The Devil to Pay Page 9

  “Sí, the doctor himself.”

  From my Spanish-language classes, I knew “doctor” was a title of honor and respect conferred upon people of education and knowledge. “Don” was an even older title of honor and respect, more than simply “senor.” In the old days it was used somewhat the same way “sir” was used in addressing a British knight.

  “Does Don Pablo still live in Medellín? Someone told me he had, uh, a disagreement with the government.”

  A “shooting war” with the government would have been more accurate, but the grotesque mutilation to the body back on the roadside made me keep a civil tongue in my own mouth. The man’s tone when he spoke of Pablo Escobar was one of genuine respect.

  “Don Pablo is Medellín. He’s the king of our city and our benefactor. They say he sells cocaine to the norteamericanos, but…”

  He looked back at me in the rearview mirror, raising his eyebrows at the same time he gave me a shrug that said, Who cares about those rich bastards who sit up north and leer down at us poor people?

  He said, “I could drive you through the city and show you many things that he built, office buildings, apartment buildings, soccer fields, ice-skating rinks, parks and playgrounds, hospitals, many things, even restaurants and discos where people dance. Out where the city’s garbage is dumped and whole families spend their days wading in it to find something to eat or sell, he has built places for the poor to live.”

  Another raise of his eyebrows in the rearview mirror. “I ask you, who else builds for the poor? The government? The rich?”

  The cabbie shook his index finger in the air. “You understand, senorita, they say he makes his money selling cocaine. But I ask you, does it matter how he makes his money—or how he spends it? He takes from the rich and gives to the poor. The fat cats in Bogotá who own most of the land in our country, they take from the poor and keep it all for themselves.”

  I looked out the window and tried to enjoy the scenery as he went on about how the rich got richer. I wondered why people were so stupid—not him; he was just a taxi driver, probably working his butt off to feed a family. No, I wondered about the rich—didn’t it occur to them that they might be a lot better off if they put some of that money back into the people rather than one-thousand-dollar bottles of champagne and ten-thousand-dollar-a-night hotel rooms?

  A few minutes later he pulled up to a modern but hospitable-looking hotel. It looked clean and well kept on the outside, with several clay pots of colorful flowers all around the entrance. Most of all, it looked safe from whatever craziness was going on between “Don Pablo,” the police, and the peculiar kind of necktie party practiced in Colombia.

  I gave him a big tip, hoping he’d like me for it, hoping he’d go home and have dinner and forget he drove a norteamericana to the hotel.

  After registering and walking up to my room on the second floor, I ordered room service for dinner and looked up the Medellín lawyer in the phone book while I waited for my food.

  The number that was listed in the book was the same one I had tried to call from Seattle. I dialed it from my room and got a similar apologetic message that said the call could not be completed. I found out why from the front desk. A telephone equipment office had been damaged in a battle between police and a group of “others.”

  It looked like I would have to make a cold call on the lawyer tomorrow, which was what I planned to do anyway. I was already imagining that police with an extradition warrant would be waiting for me.

  Weary from worrying and traveling, after I ate I took a hot shower and went to bed.

  My eyes were burning from too much anxiety and too many catnaps on planes. I needed a good sleep, but most of all I needed to be left alone. Hounds from hell seemed to be dogging my heels.

  Ramon, you handsome bastard, I hope you rot in hell.

  I should never have trusted a man that good-looking. Handsome men are like beautiful women: They’re shallow because they always get everything they want without having to be real or honest.

  I was truly disappointed that the man had obviously been more interested in my coffee plantation than my feminine charms.

  I was angry at myself for falling for his lines. “I chose you because you are the most attractive woman on the plane.”

  I pulled my hair. Idiot. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

  Did I really fall for that line?

  I had to admit that the man had me hooked. But that really didn’t matter in the final analysis. What did matter came down to one thing.

  Not getting murdered.

  14

  I awoke in the middle of the night with thoughts of my mother floating through my head, pondering the possible connection between Carlos Castillo and my mother.

  It had been inexcusable for her not to tell me about my father, but growing up with my mother was growing up with a woman who never really grew up herself. In some ways, it was more like being raised by an older sister—a wild and crazy one.

  We were always doing something fun during those times when life got too mundane or we were bored and needed some excitement. Whether it was going to movies, window-shopping, driving to some new place, or eating out, my mother was never satisfied with the ordinary. I’ll never forget the countless times she would say, “You only live once,” or, “You can’t take it with you,” which is why we never had a lot of money saved.

  So we lived one day at a time, never planning for anything long-term because there would usually be disappointment when things didn’t turn out the way they were planned. Spontaneity was the spice of life. I think it went back to my mother’s upbringing in a religious family in the Midwest where life was structured and built around church and neighbors—my mother was definitely not the type to sing hymns at church every Sunday.

  “Change” and “spontaneity” were also the catchwords for her relationships with men. Fanatically independent, she never had a long-term relationship with a man, at least no one that I knew about.

  That didn’t stop her from having sex—she had very liberal ideas about lovemaking and every few months another man would start coming around, but she moved on with lovers as the gypsy she was about everything else.

