Mojo and the Pickle Jar Page 2

  Mojo made an immediate U-turn in the direction away from the Suburban. “Let’s,” he suggested, “get the hell out of here.”

  * * *

  Juanita kept a demon in a jar.

  “A demon?”

  “Here. I’ll show you.” She reached into the big straw basket and, using both hands, pulled out a half-gallon glass jar. There was something in the jar.

  “What is it?” Mojo leaned over for a closer look. The jar was filled with a clear liquid. A white, fleshy-looking object was floating inside.

  “A real demon,” she said with pride. “An old woman I know caught it.”

  “Let me see.” Mojo took the jar from her and held it up to the sunlight. They were parked behind an El Paso Natural Gas pumping station a few hundred yards from the interstate.

  “She took it out of a sick woman’s belly. Tricked it by getting it drunk.”

  “Really?” Mojo wondered.

  “Really. This sick woman had a demon in her belly, and so she went to the old woman to get it taken out. The old woman is a curer and a witch. She does that sort of stuff all the time. Anyway, the old woman fed this sick woman tequila. Just a few drops of tequila down her throat. After a while the smell of the tequila got to be too much for the demon, and so it crawled up into the woman’s throat where it could lick the little drops of tequila caught there.”

  “Yuk.”

  Juanita ignored him. “The old witch woman began to pour more and more tequila down the sick woman. When she figured the demon was probably drunk, she stopped and waited. After a couple of minutes the demon’s head popped up in the back of the sick woman’s throat, demanding more—demons are greedy, you know. The witch woman just laughed and pretended she was drunk too. The demon got real mad; it threatened to kill the sick woman if it wasn’t given more tequila. The old woman laughed again and put the bottle to her mouth like she was drinking from it. Then this demon went crazy. It must have thought the old woman was drinking its tequila or something. It charged out of the sick woman’s mouth and yanked the bottle away from the old witch woman. But before it could get back into the sick woman, the old witch grabbed it, dropped it into this jar, and screwed down the lid.”

  “You saw all this happen?” Mojo asked skeptically.

  “Well, not exactly. But there’s no question about it. This is definitely the demon from that woman’s belly.”

  Mojo rotated the jar and the thing turned with it. It was dead, ghastly white. It was very wrinkled. It looked like an old horseapple left out in the sun. Long tentacles or fingers or something were hanging from it.

  “It looks kinda like those things in that alien movie. You remember those? The ones that jumped on people’s faces? It’s got the same fingers or tentacles or whatever they were. Only the aliens were a lot bigger and they had a sucker they could stick down your throat.”

  He turned the jar once more. The lid was printed in Spanish. It promised premium pickles inside. He handed it back to the girl. The thing was creepy-looking.

  “It doesn’t look like a demon to me. It looks more like a piece of dried fruit or something.”

  “That’s because you don’t know anything about demons,” she said seriously.

  He couldn’t argue with that.

  “So you have a demon, huh? I can bend spoons with my mind,” Mojo said, not to be outdone.

  “A trick. I saw it on TV.”

  “No, no. I can really do it. Just with my mind. I know there are phonies who bend them with their hands, but all I do is think about it and it happens.”

  “Uh-huh.” She didn’t sound convinced. Mojo wondered how she could expect him to believe the thing in the jar was a demon when she wouldn’t even believe he could bend spoons.

  “Listen, Mojo,” she said, grasping his arm so he could see she was serious. “We’ve got to find a place to hide out. Those guys who tried to kill us work for Raymundo Castillo. You know who he is?”

  “Yeah. King of the dopers.” Poteet had told him all about Machete Ray Castillo.

  “That’s right. Castillo’s a big man. He’s got a lot of money and a lot of soldiers working for him. And he’s not just going to forget about us. He’s not going to forget about us or this dope.” She patted the straw basket on the seat. “He’ll have the word out on us. And if he finds us he’s going to kill us.”

