The Transmigration of Bodies (4 page)

He trusted Dolphin—or trusted him as much as anyone who’d been a buzzman for twenty-five years can be trusted—but the Las Pericas thing was prickling his neckhairs. What was up with that? He decided to ask Gustavo, a sharp-witted lawyer who knew the ropes and had been untying the city’s secrets for decades. He called, but a woman’s voice said he wasn’t in and who knew when he’d be back.

He needed someone to watch his back. He called the Neeyanderthal and climbed back in the Bug to go get him.

The Neeyanderthal was an entrepreneur of sorts: it was all bidness for the Neeyanderthal. Everywhere you look, he liked to say, looks like wheels and deals. He bought old cell phones that he sold at new prices to credulous clients, organized office pools at places he didn’t work, and shuffled the cash flow to keep all his balls in the air: he smuggled shit in, sold intel, rented his house out as a place for petty crimes to go down. He never had any money. Instead his rackets seemed designed to prove he was cleverer than everyone else, to bring him doses of euphoria followed by stretches of contained rage. The Neeyanderthal was huge and hulking, a man who walked like he was forever on his way out of the ICU, moving each muscle with considerable care.

Years ago the Neeyanderthal’s brother had died in his arms, on the way back from a nearby town: some kid had crossed the road in front of them, the Neeyanderthal jammed on the brakes, the brother flew through the windshield, the truck flipped and by the time the Neeyanderthal could get out from under it, his baby brother was dying on the white line and kept right on dying even as the Neeyanderthal held his face, sobbing into it saying Hold on, man, almost there little brother, as tho that could extend his life. It didn’t. Finally the ambulance came to pick up the body, by then so lulled and soothed it looked almost at peace.

To the Redeemer it seemed the Neeyanderthal had been trying to off himself on blow for years. After the brother thing he launched into more honest attempts. Provoking police, street fighting. Then one time while he was truly looped he came right out and tried to shoot himself through the heart. Like it was no big deal, people were at his place getting trashed, and he got up, went to his room and fired a shot. His luck was so bad one of the credit cards he kept in his pocket to cut coke deflected the bullet, which flew up, barely kissed the top of his heart and came out his back. They found him standing unsteadily with a lost look on his face. Guess this ain’t a boneyard kind of day, he said, and claimed he was smiling when he said it.

The Redeemer had never contemplated suicide, not even the time Dolphin had pulled him out of that black hole. Whenever he heard about someone who’d decided to cut their own life short he was shocked, especially if it was someone who had the strength to defend themselves; it surprised him not because he thought it was wrong but because he suddenly saw that person like they belonged to an entirely different species, and was astonished they inhabited the same planet. People who could make decisions they weren’t prepared for. So you want to inhale ammonia? You fuckin sure? Dead silence.

He got to the Neeyanderthal’s place, rang the bell and went back to the Bug to wait.

He watched a junkman pull his cart up the middle of the street. The junkman looked at the Redeemer in his mask, smiled with superiority, began hacking dramatically, then shook his head side to side and kept on his way.

The door opened.

What’s up, Neeyan? asked the Redeemer.

Damn, man, not a tail to chase or a soul in sight, said the Neeyanderthal, staring out the Bug’s window at the empty streets.

The Redeemer crossed an avenue with two military trucks down it and turned in another direction.

First time there’s no traffic and I still got to take the long way, he said.

At the next avenue they caught sight of a very small funeral procession: one hearse with two cars following behind, three people in the first car, only one in the last.

Oh, yeah, said the Neeyanderthal, looks like people are real choked up over this fuckin corpse.

Passing the procession the Neeyanderthal stuck his head out and said aloud, as if addressing the body in the hearse, You’re fooling yourself, man, you’re fooling yourself.

He would say that about anything: a political argument, a lover’s secret, a soccer game. Afterward he’d add something smartass; in this case, once his head was back inside the Bug, he said Should’ve vacuum-packed your ass…

Dependable as gravity, that was the Neeyanderthal. He messed with everyone like it was an obligation. Why was he the Neeyanderthal’s compadre? Was it because they’d once been real friends? Was it that he’d watched him grow sadder and sadder? Or that in him he saw something of his own black dog? That’s why we make enemies of our friends as soon as they start to drift, he thought, cos that way they get stuck with all our flaws, unlike when they’re shared. Maybe brief friendships are best. If you pull out in time, the vices are all theirs.

Close to his barrio the Redeemer turned and found himself head-on with another military truck. This time he couldn’t dodge it so he braked slowly and started a U-turn but a soldier waved him to where he should stop. He parked the Bug and waited. The soldier approached the car, peered into the back seat, then at the Redeemer and finally at the Neeyanderthal, who said What? I didn’t hear anything about a curfew. Can’t a man go out anymore without catching shit?

