The Scared Stiff

46

We did not shake hands. It wasn’t that kind of deal. We simply smiled at one another, and stood, and the driver stood, and we went back down to the car.

I would now be under the protection of Rafael Rafez, which meant, of course, I would now be under the eye of Rafael Rafez, but that was all right. We were now useful to each other, so we were on an equal footing. It is true he was shaking me down, but not very badly, and in fact I would be getting something of value for my sixty thousand dollars. After three weeks of constant bobbing and weaving, constant trouble, constant worry, my final week in Guerrera would be calm and serene. I would be back in our bed in our room in Mamá and Papá’s house, waiting for Lola to join me. I could relax now, and so could Rafez, because he knew he would get his sixty thousand dollars. If he didn’t, he could easily block my departure from the country. And he could do it without having to open any ambiguous graves.

Once again, in the car, I sat next to the driver, with Rafez enjoying the expansive solitude of the backseat. Mostly, between Marona and San Cristobal, we talked about Casa Montana Mojoca, a place he knew only from brief daytime visits on duty and about which he was naturally curious. I answered his questions and tried to give him a sense of the place, but I’m not sure I succeeded. The American lifestyle can be observed more readily than it can be described.

At San Cristobal, we dropped Rafez off at police headquarters. “Enjoy the rest of your stay,” he said, as he got out of the car.

“Thank you, I will,” I said.

Now there was the final hundred miles to Sabanon. I stayed in the front seat, mostly because I was too weary to move, it having been a hectic night and it now being past four-thirty in the morning. The driver was not a garrulous type anyway, so as the lights of San Cristobal faded behind us I went to sleep, not waking up until he made the right turn onto our street in Sabanon, which caused me to fall over against him. He had to elbow me out of the way while steering around the turn, and it was the elbow in the ribs that woke me.

Dawn. I blinked at the familiar street. Some workers were already up and out, trudging barefoot to their jobs. The driver stopped in front of our fuchsia house, and I got out, as Madonna greeted me with a snurf. I would have forgotten the vinyl bag on the floor at my feet with everything I owned in it if I hadn’t tripped over it.

“Gracias,” I told the driver, who nodded at me with that flat look of his. I shut the car door and trudged up the outside stairs and into a living room full of empty beer bottles.

I thought I might be hungry, but I didn’t care. Home is Felicio, the prodigal son. Home and very very sleepy.

I went straight to bed.