"Enough for an army of women," I say. “All that Avon.” I'm trying to get a laugh out of him.
"An army," Omar says. He isn't necessarily agreeing with me, more like he's testing out the sound of it.
"Yes," Omar says, "That's almost right, my friend. But the most beautiful and deadly army in the world. Knock you dead without any weapons, yes?"
The thugs in the back snicker goonfully. Like movie goons. Like stereotype goons.
"You will see, my friend," Omar says, "that this army of women, well, perhaps a platoon at most? They are quite good at following orders."
"They have learned," Omar says, "that not cooperating is not conducive, you know?"
We pull up in front of the house, and even as we are jolting to a stop the front screen door bangs open and a young woman, all legs and hair runs down the steps to greet the driver.
"Omar, Omar!" she yells, but I am distracted by the house. The structure. Whatever it is. Had been. Is becoming.
Start with had been. It had been a large white plantation home in the Georgian style, with fluted columns fronting a wide low porch. Two story, with a widow's walk and a low-ceilinged attic. Tall windows had looked out over a gently sloping lawn.
Now, Is becoming. Is now becoming inundated, overtaken, crowded on all sides to the point of exhaustion by rude additions of raw wood, peeling plyboard, canvas lean-tos and sheet metal sheer walls. A log watchtower rises from a back corner of the heap, with a rude ladder up to the platform. Barbed wire is strung along the edges, cruel party streamers. But the barbed wire isn't strung like the US Army or Marines would string barbed wire. The barbed wire is strung like by someone with the attention span of an avocado. Orange extension cords hang out of upper story windows in the central house and into spaces between panels on the cancerous growth on the outside. Underwear hangs on clothes lines between the columns, and someone has started to paint the front of the house a fluorescent green, but has given up or run out of paint. A collection of old cars and trucks, mostly '60s beaters from GM, Ford and Chrysler, stand in various stages of heapdom around the yard. An aluminum Boston Whaler lies belly deep in grass on top of what might be a shattered wooden boat trailer. Someone has started to paint the Boston Whaler the same green. The final, perhaps crowning touch is the school bus that has been partially built into the mass of stuff on the left side of the house. It still looks like it might be able to run, though its windshield is caked with dirt. A black lace bra hangs from the antenna.
While I am staring at the house, trying to climb out of the Bronco and stare at the house at the same time, everyone else is getting out of the Bronco and slamming doors and there are women coming out of the house, so many women.
The first woman, the young one with all the legs and hair, opens the back of the Bronco and starts rustling with the bags. Two other women come down the steps together, their hair is black and curly around their shoulders. Three more women stay up on the porch.
"This is my army," Omar says, "My platoon!"
Omar spreads his arms out and turns, pointing his smile at all the women.
"Who is that?" One woman says. She is standing at the center of stairs. Her hair is thick black, pulled back from her face hair. Her head seems fuzzy from all the short curly pieces that won't stay pulled back. Her skin is brown smooth evenly shaded skin. Her eyes are squinted almost shut eyes, eyebrows pulled down over them almost touching in the center. Her lips are full and generous lips, now pulled tight. She holds her arms crossed in front of her, standing back on one leg, the other leg in front, foot turned out. She wears a white tee shirt, a red embroidered skirt to mid calf, and black ballet slippers.
"This is Maria," Omar says to me, quiet, "She runs the place."
"Maria!" Omar says, loud so she can hear, "This is our guest for a few days."
"Everyone," Omar says, "This is our guest, who is not a drug agent!"
Omar tells everyone my name. Most of the women are more interested in the Avon. Most of the men are more interested in the women. Omar puts his hand on my arm and leans close.
"That one," Omar points to the young one with the legs and hair, "That is DiDi. She is young and impetuous, but great legs, no?"
DiDi's hair is short, brown, curving around her face hair. Her body is a high-waisted body, her legs are long, slender legs. DiDi wears cut off jeans that show her butt cheeks and a string bikini top. When she goes by us, she waves her hand without looking.
"Hola!" DiDi says. She keeps on walking back to the house.
"Those two," Omar says, "They are SimoneandSigrid. SiSi. They are always together. Always!"
Omar digs his elbow into my ribs.