The soldier walked around to the Neeyanderthal’s side and stared at him with no expression, making no attempt to bend down. Then he glanced back to the truck and nodded toward the Bug. A masked officer approached and ordered the Redeemer out with an index finger. He got out. Another soldier was patting down a punk rocker, palms against the truck.

Good morning, Captain, the Redeemer said.

The captain’s eyebrows arched almost imperceptibly, seeming to indicate an appreciation for the Redeemer’s knowledge of rank. But what he said was: Afternoon, you mean.

The captain stared at him as tho chewing a twig. Patient, reflective. The Redeemer realized he’d do well to keep quiet and silently composed his best body language to say: You say jump, Captain, I’ll ask how high. The captain glanced sidelong at the Neeyanderthal and said Couple of smartasses, I see.

The Redeemer half-closed his eyes in apology.

Captain, I can’t even imagine what you must have to put up with in a situation like this, the thing is, sir, we’re all uneasy, as you can imagine, and the only thing we really want is to get home and lock ourselves up.

At the truck, one of the soldiers had pushed the punk against the hood and spat The fuck is all this crap you got on?, slapping his ears, his lip, where he wore rings. The boy accepted the slaps without raising his hands.

Going to have to take you in and do background checks, the captain said.

But suddenly he’d stopped looking at the Redeemer: he turned his attention to the soldiers by the truck and said Take that shit off him. One of the soldiers cuffed the kid’s hands behind him and the other began to rip out the rings. The punk writhed in silence, trails of blood starting to run from his eyebrows, his nose, his mouth. The Redeemer sensed this was his chance to dig a hole in the wall and sneak out. Another day he’d have tried to help the kid, but today it was a no-go.

Any chance you could do me a favor, officer? I certainly don’t want to take up any more of your time.

He took out one of the business cards that boasted a degree he’d never earned and said In case I can ever be of any service to you.

The captain took the card but didn’t turn to look at it. He waited a couple seconds, then with his left index finger sent him back to the Bug, and with his right ordered the soldiers to put the punk in the truck. Thank you, Captain, the Redeemer said. He got into the car and started the engine.

They drove several blocks in silence and then the Neeyanderthal said Dude was asking for it, right? You walk around like a faggot, all that metal in your face, you pay the price.

And the Redeemer replied Shut up.

Go to Las Pericas, said the text from a number he didn’t know, but it could only have been Dolphin.

With some people it was hard to take the measure of their mettle till you saw them in a very tight squeeze. With Dolphin there wasn’t much mystery. Ex-buzzman, divorced, one son and one daughter. He’d earned his nickname when he burned a hole in his nose snorting too much blow; as if that wasn’t enough, he then got shot in the chest and could now only breathe through one lung. Even so he managed to act like these were still the days when he wore a tin star, carried chrome, slapped people around on the street. Still: the Redeemer wasn’t expecting to hear him say what he said when he went to see Baby Girl.

He got to Las Pericas with the Neeyanderthal, and the Unruly was already waiting outside.

Only one goes in, she said as soon as she saw the Neeyanderthal, and tell this guy to put on a mask or get the fuck out of here.

The Redeemer handed Neeyan a mask, which he used to wipe his mouth, like it was a napkin, and then threw on the ground. The Unruly’s little eyes shone like she was smiling.

Go on in, she said to the Redeemer.

The Las Pericas place was huge and white with a big wooden veranda, as if someone had been unwilling to give up their old house in the tropics, despite now living on a hill a thousand klicks from the sea. This was the first time the Redeemer had ever been inside. As soon as he stepped through the door he was dazzled by a huge room with a dozen high windows. In the center stood a table, and on the table lay Baby Girl.

He didn’t need to get close to know Baby Girl was no longer all there, but still he had to do it, and to look after what was left. He approached reluctantly, his steps slow, as tho in place of bones he had a barbed-wire soul. He saw Baby Girl there, pale, ashen, a trail of blood between her nose and mouth, hands clenched and face exceedingly sad. She was so small and so still, but at the same time seemed like the heart of the house, cold yet somehow keeping it alive. Who knew how many dead bodies he’d seen, but this one reminded him too much of the other one, his one.

That was when Dolphin appeared behind the Redeemer, and said—there in the brightest room in the world, pointing to the loneliest girl in existence—I still got it. They try to fuck me over? I still got it.

