even if I admire the sentiment.

I’m about to duck out of the job when a car screeches up, and Mozey opens the door and pushes my head down as we jump inside.

The young man driving speaks in rapid Spanish, and to me, it sounds like Mozey does just fine when he answers him. If our heritage and circumstance were reversed, I couldn’t hold my own in Russian. Not even a sentence. It’s sexy when he speaks Spanish. I already like whatever it is he’s saying. The guys drives like we’re being chased, and I try to grab some scenery as we tear through the old city-center but Mozey pushes my head down as if just driving there we’re already illegal. He pulls a mask down over his face and winks at me. I give him a thumbs up.

“You look like a Mexican wrestler,” I’m saying, but Mozey captures my mouth. His tongue invades my space making any speaking impossible. My heart races with the speed of the car. Pheromones are being released both due to fear and the sight of his hard cock straining through his jeans.

I’m so in love with a boy who was once my client. Who has a sad, dark past with a rebellious spirit to match it. Who doesn’t have a country or really a family to speak of. Who sometimes loves me back with a beauty that’s as detailed as his unique kind of art. I’m a lost cause. I followed Mozey here because he’s all I’ve ever wanted. What if I die doing this or get locked away in jail? I’m invaded by deep longing for my mom and my dad and my crazy, awkward brother. But there’s no time to think as Mozey passes me a mask and a piece of notebook paper with words in Spanish. That’s my part of the mural. I take a deep breath and pull the mask over my face.

The young driver slams on the breaks at the edge of a busy intersection. Mozey grabs my arm and yanks me out of the car. My heart is frog-jumping right out of my chest and up into my throat. Mozey sees the wall and his body relaxes. He throws down his backpack and pulls out a can.

When Mozey is painting the world moves by in slow motion. The paint becomes a natural extension of his hands. He draws forty-three people in as many seconds. Their bodies look child-like, almost like little kids. He starts at the top again and paints in paper bags over their heads. Each bag holds a number from one to forty-three.

I’m moved to tears thinking about how all of these students belong to families. I’m stone cold in my tracks until Mozey looks over his shoulder and jerks his head at me. I look down at the piece of paper in my hands just as it slips and is picked up by the wind. I watch it float away into traffic and know that I barely read it, words I don’t even understand. I freeze, wondering if maybe Mozey will be mad at me.

But then a moment of clarity strikes me as I see onlookers start to gather and snap photos of Mozey. I know the story, I’ve seen it on the news. I can make a statement, and I can make it powerful in the language I know. English it is, people. The soup of the day. We ran out of everything else.
Fuck it.
I grab my can and begin to spray—just like Mozey taught me years ago on my own living room wall.

“43. Where the fuck are they? Deliver or pay the price of our dissension!”
What the heck am I doing? Threatening the Mexican government?

As soon as he’s done, he drops the can and I do the same. He grabs my hand and we run across the street from the intersection. Mozey turns fast, and he jerks me down a side street. He rips off his mask and then grabs mine, pulling some of my hair that got tangled up in it. He ditches his whole backpack in a residential garbage can, and that’s when I realize how serious this is. He never ditches his bag. We run another block until my lungs are on fire and my saliva runs too thick to swallow.

We turn a corner just as a local minibus is pulling up to the curb. Mozey digs in his pocket for change and drags me up the stairs. We walk to the back of the bus, and it lurches forward. His hand slips around my waist and pulls me tightly to him. He steadies me and comforts me in that single gesture. I lean into his chest, inhaling deeply, the paint, the musky smell of his sweat.

“You were amazing,” he whispers into the shell of my ear.

“If by amazing, you mean terrible, then I agree. I’m so sorry I lost it. I’m an idiot,” I lament, rubbing my nose into his neck and feeling the delicious closeness of his hard body. Every muscle fiber, every pore, every little soft hair. I’m in love with all of it, and I’m crazy high on excitement.