Chapter 16 of the R.M. Dolin novel, "Trophic Cascade"
Read companion poem
By midafternoon the lines in front of Jake’s tent have grown to a forty-minute wait. A slight breeze keeps desert heat at manageable levels although it inescapably teases toward stronger winds working down from the mountains. With crowds larger than projected, the cycle time between first getting in line for a sample and getting a taste has limited most fiesta-goers to three, maybe four, winery tents. Put in terms of a more primitive parameter, alcohol consumption remains low, or to put it in even more pedestrian terms, “silly season” is projected to be mild. Silly season begins when heat causes slight dehydration that’s backfilled with alcohol, modifying the mood of many attendees from festive, to ridiculous, to absurd. Police provide extra patrols around four as a preemptive show of force.
Sympatico’s holding her own despite being new. As Dario predicted, most the young men who view themselves as players gravitate to her line where they try increasingly ludicrous lines to impress her. Everything from pretending to be sophisticated connoisseurs, or brazen macho men, to being charismatically sophomoric. Sympatico views this barrage of Quixotic conquests as harmless splatter that’s easily disregarded, something a month, or even a week ago, it would have been impossible. Given the context of the day and the fact that Dario, Armando, and Jake surround her, she’s able to contend with man’s primordial nature. She’s a hard worker and quick learner, and as the afternoon progresses, relies less and less on help to explain wine offerings or recommend a tasting flight to novice enthusiasts.
Dario observes with modest jealousy that his breakfast prediction was spot on, Sympatico’s line has become nothing but single men, with a few moderately married men sprinkled in between. They’re all willing to wait their turn to take a shot at such a beautiful woman. And to be fair, Dario enjoys a somewhat similar circumstance, which keeps his jealousy in check. His line is more homogeneous than Sympatico’s but whenever a group of young ladies fancy up in low-cut sun dresses and straw flop hats, he spends an inordinate amount of time helping them enjoy their festival experience with his patented Northern New Mexico brand of flirting; something that has at times shocked, amazed, and delighted Sympatico.
Chance has more than his share of pretty girls as well, and he too somehow manages to find extra time to help the pretty ones through their wine journey. Monica and Bridget are proving themselves equally competent and popular. In fact, at one point Jake had to insert himself in the middle of a tasting Monica was doing when the level of flirtation from two young men became both loud and inappropriate. Other than that, the fiesta is coming off without a hitch. Bottle sales are slow, as Jake predicted, but glass sales are up, with white sangria leading the way.
Jake’s been hustling nonstop since the launch of Operation Chaos; running credit cards, opening bottles, managing the cold wine inventory, keeping the tent area clean, and making sure his servers are taken care of. His initial strategy for providing his servers a break was to start with Dario and work down the serving line giving each server ten minutes to relax, catch their breath, and get off their feet. However, Dario’s having too much fun flirting to take a break and given the pretty prospects queued up on the not-so-distant future, he won’t be taking a break anytime soon. Jake invites Sympatico to take a few minutes, but she has no interest in leaving the tent. Armando passes on a break as well, he’s too deep into providing his brand of entertainment to patrons, replete with enthusiastic story telling. It’s not until Jake gets to Monica that he has his first taker; she’s a smoker and overdue for her nicotine fix. He’s barely settled into his substitute station when two middle aged men with military haircuts and black polo shirts bully their way through the space between his line of tasters and Armando’s. Jake knows who they are before they even reach for their wallets.
“Are you Armando?” The overweight Anglo demands sticking his face aggressively close to Armando’s.
“Si Senor,” Armando sings with a befuddled but nonetheless thick Mexican accent. Armando is instinctively aware of who he’s dealing with and how things are about to play out, but is completely unconcerned, if anything, amused. These don’t look like the kind of men who’ll be successful doing what countless other secret police for centuries have been unable to do to him or his ancestors.
“We’ll need to see your server’s license?” The taller and older Hispanic demands with far less aggression.
“Absolutely,” Armando answers without making a move to retrieve it, “as soon as I see your credentials.”