This job would be easy if the only ones we had to fight were our friends, the Redeemer used to say, but what he said to himself now was I don’t want to listen to this motherfucker, and I do not even want to think about the eye-for-an-eye bullshit, the tooth-for-a-toothery this is going to unleash. On other occasions he’d convinced himself that even the most twisted men deserve a chance, since people, all people, are like dark stars: what we see is different from the thing itself, which has already disappeared, already changed, even a single second after the light or evil has been discharged. But this…

What did you do to her?

Nothing new, said Dolphin.

Why here? Why you got her here?

Not your concern, asshole, said the Dolphin patting his head, not your concern. You seen her, now get to work.

The Redeemer felt in his gut the desire to wrench off what nose Dolphin had left but the rest of his body couldn’t carry out the order. He turned and walked out of the house. Outside, the Neeyanderthal was talking to the Unruly.

So, what line are you in, sweetness?

The Unruly was on the verge of saying something different but when she saw the Redeemer her look hardened and she said, Revenge.

The Redeemer held her gaze and contained the urge to take her by the shoulders and shake her. He ought to have done it, ought to have beat Dolphin till not his nose but his whole face was destroyed, if he wanted to salvage any vestige of himself. Behind his back he heard Dolphin approach laboriously and say Don’t pay her any mind. This ain’t about getting revenge, just about getting even.

What do you mean am I sure? Vicky retorted after the Redeemer asked if she’d go with him. Shit, you’ve already been out on the street with the Neeyanderthal, right? But did you ask him if he was sure he wanted to go? No. Right, asshole? Dumbass can’t shoot for shit, can’t hit himself with his own damn gun, and there you are dragging him all over town, but me, who takes care of every fucking thing under the sun for a living, I’m some little señorita that needs your protection.

He couldn’t help it, it wasn’t an attempt at gallantry, just came with the job: in the Kingdom of the Word all men were Chiefs and all women Lil’ Ladies, as far as he was concerned, and tho he was well aware that Vicky was not only nail-hard by nature but also an adrenaline junkie, he couldn’t help but lil-lady-fy her. On occasion Vicky helped him out with dust-ups, taking things down a notch, smiling, acting wise—which she was, always—and sweet, which she was, sometimes. On occasion, like now, she helped him get a read on a body.

I need you to do it fast, he told Vicky when she climbed into the Bug in her nurse’s uniform. But do it good. I need to know if she was beaten.

The Neeyanderthal started shaking with laughter, stomach only. They both gaped at him.

The fuck did you have for breakfast, man? asked the Redeemer.

It’s just, that’s what I tell the ladies too: Gonna do you fast, but good.

No one else laughed. Seeing Vicky’s look of hatred, the Neeyanderthal tried to put things right: Oh, hey, sorry bout the trucker mouth. It just slipped out.

If only you really were a trucker, Neeyan, Vicky said. But you’re not, you’re just tedious. The most tedious people in the world can’t take anything seriously. Don’t worry tho—and with this Vicky patted the Neeyanderthal’s cheek—don’t worry, I speak Hombre, so I know you’re not actively trying to be a prick, you just have no control over your little bullshit organ.

The Redeemer didn’t know if the Neeyanderthal and Vicky truly hated each other or simply had their own brand of love. He remembered something that had happened just after the brother’s death. They’d been out boozing and he heard the Neeyanderthal recount the accident to a woman, the whole damn thing—stupid pedestrian, flipped truck, death throes—as a line. Neeyan didn’t actually want to open up to the woman, but he recited the drama in an attempt to open up her blouse. The Redeemer had said to Vicky that that was low, even for the Neeyanderthal, but she put on a sad that’s-not-the-whole-story face and said What do you expect, Neeyan cuts a profit whenever he can, and right now all he’s got is his scar. If there was a market for it, he’d cultivate kidney stones and piss them out. Leave him be.

Before returning to Las Pericas they made a stop at Vicky’s ex-boyfriend’s parents’ place. Actually he was an ex-lover, one Vicky loved for real, but his time was up and she hadn’t backed down over the ultimatum. Vicky might be willing to suffer but suffering wasn’t marital status, and his marriage was already on public record.

They’re in a state of total hysteria, she said, packed in like sardines because the alarm went off while he was over there with his wife. Dropped in to pay back some money he owed and now they don’t want to leave… seems someone’s sick, and he convinced them to let me stop in and have a look.

He: the ex-lover. Vicky’s face softened a bit at the mention.

Can I go with you? the Redeemer asked. Might be able to get something from the father—the nouveau always have the lowdown on each other’s riche. Maybe he’s been cooped up so long he’s ready to wag his tongue. Plus he knows me, I’ve worked with guys close to him.