  She once told me that she took a “lease on love” and shacked up rather than tying herself down permanently.

  Now that I look back on it, I think she was probably afraid of getting hurt or disappointed. The moment she started to get serious, she got scared and moved on to someone else. Of course, I had no clue at the time. I was just a kid; I thought everything was fine in our lives. There was never any yelling or angry words between her and men she dated, at least not in front of me.

  I realize now that although my mother was a strong person, when it came to commitment with a man she was afraid to give it a chance. The fear of failure in a relationship was always there, never expressed, but a latent disease that would ultimately spell disaster for the relationship.

  The men in her life were mostly decent guys, too. She didn’t date any weirdos or crazies. I actually felt sorry for some of them, and I always knew when their time was up. It was the same routine, every time. She would have excuses not to see them, not return their phone calls, or pretend she wasn’t home if they showed up. Pretty soon they’d get the picture and give up.

  She never wanted to simply come out and say it was over. I suppose she thought it was more gracious to avoid them until they took the hint. It worked for her, but never for me—when it was over between me and a man, I usually let him know up front exactly what his sins were, at least with the two men I’d had a relationship with.

  I’m not quite the love gypsy, but I do know a woman has to think of herself as sensuous and it was pointed out that I seemed to have less confidence in my appeal to the opposite sex than I should have. And that I seemed to have more than an average number of short-term relationships. Not that I was into one-night stands. I had to get to know a man and like him before sex entered the picture.

  My mother was very much the
lady when it came to dealing with men and it was only by accident that my first real awareness of sex, other than giggling with other girls about male anatomy, came about by seeing her with one of her male friends.

  I was twelve at the time and I still hadn’t received the lecture about the birds and the bees yet, which wasn’t unusual in those days. It was the mid-seventies and most mothers still didn’t talk frankly about sex with their daughters, not unless something happened, and even then they tried to avoid it and act like it didn’t exist.

  That was hypocritical for a mother like mine, who had been something of a Berkeley burn-your-bra type who rebelled against her own parents’ sexual attitudes, but I’m sure her only motivation was to protect me. She taught me to value my body and what I shared with a man.

  Maybe she was waiting for the right time to talk to me. Some of the other mothers had waited until their girls got their period before they talked to them. I hadn’t started menstruating yet, and she might have been putting it off until then.

  The night I got the full works of Intercourse 101 in one big dose happened when I was supposed to have stayed at a girlfriend’s house for the night, but we had gotten into one of those dumb spats kids get into and I didn’t want to hang out with her anymore, so I had walked home.

  When I got there, a car I didn’t recognize was in our driveway. I figured it was someone new my mom was seeing. She didn’t bring men home for the night, not unless I was staying over somewhere else. I never really thought of the reason why; sex wasn’t something on my mind in those days.

  I was just going to sneak up to my room and turn on the stereo so they knew I was home when I thought I heard voices coming from the living room. I stopped and waited a few seconds. They were in the living room, which was a little unusual because my mother always went in her bedroom when she wanted some privacy with a man. Then again, she wasn’t expecting me to be home until later, so I guess she wasn’t worried.

  I don’t know why, but I walked toward the living room door. It wasn’t completely closed, but about an inch ajar. I walked up to the door quietly and looked through the crack. We had a large mirror on the wall and I could just barely see them in it. I very carefully pushed the door open a tiny bit wider.

  They were too engrossed in each other to notice me. Both of them were naked. When I looked down, my mother’s blouse lay on the floor by my feet. They obviously couldn’t wait to get upstairs to the bedroom. I put my hand over my mouth to smother a laugh. I had seen my mother with no clothes lots of times, but this was the first time I had seen a full naked man. Well, I only saw his behind. He was facing the opposite wall, so I only had a back view. I remember thinking at the time how cute his behind was, tight and firm like the guys on the high school football team.

  I knew it was wrong for me to watch them, but there was a naughty part of me that couldn’t resist. I was almost about to leave but then changed my mind. One more peek, I told myself. Then I’ll leave.

  When I looked back at the mirror, I could see he had my mother pressed against the wall. His hands were roaming everywhere on her body as they kissed each other. Now his body was slowly moving up and down, back and forth. I couldn’t see her face, but she seemed to like what he was doing. Her hands were all over his body, too.

  My mother would’ve killed me if she had known I was spying on her. I looked at my feet thinking I should leave, but I stood riveted in the doorway.

  In the mirror I could see his behind now moving more frantically, pumping her back and forth. My mother let out a moan. They were definitely doing it. I suddenly felt guilty watching my mother have sex with a man. I couldn’t watch anymore. Sex was a private thing between two people and I felt ashamed for watching them. I closed the door to where it was before.

  I wanted to let her know I was back, so I slammed the front door shut and shouted out loud, “Hi, Mom, I’m home early,” and ran up to my room and turned on the stereo.

  15

  Nothing was ever said about that night. However, a few days later she finally decided to talk to me about the birds and bees. I basically already knew everything there was to know. What we didn’t learn from other girls we found out from the mandatory sexuality and reproduction class that was supposed to teach you where babies came from. And there was always some creep who made stupid jokes about a girl’s anatomy.

