The Enigmatologist (13 page)

And if she did come out, that’d be worse. He’d have to be
interesting, funny, charming. The last time he had to impress a girl he was at
a student art show, glass of boxed wine in his hand. His roommate had fixed him
up with a fashion design major, a student award winner, whose work was
comprised of evening gowns made out of restraining orders and Ed Hardy
t-shirts. He charmed her for the first hour, but when he ran out of
conversation material he reverted to talking about his favorite
Cape
Canaveral
episodes and puzzle theory and she left with another artist, also
a student award winner, who constructed sculptures out of mummified pigeons. By
the time he started working for Rooftop, he was out of practice, had forgotten
how to be interesting. And sitting on the barstool, he kept telling himself,
‘Don’t talk about
Cape Canaveral
, don’t talk about
Cape Canaveral
…’
repeating it mantra-like.

Then he saw Rosa standing at the door, radiant,
glimmering, and his thoughts evaporated, were forgotten.

She stood at the door, looking around. John half-stood and
waved exuberantly, childlike. He quickly dropped his hand, embarrassed. Rosa
waved gracefully and floated over, otherworldly. She wore a dark green leather
jacket, and a green, gossamer scarf was wrapped several times around her neck,
hanging loosely around the neckline of her black dress. Soft and black, her
hair was down, brushing her shoulders as she glided toward John. She ran her
hand through it, her fingers piercing the dyed blue streak.

John stood as Rosa reached out to hug him. He hugged her
with one arm and held the bar with his free hand for support, like the moment
had made him lightheaded.

“Hello, John,” she said releasing him. “Lee, are you
keeping John company for me?”

The sheriff took his hat off the barstool next to him and
slid over. “Rosa, why don’t you take this seat? I’ve been keeping it warm for
you.”

Rosa sat between them.

“Uh, Rosa. Hey?” Levi glanced toward the men seated at the
table by the window. “What are…what are you doing here?”

“John invited me out for a drink. Can I get a bourbon
neat, please?” She put her hand on John’s arm. John smiled and leaned in.

“Uh, yeah. Okay.” Levi brought Rosa her drink, staring at
the men in the back.

“Is he okay?” she asked John.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” John said, sipping his
drink. He wanted to relax and forget about the men in the back and everything
they promised. He wanted to focus on Rosa, enjoy the moment with her. She made
him feel alive, like he could fill out a crossword with his left hand while arm
wrestling a polar bear wearing a
luchador’s
mask.

Rosa smiled, sweet but guarded, hiding what really made
her happy. John hoped it could be him.

They talked for a while. He told her about puzzles,
Cape
Canaveral
, made bad jokes. She laughed and touched his arm. John reached
out to touch her, but pulled back. Instead, he smiled and leaned in closer,
until there was almost nothing separating them. Their legs brushed. John
laughed, jerked his leg away, then moved it back. Rosa put her hand on his
knee. John inched his fingers over to touch her hand, excited to feel her skin
under his fingers.

Then he heard a
thunk
.

And quickly turned to the bar.

Ol
’
Bonethumper
lay on the bar in front of him. The words ‘
Ol
’
Bonethumper
’ had been burned into the ax handle with a
magnifying glass, a technique from Sun Burnt Portraiture 202. Levi motioned
toward the back. John swept
Ol
’
Bonethumper
off the bar with his left hand, holding it so it was hidden behind his forearm.

The two men moved toward them, bumping and pushing people
out of their way, causing drinks to spill. Those with wet and boozy hands spun
around, started to say something, but stopped at the sight of the two men
walking with the gait and disposition of men willing to do anything.

“Rosa, get behind me,” John said.

The men stood in front of them. Sheriff Masters and John
slid around, forcing the men to press their backs to each other, trapping them.

“Rosa Jimenez,” one of them said, looking right through
John, “please come with us. We have some questions we’d like to ask you.”

“What do you want with her?” John asked, surprised by the
authority in his voice.