Vicky took out a pair of latex gloves and handed them to the Redeemer.

Don’t touch anyone.

They rang the bell. A clipped argument could be heard coming from within. Go; No, let him go; Fine, I’ll go; No, don’t you go, mother; Oh, let her go; No, I’ll go.

Ha, Vicky snorted. Their servant split so it looks like they’ll have to learn how to turn a doorknob on their own.

It was He who answered. No mask. He smiled poignantly. A smile that said I’ll always love you but my promises are in the pawnshop. He was a sad, handsome little devil. He looked at the Redeemer like an electrician who’d come when the lights weren’t broken.

He’s with me, Vicky said, and he knows your father.

They were all in a living room full of wood-and-red-velvet furniture—nostalgia for a finer form of pretense. An antique apiece and a drink apiece. The mother in the armchair, vodka on the rocks in hand, sloshed; the perverse twenty-year-old little brother at one end of the sofa, whisky on the rocks in hand, sloshed; the father in a high-back armchair, brandy and coke in hand, episcopally sloshed. You could sort of see that they were scared, but could more clearly see their ennui. We never know how much we actually hate one another, the Redeemer thought, until we’re locked in a room together.

Which one’s the patient? Vicky asked, eyeing the range of red-faced tremble-handed possibilities.

The ex-lover pointed to a door:

Her.

Vicky shot him a profoundly scornful stare, nodded and went to open the door. At the back of the room, sitting on a bed, a woman in a blue dress sat holding a teacup. She was wearing makeup but it couldn’t hide the sneer of someone who swallowed bile every day as tho it were water. Vicky observed her from the doorway, the Redeemer from the living room. She took two steps in, put her hands on her hips, observed the woman a little longer, turned and closed the door.

There’s nothing wrong with her.

You didn’t even examine her, he said.

Stop rationing her booze, that’s what she needs.

The silence that ensued would have been awkward in any other room, but in that one each member of the family merely clutched their drink a little tighter before sinking back into a slight stupor. The Redeemer sensed this was his moment. He approached the father and crouched down.

Remember me?

The man made an effort to wrestle his way out from the bottom of the bottle, finally found his pupils and focused on the Redeemer.

You once got some photos back for a friend of mine.

The Redeemer smiled.

Exactly. I’m dealing with something less serious now, but I need some information. You know who the Las Pericas house belongs to? Place no one’s lived for years?

The man seesawed behind his eyeballs, forward and back, as he thought it out. Except for a hand faintly jiggling his ice, the rest of his body was still.

The Fonsecas, he said. Tied up in some legal mess, I think, but far as I know, it’s theirs.

Yes, it’s theirs, the mother interrupted from the depths of her vodka, for as much good as it does them.

Thassaway it is with those sorts of families. Now it was the perverse baby brother who spoke in a whiskified slur. Don’t matter how many houses they buy, they only know how to live in crappy-ass shacks.

The Redeemer felt his fist wanting to bust the kid’s nose, in part for that remark, but more because he wanted to bust the monster’s nose regardless. This was the first time he’d seen him in the flesh, tho he knew what a class act this little shit was. He and some other silverspoon whose family had a funeral home had been caught snapping shots of each other with the bodies they were supposed to prepare: posing as if kissing or slapping the corpses, drawing moustaches on the dead, sticking hats on them. Then some other kid they’d showed the photos to started telling people and it was about to blow into a big scandal when the Redeemer stepped in and disappeared the pics. The funeral home kid got a slap on the wrist; the little shit, not even that.

One more thing, Vicky said to the whole family. In case this is spread by mosquitos I’d recommend you stop wearing perfume; they’re attracted to it.

No one said a word, nor did anyone except the ex-lover make a move to stand when Vicky and the Redeemer headed for the door, but Vicky put up a hand in front of his face and said That’s far enough.

Back in the car, the Neeyanderthal said Bet they offered you a drink in there—and me out here like a dumbfuck.

On the way to Las Pericas the Redeemer saw a corner flowerstand peeking out above the hunkered-down city and thought of Baby Girl, alone, injured, growing cold in that house, no one to talk to her. He stopped, said Wait for me, got out, and bought flowers. There were no Day-of-the-Dead marigolds but they had gillyflowers. Now that he thought about it, that stand never seemed to close, even on holidays or the darkest nights.

They arrived and the Redeemer got out to speak to the Unruly, but she didn’t need convincing because she’d seen who-knows-what in Vicky’s authoritative eyes, so all Vicky had to say was Don’t worry, I’ll be right back.

