Viva Zapata! by Brian Murphy

What’s maybe got you spooked more than anything else tonight is tonight - the whole bloody sequence. It’s what you know and how you feel about what you don’t know. Still, it’s not but half over yet. Yeah, well at least you know that.

Nutty just took another hit off a joint and his eyes seem to have rolled up and inside of his narrow forehead. You expect any minute for smoke to start pouring out from his ears.

Nutty and the rest of the crew are making the last delivery. Normally you'd have back-up tonight, but once Nutty leaves, there isn’t anyone else. These guys you’re expecting, at least they come highly recommended. But so did the twelve guys that hung with Jesus; look what happened to him.

 

Normally you'd have put off the meeting until tomorrow but the "Big" who highly recommended these guys - then suggested it go down tonight, used the same voice you'd heard him use to suggest to others less fortunate that they might want to just blow their own brains out rather than put their whole family on the firing line.

"White Bread" and "Slow" pass a joint while they stack and pack the heroin into a "Nike" bag.

 

You know that when the three of them leave, you're going to miss the jabbering and jive - it'll be real quiet; the only friend you'll be left with, waiting for these Mexican cats to show up with more product, is your Uzi and a nine millimeter Glock.

The money’s stashed. If things go wrong, they'll have to kill you. That recommendation from “Big” did little to inspire the necessary trust you usually require before you do a dope deal with men you’ve never met.

 

"Sal, we comin' back. They don't be here till eleven."

White Bread has the Nike bag over his shoulder and is checking the chamber of his Colt revolver.

"Yeah boyyy, yo don't need ta be sitting here like duck."

 

You pat the Uzi. "Just do the speed limit. Safe and sound - aight?"

Nutty shouts out, "It's all how you feel boss. You get the funnies, don't let em in. We'll stay ta weigh - thass all - back in a minute. From the outside in.”

"I'll be fine. I just worry 'bout these Mexicans picking up a tail."

"Sal, we be back toot sweet.”

Leaving, the boys hoot and holler their goodbyes in unison - a beat-street concrete symphony where later might be never. 

Sinking a shot from a bottle of tequila, you gag and from habit, fix your eyes on the poster of Emiliano Zapata, blown up from one of those post cards you’d mailed to yourself from Ole’ Mexico.

You look at the bottle, then at the open package of heroin on the coffee table, then back up at the poster.

"Fuck this."

Chambering a round in the Glock, you hit the bottle again, then, scooping up a pile of dope, you bring it to your nostril. Warmth. Another minute or two and you’ll be chatting with Emiliano. Maybe by that time the phone will ring.

****

1995:

De Luna had just gotten done printing out over twenty thousand stamps. They were perfect. Perforated and glossy. Legal tender. Emiliano Zapata taking the shade under a twenty-gallon sombrero.

He asked you to run the stamps down to Mexico. Johnson, who was also going, had collected thirty large from the east side - donations.

Johson wanted you to go as well. He needed help sending out postcards - as many as you had time to stamp and address. Once they made it through the post, they’d be legitimized as real stamps. They’d be worth some real coin after that.

It would be dangerous business. It would be like starting a revolution - a silent one. The Zapatistas wanted the stamps as badly as they wanted the money. Legitimized would mean that finally the government was recognizing Emiliano Zapata as a national hero. They’d go fucking nuts. Every patriot in Mexico would want a stamp or two. Keep one and send the other to a relative somewhere.

De Luna had plans to print a hell of a lot more. Enough to maybe bankrupt the country.

The whole operation could get so big that the Zapatistas might actually have a bargaining chip for their negotiations. Like De Luna had told you, people had already died. You’d seen the photos.

It would take big balls to stick it out the whole week and do what had already been planned. Zapata, he had big balls to go and do what he did. Heroes needed big balls.

You remembered that he’d been betrayed, then killed.

You grabbed at your own balls wondering if they were big enough. That was the first time you thought about Johnson, wondering if you could trust him.

****

So there you were, up on the roof of that sleazy hotel in Cozumel, tripping your balls off on acid, writing postcards and drinking warm tequila by the pool. You’re up there alone. Johnson hasn’t left the hotel room for three days. You haven’t seen the money either.

And you’ve been wondering more and more about that. When you asked about going to San Cristobal to meet with the Zapatistas, Johnson would just smile.

It didn’t feel right.

Maybe it’s the walls breathing; it’s the water in the pool talking - maybe it’s your stomach advising you to start worrying.

You hate to admit it but you’re starting to get nervous and nervous is the last gut tug before fear. You pop on down to the room. The halls are twisted and moving.

The only problem - well, the first problem, is the door. It seems to be elastic. And it’s laughing at you.

The second problem is the door. Getting it open.

When you finally get your card key to work, you get that chance to feel the fear now. Johnson has split. Cleaned out the room - left you with nothing, just whatever money’s in your pocket, and the shirt on your back. A head-full of acid.