Armando grins first slightly at the SID agents and then more devilishly toward Jake. His family, going back generations, have continuously dealt with New Mexico’s secret police and considers them to be nothing more than toothless lap dogs, valley gangbangers are far scarier and more consequential. SID routinely harasses him at the Al Azar, but they’ve never been able to make anything stick. The only person who possibly hates SID more than Armando is Jake; at his first wine fiesta years ago, SID put a scare in Emelia so bad she cried the rest of the weekend and he’s never forgiven them for that.
The overweight Anglo hands Armando his credentials. Armando studies it in slow deliberate detail. “Agent Thomas,” he says with a decidedly Mexican twang. “One-eighty, really? I’d say more like two-forty and that’s before breakfast, Cabron.”
“I don’t think a few extra pounds on over winter is germane to why we’re here,” he replies sucking in his paunch belly.
“Oh but it is Senor, you say you are this Thomas fellow but, I have to think you do not much match his description. Do you have another form of identification; a photo ID perhaps?”
“I can vouch for him,” the Hispanic agent interjects with unmasked annoyance.
“But of course, you would say that wouldn’t you,” Armando mocks. “I will need to see two forms of identification from you as well if we are to continue.”
“Oh, we’re going to continue,” Agent Thomas angrily asserts while pulling out his wallet. “You can bet your Mexican ass on that.”
Jake’s doing all he can to keep from laughing, after all, Armando’s elevated giving people shit with passive aggressive sarcasm to an art form, and this time he’s dead-pan hysterical. For a moment Jake considers getting involved in whatever crap the agents are here to perpetuate but decides their punishment for picking on his tent can be dealing with their protagonist, mano-a-mano.
“Okay Agents Thomas and Hernandez,” Armando says with reluctance after reviewing their secondary identification. “Your papers, while suspect, do seem to be in order. Although Agent Thomas, I suggest doing something to get back in shape. It is not a good example for a member of alcohol control to be so bad at restraint.”
The agents put their badge holders away as they re-group to mount a fresh assault. “So, you are Armando?” Agent Hernandez re-asks.
“No,” Armando says with deep seriousness, “the ugly looking Bro at the end of the line is.”
The agents look at Dario who’s suavely flirting up his latest future honey. The agents seem prepared to move down when- “Just kidding, senors,” Armando confesses with placating humor. “I am the villainous desperado you seek.” Armando again speaks with a thick Mexican accent.
“Don’t be cute!” Agent Hernandez cautions. “It won’t end well; I can assure you. We have a report you served someone who was obviously intoxicated. Have you been working here since the fiesta opened?”
“Si senor,” Armando answers continuing his south of the Rio accent as much for his enjoyment as the audience of fiesta goers huddled around. He turns slightly so Jake can better hear the rest of his response. “My boss senor, he no permit workers to leave, take pity on people such as me and investigate the real pendejo.”
“Pay your freaking taxes then talk to me about worker comfort,” Agent Thomas dismissively asserts, shoving his phone in Armando’s face. “Did you serve this man twenty minutes ago?”
Armando studies the face getting suddenly serious. “Here boss,” he says handing Jake the phone. “Recognize this hombre?”
Jake looks down knowing right away who it is. “No, I don’t recognize this person. I mean right now I’m giving one of my servers a break but mostly I’ve been working as the Bar-back and I see everyone, but not this guy.”
Agent Thomas assumes they’re lying to protect themselves as does virtually everyone he accuses. He also knows he has them dead to rights so aggressively pushes on. “You’re the owner?”
“Yes,” Jake answers.
“Here’s the deal gentlemen,” Agent Thomas confidently asserts while putting both hands on the table between Jake and Armando’s ice buckets and leaning toward them. I have irrefutable proof you served this man and based on that, one of you is leaving in handcuffs. Now I want you both to step away from the table and walk around to the back of the tent where we can sort things out and decide who has to stay and who gets to leave.”
Armando immediately turns toward Jake and puts his fist out. Jake responds by putting his fist in front of Armando’s. They pump three times and at the completion of the third pump Jake stops, leaving his fist clenched while Armando stops with his hand open and flat. “Eee Cabron!” Armando teases. “Paper covers rock, say hi to your new boyfriend for me.”
“It was a good run,” Jake laments. “But all good things, que no?” He puts both his hands out in front of Agent Thomas. “Book me Barney.”
“You two think this is some sort of joke?” Agent Hernandez shouts in full bore anger compelling everyone currently tasting, and in line, to stop in submissive silence.
