February 9, 2008
La Madera Verde
I sat on a hard plastic chair, reading an old issue of Life magazine, when I saw familiar faces coming down the hall.
Lacey, flanked by Mikey and Carl.
I stood, surprised, and watched them approach.
“How is she?” Lacey asked, hugging me tightly. Too tightly.
I exchanged awkward glances with Mikey and Carl, then said to Lacey, “They say she’s going to be all right, but she’s still critical.”
“How did this happen?” Lacey wanted to know.
We all sat down as I explained the story of Renal stealing all our money and possessions, and us catching Melendez to find out where she and Jordache disappeared to.
“…and when I got back to the room, there she was…”
“Did she say anything?” Carl asked.
“Yeah,” I sighed. “Real weird stuff. She might’ve been…I dunno. She said, ‘Madera verde’ and—”
I noticed a very strange look on both Mikey’s and Lacey’s faces.
“And ‘Dr. Clement Okon.’”
“The guy from the song?” Carl asked.
“Yeah, I guess he didn’t realize we changed it to Kwame Nkrumah for live shows.”
“Well, not everyone can be a true Crucificionado,” Carl said in that annoying tone that makes it difficult for me to decide whether or not he’s being sarcastic.
“Let’s back up a minute, though,” I said. “Lacey and Mikey—is there something you want to tell us?”
Lacey said, “He’s my grandfather,” while at the same time Mikey said, “I used to work for him.”
“Uh…huh.”
“You made me post a blog about it,” Mikey said. “Remember, back in Miami? Tommy got me involved and by the time I realized what they were up to, I was in too deep.”
“Wasn’t that the plot of—”
“Every awful drug thriller ever made,” Mikey said. “Yes. It was also the plot of my fucking life, okay?”
“Settle down, Beavis,” I said. “Now, Lacey, do you have any recent pictures of your grandfather?”
“I haven’t seen him in at least a decade,” Lacey said. “I have…”
She rummaged through her purse, found her wallet, and yanked out and old black-and-white photo of a youngish man with a handlebar mustache and oversized sombrero.
From the short height, boxy shoulders, and murderous eyes, I knew instantly that Morty Melendez was La Madera Verde. But why would he spend months pretending to be a private investigator? Why did he want to reconnect me with my daughter so badly? Why did he have such a strong connection to three people I know very well? What did he have to do with Dr. Clement Okon? Why were they trying to ruin my life and my relationship with my daughter?
I had only one answer: I had to find him.
Written by Girth McDürchstein on February 9, 2008 6:38 AM
Permalink |
Don't Call Me Daughter
| Digg It
Post a Comment
Powered by Ajax Comments