  Mojo furrowed his brow. She was right. This was a problem. He thought for a long moment … “What about Mexico?” Mojo suggested at last. “Couldn’t we hide out over there? At least it’d be easy to sell the dope.”

  “Mexico?” Juanita pursed her lips. Then: “That’s not as stupid as it sounds. That’d be the last place he’d think to look. And besides, I’ve got relatives in Sonora I could stay with. Yeah, I think Mexico’s an okay idea. Tell you what, as soon as it’s dark, we’ll drive to El Paso and cross the border there.”

  “Great!” Mojo was pleased. “And say, Juanita?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think I could stay with your relatives too? Just for a while? Just until the heat’s off? I don’t know anybody over there.”

  Juanita looked straight at him. Her eyes were expressionless. “I don’t think that would be a good idea, Mojo,” she said. “I don’t think that would be a good idea at all.”

  2

  The moon rose ice white and huge over the mountains of West Texas. The ice-white light of the moon flowed down from the mountains and through the streets of Van Horn. It flowed out from Van Horn and over Ortfeldt’s Interstate Service Station and Grocery Store and down Interstate 20 heading west, over two cars and an Airstream trailer and a smoking diesel rig with a faded “Hey Ayatollah! Kiss My Assaholla!” bumper sticker. The ice-white moonlight flowed over Uncle Ort’s battered Cadillac Seville racing towards El Paso.

  * * *

  “You painted these? All by yourself?” Mojo asked Juanita.

  “Yes,” Juanita told him proudly. “You like them?”

  “Like them? I love them! I mean, you’ve really got a talent here! These are as good as the ones they sell in K mart!”

  “Thanks.” She beamed.

  Mojo held the Polaroids up to the Cadillac’s dim interior light for a better view. Juanita was driving. The Polaroids were of some paintings Juanita had done.

  “These are really great. I’d love to have a couple of these to hang on the walls of my room. Maybe after we sell the coke I’ll have enough money to buy some from you.”

  “Really? You like them that much?” Her eyes glittered.

  “Sure. I love them.”

  Mojo hated them. All the paintings were of big-eyed children. They were big-eyed children paintings. Mojo hadn’t realized before this that big-eyed children paintings were actually painted. He had supposed that K Mart had a factory somewhere turning them out like cookie cutters.

  “Some people don’t like them. They say they’re too depressing.”

  “Not me. I think they’re cute.”

  The paintings reminded Mojo of his ex-girlfriend, Leona. Leona from Lubbock. Leona from Lubbock had been a waitress at the same motel in Van Horn where Mojo had rented a room. Leona had had five of the big-eyed children paintings in her bedroom, one for each wall plus an extra in case she ran out. Mojo had felt those big eyes staring disapprovingly at him each time he had crawled into bed with Leona.

  “They’re called waif paintings,” Juanita told him. “There’s a big market for them. Especially out West.”

  “Really? Is that what you were going to do in California? Sell waif paintings?”

  “Maybe. I thought about it. I thought I might if they were good enough.”

  “They are,” Mojo told her seriously. “These are as good as any I’ve ever seen.”

  Mojo was not exaggerating.

  “Thanks.” Juanita smiled at Mojo. Her eyes met his. The huge moon shone in Juanita’s eyes.

  Mojo smiled back at Juanita. Their eyes stayed locked for a few seconds, then Juanita turned quickly back to the road. />
  “Listen, Juanita, maybe I could come visit you at your relatives’ house in Sonora,” Mojo said, trying to follow up. “I could bring you some paints and stuff. Just so you wouldn’t get out of practice.”

  “Why is that guy so close?” Juanita frowned at the rearview mirror. “He’s practically riding on our bumper.”

  Mojo turned around and looked back. There was a car behind them with its brights on. The car was so close Mojo could see it was a Suburban with a lot of front-end damage and a basketball-sized hole in the windshield.

  * * *

  Mojo was quick.

