The Assimilated Cuban's Guide to Quantum Santeria Read online

  The dead lady’s head sat up like only her neck had come back to life. Then she opened her eyes, then closed them, then practiced opening and closing them. She opened and closed her mouth next, in exactly the same way. She stuck out her tongue then sucked it back into her face and moved her eyebrows every crazy way they would go.

  My dad took out his pocket recorder. He turned it on and said, “6:44 PM, stimulant administered. Macrobe ‘Catherine’ exhibiting advanced facial movement ability. Cadaver has recovered doll-eye movement, but lacks a blink reflex and is not yet breathing. Macrobe ‘Catherine’ seems on-schedule to fully permeate the medulla in three to five weeks.” Then he turned the recorder off and put it back in his pocket.

  And then he hugged the dead lady again. And he kind of rocked her back and forth and he said, “Cathy. Oh Cathy. Why did you leave me Cathy?” And all the while, the dead lady never stopped making all those insane faces.

  10.

  I snuck out of the Lab and went back to the apartment. I told the asiMom and the asiBro to follow me. The stupid asiBro said “I am not fully recharged yet. Do you want me to stop recharging now?” And I said, “Yes, fragbag!” And so he stopped recharging and followed me.

  The three of us went to Engineering. Now the door was locked because of the nailgun thing, but I used Maria Centas’ I.D. and the door opened. “Follow me,” I said, and they followed.

  We walked to the space station’s trash compactor. It was huge; it looked like it could crush a planet. I walked them over to it and said, “Get in.”

  They climbed in. I couldn’t believe how stupid they were. What did they think was going to happen?

  I told them to kneel, and they did, both of them looking up at me like I was the dad. Then I said “Pray,” and they both bowed their heads and folded their hands, and the asiMom asked, “What prayer would you like us to say?” And I said, “Just pray quietly,” so they just pretended to pray quietly. Then the asiBro said “This is a fun game!” and the asiMom said, “Honey, you have to be quiet. We’re praying now.”

  I walked over to the compactor’s command console—that’s exactly what it said on the front of it, “Command Console,” like you could control the whole world with it—and hit the big red button. I’d always wanted to.

  The compactor came to life and this big slab of steel started to slowly push down on the heads of the asiBots. It kept pushing until I couldn’t see their heads anymore. “Keep praying!” I yelled. Then I heard metal getting smashed and glass breaking and small electric pops and plastic splintering. And then the compactor hit bottom. It stopped there for a moment, and then started to slowly come back up.

  I turned to face the door. I’m sure both asiBots had called my dad to tell them they were being destroyed. I was sure he would come running, just like last time. And when he got there I would ask him if that dead lady was really my mom.

  Los Simpáticos

  You don’t know my name, but if you are Latino, live next to a Latino, or have watched television within the last year, you know my work. My name is Desideria Belén Ayute, and I am the sixty-one-year-old executive producer for ¿A Quién Quieres Matar?, the reality-TV show where we find fulanos who want to hire a hit man and get them to admit on hidden camera all the filthy details. Oh, it’s a good show. Three years on the air in every Spanish-speaking country on the planet, and still on top—even today, even after all this ugliness. Wait, who am I kidding? Even more now. The show’s reruns are doing better than this season’s crop of telenovelas and variety shows. If only, somehow, Xavier could enjoy all this success with us, life would be perfect. But that’s not life, mi vida. Life and limes are delicious, but sour.

  Theoretically, ¿A Quién Quieres Matar? could run forever. You wouldn’t believe how many people out there are willing to pay tens of thousands of dollars to kill a friend or family member. I’m an old woman, so I can remember a time when, if you wanted to kill someone, you’d go grab your machete and do the job yourself. But this new generation, with their American ways and their American dollars, they don’t want to get their machetes dirty. They’d much rather hire some poor guajiro fresh off the boat and hungry for money to do it for them. And there’s never any shortage of hungry guajiros.

  Xavier Morales was the actor who played the hit man on our show. We pixilated his face and slowed his voice in post-production so people wouldn’t recognize him on the street. But we were fools to think we could keep his identity a secret. Some Internet idiots with too much time on their hands revealed his identity before the first season was over.

