The Road to Esmeralda by Joy Nicholson

Author:Joy Nicholson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Orange

Al’s van was one of the earlier Dodge models, square and blocky as an adobe brick. It was brick-colored, primered in spots, smelled faintly of wood shavings, forest air freshener, burlap, cigarettes. The tobacco smell put Nick in the mind of whiskey.

“So we’re going back to the Coco Palms Bar? A little fun with Hilde and her gang?”

“Nah, another place. Tonight’s bad tuba night at the Coco. They call it norteña music,” Al said. “Besides, I’ve got something to take care of for Karl. A handyman’s work is never done.”

Suddenly Nick wished the entire night were already over. But the minutes would tick louder with Sarah nearby. Karl would be alone with her now, all evening. Either something would happen or it would not. And yet, Nick’s absence was going to make something happen. He was not going to humiliate her. His pleasure centers were not built that way.

“Your mother’s race was a race of cowards. You didn’t find many of them hacking Vietnam.”

“It’s cold all of a sudden,” Nick said to Al. “Are you cold?”

“It’s eighty degrees, man.”

“The Israelis are all animals,” the French girl had said. “They fight because they don’t know anything except brutality.”

Nick breathed deeply into his lungs. “Maybe it’s the air-conditioning. I haven’t felt cold air in so long, I forgot what it’s like.” He looked at Al. “And man, I’ve got to talk to Pablo again. I hope we see him tonight.”

“Race does not exist on a DNA level,” said the scientists. A blob of DNA, and there was no black, Jew, white, Iranian.

But a blob of Karl DNA. Nick imagined blobs of slimy spit that Karl would make, kissing Sarah. He gagged.

“Stop worrying, buddy! This is Mexico—if Pablo even remembers what he said to you, he won’t get around to doing anything about it for at least five years.” He nudged Nick’s elbow.

“Yeah, well, I’ve got to talk to him. I need his help.”

“We’ll see if we can find him, then. But around my pals, don’t mention Pablo. It’s one of those delicate social ecosystem things. A big, bad cop and all that. They’re from different tribes.”

“What should I talk about?” Nick was rubbing his hands together to warm them. “Since we’re planning a conversation all out in advance.” His voice was bitter.

Al smiled. “With Raul, talk about Mexican culture. Use that phrase—‘Mexican culture.’ He likes that one.”

Nick felt something cold spread in his stomach. “Right.”

“He doesn’t speak much English anyway.”

“The possibilities, then,” Nick said, “are endless.”

* * *

“So where is this other bar?” They’d pulled off on a street behind Esmeralda Town’s rows of shops. The pueblo was surprisingly large with houses—if windowless, doorless concrete boxes could be called that—that bookended one another, stretching on for almost two miles. Under the harsh yellow glow of irregularly placed street lamps were dusty, sagging armchairs on communal lawns of reddish sandy dirt. The stuff lay a foot thick on rickety porches and old playground equipment. Dun-colored animals huddled together under broken tables and awnings, children slept in hammocks strung between trees.

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