  Mojo was born quick. In the fourth grade Mojo had ducked a kitchen knife hurled by his mother from less than ten feet away and escaped without a scratch. In the eleventh grade he had escaped Jack Ochoa’s Dobermans by leaping a five-foot chain link fence with two hubcaps under each arm. Less than twelve hours earlier Mojo had dodged death in his Uncle Ort’s Interstate Service Station and Grocery Store. And now Mojo dodged death again.

  Mojo dropped down low in the front seat of the Cadillac pressing his head against his knees. The bullet passed through the rear window, over the seatback, through the vacant space where Mojo’s head had been, and out the windshield. The bullet made a flat slapping sound as it passed through the windshield. Tiny shards of glass fell onto the dash, tinkling like chimes.

  “Floorboard it!” Mojo yelled at Juanita.

  She already had.

  * * *

  “Dead center!” Frank cried triumphantly. He was hanging out the window of the Suburban, his M-16 braced against the sideview mirror.

  “Don’t tell me!” Nuncio shouted back. “I don’t need to hear no fucking running score! Just keep on firing!”

  The Cadillac pulled away with a glasspack roar, ghost white in the moonlight. Nuncio stomped the accelerator and went after it.

  “Close up on them!” Frank yelled.

  * * *

  “Get the hell away from them!” Mojo shouted.

  “I’m trying,” Juanita told him calmly.

  Mojo unfolded himself and peered back over the seat. The rear window was a spiderweb of glittering cracks with a perfectly round hole in its center. Headlights were coming up fast behind the spiderweb.

  Mojo turned to Juanita. “When I yell ‘change’ you pull over into the other lane. We’ll try and throw his aim off.”

  “Okay.” She was bunched up over the wheel, her mouth set in a grim line.

  Mojo looked back. The bright headlights were closer.

  “Here he comes … he’s trying to get a bead on us … Get ready … Okay! Change!”

  Juanita wrenched the wheel to the left. Mojo had to grab the seatback to keep from being thrown against the door. She whipped the wheel back in almost the same motion. Tires squealed. They were flying down the left lane.

  “Perfect!” Mojo crowed. And then wonderingly: “Where did you learn to drive like that?”

  * * *

  “You almost killed me!” Frank screamed at Nuncio over the roar of the wind. “Warn me before you turn like that! You almost threw me out!”

  “Fuck off!” Nuncio snarled back. His eyes were locked on the Cadillac’s taillights, rushing away from him down the interstate. He pressed the pedal even harder against the floor.

  * * *

  Mojo flew.

  The interstate flickered in the Cadillac’s headlights. Shadows leaped out of its way.

  Ninety.

  One hundred.

  One hundred and ten.

  The mountains were the same ice white as the moon.

  They whipped across a bridge, the silver posts strobing past, the round red reflectors blinking.

  One hundred and fifteen.

  They shot across another bridge and up a long hill. They were climbing towards a sky ablaze with stars. The speedometer needle wavered, dropped, steadied, wavered, dropped.

  One hundred and ten.

  One hundred.

  Ninety.

  Something sizzled under the Cadillac’s crumpled hood.

  The headlights of the pursuing Suburban grew brighter. Mojo watched helplessly as the headlights grew as big as a jumbo jet’s.

  Juanita held an object out for Mojo. “Here, you take this.”

  Mojo took the object. It was a .22 revolver.

  The rear window of the Cadillac exploded in a sparkling shower of glass. The windshield followed. Mojo ducked. Mojo prayed. Mojo could hear someone pounding on the trunk with a hammer.

  Mojo was only halfway through the Lord’s Prayer when they topped the hill, the Cadillac’s headlights soaring up into a black void for an instant, then arcing back down onto a long descent. The hammering stopped. The speedometer bounced up.

  One hundred.

  One hundred and ten.

  Mojo raised his head. He glanced at Juanita. Juanita was still bent over the wheel, her eyes straight ahead and determined. There was broken glass in her hair that flashed blue and white as the Suburban topped the hill behind them. There was moonlight and wind upon her face. She was beautiful. He loved her.

