indio

        Indio was nowhere to be found, and mouths at Roberto's espresso bar reminded Tomas of clams. Nobody knew anything. Nothing but cold shoulders. The men were giving him the treatment. So he decided to hang out somewhere else.
        "Mami," he asked that night. "Would it be all right if I took the bus home from school?"
        "I don't see why not. Other kids your age ride the bus."
         Fine, he thought. The transfer point for the bus line was a cheerful little short-order place with dagwoods and hamburgers, a soda-fountain and a jukebox, and plenty of cute girls.
        "Great. I'll start tomorrow."
        No more encounters with Indio, the inscrutable man with fish-scale eyes.
 

                                                                                   *


        Midway along Douglas Avenue in Coconut Grove stood a two-story ruin of a house. Two sable palms shaded the front porch and a breadfruit tree squatted like a hogshead in the back yard. The grass hadn't been mowed in years. A lead-base white paint pealed from wood siding weathered gray and curling up from rusted nails. The roof leaked into an attic befouled by pigeons, cats and rats. Yet more than a dozen men lived there, its original eight rooms having been subdivided into sloppy efficiency apartments. A man was free to have a woman. In fact, a man was free to have anything as long as he was wiley or ruthless enough to keep it. However, because of the brutality and the wanton carnality, no woman remained there longer than a month.
        Indio remembered coming into the communal kitchen one night and finding a machetero's girlfriend sitting dead in a straight-back chair with her brains puckering from her forehead. He buried her under the breadfruit tree and then fixed himself a small pot of hot bitter chocolate sweetened with honey.
        The machetero departed the next day for Belle Glade as planned, to work in the sugarcane south of Lake Okeechobee.
        Nothing came of the death except for a richness of soil in the backyard.


                                                                                          *


        Roberto felt he was doing a good job controlling his temper, but things were not adding up to his satisfaction. It became clear to him that the boleta bagman was a two-bit crook who could get him into a jam with the street-boss.
        "Let go of me," whined the diminutive rascal known as Frito. Roberto realized he had clamped an overly hard viselike grip upon a twiggy arm. It was like looking into the face of a terrorized capuchin monkey. He released Frito with a snarl.
        "Get the fuck out of here and don't come back!"
        The bagman collided with Indio, who scowled. Then like a blue-indigo thunderhead rising from the Everglades, Indio rumbled: "Careful, hombre. You may hurt yourself."
        Frito squeaked and fled down the street. He had just seen the great stone face of a wrathful Palenque wargod.
        "Santana will deal with him sooner or later," Indio said and began unwrapping a grilled pork sandwich.
        Roberto clicked the TV, where they saw newsmen commanding the airwaves. Every channel showed the same thing. "Ayee, mamba-mama. What's going on?"
        Russian ships loaded with ballistic missles were steaming toward Cuba.


                                                                                       *


        By the time Jesu dismissed its last students for the day a crowd had knotted into Roberto's espresso bar. He had posted a sign saying to the effect: STOP BUGGING ME TO CHANGE THE CHANNEL! He was shouting to a yellow-skinned nappy-haired man with a moustache divided like two black commas, in the style of Cantinflas. "Just shut up, Luiz and pay attention to what's on."
      Indio was holding court, his back toward the rear wall. His eyes flickered with fresh interest as Carmen Diaz coyly entered. She seemed to be scanning for someone in particular. Then evidently disappointed, she sought a place to sit and park her books. A lone barstool had been nudged practically out to the sidewalk. She chose it. Indio focused his attention upon her. Folded knees jutted from her green plaid skirt. He saw that she was shaving her legs now. Her bosom held promise. Breasts the size of Valencia oranges swelled beneath her crisp white blouse. Her blushing cheeks and wide hysterical eyes betrayed fear of the unknown.
        "Excuse me, my brave knights," he said, rising from his throne. "I have something new to attend to."
        He entered her torrid zone with a calm face.