Practical Demonkeeping

door. “I’ll see if he’s awake.”
    The Hispanic stepped in. Robert stumbled down the narrow hall to The Breeze’s room. He knocked on the door. “Breeze, there’s some big money here to see you.” No answer. He opened the door and went in and searched through the piles of blankets, sheets, pillows, beer cans, and wine bottles, but found no Breeze.
    On the way back to the living room Robert grabbed a mildewed towel from the bathroom and wrapped it around his hips. The Hispanic was standing in the middle of a small clearing, peering around the trailer with concentrated disgust. It looked to Robert as if he were trying to levitate to avoid having his Italian shoes contact the filth on the floor.
    “He’s not here,” Robert said.
    “How do you live like this?” the Hispanic said. He had no discernible accent. “This is subhuman, man.”
    “Did my mother send you?”
    The Hispanic ignored the question. “Where is The Breeze? We had a meeting this morning.” He put an extra emphasis on the word meeting . Robert got the message. The Breeze had been hinting that he had some big deal going down. The guy must be the buyer. Silk suits and BMWs were not the usual accouterments of The Breeze’s clientele.
    “He left last night. I don’t know where he went. You could check down at the Slug.”
    “The Slug?”
    “Head of the Slug Saloon, on Cypress. He hangs out there sometimes.”
    The Hispanic tiptoed through the garbage to the door, then paused on the step. “Tell him I’m looking for him. He should call me. Tell him I do not do business this way.”
    Robert didn’t like the commanding tone in the Hispanic’s voice. He affected the obsequious tone of an English butler, “And whom shall I say has called, sir?”
    “Don’t fuck with me, cabron . This is business.”
    Robert took a deep breath, then sighed. “Look, Pancho . I’m hung over, my wife just threw me out, and my life is not worth shit. So if you want me to take messages, you can damn well tell me who the fuck you are. Or should I tell The Breeze to look for a Mexican with a Gucci loafer shoved up his ass? Comprende , Pachuco ? ”
    The Hispanic turned on the step and started to reach into his suit coat. Robert felt adrenaline shoot through his body, and he tightened his grip on the towel. Oh, yeah, he thought, pull a gun and I’ll snap your eyes out with this towel. He suddenly felt extremely helpless.
    The Hispanic kept his hand in his coat. “Who are you?”
    “I’m The Breeze’s decorator. We’re redoing the whole place in an abstract expressionist motif.” Robert wondered if he wasn’t really trying to get shot.
    “Well, smart ass, when The Breeze shows up, you tell him to call Rivera. And you tell him that when the business is done, his decorator is mine. You understand?”
    Robert nodded weakly.
    “ Adios , dogmeat .” Rivera turned and walked toward the BMW.
    Robert closed the door and leaned against it, trying to catch his breath. The Breeze was going to be pissed when he heard about this. Robert’s fear was replaced by self-loathing. Maybe Jenny was right. Maybe he had no idea how to maintain a relationship with anybody. He was worthless and weak—and dehydrated.
    He looked around for something to drink and vaguely remembered having done this before. Déjà vu?
    “Nobody lives like this.” It was going to change, goddammit . As soon as he found his clothes, he was going to change it.
    RIVERA
    Detective Sergeant Alphonso Rivera of the San Junipero County Sheriff’s Department sat in the rented BMW and cursed. “Fuck, fuck, and double fuck.” Then he remembered the transmitter taped to his chest. “Okay, cowboys, he’s not here. I should have known. The van’s been gone for a week. Call it off.”
    In the distance he could hear cars starting. Two beige Plymouths drove by a few seconds later, the drivers conspicuously not looking at the BMW as they passed.
    What could have gone wrong? Three months setting it all up. He’d gone out on a limb with the captain to convince him that Charles L. Belew , a.k.a. The Breeze, was their ticket into the Big Sur growers’ business.
    “He’s gone down twice for cocaine. If we pop him for dealing, he’ll give us everything but his favorite recipe to stay out of Soledad.”
    “He’s small time,” the captain had said.
    “Yeah, but he knows everybody, and he’s hungry. Best of all, he knows he’s small time, so he thinks we wouldn’t bother with him.”
    Finally the