She even reached out to tuck a strand of hair back behind the Unruly’s ear and tho she didn’t smile, she didn’t flinch either.

They stayed in the car and smoked while Vicky worked. The Unruly smoked, too, leaning up against the doorjamb. They finished one cigarette. Lit a second. Finished the second and lit a third and that was when she came out. Vicky gave the Unruly a pat on the back, which morphed into some sort of sororal squeeze; she leaned in a little more and whispered to her. Then headed for the car.

What’d you just say? asked the Neeyanderthal.

That we women need to look out for each other. No one else is going to do it for us.

What did she die of? asked the Redeemer.

This shit. Vicky waved vaguely at the world outside the car. But she must have gone days without treatment to die like that. By the way she held her hands you can tell she couldn’t stand the pain in her joints, and from the blood in her mouth and nose it’s clear the symptoms advanced to late-stage with no meds.

So was that why they had her locked up?

She hasn’t been dead long, but that girl was sick for days before they got to her.

Did they do anything to her… after she died?

Vicky stared straight ahead a few seconds without saying a word. She looked tired.

They didn’t fuck her, if that’s what you’re asking, but they did something. That shitbag Dolphin put her underwear on inside out.

He had no idea who from but knew at some point a message would arrive. And when it finally did, he realized right away who was running the show on the other side of the corpse.

What’s up, Friend? Meet you on the corner over by Casa Castro.

There was only one person who called him Friend with a capital F: the Mennonite.

The two of them had met on a job they worked together, in a place a long way away from the place the Mennonite called home. They were going to pick up a body. The deceased was a family friend, which was why when the Redeemer arrived he found the man attempting to stitch up a finger.

No way am I handing him over like this, as if he was off to just anywhere.

The Mennonite was standing on the corner like a tree that had sprouted out of the sidewalk. These days he no longer wore the denim overalls and straw hat but the workboots and plaid shirt were still there. His red beard spilled out the sides of his facemask.

They hugged and the Redeemer asked:

So. What brings you way over here? You never used to leave your land.

Well, you know. Unhappy people aren’t the problem. It’s people taking their unhappy out on you.

I do know. Yeah.

The Mennonite had left the land of his kith and kin on his own, and had adapted to the world of those always in a rush—silence and simple toil replaced by engines and cement. But at least back there he’d had his people nearby. Now, not even that. Who knows whose toes he must have stepped on, why he had to strike out on another path. Still. It was time to get on with it.

What’s the story? he gestured toward the Castro place.

Boy’s in there, the Mennonite responded. They didn’t touch him.

I’m going to have to ask him that myself.

Fraid that’s going be a bitch, Friend.

The twist in the Mennonite’s lips filled the gaps left by his words. There was no longer a Romeo to ask.

Fuckit, said the Redeemer. Same story on this side.

He tried to explain in a way that made it seem he understood more than he did: the Fonsecas hadn’t killed Baby Girl, she’d died of the disease, and all the body needed was to be prettied up a bit.

The Mennonite nodded and took a deep breath and then said This is the truly fucked-up part. Wait for me here. He turned and walked back to the Castro house.

In the two minutes that went by before Baby Girl’s father came out, it felt like the street contracted and began to throb. The Redeemer took out a smoke then thought better of it and put it back in the pack, glanced at the Castros’ place and then turned the other way. He crossed his arms. Fuckit, he repeated.

He heard the Castros’ metal door open then slam shut, and then panting, encumbered by sobbing, and steps approaching. He shot a quick sidelong look at the Bug and with an almost-imperceptible hand-pat signaled Stay put to Vicky and the Neeyanderthal.

When he felt him a half-step away, the Redeemer turned to face the man. Tho they knew each other, Baby Girl’s father stared and stared and stared without recognizing him, and steadily with each passing second the man aged as the news inhabited his body, despite his attempt to resist it, his attempt to hold it at bay with rage. He slammed the Redeemer against the hood of the Bug and started shouting in his face.

Bring her to me! You bring her to me now! In one piece, you sonofabitch! You bring her to me safe and sound, right now!

The man was clenching his fists and trembling and still making up his mind whether to throttle the Redeemer. Then his boys flew out of the house, berserk. The older one wielded a club and the younger one a bat, itching to find something to justify their tunnel vision, their hatred. As soon as he saw them, the Neeyanderthal got out of the Bug, thumbs hooked through his beltloops; Vicky stepped out too, slower, eyeing them from her side of the car. One of the two must have made an impression on the brothers, who continued their approach, but slower now. The younger pointed his bat in the Redeemer’s face.

The Mennonite held a hand up and said That’s not the way, son.