Rodrigo & Billy

Social Security Building

253 W. Superstition BLVD

Apache Junction, Arizona

It was Dusk, Good Friday, which made Rodrigo nervous about their meeting. Billy, his partner, his white mastermind, was tweaking. His mild-mannered, smiling, smooth shit over with the snow birds partner, had been hitting the meth pipe.

As if one of God’s angels knew, the phone rang on cue.

“Shoot, Billy it’s Mrs. Malkovitch.”

“Answer it, bro,” exhaled his partner on The Screen Team. Billy had explained that with the high winds in Arizona, installing screens was a great gig. They had been putting off the nice older widow, in part, because they did shit work and the lady’s giant son had just retired, moved in to look after mom. That was the deal breaker—silent of course. It was time to move their operation to Maricopa, closer to home for him and…

“Rodrigo, this is Sandra Malkovitch.”

“Yes, yes ma’am. How are you doing today?”

“I’m fine, thank you for asking. I have the check for materials. Now, so that my son does not get mad—you know how stern he is—could you come by while he is walking the dog? I sent him down to the dog park to walk Henrietta.”

Billy was listening, as the call was taken on speaker phone. Rodrigo looked to Billy, who was holding up the thumbs up. “Yes, Ma’am, we will be right there. We are picking up the screen right now—Billy just loaded it!”

On cue, Billy opened the door and slammed it shut with a smirk of victory.

“We will be right there Mrs. M.”

As he ended the call, Rodrigo felt a note of despair. ‘I am cheating an old lady. Billy says its right, that all the whites except him hate me. But, I…’

Billy’s voice intruded on his conscience, “What, Bro?”

“Oh, I just think of my Madre.”

“Fuck that catholic guilt, Rodrigo! This is America—the god is dead, long live the new god,” holding up his fine amber pipe.

The windows were down on this cool, breezy day, the breeze whistling into the van and filling the empty back of their business van with a haunting moan.

“I knew it—should have left the windows up,” he rasped, full of guilt ghost, as he opened the door.

“Bro, what the fuck—no way! More superstition?”

Rodrigo had broken faith, had sinned, but was not some addict that could not see God’s hand. ‘I will break away from Billy, go home, confess, pray…’

Billy was getting out of the passenger side by the time Rodrigo was at the back of the white van, an old Econoline. As he opened the rear doors to let out the bad spirit, Billy was standing there, hands on hips, shaking his long brown hair under his Chicago Cubs cap, wagging his head, then his hands, “Did you get the evil spirits out?”

“I hope.”

“Rod, you are a business man, a fucking American—let the old Superstitions go.”

Rodrigo was looking over Billy’s shoulder as he said this, at The Superstition Mountains, who glared ominously down. “Look where we are, Billy—don’t call them down.”

Billy began laughing hysterically as something whined into the lot behind Rodrigo.

Rodrigo turned and saw a small white GMC van, a 1994 he thought, pull into the lot. A very cute, middle aged woman with a deep tan and no wrinkles, with ruby lips and long blond hair, her eyes like blue mirrors, detecting all sin, rolled up right next to them.

She smiled, looking at the larger van, “Good evening, gentlemen.”

“Ma’am,” he doffed his hat, as Billy leered at her low cut denim bikini top and Rodrigo noted the golden wedding ring, a band with a diamond.

The lady corrected, “Miss,” please. “Let me speak with candor, boys, since my husband only permits me to seek out lovers on Friday nights while he is with his whores—I need men!”

She smiled as Billy hounded on, “Miss, I’m Billy, and this here is ROD! We are the men you are looking for!”

Rodrigo sank inside, knowing that Maria was waiting at home for him, sprinkling cinnamon on the Friday flan, ‘How am I kissing her? Am I, was I, standing that close?’

He was standing against her driver’s door. Her kiss tasted wonderful as she whispered, “Lover, close up your van—we do not want to attract attention.”

Rodrigo felt so strong as he walked to the open van doors and shut them.

As he turned, he saw that Billy was stepping to the side door, which was sliding open from inside. Within reclined another hot middle aged woman, yet as pale as the other was tan, her hair black, with deep blue eyes, wearing a string bikini of pink. The mattress-lined interior was covered with old Indian blankets. The woman held a bottle of Patron in her left, a hand that held a golden wedding ring set with a large diamond, beckoning with the long pink fingernails of her right hand.

‘Sorry Maria, they are white, and married—I will not leave you: Poppy will be home.’

Billy, shameless and twenty years his junior, fairly pranced into the old, mint condition van, into the arms of the reclining vixen.

Rodrigo crossed himself and followed, climbing in gingerly as the driver, who he sensed had selected him, asked in a very thirsty sounding voice, “Darling, scoot back from the door, its an automatic.”

Rod did so, placing his back to her seat—for he felt like she was his protector, that this other woman with the tequila, had a light to her eye that told of cruelty. The van door shut, and locked.

‘Billy can have you,’ he thought, as her eyes appraised him like grandpa used to a choice lamb not destined to bear wool. The evil woman, who Billy was eagerly depriving of her scanty top, hissed to Rodrigo, “and you too, Aztec.”

The van was rolling off. His momentary fear, shed by the driver’s soothing direction, that some man or dog might be in the back portion of the van, was quashed now, as he saw behind Billy, frantically shedding his clothes, some medical equipment, like the stand and I.V. bag they put in him when he got sun stroke.

Billy was yanking his shoes and socks off like a madman as she petted that brown hair draped across her lap, and poured tequila on Billy’s pale neck. To Rodrigo, sitting almost numb, yet desiring this woman, despite Billy here, she cooed, stretching out her long, pale hand and caressing his thigh through his jeans.

It felt strange, seeing the same wedding ring on this one’s left hand, clacking on that bottle, as the driver had on hers. The questing hand crawled up his thigh, the pressure from the dainty looking fingers surprisingly sharp.

“Should I tell him, Veronica?” came her sultry voice as the van hit a freeway ramp.

Billy was now nursing like a baby, which should have reduced Rodrigo’s adore for these women, which it did not.

“Of course!” spoke the more rich and lively voice of the driver.

“Baby, Veronica and I are both married to the same indulgent man. You are simply our fun. As to your obvious marital commitment, if a former president of this great nation may be invoked, we will do nothing to violate your oath of fidelity to your dear wife.”

She then licked her lips, and then her pearly teeth as her eyes twinkled and Veronica, the driver assured, “My pretty man, this is strictly an oral relationship—Niki and I are particularly thirsty tonight.”

“Oh, I got you,” he drooled as Niki replaced Billy’s pink pacifier with the mouth of the tequila bottle and introduced Rodrigo to that companionship of which many a brown man’s dreams were made of.

‘Oh, Maria—she is white!’ he mused.

“She is, My Feast,” hissed Niki as she tore Rodrigo’s jeans in half. And grasping him, moaned, “to drink away the night!”