  We thought the show was done. But it wasn’t—because even though millions watch our show, billions do not: they watch something else, or don’t watch TV, or whatever. In fact, once his cover was blown, ratings went up, especially with women viewers ages 18 to 30. You know why? Because Xavier was gorgeous. What a guapetón that man was! Beautiful and manly and gentle and powerful and funny and, my God, what a dancer! And though he was Cuban through and through, he was born in the States, which meant that most of the nasty parts of machismo—like the part that thinks it’s perfectly okay to backhand a woman—had been shrunk to nothing, like successfully-treated tumors. But the good parts of machismo—the valor, the tenacity, that almost savage cheeriness that is impervious to neurosis —remained perfectly intact. I had sexual fantasies about that man six days a week at least.

  So you can imagine how upset I was when the police called me that morning to tell me he’d committed suicide.

  Earlier the previous evening, we had wrapped up shooting our special New York City edition of ¿A Quién Quieres Matar? It was the weirdest shoot we’d ever had. We were all set up in our rented third-floor apartment in the Bronx to receive our mark of the week, a lanky Dominican named Tito Angelobronca. Seventeen years old, going on twelve: he slumped in his chair and only spoke to adults when spoken to, and even then only with sullen one-word replies. He wanted Xavier to kill another high school boy named Miguel Fernández for, as far as I could tell, no good reason: he gave half-reasons like girls and neighborhood slights and “that puto’s a punk-ass bitch! He’s got to go, yo!”

  So Tito was coming to the apartment to finalize all the details with Xavier, to give him all the information a real hitman might need for the job. And Tito had a special request: he wanted Xavier to make it look like a suicide, and wanted Xavier to leave a note behind that read: “Soy simpático,” which means “I’m likable” and/or “I’m sympathetic.” It was a damned weird thing to write on a forged suicide note. Xavier was going to ask him what that meant when he showed up.

  Besides Xavier and the hidden cameras and my crew, in the apartment were a half-dozen of New York’s Finest who, once they had all the evidence they needed, would burst from their hiding places and wrestle Tito’s chicken-bone frame into a chair. Then, if he waived his rights—and they almost always did—Xavier would interview him. And then the police would haul the suspect off, and we’d start breaking down the equipment and heading to our next location: Miami, our bread-and-butter city. There’s never been a hitman in Miami who’s been unemployed for more than twenty minutes.

  So there we were, waiting, ready to get the whole dirty business on-camera. Only it wasn’t Tito we saw, courtesy of our hidden cameras, walk into the apartment building. It was an old woman, dressed in the humiliating motleys of some chain restaurant: Hawaiian bowling shirt, red slacks, black visor, disintegrating sneakers. Her eyes looked as big and black as a horse’s. She was stooped but sure-footed; she climbed the stairs like someone who had ascended Machu Picchu every day of her life. In one hand she carried a brown bag that said “Large Brown Bag” on the side.

  We weren’t ready for her, but in the reality-TV biz you learn to adjust fast. While the rest of us hid, Xavier slipped into character: a laconic, efficient sociopath. He dragged a chair in front of the apartment door and sat facing it, waiting for her to knock.

  She didn’t. She turned the knob and walked in and didn’t close the door. Her
huge eyes were shut into slits; her mouth was pursed; her hands were fists. She looked at Xavier with the combination of derision and fear that we Latinos usually reserve for the Antichrist.

  Xavier, smiling like the Antichrist, said, “I think you have the wrong apartment, abuelita.”

  She replied in Spanish, but I’ll translate: “This is the right place. One look at you, and I know this is the right place. You’re the assassin. You’re the man Tito wants to hire to kill Miguelito. Well, you won’t be killing anyone today. Tito is not going to hire you. I found out about his plan. I know everything. That’s how I knew to come here. And I have put a stop to it.” She dropped the bag on the floor. “Ten thousand dollars. Consider yourself paid. All I ask is that you leave Tito alone. He will never say anything to anyone about this, and neither will I, may God split me in two with a lightning bolt.”