The room is tilting and from far away, coming closer, a troupe of feet and angry voices - military bearing. By the time the door starts to sound as if at any minute it’s going to implode, you see your only escape route.

Nothing to grab, just your balls. The terrace door - glass. It’s locked. You lead with your foot and you’re through and the outside heat hits you while the ground meets your shredded, bleeding body in one angry concrete embrace.

Pushing your face back together, scraping small shards and pebble-sized pieces of glass from your hair, madly rubbing blood from your eyes, you spot keys in one of the military trucks out front.

Already, you’re shifting out of first, picking up speed. Grabbing a machine gun left behind, you have suddenly the sense to empty the clip over your shoulder,

Fucking kid’s all right. The gods hear and obey. A lucky shot or three hits the only pursuing jeep and it explodes in your rear view mirror. Your in shock, in unbearable pain and tripping your brains out - in fact you’re so high you almost stop to watch the explosions - men and machinery in pieces, flailed and smoking spit out into the air.

You try to stay conscious. It hurts. You know that dying must hurt much more - dying is forever.

No one following. The radio is going ape-shit with more bird squeaks and chirps then the Houston Zoo. Figuring out how to send, you order a pizza.

The fear, tequila, adrenalin and LSD in your tight stomach have decided to erupt like any other live volcano and the windshield is suddenly painted with a carnival of colors. The engine, screaming, finally reminds you that you are driving forty-five in second gear.

Then your world that had been such a fantastic color coordinated nightmare of vomit, acid hallucinations and stone-cold fear, turns out its lights. You hit the adobe house.

****

You finally meet the Indios - from the Zapatista commercial section. They saw the stamps and went nuts. A drunk Doctor stitches your face. You’re a hero.

“Chilie,” from the Sinaloa Cartel was coordinating shipments of coke through Guatamala. The Zapatistas were in the middle. When “Chilie” saw you, he called El Chapo, his Jeffe. You’d been in prison with his Nephew - done him some favors. El Chapo couldn’t wait to meet you. You’d forgotten about the favors. Luckily, he didn’t.

The Federales wanted you in the worst way for killing four of theirs. It seemed though, that El Chapo had half of them on his payroll.

He finally got you back home. Not only had you raised Zapata from the grave, you brought home a choice heroin connection. And Johnson? He was never seen again.

****

In the car, everyone is arguing except for Paulo, the driver. They want to keep the product down in the car. Paulo doesn’t say a word because that’s what he wants also. Fuck a lot of shoot-out at the O.K. Corral. He’ll just drive away. That’s his plan. Staying alive.

In Spanish: “How the fuck we gonna git this gringo’s money ifin he don’t see no product?”

“Fuck him. We bring up empty sacks. We gonna kill this punk no matter. We bring our shit up, maybe he has a crew hidden. Maybe he planning on taking us off?”

****

The phone is ringing. It’s not Nutty. It’s the Mexicans. They’re pulling up.

You press the Glock up against your right cheek, Uzi clutched tightly in your left hand, and you creep up to the door. Passing a mirror, you quick glance at the patchwork that is your face.

Sweat? How the fuck are you sweating when it’s twenty below zero outside? You’re in the stairwell - no heat. Now you know that it isn’t fear that you’re feeling. It’s anger - at your stupidity. For listening to “Big.” For doing this alone.

Your gut is telling you there will be lead and blood. Seguro.

You know you have life as long as you stay alive; that means as long as they bring the shit and seem half-way calm waiting for the money, then there’s a chance it will all work out - seguro. They have come recommended but like this Columbian told you once, “Seguro - it doesn’t mean “insurance,” it means’ saying good bye.”

So until you say good bye, either with a handshake or emptying a clip, nothing is for sure until the last breath, the last second, the last twitch in your eye.

You lean the Glock hard against your cheek and slowly open the door. There’s three shadows melting into men. One is holding a knapsack. He is smiling and you know you recognize his smile.

“Jesus Christ Esso - Chilie, it’s me, Sal - the stamp guy.”

When Chilie drops the knapsack, his two watchers pull automatic weapons out from their coats. But Chilie has only moved to see Sal closer - to hug him. He realizes he needs to explain something very quickly.

When the story gets to where Sal was half-dead and ordering pizzas over the police radio, everyone in the stairwell starts to laugh.

Chilie then explains that they were about to take off a rich, dumb gringo dope dealer - they had no idea the dope dealer was you.

After hugging everyone they all follow you into your place. Before you slam the door, Chilie comes back over to you and announces that tomorrow you’re going to have a piñata.

“Where is this piñata?”

Chilie smiles and pulls you close to his chest. He explains that El Chapo has found a very special one. He calls it Mike Johnson.

Then he hands you the bottle of tequila. When you finish it, you throw it against the stone fireplace where above is the blown up poster of Emiliano Zapata, riding away on his horse. You swear you can hear him laughing.

© Brian Murphy 2008 All Rights Reserved