libertad part four

        Uncle Zoot's hair began low on his forehead and climbed in rolling combers up over his crown and down to his nape, which was criss-crossed with wrinkles as deep as the arroyos in California. Mister Lansky asked him one day at the hotel, "You ever mix it up with the Zoots in the Los Ang'les riots?"
        "I'll have to take the Fifth on that, Boss."
        "Hah, you're a real card, Zoot!"
        Vain at age sixty-one he dyed his wavy hair the color of volcanic obsidian and glued it to his pate with pomade. His nose drooped down like a large red chili pepper, an accessory to his lantern jaw. Reyes kept a distance, as he would from any hoodlum. Especially one so adept with a shiv. For Tomas' sake Uncle Zoot was always welcome at the dinner table.
        It was hard to believe this lumpen man once played dazzling guitar in clubs back in the 40s. He told endless tales that no one doubted. All the wild nights in Old Havana. Oh, how he loved to drop the names of musicians he had met. Like, pianist Bebo Valdes. And never to be forgotten: that gusty summer night with stars swaying among mimosa boughs, when Presidente Grau San Martin, with one gigantic bodyguard, paid visit. Salud! Bienvenidos! How down-to-earth and trustworthy the unpopular Presidente seemed, especially with that bastardo Batista whirring in the wings.
      Tomas hung upon every word.
      Now arthritis crippled Uncle Zoot's enormous hands.
      Once a month he traveled the length of the island to Santiago for Sunday dinner. Teresa Reyes served chicken and squid with saffron rice jazzed with her Mami's blend of herbs and spices. She joked about Hermano's hollow leg. The cadaverous man could put away enormous meals and not gain a single pound. Reyes would smirk, "Uncle Zoot doesn't need a fork. He needs a shovel!"
       Tomas worshipped this family oddball. Salicious tattoos and all. Before the feast he would visit the boy's room and grandly attempt one of his old sets. Chords were played with buzzing frets. The once nimble plectrum hand was a petrified claw attacking elusive strings. Even so, to Tomas his uncle was Django himself sitting on the edge of the bed.
       Then came time for Tomas to show off. And he would launch into power chords and blues riffs he learned from Papi's Victrola. Uncle Zoot swayed and tapped his feet to the rhythm and together they laughed like cartoon magpies.