“That’s none of your concern,” he said, not looking at
John. “Ms. Jimenez, I’m not going to ask again. You need to come with us.”

He reached past John with his left hand and clutched her
arm, exposing his gun in its shoulder holster.

“Let’s go. Now,” he said, squeezing.

“Hey!
Ow
!” Rosa cried, as he
yanked her arm.

John was always irritated at something. Rooftop would
tease him, saying it was art school snobbery, but his outward irritability hid
a suppressed rage, fueled by the twice-held-back grade school thug who made fun
of him for not having a dad, the editors that sent him rejection letters,
having to photograph a cheating husband getting dry humped by a mega-church
pastor wearing an inflatable Sumo wrestler suit. He never expressed his frustrations
through violence, instead opting for snide remarks or a misdirected tantrum,
usually when discussing his father, but when the man grabbed Rosa, John
erupted.

He grabbed the man’s wrist and reared back to hit him with
the handcrafted baton.

John
woke on the barroom floor. His mouth was wet and the liquid tasted like iron
and he knew he was tasting his own blood.

“Is he dead?” Levi asked, pointing the gun at the other
man. He leaned over the bar, glancing down at John.

“Keep your gun on him,” John said, pointing to the
sheriff’s man. He reached for the barstools and lifted himself up. His legs
swayed and an older, bearded man helped him stand. John gripped the bar for
support. He wiped the blood from his face with some bar napkins. His perception
seemed compressed and he heard a faint but constant tone. The concussion
symptoms quickly vanished and the world around him glared with the acute sensitivity
of an exposed nerve.

The stench of liquor. The whispers from the drunken crowd
in the bar. A man lay on the floor, his limp body bleeding between empty
barstools and broken bottles. John remembered him grabbing Rosa. He remembered
trying to step in. Then darkness.

John leaned over and said, “Jesus Christ. What happened?”

“That fella knocked you out,” the sheriff said, pointing
to the man on the ground. He pointed to the older, bearded man. “Then Charlie
and the boys went all ‘Whack-a-Mole’ on him. You’d better search that
sonuvabitch
, if you can.”

The sheriff grabbed the conscious man, spun him against the
bar, and began searching his pockets.

“I’m a federal agent,” the man said.

“Mister,” the sheriff said, shoving him into the bar,
“look around. You think anyone here gives a shit about the federal government?”

The man on the floor was lying on his back, one arm
knitted into the legs of a barstool. John knelt by him. Blood ran down the
man’s face, staining his collar. John put two fingers against the man’s neck,
checked his pulse.

“He’s alive. Just unconscious.”

Some of the man’s blood was on John’s fingers and John
rubbed his thumb against them, smearing the blood.

The man’s jacket was open, the gun exposed. John put it in
his hoodie pocket. Another gun was in a holster around the man’s ankle, a
smaller one. The man the sheriff searched had the same guns on him. Neither of
them had any ID.

“Where’s your ID, G-man?” the sheriff asked.

“I’m undercover.”

“Sure. And I’m the King of Las Vegas.”

“Sheriff, this guy’s got a thousand dollars on him,” John
said, counting the cash.

“Same with this here fella.”

John handed his money to the sheriff. Sheriff Masters put
half in his pocket, threw a thousand dollars on the bar. “Looks like drinks are
on these fellas tonight.”

Everyone in the bar laughed, their mouths watering for
their next drink.

“Charlie,” the sheriff said to the older, bearded man,
“I’m
gonna
call the station, have them send Jimmy out
here to get these fellas. Keep an eye on them for me would you.”

“I already called,” Charlie said.

Within seconds they heard sirens. A deputy was followed
into the bar by a couple of paramedics with a gurney. The deputy was in his
early forties. His hair was short, spiked on top and long in the back, reaching
his uniform’s collar. The sides of his head were shaved. Gray whiskers lit his
Fu Manchu mustache.