“A yeah,” Jake says as a matter of routine conversation. “You show up with your over-the-top bravado and questionable credentials, you shove a picture of someone we’ve never seen in our face, and then you accuse us of violating the server’s sacred trust. My only response is, ‘where’s the freaking camera?’”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Armando chimes in looking around. “This has got to be a prank from some TV show.”
“Look God damn it!” Agent Thomas explodes. “See these cuffs?” He yanks them out from behind his back. “See this side arm?” He demands tapping his holster. “You yucksters are in serious shit! Now I’m going to ask you one last time, step away from the serving line and follow me behind the tent so we can sort out which of you is going to jail.”
Armando puts his head down in insincere shame and starts toward the exit, which is next to Dario’s serving station. “I’ll be me,” he says loud enough for everyone to hear. “It’s always the brown boy.”
Jake follows Armando but stops next to Dario. “You’re in charge till we get back.”
“You mean if you get back.” Dario teases.
“We’re being set up by Alzarez.” Jake reveals. “I’ll sort this out in a few minutes.” He walks around the outside of the tent following Armando and down the space between his tent and the Hatch chili jelly vendor’s tent.
Dario grabs Agent Hernandez’s arm just as he’s about to trail along behind Jake. “Yo bro, mind if I have a peek at the picture? Maybe I’ll recognize who you’re looking for?” Agent Hernandez considers Dario’s request and seeing no harm, hands Dario his phone. “Where did you serve?” Dario asks assuming SID agents det their start in the military.
“First Battalion, twenty-fourth Marines,” Agent Hernandez proudly states. “Two tours in Afghanistan.”
“Right on.” Dario replies. “I was a Corpsman with the one-five.
“You guys saw some shit huh.” Hernandez says with immediate respect.
“Yeah,” Dario says with solemn seriousness. “Lost too many of my guys.” Dario studies the image intensely to keep from having to reveal the emotions that always come out when he remembers the guys under his care. “Nope,” Dario concludes after studying the image. “Never saw him.”
“Thanks man,” Agent Hernandez says taking his phone back. “Sorry about busting your tent,” he adds with remorse. “You know, orders and all.”
“It’s cool.” Dario responds respectfully. “You guys got to do what you got to do, right.”
“Yea,” Agent Hernandez says feeling awkward at the situation he’s in. “Go easy on the crowds,” he adds while stepping around the front corner of the tent on his way to the back.
“Right on,” Dario responds.
Agent Hernandez, eager to escape the shame of harassing a wine tent where a Corpsman works, quickly disappears down the alleyway between the wine and green chili jelly tents.
“God-damn rat bastards,” Dario snarls under his breath.
Sympatico nervously taps Dario arm as soon as the agents are gone. “What is wrong?” She asks on the verge of panic. “Why are Jake and Senor Armando being taken?”
“Just a misunderstanding,” Dario answers. “They’ll be back soon.”
“Were those really the secret police?” Sympatico asks with confused terror.
“They definitely are for sure. I’m just not certain they’re on SID business.” He’s confident Jake can outmaneuver whatever’s going down but call it years of combat training or just a natural tendency to be cautious and prepared, he nonetheless has a sense he should have some sort of contingency plan. He considers for a moment what he’s willing to do for his friends should it come to that. He’d take a bullet for Doc; that he knows; Armando, probably. He knows without ambiguity he’d do whatever needs to be done but this is probably not the hill Jake wants him to die on. Besides he reassures himself, it won’t come to that, Jack’ll out-maneuver them; he always figures a way out. He did against Miguel on Cinco de Mayo, and SID is nowhere near that adversarial. “Something’s up, I just don’t know what.”
Sympatico slowly steps back into her work zone worried and not having a clue what Dario’s talking about. What she does know is that once the secret police take you away, only bad things happen. She looks longingly at the corner of the tent where Jake disappeared hoping, wishing, wanting more than anything that he returns. He left so willingly, and that is not like the man she knows. The Jake she so admires would fight. He would fight and win against the Secret Police; men like Jake always prevail. He will return she convinces herself with unwavering conviction. She knows in the deepest recesses of her soul that’s yet to emerge from a darkness imposed by the very sort of men who now have Jake, that he will return.
