Stuart Kaminsky - Poor Butterfly

“Cryptic,” said Souvaine. “You have a gift for the parable.”

“Get your ass away from my car or you’re dog meat,” I snarled, reaching for the handle.

Souvaine smiled sweetly, put his hands up, and moved away from the Crosley.

“I’m sure that if you let yourself listen to us, you’d find our cause just,” he said. “Let me help you. Let us help you.”

“Okay,” I said, getting into the Crosley and opening the window. “How do I get to Las Lindas Road?”

“You are within a mile of it,” he said with a put-upon smile. “Back that way three blocks and then right for another four or five blocks.”

“Thanks,” I said, turning the ignition key. “You don’t seem particularly concerned about Deacon Ortiz and the lion.”

“The Lord will do what the Lord will do,” he said.

As I turned the car around, I heard the wail of an ambulance heading toward the Opera.

Ipicked up an armed forces relay of one of last summer’s Yankees-White Sox games on the radio. I didn’t remember the game. I urged the Crosley forward and tried not to think. DiMaggio hit a double to drive in two runs in the eighth, and the announcer was going wild.

I got lost, or the Reverend Souvaine had given me bum directions.

I drove through streets that smelled of bodies, gasoline, and Mexican food. If your nose was good, you could also smell the grease of frying kielbasa. The smell seemed right for the people of the street, mostly dark-skinned and Latin but with a few older, round pink-white faces and heavy bodies. I passed stores with signs in Polish, including Slotvony’s Meat Shop, which sported a white sign in crayon announcing that blood soup was on sale today.

Finally, I blundered onto Las Lindas, spotted the address, and was looking for a place to park when a figure staggered out in front of my Crosley. I was going slow, the car was small, and his brain was parked on another planet or he would have been dead when I hit him. I pulled in next to a fire plug, pulled my.38 out of the glove compartment, stuck it in my pocket, got out, and moved over to the guy I had hit.

“You okay?” I asked, helping him up.

He smelled fragrant, but he was thin and easy to lift.

“I’m disoriented,” the guy said.

“I know how you feel,” I said, fishing into my pocket, one-handing my wallet and pulling out a bill. It was a five. What the hell. I put it into his hand.

“Been disoriented since ’36,” the street guy said. “How long is that?”

“Six years,” I said.

The guy shook his head and reached down for a frayed blue shoulder bag.

“I’m straight on the time of day,” he said, his hands still trembling. “But damned if I can get the years straight. You gave me a bill?”

“A five,” I said.

“You don’t look so good yourself,” he said, trying to focus on me.

Somewhere down the alley some kids laughed, not at us but at some joke behind a fence.

“Deacon Ortiz tried to kill me,” I said.

“Never trust the church,” he said, sitting on the curb and looking at the five-dollar bill.

“Sure you’re okay?” I asked.

“I’m alive,” the guy said. “And I’ve got five bucks. Sometimes when you don’t expect it, life is good for a few hours.”

“Amen,” I said.

“Wait” he said as I turned to walk toward Lorna’s address. “I know you.”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“Your name’s Peters,” he said. “Before I lost touch, I worked at Santiago’s gas station in Encino.”

“Farkas?” I asked. “I was thinking about you the other day.”

“Small world,” he said, looking up at the sky. “Few minutes ago I see Samson and now you. Remember Santiago?”

I remembered him but I didn’t want to think about it now. I’d picked up a few dollars riding shotgun at Santiago’s Shell Station in Encino. Things were relatively quiet on the ten-to-midnight shift one night. A fat couple walking down the street pushing a grocery cart they’d stolen from Ralph’s started to fight about who-knows-what. I watched them as I sat sipping Pepsi on a rickety lawn chair in front of Santiago’s station, listening to “Amos ‘n’ Andy” on the radio while a wiry ex-con named Snick Farkas pumped gas. Farkas was the guy who loved classical music. Said he’d memorized twenty operas in prison. Volunteered to sing them to anyone who would listen. No one would listen.

Santiago, who was over seventy and had a bad leg, had once taken a few shots at a kid who had pulled the gas-stealing trick twice. The shots had taken out windows in the stores across the street and almost hit an alderman named Blankenship, who was walking down the street with a woman he later claimed was his cousin but who everyone knew was a prostitute from San Diego. Santiago decided to call it quits, but his brother, a junior partner in the station, had talked him into trying again. Santiago had grumbled but decided to make the final try.

But things got worse. There was an increase in hold-ups of the station by frustrated kids, pre-Zoot-suiters who counted on free gas from Santiago. There had been four hold-ups in one month, all on the night shift when Santiago wasn’t there. That was when I had been hired.

The first week I was on the job Santiago insisted on hiding inside the station with his shotgun. He looked like a grizzled Mexican Gabby Hayes, right down to the game leg. His greasy Shell baseball cap cut into the illusion but didn’t kill it. Farkas pumped gas, his hooded eyes revealing nothing. I sat in the lawn chair, wearing my.38 and a gray sweatshirt over my not-so-good jeans.

About eleven that night a car full of kids pulled into the station in a 1933 Chevy. Two boys no older than fifteen got out of the car. A girl in the back seat was laughing and holding her sides. One of the boys, who was holding a sawed-off rifle, told her to shut up.

Farkas stood calmly, wiping oil from his hands. Later he told me that he was one-quarter Apache and his grandfather had taught him that he was part of the Great Oneness and would join it one day. Farkas had led a wild life before the truth of his grandfather’s words hit him, but once they did, he began to prepare himself for the Great Oneness. The night those two boys came out of the car seemed, to Farkas, a decent enough night to die.

Before either boy could say anything, Santiago, standing inside the station, blew out his own front window with a blast that rained glass on me, Farkas, the Chevy, and the robbers.

“Loco shit!” the kid with the rifle had said, ducking behind the car.

The other kid-skinny, with the eyes of someone who loved the Lady of White Powder-blinked. His cheek was bleeding from flying glass. The butt of a pistol showed from his pocket, but he didn’t reach for it.

My.38 was out before the shards had stopped raining on the gas pumps. The girl in the car wasn’t laughing anymore. The kid behind the car with the shotgun was cursing. The skinny kid in front of the car stood stunned and looked at Farkas. I looked at Farkas, too, as I held my gun on the kid. Farkas smiled a smile that said “Give it up” and I could see that the kid was giving it up, but Santiago came hobbling through his broken window. The kid with the shotgun stood up, aimed at no one in particular, and fired. The shot took out pump number two. Santiago was gurgling with joy as he fired in return, taking out the front window of the Chevy.

The kid with the shotgun jumped into the car, and I nodded at the skinny kid to climb in with him. As he reached for the rear door, the girl inside screamed and the car burned rubber and took off. The skinny kid stood wide-eyed in the driveway of Santiago’s station and watched his partner drive off. Santiago chortled with pleasure and aimed at the kid.