Pink Poodle Pie

I stewed around for the next few days, thought once or twice I’d head off to pay a visit to my relatives in the barrio, see if I could sniff out what was going on. Then I dreamed about Ramon’s expression when he told me to lay low and I’d wake up in a sweat. I also remembered what Sheila warned me about . . . if I made a mistake at this point, if I did one thing that left a hint of any part in any of the shit that was going to hit the fan sometime in the near future, she personally would hang my tits out to dry. It was one thing to have this screaming urge inside to tell all of the bastardos in my life to do something anatomically impossible to themselves, it was another to stick my nose into their business. I might get a bruisin’ I wouldn’t recover from. During one of those weeks I returned to the house at almost midnight to a ringing phone. Worry had built up inside me and I had overindulged at the 49er Saloon. It’s a good thing that the local cops were across town investigating the crazy woman who had shot her significant other. . . for the second time this month. Just as the machine picked up, I recognized Ramon’s voice. I pray to all the saints everywhere that this is not bad news. I managed a bright greeting. “Hey, Ramón, how goes it?” “You’re hard to reach.” He grumbled, the tone accusing. “I decided it was time to get a life, do something for myself, you know. I went over to the college today and enrolled in an interior design course. Yesterday I signed up as a volunteer storyteller to preschoolers at the library. Tonight . . . well, I was out having some fun.” I felt the Latina part of my blood pressure beginning to rise. “What’s it to you?” “Nada, hija. I just don’t like to have you out of touch . . . especially when things are gonna start poppin’ around here, you understand what I mean?” Sure I understand, you little twirp. You’re checking up on me. You think I’m down in LA getting in the way of your big plans. Won’t you be surprised when you find out that I’ve done my thing, paid my dues, eaten the last crap sandwich served by any of you, and I will soon be sitting here having the last laugh. “Yeah, sure, Ramón, I know what you want me to do. I’m here. I’m not there. So, what are you doing with yourself?” “Gonna take care of that business we discussed. Be out of town for a few days. Just keep watchin’ the news.” And with those intriguing words, he hung up. Sheila was glad to hear from me, said she’d pass along the tidbits of info to the ones who were keeping an eye on the situation. Maybe let the ex know, very discreetly from someone he trusted explicitly, like her, that Ramón was about to do a number, a double cross, on him. We’d see where that would take them both. It was all I could do to stay in my cabin, not hop into the Volvo and race to LA. The brown stinky stuff was about to hit the fan and I really wanted to be there to see it all. Instead I, like thousands of other interested and non-interested parties, heard it all on the Channel 5 news at ten the next night. “Criminal attorney, John Weston, was arrested at the scene of a homicide earlier this evening. It is alleged that the attorney once nominated for a seat on the Federal Judicial Bench was involved in the illegal importing of cocaine from Mexico. He was picked up at a warehouse near Olympic Boulevard soon after shots rang out inside the building. Ramón Suarez, a well-known drug dealer in the area, was found shot to death surrounded by cocaine worth an estimated two million dollars. Simultaneously, Mr. Weston’s home was being searched and unofficial word is that drugs, laundered money, and records of sales were found. Mr. Weston is being held without bail in the Los Angeles City Jail.” Oh, God, John must have thought he could get away with it. There it was again. Machismo. John Weston, Mr. Smart Ass Attorney, was sure he could never be tied to the murder of a low life like Ramón Suarez. His old compadre had carried him right with him into the eyesight of the law. His once-upon-a-time girlfriend had set him up. With a little help from his ex-wife. Hot damn! An hour later, after a number of Black Russians and a reassuring call from Sheila purporting (one of those high falutin’ words I learned from John) that my ass was absolutely, positively, in the clear on this thing, I did a little wild dance around the room. All that lovely money and property and security belonged to little old me. But it was when I sat down with my fourth, or was it the fifth? . . . well, anyway, one of many of my favorite Kailua drinks . . . I began to think over the whole matter, and I let that Latina temper spew out. “That slimy, greasy, greedy pendejo! He had two million dollars worth of cocaine and he was going to take another million from his poor, innocent, little brown sister. Death is too good for that…that criminal, Ramon Suarez. Best I can’t get my hands on him. He’d have nothing left to cover up with that pink jock strap when I got through with him. - From “Venganza”