Jake and Armando reach the rear of the tent and walk over to where a nondescript white sedan with New Mexico state government plates is parked. Agents Thomas and Hernandez follow closely behind and are eager to re-start their well-rehearsed efforts to intimidate. “As I said,” Agent Thomas begins with a thunderous tone. “One of you is going to jail.”
“He lost,” Armando interjects pointing at Jake.
“I suggest you stop screwing around,” Agent Hernandez snaps. “We got enough on you to not only haul your Mexican ass away but keep you in lockup until Tuesday morning when the Courts reopen.” He smiles sadistically at Armando. “A lot can happen to someone like you in lock up, like say an anonymous call to ICE.”
“I ain’t no freaking illegal,” Armando says with disgust.
“Don’t mean we can’t bus your sorry ass across the border,” Agent Thomas adds with indifference.
“If that picture’s all you got,” Jake snaps back. “Then you got diddly.”
“Oh! We got way more than diddly; I assure you.” Agent Thomas shouts matching the escalating intensity as he opens the passenger door of his sedan and pulls out a laptop. “Tell me if in your vast world view, this is more.” He sets the laptop on the hood of the sedan and motions for Jake and Armando to huddle around. He enters a keystroke command and tilts the display so both can view it as he steps back to enjoy their reaction. A video with shaky audio starts to play. A man who appears to be in his mid to late fifties is sitting on the curb in front of the International Balloon Fiesta Museum, which is located across the street from the Wine Fiesta entrance. The man’s hunched over in a drunken stupor singing an off-key rendition of “Swinging on a Star.” He’s slurring his words and ad-libbing lyrics but does appear convincingly drunk.
“This hombre,” Armando says to Agent Hernandez. “He is a horrible singer, que no?”
“When he starts his next song, you won’t be thinking it’s so cute.”
The drunk’s interrupted halfway through his chorus by the person recording the video. “Hola,” the interviewer says to the drunk. “That’s an impressive song you’re singing.”
The video zooms in on the drunk and to the trained eye it’s obvious he’s a New Mexican Hispanic that for the purpose of making the scene more believable, is pretending to be Native. “Shit ya know,” the drunk says to the camera. “It’s my favorite song.” To the untrained the rhythm and cadence of the drunk’s Native impersonation is good enough to be believable, but any Northern New Mexican would recognize it as faux.
“Have you been to the wine fiesta?” the interviewer asks.
Jake and Armando already know this skit ends with the drunk telling the interviewer he was drunk when he got to Armando, and that Armando over served him, which is why he’s in such horrible condition. The challenge both Jake and Armando have is figuring how to expose this video as a fraud.
“Do you see Waldo?” Jake whispers to Armando.
“Not yet Cabron, but we know he’s somewhere.”
The video continues per the predictable script. “How did you get so intoxicated?” the interviewer asks.
“I was at the fiesta bro, at the tent with the Ports and Sangria,” The drunk answers with slurred speech. “You know both are in my blood, que no? Not in my blood that has too much alcohol, but in the blood of my ancestors.”
“Were you drunk when you got there?”
“Shhit bro, I’ve been drunk all day. I did not think I could get served anymore. But my homie, he hooks me up, that tent’s the only one with a brother serving, those other wineries are racists man. Not the good-looking bro,” the drunk clarifies, “No, it was the old ugly one. He thinks his stories are funny, but I only laugh so he’ll serve me.”
“Busted,” Agent Thomas jumps in emphatically. “You’re the only winery serving Sangria, we checked.”
“Found Waldo yet?” Armando whispers to Jake with a twinge of worry.
“Not yet.”
Agent Hernandez pulls a set of handcuffs from behind his belt. “Looks like you’re taking the short bus buddy.”
“Not funny anymore is it funny man?” Agent Thomas teases.
“Not so fast,” Jake asserts. “Is this guy pretending to be drunk one of your agents?”
“No one’s pretending to be drunk,” Agent Thomas bluntly states. “And no, he’s not SID.”
“So how do you know any of this is true?”
“He described your products and your server, that’s good enough of us,” Agent Thomas fires back, looking at his partner for validation.
“It’ll never hold up in court.”
“Court is weeks away,” Agent Hernandez interjects. “Today is now, so he’s coming with us.”
