Stephen Randel - The Chupacabra

“He…he…” Memo stammered as the deafening outburst from El Barquero momentarily shocked him into a brief state of composure. “He was going to kill me. He said he would kill my family. Kill my family’s family. Please…you don’t understand.”

“Very good, Memo,” El Barquero said gently as he lowered his voice and his weapon. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Anything else you want to tell me? You said you were going to call me, didn’t you?”

“I know of a shipment. Another shipment. There’s one tonight, I mean, early in the morning,” Memo stammered quickly. “Tonight, not far from the last one, east about five miles. Three men. Armed. Heroin. The really good stuff.”

“What time?”

“Sometime around three in the morning. They’re meeting two men in a jeep. It’ll be hidden about two miles back in the hills. Please. I didn’t have a choice. Please.”

“No, I don’t have a choice. The Toro never has a choice,” El Barquero said as he reached down to the clock radio and turned up the volume on the tejano station. The suppressor would dull the noise of the pistol report but wouldn’t completely eliminate it. “You’re nothing but a sad, pathetic little chicken, Memo,” El Barquero said as he raised the gun and shot the cowering man once in the heart and twice in the head.

Back in Austin, Aunt Polly’s pink Cadillac hopped the curb as she plowed into the coffee shop parking lot. Slamming on her brakes, she slid the long vehicle into the parking space nearest the door, coming to a stop just an inch from the blue handicapped parking sign. Rolling herself out of her car, she made her way into the old diner-style joint and walked directly to the large rounded booth in the corner where the rest of the girls were already waiting with their pie and coffee. Polly plopped down in the booth, where Miss Pearl, Jolene, Big Esther, and Little Esther sat in silence.

“Sweetie,” Polly called to the young waitress wiping down a booth next to theirs with a white dish towel. “Would you be a doll and bring me a coffee and a slice of strawberry pie? Thanks, sugar,” she said without waiting for a response as she turned to the girls. “Now, ladies, I’ve called you here to review the events of last night.”

“We were all there,” snapped Miss Pearl. “We know what happened.”

“Not another word from you until I’m finished talking,” Polly scolded Miss Pearl. “If it wasn’t for me, you’d still be rotting away in that jail cell. I’ve got half a mind to go get my bail money back as it is. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, the events of last night. Miss Pearl, you’ve finally gone too far this time. Shooting a handgun in public, my lord, someone could have gotten killed. Big Esther nearly had a coronary!” Polly said, pointing across the table where Big Esther nodded her head in agreement. “And you know I’ve got high blood pressure already. You can’t keep acting like this. Plus, I doubt they’ll ever let you back in for bingo, and that’s only if you don’t end up locked away in the Supermax with the killers and terrorists.”

“I ain’t going to no Supermax,” Miss Pearl said as she nibbled from the slice of apple pie in front of her. “Maybe a few days in County, but I can do that time in my sleep. I already got two inmate gangs trying to get me to join up. It’s like sorority rush, only with criminals and lesbians.”

“Oh, dear lord, Pearl!” cried Jolene. “Criminals are one thing, but please don’t go joining up with a lesbian gang!”

“Jolene, calm down,” said Polly as her coffee and pie arrived. “The reason I’ve called all of you here is that I’m declaring an intervention.”

“A what?” asked Little Esther.

“An intervention,” replied Polly as she drove her fork into her pie, cutting off a large piece that promptly fell off her fork and onto the table with a wet plop. “I’ve seen this on the television,” she continued as she scooped up the sticky lump of strawberries with her fork and fingers. “When someone you love gets completely out of control, you gather up their friends and declare an intervention. We all make a sworn commitment to help our loved one overcome their addiction,” Polly said as she sucked the pie off her fork and fingers.

“I ain’t got no addiction!” the feisty little black woman said as she crossed her arms. “I just got bad luck when it comes to coming in contact with fools!”

“No, Pearl,” replied Polly. “You most certainly do have an addiction, an anger addiction.” She looked around the table for support. “Girls, am I right or am I right?”

“Pearl,” said Jolene calmly. “She might have point.”

“It’s just a tiny problem, sweetie,” said Little Esther as she knitted away at a sock in her lap while Big Esther just bobbed her head in agreement.

“What kind of conspiracy is this?” asked Pearl angrily. “This is what I get for associating with white women! You old bats just want me locked away in some rehab facility so you can cash my government checks. You ain’t the only one who watches the television, Polly!” She shook her bony finger at Polly. “I see right through you.”

“Now, Pearl,” Polly calmly replied. “You just settle down. There ain’t going to be no rehab, no facilities, nothing like that. All this means is that each of us is going to commit to helping you learn to understand your anger and deal with it appropriately. Now, I’ve drawn up a schedule of activities and assignments.” She dug into her purse and produced five copies of a laminated weekly schedule that she passed around the table.

“Looks like brainwashing to me,” said Pearl disgustedly as she reviewed the document.

“It most certainly is not,” replied Polly. “It’s simply a coordinated regimen of activities to help you better recognize and understand your issues with conflict and exercises to help you release tension in a nonviolent manner. Okay,” Polly said as she sipped from her coffee. “On Mondays, we’ll meet for tai chi lessons at the YWCA. I’ve already signed us up.”

“Polly?” asked Jolene. “Are you sure teaching Miss Pearl kung fu is such a good idea?”

“Dear, tai chi is not kung fu,” Polly reassured Jolene. “It’s what we saw that elderly Chinaman doing in that park across from the Junior League meeting last week.”

“That’s tai chi?” inquired Miss Pearl. “I thought the old geezer was having a stroke.”

“Quiet, Pearl,” said Polly. “On Tuesdays, we’ll meet for meditation and transcendental relaxation techniques. Wednesdays, we’re taking a class in Buddhist philosophy at the junior college. Classes don’t start for three weeks, so until then we’ll meet and take turns reading from a collection of Buddhist writings. I haven’t found a good book yet, but we’ll work on that. Thursday is poetry writing…”

“Poetry writing,” Pearl scoffed. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You need a creative outlet for your feelings,” replied Polly. “I want you to take out your feelings on paper and not with your fists. And finally, on Fridays, we’ll take bikram yoga lessons. That’s the hot yoga. It’ll help you sweat out your anger and frustrations.”

“The only sweating I want to do at my age,” Pearl replied, “is with that good-looking administrator over at the retirement center. The one that looks like Denzel.”

“Well, once we get your antisocial behaviors in order, then maybe reengaging your social life might not be a bad idea,” said Polly. “But until then, no men.”

“No men?” asked Pearl as she slowly shook her head in disappointment. “You’re breaking my balls, Polly. Really breaking my balls.”

“It’s only because we love you Pearl,” Polly replied. “Now, you’ll notice I’ve left Saturdays and Sundays open. Hopefully, we can find a new spot for bingo on Saturday nights. That’ll be our new night since Friday is hot yoga day and it just wouldn’t do to show up for the bingo still perspiring like pack mules. They might not think we’re ladies. Of course, Sundays are reserved for church. Now, I know we’re asking a lot from you, Pearl, so I’ll give up Methodist service and we can all join you at the Baptist church.”