SiSi look alike. SiSi are the pair with the black curly hair around their shoulders. SiSi are joined at the shoulder and hip. SiSi look in their bag, SiSi look at each other. One says something too low for the rest of us to hear. The other laughs. SiSi look in their bag and smile.
SiSi walk past Omar and me. SiSi don't say anything, don't look at me or Omar. SiSi go onto the porch and sit in a porch swing.
"¡Tanya!" Omar says. Tanya looks up from her bag. Tanya is blond, so blond. Tanya's hair is white, cut in long bangs over her eyes and curving softly into her shoulders hair. Tanya's eyes are blue, lined with black eyeliner and green shadow eyes and her lashes are black Avon lashes. Tanya's lips are pouty lips. They pout when she smiles, they pout when she frowns, they pout especially when she pouts.
Tanya's face is blank like white paper. Tanya's eyes look at everything the same.
"Say hello to our guest," Omar says to Tanya.
Tanya smiles a blank smile, through pouty lips.
"Hi!" Tanya says. She looks at me.
"Hello," I say.
"Uh-huh," Tanya says. Tanya stands her weight on one foot and sways her upper body back and forth. Tanya's other foot slides toward the house. Tanya holds her bag in one hand. Tanya'a eyes go from mine to Omar's and back to mine and then down to her Avon bag. Tanya catches her pouty lower lip in her upper teeth.
"Tanya is from Fresno," Omar says, "Is that not so, Tanya?"
"Yeah," Tanya says, "You from the states?"
"Portland," I say, "Oregon."
"Oh yah," Tanya says, "I heard of that."
Tanya nods and smiles her pouty smile. I nod along with Tanya. Omar nods, too, and we all stand there nodding for a minute like bobble head ceramic dogs in a car rear window.
"Cool!" Tanya says. Tanya shifts her weight to the other foot, the one closer to the house.
"Well," Tanya says, "See ya."
"Yeah," I say.
Tanya turns and runs a couple of steps, then slows down and walks the rest of the way to the house. Tanya is wearing cut-off jeans, too, like DiDi, but Tanya's butt is rounder and wider than DiDi's. Tanya's cut-offs are longer, there's actually an inch or so of leg on them. Tanya is wearing highheeled sandals, the kind with the solid rope heels and open toes. They make her legs seem longer, but not as long as DiDi's.
"Hello," a woman says from right next to me. I get a muscle spasm that makes me bump against Omar. Omar moves away.
"Maricosa Angelina!" Omar says, his voice low and rough, like a father teasing a daughter.
"It is very rude of you to sneak up on our guest." Omar says.
"I did not sneak." Maricosa says. "I never sneak."
Maricosa is only as tall as my shoulder. As tall as Omar's shoulder. Seeing Maricosa up close, the other women are large and clumsy. I hadn't noticed how large and clumsy the other women are. Coarse, almost.
"This is Maricosa," Omar says.
"Call me Marsita!" Maricosa says.
"Marsita?" I say. I can't think of anything else to say. Marsita is looking up into my eyes and I can't look away. Can't look at anything but Marsita's eyes.
Marsita's eyes are golden brown deep rich loam of the earth eyes. Treasure of the Sierra Madres eyes. Soft warm fire in clay ovens eyes. Diamonds and emeralds in dark room eyes. Independence day night Chinese New Year fireworks eyes.
Marsita's eyes are tilted up at the corners, like Asian eyes eyes. Marsita's eyelids disappear when they are open. Marsita's face is a round face, her chin a pointy chin. Marsita's hair is straight black parted in the middle hair. Marsita’s nose is a short round nose. Marsita's mouth a small thin mouth that quirks up on one side like there's some kind of humorous thing going on and she's not about to laugh out loud. Marsita wears no make up.
"Make up?" I say. I point at her bag. Marsita shakes her head without looking down.
"I don't wear make up," Marsita says. "Massage oil."
“Scented.” Marsita says.
She lifts one eyebrow at me.
"Coming?" Marsita says.
"¡Amigo!" Omar yells from the porch. "¡Vamanos!"
I look around to where he'd been standing next to me. I don't remember him leaving my side. I look back at Marsita. She is walking toward the house, her back is to me. Her back says follow. I follow.
