Monday, July 11, 2005
Underpass - part II
The last post, from friday of last week, was the first part of this little tale, such as it is. Here’s the rest of it. Hope it was worth the wait. Have a great monday.
Jorge pushed the door closed behind him and took a deep breath of wet air washed clean as the night itself; he glanced briefly up and down the road to confirm the lack of traffic, and then crossed over to the other side. “Hello?” he queried querelously. “Quien paso?”
The car was dry and dusty, so he knew it had beaten them to the underpass; it was no more roadworthy then theirs - a misbegotten Hornet, once green, now growing slow deep continents of rust. The tires looked to be inflated, but quite bald, and though it rested low on its rear shocks it did not appear to be occupied (to his disappointment) by any fair maidens, or (to his relief) by any escaped murderers. He walked slowly around the car twice before he fully embraced his opinion - it was abandoned. He crossed the interstate again and returned to the Vega to confer with Luis.
“It’s abandoned.”
“Okay. American car?”
“Yes. So what, though?”
“Maybe we could use their tires. Or their battery.”
“Hey, that’s smart thinking. The tires are no good, but we could check under the hood I guess. I bet I could get it open. Come along, let’s see what we can find. Take a little treasure hunt, eh?”
The men laughed dusty laughs as they stepped together into the night to explore the Hornet. Jorge still carried his tire iron, and grabbed his knapsack too. He left the water behind. There was plenty of it falling from the sky anyway.
Luis was still cautious as he approached the defunct vehicle across the way, calling out a hollow salutation. Jorge knew no such restraint and, with a well-aimed swing of the tire-iron, smashed in the passenger window. Luis jumped at the unexpected noise, tried to glare at Jorge, but his discountenanced countenance was hidden by the murk of night. And anyway, Jorge was already opening the door and slipping into the car, brushing broken glass off the seat and unlocking the driver’s door for his compadre. Luis hopped in and closed the door quickly. “Did you have to do that? Was there no other way?,” he demanded as he groped blindly for the hood release.
“Yes there was another way, but it is less convenient,” Jorge replied, sucking a finger where he’d sliced it on the blizzard of glass he’d created. “We’re in, anyway. I didn’t hear the owner complaining. How’s that hood coming?”
“Got it.” Luis pulled the latch and the hood clunked a little, reluctantly releasing. They both got out and walked around to the front, felt for the latch and hoisted the bonnet. “Magnifico,” Luis muttered. “I can’t see a thing. Hey, did you bring your… your stuff?”
“Yeah,” Jorge replied. “How about I work on the trunk while you see if you can tell what we have up here? Just use one finger, in case the battery is live - don’t get shocked, okay? I don’t want to finish this drive alone. It’s lonely enough out here as it is.”
“Sure.” Luis began delicately poking around in the engine compartment while Jorge took his knapsack to the trunk of the slumping car, where he pulled out a leather pouch of fine files and picks.
“No one likes that I carry this stuff, till they need it,” he mumbled cheerfully as he began to work by feel on the trunk lock. “But everybody needs a lock opened up sometime or another. I’m no criminal, I’m a public servant. And now maybe we find a spare tire, or jumper cables. Trunks, they’re full of treasure....” And with a quiet click, the lock released; the trunk lid lifted a fraction of an inch and a dim gleam shone through the crack. “Mira, watch out!,” Jorge called forward. “You’ve got a live battery there! The trunk light is working!”
Luis gave a small cheer. “Let me give you a hand, then; we’ll see what we’ve got.” He had overcome his qualms about breaking into and entering the moribund vehicle and eagerly trotted around to help raise the recalcitrant trunk lid. It creaked painfully as they hoisted it.
For a while they both gazed down, hands above their heads, dirty fingers resting on the upraised bottom of the boot bonnet. Jorge’s cut finger began to drip a little blood but neither of them noticed. The weak yellow light illuminated their faces, now shiny with sudden sweat and opaque with confusion. After a few minutes of silence, unbroken even by the sound of breathing, surrounded only by the night and the crash of the heavy cloudburst, their eyes unwavering from their find, Luis finally whispered to Jorge, “Compadre, do you think that is real money?”
“I think so, amigo,” Jorge slowly replied, fixated on the bulging sacks that filled the trunk. “And this is one hell of a lot of cocaine.” Then, for a few more minutes, they stood, staring down, saying nothing. On the highway, no traffic approached.
