Fifty Grand

“Yes.”

“Even blow jobs? You’re not bad looking. Ad on Craigslist. Fifty dollars a pop. You get twenty-five, I get twenty-five. Small commission to the SD. Take Sundays off, still make six, seven hundred a week. Good money.”

“No.”

“All right. It’s going to be harder for you, but if that’s what you want. Anytime you wanna change your mind, lemme know, ok? Paco, you’ll be working construction here until we finish that building on Pearl Street, then I’ll probably move you to Boulder or one of the ski resorts. I’ll talk to Angel about your skills and we’ll work out your pay later, ok?”

“Ok,” Paco said.

“Fine, now both of you listen up. I’m a good guy, easygoing, but I don’t take any shit. This is the way it’s gonna be: you work real hard, you don’t complain about anything, you do what you’re told. Don’t fraternize with the locals and don’t try to fucking freelance, because the sheriff and I will find you out. He’ll beat you half to death and I’ll fucking turn you over to the INS. We don’t allow drugs in the motel. In fact, no drugs period except what you move for me. Booze is ok. Understand?”

“Yes,” we said.

“Now, where we’re going tonight is a party up on what they call Malibu Mountain or Malibu Mesa… Oh, we live on what the sheriff calls Wetback Mountain-it’s kind of a joke-but if you ever get lost, just ask for the Bear Creek Motel. That’s what the place is called in the phone book.”

It was pitch-black outside but as we climbed up the hill I could see huge houses on either side behind elaborate gates and stone walls. It was familiar.

Another of Ricky’s black-and-whites.

Yes.

And this time on cue: the fucking chills.

“What’s the name of this road?” I asked.

“This is the Old Boulder Road, some of the locals call it Suicide Stre-”

Rushing sound in my head.

The Old Boulder Road.

The very place.

Blood, ice, death.

“Are you ok?” Paco asked.

“Yes.”

“What’s the matter back there?” Esteban asked.

“We’re very hungry. We haven’t eaten anything since New Mexico,” Paco said.

“Forgot about that,” Esteban muttered and rummaged in the glove compartment for a moment. He found a couple of candy bars and passed them back to us.

“Ok, eat fast, we’re here,” Esteban announced.

Here was one of the houses from the seventies that people back then thought were futuristic. A curved roof, brushed concrete walls, concrete pillars under a wide deck, big glass windows that would make it an oven in summer and an icebox in winter.

“You’re going to be working for Susan. She’s good. She’s CIA.”

My face paled again.

Esteban laughed. “Hyde Park, not Langley.”

I still didn’t get it.

“She’s a caterer. A chef. Come on, wake up, Maria. You’re overspill, nothing more. Do what she tells you to do. Don’t talk to the guests. When you’re finished she’ll call me and I’ll pick you up. And really, don’t talk to the guests, they’re big shots, but if anybody asks you for drugs, you tell them you can get them quality stuff. Canadian pot, cocaine from Mexico, and we got a new type of meth from Japan. Are you listening? What did I say?”

“Cocaine from Mexico, local pot, and meth from Japan,” I said.

“Good.”

“What about heroin?” Paco asked.

“Good question. I like you. Thinker. We don’t sell heroin in Fairview. We’ve had supplier problems. If anybody asks for heroin, of course tell them you can get it. If the price is right I’ll send someone to Denver to buy it. Ok, in you go, around the back, Susan’s waiting for you, she’ll tell you what to do. Do everything she tells you to do, don’t give her any fucking grief.”

A bowl of fruit. Oranges. Pears. Bananas. Kiwi. I’d never seen a real kiwifruit before. A day of firsts.

“What’s the matter with you? Are you retarded? Stop staring at that and help get the rest of the stuff back into the van. We’re contracted until midnight and I’m not paying overtime to anyone.”

Susan was a thirty-year-old American with an efficient black bob, a twitchy nose, a pretty face, and an unpleasant demeanor.

“Sorry,” I said in English.

“Sorry? Sorry? Fuck sorry. I didn’t hire you as a conversationalist. We don’t have time for sorry. Get a fucking move on. Come on.”

Close to midnight. The food portion of the party was over. Four hours had gone by slowly.

Paco and I had been confined to the kitchen, washing dishes, emptying trash, taking food and drink to and from Susan’s van. Her staff, white girls and boys, did the serving, and when they weren’t doing that they stood there gossiping and watched us at the mucky muck.

“This is how Spartacus got started,” I muttered to Paco as I picked up the fruit bowl.

“Who?”

A girl nudged me and I stumbled in the too big shoes. Gravity worked the fruit bowl, oranges, pears, and kiwis trundling over the floor. I bent down and started putting them back.

“Trash,” Susan said.

“Pardon?” I replied.

“Basura. Fucking basura. They’re soiled now. Put them in the trash,” Susan said.

“The bananas have a, uhm…” the word escaped me. “La piel de banana, it, uh, it protects it.”

“What’s your name?” Susan asked.

“Maria.”

“You I won’t hire from Esteban again. Now shut the fuck up and put the soiled fruit in the trash bags.”

Susan went into the living room and announced the departure of her catering team. There was a brief discussion before she came back into the kitchen.

“We’re done, but there’s some tidying to do in the living room, a spill. You, er, wouldn’t mind awfully staying until it’s done,” she said to me with bogus conciliation. “I’ll tell Esteban to come for you in twenty minutes.”

“Of course,” I said and added “hacete cojer” under my breath.

She and her minions filed out the back door and Paco and I went into the living room to look for the spill.

Dim lights, smoke, half a dozen men sharing a joint and listening to Pink Floyd on a gigantic silver stereo. The men were all in their thirties or early forties. They didn’t notice when we came in but I could see immediately why we were required. Someone had spilled red wine on a Persian rug. We went back into the kitchen and got a sponge and a bowl of hot water.

When we returned, the movie actor Brad Pitt was at the front door waving to the party guests.

“I can’t stay. I just popped in to say hi,” Pitt said.

“Oh, come on, man,” someone replied.

“No, no, I really can’t stay, I was up at Cruise’s and now we’re going to Vail. I just thought I’d say hi,” Pitt went on.

I stood there looking at him, covered in grime, dripping sweat, holding a sponge and a bowl of filthy water-the dissonance between this moment and the encounter of my fantasies was quite marked.

Of course, I had seen Brad Pitt many times on Chinese bootlegs. Troy was the last