The Scared Stiff

15

Sunday morning. Was I already used to this new doppelgänger existence? It seemed only natural to put on Ernesto’s best (not that good) clothes and meet Carlos and Maria in the living room to go to mass together. Both were dressed well, she in a pearl-gray high-neck long-sleeve blouse, long black skirt, and dangling earrings in crimson and gold, he in a black suit, as well-tailored as a suit could be on that body, with a pale blue shirt and a black string tie. He was actually presentable.

Maria and I exchanged good mornings, and then Carlos said, “You won’t talk when we go out, so we talk now.”

“Okay.”

“While you’re here, you can help me sometimes, a little bit.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’d like to be useful.”

“Good.” He nodded once, sealing the bargain, then said, “There’s gonna be a guy at mass this morning. I think he’s there. If he’s there, I’ll touch your elbow.”

I thought, What’s all this? “Okay,” I said.

“If he’s there,” Carlos said, “after mass, you and me, we take a walk with him.”

“Okay.”

“So you’re just along to be another guy, like there’s no problem.”

“Is there a problem?”

“No, no, I just gotta talk with him,” Carlos said. “He screwed up a little, that’s all, messed up a deal I had over in Colombia, so we gotta talk about it.”

“Okay,” I said. “Whatever you say.”

“Good,” he said, and took Maria’s arm, and she smiled at me and we left the house.

The church was about four blocks away, and as we walked Carlos and Maria shared greetings with several other people. A few times Carlos introduced me, and I stood there smiling like a dummy. Twice, men extended their hands, which I shook, still smiling to beat the band.

The church itself, when we got to it, was small and neat and very white. Wide stone steps led up to the entrance, and as we started up them Carlos touched my elbow. I looked at him, and he nodded and waved his hand to a snotty-looking guy who stood with two other guys over to one side, watching the people arrive. The snotty-looking guy gave a kind of self-satisfied smirk as he waved a languid hand in Carlos’s direction. He was tall and very thin, with a black pencil mustache and slicked-back hair, like a silent-movie Romeo. He wore pointy white shoes and white pants with a sharp crease and an off-white shirt with brown piping. Draped over his shoulders was a gray linen jacket, as though he thought he was an Italian movie director.

Inside, the church was whitewashed stucco walls, crude bright renditions of the Stations of the Cross, rough tile floor, and heavy pews of rich-patina’d wood. The place was about half full, and Carlos led us to a pew near the back. We sat, and a minute later the snotty guy went by, saying amusing things to his two friends. They found a place near the front.

The mass was interesting, and then less so, and then it was over and we shuffled out to the bright sunlight, where Maria said, “I’ll see you at the house,” with a fond smile at Carlos. She walked on, nodding hello to the people as she went, and Carlos and I stood to the side of the entrance, and at last here came the snotty guy and his two friends.

He saw Carlos, and his smile faltered, then came back stronger than ever, with something challenging in it. Carlos gestured, and the guy came over, trailed by his friends, and the conversation began, as usual a little too fast for me to get it all. Carlos didn’t bother to introduce me but told the guy, Let’s take a walk, and the guy said, No, thanks, some other time. So Carlos put a little growl in the voice and said this time, and the guy made a face — how tiresome — and shrugged an acceptance inside his draped linen jacket.

We started to walk, and the two friends came with us, until Carlos stopped and said I’m talking to you, not these jerks. Another how tiresome look but the guy nodded, so then the three of us walked, and the other two stayed put.

We walked, and Carlos talked. The guy was in the middle, and Carlos talked low and hard, so I didn’t get it all, only that the guy was impatient at first, making it clear he didn’t see why he had to be bothered with this crap. But Carlos went on, the growl coming and going in his voice, and the guy began to accede a bit. He gave some explanations of his own, which Carlos didn’t buy.

From the church we walked first down the dirt street beside it, then right along another dirt street lined with small rickety houses. When we made the turn I looked back, and the other two were trailing, not quite a block back, looking uncertain.

More talk, more walk. The guy was no longer supercilious but now understood Carlos’s position completely. He was prepared to do what he could to make things right, but Carlos must realize his hands were tied; there was only so much he could do.

Another block, another turn, and the river was ahead of us, with shacks full of dogs and kids on the left, tin warehouses on the right. Then Carlos stopped. He said something brief and guttural. The guy became offended, gathered himself up to be haughty, and Carlos slapped him across the face.

We were both astonished, the guy and I. He stared at Carlos, then in that instant he switched from aristocratic panther to snarling mongrel, bent forward, hand slicing back toward his hip pocket.

Holy Christ! What should I do?

Nothing. Before the guy could bring anything out of that pocket, Carlos punched him hard in the stomach, putting all of his considerable weight behind it. The guy said, “Hhhh-uh!” and bent way over.

Carlos stepped back, took aim, and kicked him on the knee. Not with the toe of his shoe but the side, a sharp angled kick, snapping against the kneecap. I heard a crack. The guy shrieked and hit the dirt.

The other two! I looked back, and they were standing there, tense, openmouthed. They didn’t come forward, and I understood I was the reason for that.

In some of the houses along here, little kids stared out at us. Nobody else reacted at all. Bright sunlight, a shrieking man on the ground, and nobody notices.

Carlos walked in slow circles around him, here and there giving him another hard kick, methodical and relentless. The guy jumped and shrieked at every kick, but Carlos remained calm, the technician at work.

It went on for a while, until I was beginning to think I should suggest that enough was maybe enough, but then all at once it stopped. Carlos stepped back from the quivering mess on the ground, said one short hard sentence, and turned away, gesturing to me to come on.

We walked back the way we’d come. The guy’s two comrades rushed past us, goggle-eyed.

Carlos said one thing, as we walked: “Now I got an appetite.”