  All of us were stunned. But Xavier could handle anything. After a short pause, he stood and went over to the bag, took out a rubber-banded brick of bills, rifled through them appreciatively. Then he smiled and in Spanish said to the old woman, “Okay, abuela. Paid in full. So it’s over.”

  The old woman squinted her horse-eyes. “Don’t try to find Tito. Don’t try to hurt him. You’ll never find him.”

  “I kill for money, woman, not for pleasure. I have been paid, and I didn’t have to lift a finger. Why would I want to kill him?”

  “Because he has seen your face. He can report you to the police.”

  “But you won’t let him. You told him he could never say anything to anyone, because if he did, I would kill him.”

  “Yes. Just as you say.”

  “But abuela, now you have seen my face, too. Maybe you think I am going to kill you?”

  “Yes,” she said. Sudden tears fell like ballasts from her eyes. “I do.”

  I saw Xavier’s character waiver—the hitman persona shimmered, almost dissipated. But he collected himself. “I understand. I see it all clearly now. You think I won’t let either of you live. You have done everything you can, but you think I will kill you both anyway. But listen, abuela. Killing clients is bad for business. I have a reputation to maintain. So long as you and Tito keep quiet, it’s better for me to take the money and be on my way. We can all win.”

  She was still crying, but she didn’t let that get in the way of scrutinizing Xavier. “Don’t lie to me. God is watching you. You are going to let Tito live?”

  “Yes, abuelita. And you, too.”

  “I am an old woman. If you don’t kill me, soon enough something else will. But Tito is just a boy. Swear to God you will not kill him.”

  “I swear in the name of God that I will not kill Tito Angelobronca.”

  She narrowed her horse-eyes. “How can I trust an assassin?”

  Xavier laughed and replied, “I don’t know, abuela. All I can offer is my word.”

  She studied him for a moment. Then she said, “You are going to hell. Unless you change your ways, God will punish you for your terrible sins. You should pray every night to Jesus Christ, and confess your sins, and change your evil ways.”

  “I know, abuela. I know.”

  “If you keep your word, I will pray for you. One rosary every day.” She turned to leave. “Perhaps the Virgin Mary will hear me and inter-cede on your behalf. Perhaps your heart will open up to God’s love. You can still be saved from eternal damnation. Pray every night, and in the end you may spend eternity in God’s loving presence.” She pulled the door shut and was gone.

  We watched the monitors, jumping from one to the next as she left the range of one staircase camera and entered that of another. It wasn’t until she left the building that we started breathing again.

  The crew and cops erupted in an astonished disputation: “What the hell was that?” we asked each other, laughing and scratching our heads. Could we still make an episode out of this weird twist of an ending? And then there was the money, all that money: of course we had to return it to the abuela. It was her money, not Tito’s, we were sure—scrimped and scoured from who-knows-where to save the life of her unworthy grandson.

  Well, that could be our ending right there! We could have Xavier return the money to her, tell her it was all pretend, all just for TV, and that she didn’t have to live in fear. We’d just have to make sure she was ready, so that she wouldn’t do anything rash—like have a heart attack—when she saw Xavier again.

  Xavier. He sat with his elbows on his thighs, hands covering his face. I went over to him, put a hand on his shoulder. He knew it was me by touch. “Oh man, Mámi,” he said. He always called me ‘Mámi,’ which I kind of hated and kind of adored. “That was hard. I shouldn’t have done it that way. I should’ve told her it was all an act.”

  “Are you kidding?” I said, and moved around to the front to give him a hug. The first rule of being a good producer is hug first, talk money later. “You were perfect. Thanks to you, we’ll still be able to salvage a show out of this. And she’ll get her money back. Everyone’s going to benefit from this, thanks to you.”

  He groaned. “I tortured her, Mámi. I made her suffer. I could’ve been so much kinder. Why didn’t I just tell her the truth? Why did I stay in character?”

  “Because you’re a good actor, and you had a job to do. We’re going to fix everything. We’re going to make everything right.”

  Into his hands he said, “I have to make it right, mámi. I have to.”

  “You will,” I said. “Don’t worry. We’ll fix everything. First thing tomorrow.”