“So, you’re going to arrest my server on trumped up charges based on an unverified video?” Jake forcefully scoffs unwilling to yield to the inevitable.
“I’ll make sure to apologize when the case gets dismissed,” Agent Thomas continues. “I got enough for a legitimate arrest, so I’m justified.” He steps toward Armando. “Hands up homes.”
“Wait!” Jake loudly interrupts. “If I can prove the video’s fake, do you agree to move on to your next victim?”
“I don’t see how you prove that,” Agent Hernandez concludes.
“We’ve reviewed this multiple times,” Agent Thomas adds. “It’s legit.”
“Give us one last look,” Jake bargains, “if we can’t prove it’s a fake, haul his lazy Mexican ass off to jail.”
“Hey,” Armando shouts sounding both nervous and offended.
“Okay,” Agent Thomas agrees confident of the outcome. “One last look.”
“It has to be irrefutable,” Agent Hernandez caveats.
Agent Thomas restarts the video and fifteen seconds in Jake has his evidence. “Found Waldo,” he whispers to his worried worker.
“Eee Cabron,” Armando sighs, unable to hide his relief. “What is it?”
“Patience Eago.”
“Ay caramba, why I even help you at these blasted things is beyond me.”
By now the video’s stopped playing. “Times up boys,” Agent Thomas taunts, dangling handcuffs in Armando’s face. At New Mexico fiestas, it’s not enough to simply arrest a server, SID likes to do it in a dramatically public manner to make a statement to both servers and tasters that they’re on the job. That means when they arrest Armando, they’ll parade him to the center plaza uncuffed, then read him his rights while shackling his arms.
“Well Barney,” Jake begins with a calm flatness. “We found our proof.”
“Unlikely,” Agent Hernandez mocks.
“Restart the video and I’ll show you.” While Agent Thomas works his laptop, Jake begins his closing arguments. “As you fine officers of the secret police no doubt know, Balloon Fiesta Museum is located on the east side of the street. Okay, stop.” Jake directs Agent Thomas to look closely at the still frame on the laptop. “Now tell me what you see.”
“I see a drunk who’s been over-served.”
“Me too,” Agent Hernandez concurs.
“What I see,” Jake says, motioning to the drunk, “is a long shadow to the east of both the drunk and the person shooting the video. What time is it Barney,” Jake says to Agent Thomas.
“It’s three-twenty and stop calling me Barney.”
“Sorry,” Jake replies, “It’s just given the way this whole debacle’s transpired I can’t help myself.” Jake walks to an open space in front of the white sedan so that his body has unfettered access to the sun. He gestures to the ground around him. “Look at the short shadow I cast to my east. Now look again at the shadow the drunk casts. His shadow is long and full of contrast. By my estimate this video was shot around six, maybe seven in the evening, which won’t occur for several more hours. I don’t know when the voice-over was dubbed, but the video was from yesterday at the latest. Jake walks back stopping directly in front of both agents. “So, in conclusion, given this is the first day of the fiesta, what we have here is irrefutable proof the video’s a fraud! A forgery I tell you!” Jake shouts with courtroom conviction. “This is no doubt a diabolical attempt to undermine the fiesta and cast dispersions on my good name.” Jake has moved beyond courtroom theatrics to a more lampoon-able fiery Preacher character. “If this unscrupulous villain is permitted to succeed, the very pillars of society will crumble.” It’s all Jake can do to deliver his summon without laughing. Armando’s grinning wildly as well. “Ye though I walk through the valley of wine, my hegemony ensconced on the footstools of my enemies, I call on God himself.”
“Or herself,” Armando adds with merriment.
“Si,” Jake acknowledges. “I call on God,” he restarts shooting his arm toward the heavens, “smote these heathens.” Jake has reached his limit and can no longer not laugh
“Very good brother Jake,” Armando applauds, “powerful yet profound.”
Jake composes himself and continues calmly, “What I’m trying to say with my over-the-top absurdity is that the evidence clearly confirms this video was made before today.” Jake glares at the two stunned SID agents. “Now if you two are done harassing us, I got a fiesta to run.” With that Jake abruptly starts back to the front of the tent. “Come on Mandy.”
Armando bows graciously to the SID agents. “Always interesting gents.”
“We’re not done with you,” Agent Thomas shouts after Jake and Armando.
