had ever known who could call it Chi and not sound like an imbecile. It sounded natural, coming from Rosie, who Cruz saw as old fashioned, yet someone to look up to, to emulate. Rosie had this pet expression: When the shit starts flying, be careful you don't inhale any. Cruz caught himself using it one day, and it sounded natural for him, too.
'I'll grease Emilio out. Couple of months, no heat, I'll bring you back in. Emilio will chill down when he gets a new bitch. But right now you've got to get out of here, before the shit starts flying.'
Cruz returned a sad grin. 'Don't wanna inhale none.'
'Don't go to your apartment. Hear me, now.'
'But Rosie, what about all my stuff, and-'
Rosie overrode. 'No and no. Don't even stop at a 7-11 for a bubble water. Phone no one. Go straight to the airport and don't do anything except stay low till five o'clock. Then call me. By then I'll have tickets straightened out. After that, you were never here this afternoon, despite what the dummies outside will say. They're wasted and I'm not. You were never here. I need half an hour to cook up a plausible excuse as to your absence, but don't worry about that.' He glanced at his watch again. 'Our first five minutes are gone. You're outta here, kiddo. Now.'
Cruz's hand sought his pocket, where the thickness of cash bills bulged.
'No buts,' said Rosie. 'Git.'
No tears, no strain. Cruz shut the door quietly behind. He was a pro, too.
***
By the stroke of midnight Cruz was freezing his cojones off at O'Hare Airport, already thinking this alien turf truly gobbled the canary.
He tried to sip turbid automat coffee. It seared his tongue. The PA announcements were absurd. Nondenominational Sunday morning services will be held at 6:30 in the chapel, basement level. Baggage claim was in the next area code from where the Eastern flight had debarked. He had no bags to claim, and no idea of where to wander. He'd never been a fugitive before.
This airport had a chapel, for fuck's sake.
He thought of his cab ride to Miami International, a nervous trip that let him savor the tang of one hundred proof paranoia - utter, bug-eyed, a distillate of all the fear he had known in twenty-one years walking the surface of the planet. He saw the cabbie notice his frequent glances out the back window, and sat rubbing his palms against his pantlegs.
He imagined the telephone at his duplex ringing, ringing with one of Emilio's bad boys on the calling end, sniffing. He built a fantasy picture of Emilio's iron-pumping goon brigade turning his home inside-out. There went the Audio Technics turntable, the one with the twelve-pound professional deejay platter and the solid carbon Black Widow tonearm. Crunch. There went the CDs. Crack, crack, crack . The belly of his Aqua III waterbed would be gutted by Buck knives. Splooch. He saw his wardrobe systematically shredded asunder. His collection of gas station and bowling shirts, with names embroidered in red on the pocket ovals, none of which had ever seen a day of working class labor… all gone now. Emilio's apes loved destruction almost as much as straight rape and no-frills murder.
It would all come to pass if Rosie's story sprang a leak. If Emilio tipped.
Cruz had locked eyes with Emilio's lady through a freebased cloud of blur. His line: 'You're probably wasted and stupid enough to jump off, Chiqui. Go on. I dare ya.' Snappy patter that had changed his life in an instant.
He had tried to estimate five stories of height when the 737 had lifted from the runway. Terminal velocity was thirty-two feet per second. Had Chiquita achieved it before her dazzling smile and boner-bait body had flattened into a meatbag of pulverized bones?
Five o'clock. His hands had been shaking when he dialed Rosie's secret number. Relays dealt with the call; the timbre of the ring abruptly
'I'll grease Emilio out. Couple of months, no heat, I'll bring you back in. Emilio will chill down when he gets a new bitch. But right now you've got to get out of here, before the shit starts flying.'
Cruz returned a sad grin. 'Don't wanna inhale none.'
'Don't go to your apartment. Hear me, now.'
'But Rosie, what about all my stuff, and-'
Rosie overrode. 'No and no. Don't even stop at a 7-11 for a bubble water. Phone no one. Go straight to the airport and don't do anything except stay low till five o'clock. Then call me. By then I'll have tickets straightened out. After that, you were never here this afternoon, despite what the dummies outside will say. They're wasted and I'm not. You were never here. I need half an hour to cook up a plausible excuse as to your absence, but don't worry about that.' He glanced at his watch again. 'Our first five minutes are gone. You're outta here, kiddo. Now.'
Cruz's hand sought his pocket, where the thickness of cash bills bulged.
'No buts,' said Rosie. 'Git.'
No tears, no strain. Cruz shut the door quietly behind. He was a pro, too.
***
By the stroke of midnight Cruz was freezing his cojones off at O'Hare Airport, already thinking this alien turf truly gobbled the canary.
He tried to sip turbid automat coffee. It seared his tongue. The PA announcements were absurd. Nondenominational Sunday morning services will be held at 6:30 in the chapel, basement level. Baggage claim was in the next area code from where the Eastern flight had debarked. He had no bags to claim, and no idea of where to wander. He'd never been a fugitive before.
This airport had a chapel, for fuck's sake.
He thought of his cab ride to Miami International, a nervous trip that let him savor the tang of one hundred proof paranoia - utter, bug-eyed, a distillate of all the fear he had known in twenty-one years walking the surface of the planet. He saw the cabbie notice his frequent glances out the back window, and sat rubbing his palms against his pantlegs.
He imagined the telephone at his duplex ringing, ringing with one of Emilio's bad boys on the calling end, sniffing. He built a fantasy picture of Emilio's iron-pumping goon brigade turning his home inside-out. There went the Audio Technics turntable, the one with the twelve-pound professional deejay platter and the solid carbon Black Widow tonearm. Crunch. There went the CDs. Crack, crack, crack . The belly of his Aqua III waterbed would be gutted by Buck knives. Splooch. He saw his wardrobe systematically shredded asunder. His collection of gas station and bowling shirts, with names embroidered in red on the pocket ovals, none of which had ever seen a day of working class labor… all gone now. Emilio's apes loved destruction almost as much as straight rape and no-frills murder.
It would all come to pass if Rosie's story sprang a leak. If Emilio tipped.
Cruz had locked eyes with Emilio's lady through a freebased cloud of blur. His line: 'You're probably wasted and stupid enough to jump off, Chiqui. Go on. I dare ya.' Snappy patter that had changed his life in an instant.
He had tried to estimate five stories of height when the 737 had lifted from the runway. Terminal velocity was thirty-two feet per second. Had Chiquita achieved it before her dazzling smile and boner-bait body had flattened into a meatbag of pulverized bones?
Five o'clock. His hands had been shaking when he dialed Rosie's secret number. Relays dealt with the call; the timbre of the ring abruptly
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