The Feet of God

120 - FOLLOW YOUR HEART

Tragedy struck Punta Gordita again.  Boo the black bar cat died.  I knew something bad had happened the moment I entered The Rusty Trumpet to swamp.  The jukebox was playin’ The Bee-Gees.  I noticed a motionless pile of black fur on top of the jukebox.  I knew in a sec Boo had graduated to his 10^th life and crossed the rainbow bridge.  I immediately thought of Sandi Dollar, and how distraught she’d be to hafta cremate yet another one.

Anyhow, I wrapped the dead cat in a bar towel and dropped the feline carcass in a brown paper bag.  I decided to leave it for Jar-Boy to properly dispose of.  I didn’t think it was my job as a swamper to decide what to do with the body.  After all, maybe they wanted to hold some kinda services to show proper respects for Boo?  Who knows?  I decided to duck the issue entirely, and persevere with the swamping responsibilities more connected to my job description.

As I deposited Boo’s bagged remains in the cabinet under the sink, I made another horrific discovery.  On the floor was an open jar of honey with a dead rat just floatin’ inside.  Apparently the damn thing crawled in and couldn’t get out.  The rat was suspended in the translucent glow of amber goo.  The sight of it almost made me throw up.  I left those remains for Jar-Boy, too.

Except for finding a dead cat and a rat, things was pretty uneventful.  I completed my work in and around the bar, and then headed to The Head to finish the job.

I must say, the patrons at The Rusty Trumpet was a pretty generous bunch.  It was a common practice for them to toss coins into the pisser as a tip for the swamper.  I was always pleased to gather these gratuities, which I hand washed in soap and water, of course.  Every now and then there was a special monetary gift for me.  I always knew when Uncle Sammy was the last bar customer to take a leak ‘cause there’d be a crisp twenty dollar bill waitin’ in the urinal.  And tonight, jackpot!  I patted it dry with a paper towel and tucked the Lucky $20 in my sock for safekeeping.

I was surprised how good things was progressing for me, and how I’d settled into a comfortable routine.  Now my pockets was full of freshly laundered change, and I had a Jackson stuffed secure in my sock.  Oh yeah, Jar-Boy gave me an envelope with cash including all my overtime and back pay to date, so I was flush, money-wise.  Throw in the subsidized drinks and a free cot, and what more could anyone ask for?

I spent the afternoon idly sipping white wine and surveying the bar.  I’d established a relationship with all the regular customers, even if I couldn’t stand all of ’em individually.  And today was a day like any other day.  All the regulars was there doing whatever they always do, and they all picked up their serial monologues just where they left off the day before.  I noticed whenever anyone wasn’t talking, it didn’t mean they was pay’n attention.  No, they was just waiting for another opportunity to start talkin’ again where they left off.

The afternoon wore on long and lazy, and I felt near a drug stupor from lack of stimulation.  Then it all changed instantaneously.  Ass-Rocket fired off a salvo of busters, as if to proclaim the arrival of the man who stood in the doorway.  The man with the rosy red eyes.  Crespo Laërtes.

He stepped inside The Rusty Trumpet, and I heard him laughing.  Then he scanned over the bar’s bulletin board by the front door.  He stopped laughing.  He stared for a long time at something.  Then he took Baby’s picture down.

“Who put this up here?” he demanded.

“That would be me,” I replied.

“Do you know this woman?”

“Well, as well as any brother knows his own sister.”

“What?”

“That’s my half-sister, Baby Harmonica.”

“Her name is Fiona Farrago,” Crespo growled.

“No, it isn’t.  I know my little sister.”

Crespo stroked his white beard.

I knew Baby was known under several aliases during her dancing days.  And Lord knows what she was calling herself now.

“Your sister?” Crespo sounded like he’d been taken off guard, which seemed to irritate him.

“Well, we shared the same Mama.”

He stroked his beard some more.  “She is the essence of the pure beauty I pursue.”

“My sister?”

“She is an enchantress.”

“Well, she has her charms, I agree.”

“You don’t understand,” Crespo said.  “We were lovers.”

I was beginning to feel uncomfortable where this conversation might be go’n.

Crespo stared at the picture and said, “Fiona Farrago is who I’m looking for.”

“Her name is Baby Harmonica,” I corrected.

“I don’t care what her name is.  That’s not important.  It’s that she really exists.”  Crespo turned a bright red eyeball on me.  “She seduced me.”

“I’m looking for her, too,” I tried to get the conversation back on course.  “Not exactly sure why, but it just seems like that’s what I’m supposed to do.  And for reasons I can’t actually account for, I believe she may be somewhere near here.”

Crespo Laërtes and I had a long talk about my long lost, little half-sister.  He said he was also certain that she was hereabouts in the Florida Keys.  And he was convinced he’d find her, or die trying.  He felt his pure love for her ensured some kinda happy ending, if not in this life then the next.  I dunno.  He would go off on tangents I didn’t completely appreciate.

But I understood he was obsessed with finding Baby.  When he knew I was equally committed to finding her, he asked me to join him.

“Why not?”  His eyes beamed.  “It’s perhaps our shared destiny.”

I was reluctant to take the offer, since things was so sweet for me right now.  But then, I remembered, I was only here because I was on a mission to find Baby Harmonica.

Crespo eyeballed me, “What’s the difference between the dreamer and the dream?”

“I don’t know.  What?”

He broke up in laughter without bothering to answer his own question.  It was at that point I knew I was gonna go with him.

“Okay,” I agreed, not exactly knowing why.  But isn’t that always the way when you make an important life decision?  (Although the last time I said yes, when I didn’t know why I was saying yes, I woke up in Tijuana.)

Crespo leaned forward, “Only one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Get rid of the kid.”

“What kid?”

“I saw you sunbathing au natural with a young boy at the beach.  He shadowed you to McDonald’s.  I assumed he was your son, or whatever.”

“You saw a kid with me?”

“A naked little boy.  He really needs to learn some modesty.  But he can’t come aboard The Tempest.”

I wasn’t exactly sure who Crespo was referring to, ‘cause I was in the buff strictly solo.  Unless Little Billy made some kind of unannounced appearance.  But I was mystified; how could Crespo possibly know about him?

“No kid,” I assured Crespo.  “I promise.”

“Good.”