* * *
Omar introduced me to the three goons in the back of the Bronco on the way up to his hacienda. They are Raoul, Chico and Bambino, Raoul being the oldest one with the mustache who was hassling me, and Chico being the one without the mustache who dumped my clothes on the ground. Bambino never says anything, but he laughs when the others laugh and the rest of the time he just looks tough.
At the hacienda, as the women make their way inside, two more goons come out onto the porch, carrying guns. The first is wearing a black T shirt and black fatigues, black combat boots and a black belt and holster slung low on his hip like a bad guy in the old western movies. He is very fit, by which I mean his arms are as big around as my thighs and his chest is so well defined in his T shirt that it looks like those plastic muscles they put on Batman in his latest movies. This goon wears black wraparound sunglasses and his hair is brush cut to be flat on top hair.
"This is Rocky," Omar says, turning to me as I come up to the porch steps. Omar punches Rocky on the arm and Rocky smiles. Rocky lifts his left hand, fingers hard and straight like he's going to salute but his hand only gets up to shoulder height where the fingers pivot across a precise arc, once. Rocky's smile is a missing a few teeth smile, and Rocky's nose is a flattened and bent nose. Rocky's eyes are hidden behind sunglasses eyes. I wave back.
"Hi," I say.
"And this," Omar is saying, "Is the Terminator!"
Omar slaps the back of a large round man with a stained white muscle shirt over a sunken chest and huge belly. The Terminator's hair, what's left of it, is wispy light brown hair that floats around the big bald spot on top of his head as if trying to decide whether to land there or not. The Terminator's head sits directly on the Terminator's shoulders, and his arms are, like Rocky's, as big around as my thighs but unlike Rocky's, so loose the skin flaps as he puts out his hand to shake. Around the widest part of the Terminator's belly is tied an apron that reaches almost to the ground. Under the apron the Terminator is wearing khaki shorts to his knees and the Terminator's bare feet are wide and black with dirt.
"The Terminator is our cook!" Omar says.
"A great cook." Rocky says.
"The best." The Terminator says.
"Nice to meet you." I say.
"Come on inside," Omar says, "Take a load off."
I follow Omar inside. Inside the entrance hall is dark. Dark like a cave, almost. Dark like you can't really see the ceiling because it's way up there all gloomy and you expect bats to be flying around. Dark like all the windows have been boarded up and only a little light comes in from the doors that open up into the entrance hall.
There is a huge curving staircase in the entrance hall that goes up into the gloom. The floor of the entrance hall is marble, I think, under the dirt. There are lumps that look like bushes piled up along one wall. A huge fountain with a statue of a cherub up on one toe, other leg pointed back, head twisted up to look at the sky and a plate in one hand. It looks like a plate. The plate is spilling water into the round pool at the base of the fountain. The cherub is also peeing into the fountain.
We go into what must have been a library, floor to ceiling shelves all around the room; bookcases, and one of those ladders that runs on a rail on each wall so you can reach the top shelves, if you wanted to. If there was anything up there you really wanted to reach. Opposite the door we go in are three sets of big French door type windows, six foot tall, spaced evenly, they let in a lot of the afternoon light, even through the milky haze on them. Can't really see outside through the haze.
There are a few books, left on the shelves, but mostly other stuff. This is what I see on the shelves; guns, ammo, sacks of food, coconuts, Stereo equipment of every shape and size, a large collection of records, tapes and CD's. three televisions, a microwave oven, baskets, bags, bones, skulls, skeets, computers, printers, speakers, electric piano keyboards, guitars, clocks, toy dinosaurs, remote control cars, dart boards, baseballs, bowling balls, soccer balls, tennis balls, ping pong balls, crystal balls, mirrored balls, popcorn balls, three large parrots who have obviously lived here for years and a monkey. That's what I see when I first go in, but I'm sure there's other stuff, too.
In the center of the room are four large sofas surrounding a glass-topped table. On the table stands a scale and a box of plastic zip-lock bags and several piles of white crystally powder, which of course I have no idea is cocaine. Maria and SiSi sit on one of the couches, DiDi and Tanya sit on the couch to the right of them and Marsita sits opposite Maria and SiSi. All the women, except for Marsita, are pulling out all their Avon stuff and showing it off to each other. Omar and Raoul sit down next to Marsita, opposite Maria and SiSi, Omar in the middle. Omar waves his hand that I should sit on the final couch, all by myself. Marsita between me and him. Rocky standing behind me. I feel his presence back there like I'm a jackrabbit on a highway, and Rocky's a big vulture, waiting for that semi to come along.