  As I entered Xavier’s hotel room the next morning, tears dragging clots of mascara down my face, I thought to myself, I told you we were going to fix everything, Xavier. Why didn’t you believe me?

  This part is a little sick. I know it is. I am ashamed, but not as ashamed as I should be, and that makes me even more ashamed. I brought a camera crew with me to Xavier’s hotel room.

  Look, I’m a TV producer. This was a legitimate international news story. I had a responsibility to the public. Plus, I didn’t want to go there alone. So I brought Eugenio, the oldest cameraman in the industry, and Constancia, the show’s viper-tongued director, to whom I would trust my eternal soul.

  The only reason I got into that hotel room in the first place was because, after many shoots in New York of ¿A Quién Quieres Matar?, I’d made friends with a lot of NYPD detectives and, in a small but real way, helped them arrest some dangerous people before they could do any real harm. And everyone wants to be on TV, even detectives.

  Enter Detective Dan Burdock. I always think of him when Billy Joel sings the line: “He’s quick with a joke/ or a light of your smoke,/ but there’s someplace that he’d rather be.” Yes, poor Danny always dreamed of being a star, but since he had a complexion like a post-poisoned Viktor Yushchenko, he was better off as a detective, where he could use his looks to intimidate low-lifes.

  He was the one who had called me, who was now leading me and my crew through the room. The detectives, crime scene investigators, and the coroner had all done everything they needed to do. At Dan’s request they had left a few key items in place so that I could film them. But not Xavier. They had, of course, removed his body. They had even remade the bed. He was utterly disappeared from the room.

  Once my crew was parked, plugged in, and rolling, Dan, overacting, looked into the camera and set the scene for us. “Here is where the apparent suicide took place. I say apparent, because the official report won’t have been filed yet, but it’s pretty cut and dry. The victim, Xavier Enamorado, was found this morning at seven-thirty a.m. by Alonzo Guiterrez, his personal assistant. Xavier was on that bed, seemingly asleep, but Alonzo couldn’t wake him, checked his pulse and found none, and immediately called the front desk for an ambulance. There were no signs of struggle, forced entry, or robbery in the room.”

  He smiled at the camera like an idiot. Didn’t he realize how much more he had to explain? In a voice that displayed not a hint of irritation, I asked, “Detective Burdock, ho
w did Xavier do it?”

  “Oh, right,” said Dan. His face grew appropriately grave, and he said, “Cyanide.”

  I could literally hear Constancia making a face. “Cyanide?”

  “And how do you know it was cyanide?” I followed up.

  Detective Dan looked into the air philosophically. “You see, as a New York City detective, you become an expert in identifying poisons just by using this,” he said, tapping his nose. “Cyanide has a unique smell. A little like almonds, but bitter. Furthermore, the victim often changes color, because what cyanide does is it causes cells to suffocate. Mr. Enamorado was pretty blue when we found him.” I could see him trying to formulate a bad pun, but luckily he restrained himself and continued. “We’re waiting for a toxicology report to verify this hypothesis, of course, but really, that’s only a formality. I’d bet my shield it was cyanide.”

  Before I could follow up, Constancia asked, “Potassium cyanide?”

  “Toxicology will tell us for sure. But yes, probably.”

  “So where’d he get it? Where’s the container? How’d he get it into his system?”

  Dan didn’t like Constancia’s tone—she had a way of making everybody sound incompetent—but he didn’t break character. “We believe we’ve successfully reconstructed Xavier’s last hours. Basically, the answers to all those questions can be found right there,” he said, pointing to the nightstand. Besides all the other typical nightstand-y stuff, there stood a large milkshake cup with the word “GruuvyJuuce” written in a groovy, juicy typeface on the side.

  “The way we figure it,” Dan continued, “Xavier was feeling depressed about the shoot yesterday. Yes, we know he was upset; Alonzo told us. So he goes out, picks up some cyanide on the street, then stops at a GruuvyJuuce, takes the cyanide on the way home, washing it down with the shake, gets back to his hotel room, and goes to sleep. Forever,” he said grimly, looking straight at the camera. You can always pick out the reality shows on TV; they’re the ones with all the bad actors.