“Levi, bro, what’s up?” He extended his fist toward Levi.
The bartender rolled his eyes, but gave him the fist bump. “Rosa, what’s up,
mamacita
?”

“Jimmy.” She folded her arms and took a step closer to
John. Her jacket grazed John’s sleeve, and for a second, he was happy.

“Uncle Lee, what’s up?” he said, then saw the man on the
floor. “Fuck! Dude, what happened?

“A bar fight, Jimmy,” the sheriff said. He gripped the
back of conscious man’s shirt and shook it. “I need you to cuff this fella,
take him to the station for processing.”

“Bro, that guy got fucked up,” Jimmy said, pointing to the
injured man. The sheriff grabbed handcuffs from Jimmy’s belt and put them on
the standing man. “That the guy that did it?”

“That would be your Uncle Charlie’s doing.”

The paramedics put a neck brace on the man, rolled him
onto his back. The man on the ground, it wasn’t like it was in video games,
where battered bodies vanished, became points earning you weapons upgrades.
They never showed everything that resulted from the blunt force trauma, the
blood, the surgeries, hospital bills, physical therapy, a lifetime of replaying
the moment in your head and editing it slightly each time, trying to figure out
how the violent confrontation could have been altered or avoided.

John touched his jaw, wiggled it, then his nose, searching
for some sign that he’d been a participant in the fight. But he was unmarked.

“Are you alright?” Rosa whispered.

John didn’t respond, unsure of what to tell her, that he
was fine? was unexplainably uninjured after being punched in the face? that he
felt guilt, fear, and shame that the other man was being hospitalized? Instead,
he shrugged and watched the man being wheeled out.

“Let’s go outside.” Rosa took his arm and gently led him
toward the open door. Her hand on his arm was warm and he let her guide him.

“Dude, who the fuck’s this guy?” Jimmy asked, stepping in
front of them. “Rosa, this guy bothering you? Bro, you bothering Rosa?”

“
Goddamnit
, Jimmy,” the sheriff
said. “Stop Mickey
Mousing
around and do your job.”

“Sorry, Uncle Lee.” Jimmy grabbed the handcuffed man.

“When you’re done booking him, I need you to head to the
hospital. Make sure you cuff that sorry looking
sonuvabitch
to the bed. These boys are ornery.”

“Dude, what do you want me to book them for?”

Sheriff Masters grabbed a drink off the bar and threw it
in the handcuffed man’s face. The man flinched as booze and melting ice hit him
and soaked his collar. “Book them on a ‘drunk and disorderly’.”

Everyone laughed.

“You can’t do this. I’m a federal agent,” the man said.

“Yeah, yeah, keep talking,” the sheriff said.

Jimmy seized the man’s neck, started to lead him outside.

“You’re dead!” the man shouted over his shoulder. “Next
time I see you, you’re dead!”

Jimmy took him to a squad car. The paramedics strapped the
other man to the gurney and wheeled him out.

“Lee,” Charlie said, “me and the
boys’ll
follow. Make sure they make it to the station and hospital.”

“Thanks, Charlie.”

A half dozen men left the bar, following Jimmy. A rush of
fresh air from the open door caused John’s thoughts to move quickly, like they
were unimpaired by the violence, and he connected the sheriff to the bearded
man leaving the bar.

“Charlie’s your cousin?” he asked the sheriff.

“Yup.”

“It must be nice to have a big family,” John said, thinking
about his mom and how it had always been the two of them, and how, for the
first time, he wished that there was someone else.

“You have no idea. You have no idea,” he said, hands on
his belt, smile as wide as a dried-out river bed. “You want the paramedics to take
a look at you real quick?”

“I’m fine,” John said, feeling his jaw and the other
places that should have been sore. He couldn’t explain it. He had taken a
beating, had been knocked unconscious, probably hit his head in the fall. There
should have been some swelling or loose teeth. But his jaw didn’t ache, his
nose wasn’t broken. He really did feel fine.