Omar sits forward on the couch and picks up a gold plated razor blade that is sitting by a pile of coke. He starts to set up some lines.
"Rocky," Omar says, "I thought you were going to run the tests and bag this up?"
Omar uses the blade to separate a small pile of coke from the larger pile closest to him. I estimate it to be about a half an ounce. 16 grams.
Rocky started to answer in Spanish.
"Please, Rocky," Omar says before the man can finish, "We have a guest, where are your manners? In englais, por favor."
"¿Habla español?" Omar says to me.
"Muy poco," I say.
"Ah!," Omar says, "We will speak English then, it is good practice for us."
Omar didn't sound like he needed any practice, but Rocky went along with him.
"Doc had questions." Rocky says, "Y then the farmers brought in samples of their crop this ah, como se dice temporada."
"Season, Rocky," Omar says, "This growing season."
"Season," Rocky says, only he says it like Say Son.
Omar has separated the smaller pile by now into four even smaller piles and is spreading the smaller piles out into lines. The razor blade goes tap tap and squeak on the glass, tap tap and squeak and a little flourish of the hand. Omar cutting the lines of coke reminds me of those Japanese cooks who juggle the knives while they're cooking your shrimp and slicing your teriyaki beef. Under Omar's hand, the lines form long and even, two and two, a pair for me and a pair for you.
"The crop samples," Omar says, looking at me. "What luck! You can help me decide!"
"Decide?" I say.
I'm looking at those lines. Those lines of coke. Those lines are a quarter of an inch thick. Those lines are a quarter of an inch tall. Those lines are six inches long. And I know, I just know this coke ain't coke like that half gram in the little triangular bag cut from a no-pleat baggie and sealed with a Bic lighter that you got on the streets of Miami back in 1979. This ain't Coke that's been cut six times and there's so much Minoxydol that you have to go poop within five minutes of tooting your little tiny toothpick line. This coke is straight out of the lab and pure as driven snow, so to speak. As they say. My jaw starts working just looking at it.
So.
"Decide?" I say.
"Yeah," Omar says, "Choose which to ship where."
"Which what?" I say.
"Marijuana," Omar says. "Which marijuana to ship where."
Omar pulls a hundred dollar bill from his wallet and rolls it up. He sticks one end of the bill in his nose, holds the other nostril shut with two fingers of his other hand, and leans down to inhale a line. He switches hands and nostrils and sucks up the other line. He holds the bill out to me, and raises his eyebrows, still holding one nostril shut with the other hand.
I take the tubular money from Omar. Test out the clarity of my nasal passages by holding each nostril closed in turn and pulling in a bunch of air. Turn my head away from the piles of coke and exhale as much as I can. Stick the hundred bucks up my nose, lean forward and suck maybe a thousand street dollars worth of cocaine into my right nostril. That's like a quarter of one of these lines Omar has on the table here. Switch nostrils and do the same for the other side.
My head expands to encompass most of the room. The top of my head transmutating through the roof. I can feel the hot sun and light breeze ruffle my hair up there. My head is instantly clearer than I ever remember it being, both thoughtwise and sinuswise, and I begin chewing an imaginary cud. This is an unfortunate side effect. This always happens. Coke makes me work my jaw around, like I'm tryin' to chew something, but there's nothing to chew on. Back when I roomed with a drug dealer, he would use this phenomenon to judge the quality of the coke he bought.
The quality of this coke, this particular coke, is much better than anything I remember. I touch a damp finger to the glass tabletop, collecting crumbs to wipe on my gums, and I can taste the coke through my fingers. That's how good it is. I touch it with my fingers and taste it in my mouth.
