He raised a finger to his lips and then he pointed it at her reprovingly. “You don’t leave a guy, Bibianna.” He turned to me, one hand out, palm up, arguing his case. “I’ve been in love with this woman for how many years now? Six? Eight? What am I going to do with her, huh?”
Bibianna was silent, her eyes full of dread. I couldn’t believe the change that had come over her. All the confidence was gone, the high energy, the sexiness. My own mouth was getting dry, and a whisper of fear tickled me in the small of the back.
We reached the car. Another fellow stepped out, a Latino with a dark knit watch cap pulled down to his ears. His eyes were black, as flat and dull as spots of old paint. He had acne scars on his cheeks and a mustache made up of about fourteen hairs, some of which looked like they were drawn on by hand. He was my size. He wore sharply pressed khaki pants with numerous pleats across the front and an immaculate white undershirt. Tufts of underarm hair were visible, straight and dark. His bare arms were muscular, tattoos extending from his shoulders to his wrists – a graphic rendition of Donald Duck on his right and Daffy Duck on his left.
“That’s a copyright violation,” I remarked, nearly giddy with anxiety.
“That’s Luis,” Raymond said.
He had a gun. He held the rear car door open, like a well-mannered chauffeur.
Bibianna balked, one arm braced against the car. “I’m not going without Hannah.”
Raymond seemed taken aback. “Why not?”
“She’s my friend and I want her with me,” she said.
“I don’t even know this girl,” he said.
Bibianna’s eyes flashed. “Goddamn it! This is just like you, Raymond. You say you love me. You say you’ll do anything. First thing I ask for, all I get is an argument. Well, I’m sick of it!”
“Okay, okay. She can go if she wants. Anything you say.”
Bibianna turned to me with a look filled with mute pleading. “Please. Just for a few days.”
I felt myself shrug. “I got nothing else to do,” I said.
Bibianna got in first, sliding across the backseat. Raymond slid in beside her. I hesitated briefly, wondering at the wisdom of it.
Luis turned the gun so that it was pointing at my chest. It clarified my thinking most emphatically.
I got into the backseat. The dashboard was covered in white terrycloth with “Raymond and Bibianna” machine-stitched in glossy green script across the face of it. A rosary hung from the rearview mirror along with a Sacred Heart of Jesus, bleeding. The interior of the car, including front and back seats, was upholstered in white acrylic teddy bear fur. There was a Radio Shack car phone on the front seat. All the car lacked was a collection of bobbleheads on the rear … or a four-inch Virgin Mary with little magnetized feet. The minute I got in, I knew I’d made a mistake.
Luis started the engine without a word. The mufflers sounded like distant jackhammers as he pulled out onto the road. He kept both hands on the steering wheel with his arms fully extended, his trunk and head inclined back. He made a U-turn and sped toward the freeway. Raymond’s ticcing recurred at perhaps three-minute intervals, sometimes less. I found myself unnerved at first, especially in the absence of any explanation. The others seemed to take it for granted. At first, I would jump every time he did it, but I found myself adjusting, marveling that anybody had to live like that. Was there no help for him?
Bibianna now seemed to be in the mood for an argument, maybe to forestall any amorous intentions. “How’d you find out about last night?”
“Dawna called and told me some of it before the cops picked her up. Who’s the guy?”
“What guy?”
“The guy last night shot Chago.”
“How do I know who he was? Just somebody in the restaurant with a gun.”
“Dawna said you were with him.”
“I was there by myself.”
“Not what she says.”
“She said that? It’s bullshit. What’d he look like? She tell you that?”
“She didn’t have a chance. Squad car pulled up and she hung up. Said some chick was there, too.”
“She’s blowin’ smoke up your skirt. What a bitch! I was there by myself when Chago showed up with a gun. Maybe the guy was an off-duty cop or just your average citizen with a gun.”
Raymond’s face darkened. “That would really piss me off. What’s the matter with people? Too many fuckin’ handguns around.” He turned and looked at me. “Every day in the paper, somebody gets blown away. L.A. Times. You read Metro? Scares the shit out of me.” He held a hand up, blocking words in. “You know that slogan says, ‘Guns don’t kill people. People kill people.’? What a crock that is.”
“Luis has a gun,” I remarked helpfully.
“That’s different. He’s a lieutenant. He’s like a bodyguard to me. I can’t believe some joker in a restaurant shoots my brother for no fuckin’ reason.”
All the little birdies had flown out of this man’s tree. I sat with my eyes straight ahead and my mouth shut, remembering what Bibianna had told me about his temper.
Raymond turned to Bibianna and started kissing her, his hands moving across her breasts with an intimacy I found embarrassing. She was compliant, but she rolled an eye at me frantically across his shoulder. I looked out the window.
I leaned forward and tapped Luis on the shoulder, trying the only Spanish phrase I’m familiar with. “Uh, habla usted ingles?”
“Shit, lady. What do I look like, a retard?” he said. His English wasn’t even spoken with an accent, and I had to wonder if the gangbanger outfit was an affectation.
“Oh. Well, could you pull over at this next corner and let me the fuck out? I gotta make a quick phone call.”
This did not produce the desired results.
I kept my tone conversational as I turned to Raymond, placing my mouth up close to his ear. “Excuse me, Raymond. Could you have the guy let me out up here?”
Raymond had run his hand up under Bibianna’s skirt, pushing the fabric back, running a finger under the rim of her underpants. There was nothing remotely sexual about it. He was claiming his rights. I could hear her murmuring, “Fantastic … oh, baby, that’s great,” anything to appease and placate his neediness. The driver caught my eye in the rearview mirror and winked at me conspiratorially. He flipped on the car radio to mask the escalating sounds. Salsa music filled the car. This was repellent.
I was fully prepared to fling myself out, risking concussion and broken bones, just to escape from this brothel of faux fur and religious artifacts. I waited until the car slowed as we approached the on ramp to the freeway, then I slid my hand under the door handle and gave it a yank. Nothing happened. Both of the window cranks had been removed in the rear. I leaned my forehead against the tinted glass, staring out the window. Behind me, I could hear Raymond
fumble with his belt buckle and the zipper to his pants. This was worse than an X-rated video. I turned and stared at them.
“God, Bibianna,” I said loudly. “How rude! How do you think I feel sitting here while you screw some stud! Why don’t you keep your hands to yourself, okay?”
Raymond turned a sex-groggy face toward me, his eyes at half-mast. His mouth seemed gorged, his chin laved in lipstick, his hair standing straight up. The whole car smelled like hormones, sex juice, and underpants. Luis, all a smirk, tried to peer into the backseat through the rearview mirror.
I turned on him savagely. “Hey, Jack. What are you lookin’ at?” And then to Raymond. “I’m sorry, Raymond. I know it’s not your fault how these people act.”
Bibianna pushed herself into an upright position, doing what she could to pull her skirt back into place. She murmured, “Sorry.” She had a big hickey on her neck where Raymond had been slurping away on her.
Raymond actually seemed embarrassed, tucking in his shirt. He went through a sequence of behaviors that included the head jerking and the neck rolls.
I plowed right on. “I told her I got a steady boyfriend in the slammer,” I said to him. “The last thing I need is watching you two get it on. God. She’s got no class.” I sat back in the seat, brushing imaginary lint off my black pants.
Raymond pulled out a handkerchief and wiped some of Bibianna’s lipstick off his chin. His smile was sheepish. “Take it easy. It’s not her fault. She can’t help it,” he said.
“Well, I get sick of hearing her brag about you. Why can’t she keep her opinions to herself?”