Sheriff Masters finished his drink in one gulp.

“Well, I’ll leave you kids to it. I
gotta
check all this into evidence.” He swept the guns into his hat. “Then head home.
Shirley’s probably worried sick. John, good working with you. You got my
number. Give me a call if you need anything.”

John dropped the guns he removed from the bleeding man
into the sheriff’s hat. He held the door for Rosa as they followed the sheriff
outside and watched him leave.

Bridge Street traffic cleared for the paramedics as they
drove away, sirens chirping, red lights slicing dirty air.

The crowd went inside, but John stayed on the sidewalk,
staring at the empty space where the ambulance had been parked. Wanting to
comfort him, Rosa put her hand on his shoulder. John flinched, not because she
touched him unexpectedly, but because he was surprised that after all the violence,
she was still there.

John sat on a park bench in front of the store next to the
bar. A green plank along its back was missing, and wrought iron ends bolted it
to the concrete. His mind drifted and he studied the pavement, the places where
the tree roots stretched underground and cracked the concrete. Rosa put her
hand on his thigh. It was supposed to console him, but her touch only reminded
John of everything that had happened.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said. He leaned over
and stared at a flattened cigarette butt.

“That man was hurting me,” Rosa said, rubbing her arm.

“I’m not a violent person. I just reacted.”

“If you hadn’t, I don’t know what would have happened.
Then Charlie and the others…”

“It’s just, ever since I left school, I haven’t been doing
anything for myself.”

“The look in that man’s eyes…”

“Working for Roof, coming here, this isn’t me. It doesn’t
feel like me. It feels like someone else is walking in my skin.”

“If you hadn’t been here, there’s no telling what they
would have done.”

“I feel like there’s something missing from my life.”

“I think we’re all missing something.”

“I’m not a violent person.” John rubbed his jaw, the
places where he’d been hit. “I guess I’m not much of anything.”

“The guys in town are…they’re like Jimmy. They’re crude
versions of middle-aged men, going to high school wrestling matches, the
demolition derby. And the guys that come through town, the ones going skiing in
the mountains, they act like a night with them would be the best thing that
ever happened to me. Or they look right through me, don’t see me at all, but
you, when you look at me…I don’t know, it just…it makes me feel special. No
one’s ever…”

“I’ve never been in a fight in my life. That man…Everyone
standing over him like that. Now he’s in the hospital.” John’s fingers still
had blood on them. But it had dried. He ran his hand over his head, checking
for lumps, signs that he’d hit it against the bar or floor when he fell, but
all he felt were the natural contours of his cranium. And he wondered if he’d
suffered at all during the fight.

“John, it’s okay.” She put her hand on his forearm, rubbed
her thumb against his sleeve. With each thumb stroke, John felt himself
relaxing. He reclined in the bench and placed his hand on hers, felt her soft
skin, the warmth beneath it, a warmth that the two men tried to take from him.

“Rosa, I
gotta
ask, what did
those men want with you?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen them before.”

“Those same men, they were here last night looking for
Leadbelly
. Now they’re looking for you. What kind of
trouble did
Leadbelly
get you into?”

“Nothing.” She looked away. “There’s nothing to tell. I
don’t even know
Leadbelly
. I just see him around town
every now and then.”

“Rosa, I can’t help you if you’re not straight with me.”

“John, there’s nothing to tell,” Rosa said. She leaned closer
to him and lightly caressed John’s fingers, sending a jolt through him. He
shook his head like he was waking, and forgot what he was going to ask her.

“What do you think they wanted?” Rosa asked.

John didn’t tell her everything, that the two men were with
the Air Force, had broken into his hotel room, were spying on
Leadbelly
because of the photos hanging in his trailer.
Instead, he said, “Those two men, they probably think you know where
Leadbelly
is. Wait, you seemed awfully concerned for
Leadbelly
at lunch. You and he weren’t…you know…”