  Of course, you were told not to have sex until you got married. If you did, you got pregnant. But there was the condom if a girl really wanted to.

  I would let guys kiss me, even French-kiss me if I really liked the guy, but if they got out of line and started to put their hands under my blouse or skirt, I would just punch them in the stomach. I usually would never be asked out again, but I didn’t care. There were plenty of other guys around who just wanted to have fun and did not want to go all the way. I wasn’t a prude, but I wasn’t easy, either. When I was ready, I’d share myself with a man, but I wasn’t going to do it to be popular or get dates.

  As I lay in bed in a strange hotel in a strange country, the image of my mother and her naked friend made me think about my own first sexual experience at age sixteen.

  My boyish figure had finally gotten some curves in the right places and I was proud of showing it off. I guess I showed it off once too often.

  My mother was dating a jock kind of guy, not her usual type. He had bigger muscles than intellect, but he was a nice guy and I think his good nature, along with his pumped physique, was what attracted my mother to him. His name was Guy and I called him Sir Guy after a knight in a story I’d read.

  We were living in San Diego that year. My mother was raising money for a mayoral candidate, a radical one, doomed to lose in a yuppie town, and we were lucky to get a house with a pool.

  The weather had finally heated up and I was taking advantage of it. The warm sun felt good on my skin. I had been on my back to tan the front of my body. The strap to my top was undone, my breasts barely covered. Blaring out from my radio was Yvonne Elliman singing “If I Can’t Have You” from the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack.

  When I turned over on my stomach, my top slipped off. I just let it drop to the side. I was alone and the fence was tall enough to discourage Peeping Toms.

  A few minutes went by and then a shadow fell over me.

  Sir Guy was standing there, wearing his trademark gaudy Hawaiian shirt and shorts. He looked like a movie star, his skin bronzed, his blond hair bleached golden by the sun.

  I suppose if I had screamed and moved away, it might have come down differently. Instead, I just lay there for a second. Then I reached down and got my top and put it loosely on my breasts.

  I was innocent enough to believe he wouldn’t do anything to me since he was dating my mother. Or to be honest, maybe because he was such a nice guy and dating my mother. I wasn’t as concerned about what might happen between him and me. Or … okay, to be more honest, I was young; my body was stretching and filling in certain places; my hormones were getting a workout, Sir Guy was a nice guy and a sexy stud, a nice combination to just have fun with. So maybe I wasn’t as innocent as I pretended.…

  The few times I had seen him around, I noticed how his eyes scanned my body. I usually wore a T-shirt and jeans, so there wasn’t much to see. But I knew I had a pretty decent figure from the looks the guys at school gave me and chitchat with my girlfriends.

  I wasn’t sure if my mother was aware of it. I don’t think she was; she had zero tolerance for men whose eyes strayed anywhere but onto her.

  “How’d you get in?”

  “The side gate. It wasn’t latched.”

  “Oh.” Damn, I had forgotten to check the latch. I usually made sure it was locked when I was home alone. “My mom didn’t tell me you were coming.”

  “I didn’t tell her. I was in the neighborhood so I thought I’d drop by. Is she here?”

  “Uh-huh, she should be home soon,” I lied. I didn’t know when she would be home.

  He sat down next to me and picked up the b
ottle of suntan lotion I had lying on the ground.

  “Let me put some lotion on you. You’re getting red.” He squirted the lotion into his hand and began rubbing it on my back. “You know, you can get away with this much sun at your age right now, but you’ll need to stay out of it when you get older. Look at me. I get a lot of sun, but I grease up at night like a roasted pig to keep my skin from getting wrinkled and old looking.”

  As he talked, his hand ran over my bare back in a lazy manner, working the lotion into my skin. I kept my head down and my arms near my sides as he rambled on. There were no coherent thoughts going on in my head; things were just flying in and around in a mad scramble. I probably should have gotten up, but I lay frozen in place, afraid to move, hoping he would go away.

  He kept up the chatter about the sun being bad for you as he rubbed the lotion on my thighs and legs. I didn’t like the way his hand traveled over my body in that slow, deliberate manner as if he had a right to it. My blood started to pound.

  “You know, you really have a nice body.”

  “Thanks,” I murmured.

  “Just like your mom’s.”

  I didn’t answer him. I had never encouraged him in any way. In fact, the few times he came around, I really had little conversation with him, always rushing out the door to meet my friends.

  His hands skimmed up the insides of my legs and thighs and over my bikini bottom. A throbbing sensation was starting to build between my legs. The more he rubbed, the more I felt the urgency in my body. His fingers worked to push down the material until he had it completely lowered. My behind was completely exposed as his hands started massaging the lotion on my white skin, lightly touching my pubic hair when his fingers reached that area.

  My mind told me to stop him before he went any further, but I was carried away by the sensuous way his hands felt on my body. I didn’t want him to stop. I couldn’t control the sexual desire that was going through my body. I wanted to give in to the pleasure, to experience it.