Marlboro time. I feel much more animated than I have in a long while. Omar is already setting up another pair of lines for himself. Raoul laughs a short laugh at me. Raoul leans back and snaps his fingers in the direction of DiDi and Tanya. DiDi looks up, but she looks mad, her lips all up in the middle and her eyebrows down. DiDi's eyes go from Raoul to me to Maria to Omar and then back to Raoul. DiDi's got one leg crossed over the other and that upper leg, that foot on that upper legs flippin' back and forth real fast.
"Go get us tequila!" Raoul says.
"None for me, thanks!" I say, "Hey, Omar, this is some place you got here! Whoever did your decorating?"
"Did it myself, man," Omar says, "You like the parrots?"
"Don't they shit on everything?" I say.
"Yeah," he says, "but it adds to the..ah.. ambiance!"
* * *
Omar leads me and Rocky and Raoul out to the dark cave entrance hall. Omar looks at the lumps that are bushes and laughs a little.
Omar leads me and Rocky and Raoul out to the dark cave entrance hall. Omar looks at the lumps that are bushes and laughs a little.
"Are they tagged?" Omar says.
"¿Que?" Rocky says.
"Los etiquetos," Omar says, "Tags?"
"Ah Si, I mean, yes!" Rocky says.
"Grab those," Omar says. Omar waves a hand at four bushes.
"Don't get 'em mixed up," Omar says.
The plants still have their root systems complete with dirt attached. There are six of them. We drag them into the library. Omar takes his over to one of the French doors. I follow him. Omar opens the French door and the sunlight comes in to light up the plants. The smell is like that old weed pile my mom used to have out back, about halfway through the summer, with a new pile of weeds on it from yesterday.
Omar looks at the plant he is holding.
Rocky says "That is from..."
"Don't tell me!" Omar says, "I already know. Alvarado, correct?"
Rocky looks at the tag and nods.
"The strong trunk," Omar says, "The vermilion color, the firm leaves." Omar takes in a huge sniff. "That aroma, do you see?"
Omar holds the plant to my face. There is a bud just ready to burst there, the tiny dark green leaves twisting around the flower as if to protect it. I take a sniff. I'm amazed that I can still smell anything after that coke.
"The nose is quite earthy," Omar is saying, "A little acidic." Omar pushes the leaves up around his face.
"Piquant, I'd say, Charles," Omar says, "What do you think?"
Omar is speaking like a stuffy English twit. I look around to see who Charles is. But Omar means me.
"Oh, I say," I say, "Quite ripe."
"Notice the way these leaves ball up in your fingers when you rub them." Omar says. Omar holds up a ball of leaves about the size of a marble. Omar's fingers are stained green.
"See the residue?" Omar says, "Alvarado always takes forever to dry. We have to stash it away for a month before shipment."
Omar's using his own voice again.
"Hmm," I say.
"Now this," Omar grabs another bush. "This must be from Guzman, No?"
Omar looks at the tag.
"Guzman, of course, see the faded color," Omar says, "the narrow leaves, the weak stalk?
Guzman's plantation is at high altitude."
"But still," English Omar says, "It's an impetuous little vintage with a crisp tongue and a delightful afterbite!"
Omar pulls a handful of leaves and a bud from the Guzman plant and puts them in a toaster oven on a shelf next to an Eddie Murphy doll and a chocolate Easter bunny with no ears. Omar sets the timer and goes for the next plant.
"Soon Li," Regular Omar says, "See how fat the leaves are? Soon Li has a spread down by the river."
Omar looks at the tag.
"No, I am wrong," Omar says, "but not by much. It's Garcia, but he too is down by the river. Too much jungle, not enough sun, but he grows a lot of it and he sells it cheap, so we can pass on the savings to you! We'll send it to Miami, I've got a volume dealer there."
"Notice," English Omar says, "The full body, the spicy aroma with a hint of, what do you say..."
"Manure?" I say.
"Clove," Regular Omar says, "Garcia grows clove, also."
A bell rings. It is the toaster oven. Omar opens the door and pulls out a little aluminum tray with the leaves and bud from the Guzman plant. He holds the tray in both hands in front of his face and moves his head back and forth, nose going side to side over the dried vegetable matter. He looks like the Galloping Gourmet.
"Mmm, my goodness!" Omar says, "done to a turn!"
I remember the rest of the line. The rest of that big line of coke over there. It's been almost ten minutes. It's time for another toot.
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