Jake waves without stopping and Agent Thomas starts after them but, Agent Hernandez intercedes. “Let it go Kevin.”
“Well played,” Armando says as he catches up. “I would not have gotten it.”
“We did at least learn a couple things,” Jake concludes. “Alvarez is a shitty drunk, and he’s on to us.” Armando half-smiles as worry returns, he hadn’t considered that.
Jake and Armando round the front corner of their tent not surprised nothing’s changed. Monica’s back from break, the line in front of Armando’s serving station is gone, and Dario’s taken over Bar-back duties in addition to managing his server’s station. Armando immediately steps up to his serving station, “Senors and Senoras,” he proudly proclaims, “and of course Senoritas,” he adds smiling at the people in line on either side. “The beast has been slain and I have triumphantly returned.” He raises his arms in victory as people in both lines to step into his. “Step right up and taste my many wines while I regale you with barely believable tales of how I bested the secret police.”
Agents Thomas and Hernandez pause at the side of Jake’s tent listening to Armando mock them. They each vow that they’ll one day teach this smart-ass Mexican a lesson. What they don’t know, is they’re joining a long list of secret police who’ve been making that pledge since before New Mexico was even a territory. The Catholic Church, in the sixteen hundreds, accused Armando’s family of heresy for helping Jewish Conversos, but the Grand Inquisitor could not prove his claims. The Spanish king in the seventeen hundreds, accused Armando’s ancestors of not paying required tributes when it was alleged they were giving portions of the silver mined from their land grant to local Indians, but the King’s agent couldn’t convince a jury. The American government accused his family of insurrection in the eighteen hundreds for leading raiding parties against the American cattle barons who illegally seized property from rightful Spanish land owners. Many Hispanics were innocently hung at the hands of the invading Anglos, but Armando’s family again evaded punishment. In the nineteen hundreds, Revenuers tried repeatedly to catch Armando’s grandfather in his illegal liquor enterprise but he was too illusive. Someday, someone from Armando’s distinguished family will be captured by the secret police of whatever government runs things in the future, it is after all, just a numbers game. It won’t be Armando though, and it won’t be at the hands of New Mexico’s secret police.
Jake walks to the bar-back to relieve Dario. “Was it really Alvarez?”
“Yeah,” Jake confirms. “Which can only mean either he’s on to us, or he wants to squeeze Mandy about the Texan.”
“For all the crap Armando dishes out,” Dario surmises, “it would’ve been Karmatic if he got busted.” Dario suddenly remembers his message. “Oh! By the way, Padre was just here. He’s about to go on and wants you to watch.”
“Damn,” Jake says with frustration. “I don’t really see how I can leave now.”
“You should go Doc. Padre came by special and all.”
“I suppose.”
“Just don’t be gone too long,” Dario cautions, “silly season’s about to start.”
On his way out the tent, Jake stops to check on Sympatico. “How you doing?”
Sympatico turns to face Jake. “Muy bien,” she cheerfully answers. “I was so relieved when you came back.”
“It was just SID being SID.”
“My experience is that when the secret police take someone away, they don’t come back.”
“They really wanted Armando but, in the end, couldn’t make their charge stick.
“Well I am glad you are both back, and safe.”
“Thanks, everything’s okay with you?”
“It’s a bit overwhelming, but I have the hang of things. It’s fun.”
“I’m stepping over to the music tent to watch Padre perform. This is the time of day when things calm down before silly season starts, the proverbial calm before the storm. If your line dwindles, come listen to Padre with me.”
“Oh, I don’t think that is possible,” Sympatico flatly states not yet ready to venture into crowded and unfamiliar places.
“I tell you what, I’ll be right across the gap.” He points to a spot near the front of the music tent about forty feet away. “Try to walk around and enjoy the fiesta, if you’re comfortable that is. But if nothing else, at least join me there.”
“Okay,” Sympatico slowly agrees. “But right now I have customers to help.”
“Of course,” Jake replies. Rather than leave, he stands there uncertain how to make a graceful exit. After an awkward pause, he backs away, exiting the tent near Dario. “When thinks die down, encourage Sympatico to listen to Padre with me.” Dario nods while watching Jake disappear into the mass of bodies crowded around, engulfing him in a way that momentarily makes it seem he never existed.