  One hundred and twenty.

  “What are you waiting for?” Juanita shouted over the wind.

  Mojo turned around and fired the .22 out the shattered rear window at the headlights of the Suburban.

  The Suburban came on.

  Mojo sighted down the barrel, taking a more careful aim, and fired again.

  The Suburban came on.

  Mojo lowered the pistol. He had a sinking feeling that a .22 pistol wouldn’t be enough to stop a car full of dopers armed with automatic weapons.

  One hundred and twenty-five.

  Blue fire was flashing from the Suburban.

  Mojo peered over the dash. They were crossing another bridge, so fast this time that the posts were only a blur. Ahead the interstate curled up a steep hill like a bow in a silver ribbon.

  They surged up the steep hill and then the Cadillac began to slow. The sizzling became a shriek.

  One hundred and ten.

  Ninety-five.

  Eighty.

  Mojo turned around. The Suburban was coming up behind them like a skyrocket. The blue fire was stuttering outside its passenger side window. Mojo aimed the .22 at the blue fire and fired twice in rapid succession. The blue fire continued to stutter.

  Seventy-five.

  Fists pounded the trunk again.

  A side window cracked like ice under pressure.

  Mojo emptied the .22 at the Suburban, the shots no louder than firecrackers. As he fired his last shot the Cadillac swung suddenly to the right. Mojo was thrown on his side. He dropped the pistol. He dug his fingers into seat fabric to keep from being thrown into Juanita’s lap. He heard the Cadillac’s tires squealing. He felt the Cadillac tilt over and the right-side wheels lift off the ground.

  Oh, shit.

  For a long, agonizing second the Cadillac hung in the air, balanced on two wheels, the tires screaming in protest. The glove compartment popped open and dropped cassette tapes on Mojo’s head. The passenger door creaked threateningly above him.

  Then the Cadillac fell back to earth.

  The Cadillac struck earth with a jolt that catapulted Mojo up off the seat. He banged his head on the ceiling. He fell back onto the seat again. He doggedly raised himself back up.

  Mojo raised himself up and looked out the broken windshield. The Cadillac was bouncing down a rough dirt road that ran through thickets of creosote and mesquite. Its engine was still sizzling. He turned and looked back. The road behind was dark and black beyond the faint pink glow of the Cadillac’s taillights. Nothing moved in the darkness. There were no bright headlights following them.

  “Sonofabitch,” Mojo said in relief.

  “It was the demon who showed me this turnoff,” Juanita told him matter-of-factly.

  “The demon?”

  “He summoned a flaming cross to guide me.”

  “Well … that’s great … I mean, I really appreciate him doing that.”

/>   “This isn’t the first time he’s saved me from danger. He’s done it lots of times before. Even back there at your uncle’s store. If I hadn’t had the demon with me at your uncle’s store, I would’ve been gunned down for sure.”

  “Is that right? Well, I guess I … Oh, shit.” Mojo groaned.

  “What is it? Is something wrong?”

  “Look in the rearview mirror.”

  Juanita looked. There was a pair of headlights in the darkness behind them.

  * * *

  The dirt road shot straight as an arrow across the desert. The Cadillac shot down it. The headlights followed. The headlights were only small bright dots for a long while. Then the headlights began to grow. Soon they were the size of owl’s eyes.

  “We’re slowing down!”

  “It’s not my fault. I’ve got it floorboarded,” Juanita told him.

  Mojo could smell the Cadillac’s engine. It smelled like old tires burning. He glanced over his shoulder. The Suburban was still behind them. Still coming on.

  “It’s the engine,” he told her. “Something’s wrong with the engine. Probably the radiator.”

  “Can’t you do anything to fix it?”

  “Not without stopping.”

  “We’re not stopping.”

  The Cadillac coughed. Missed. Coughed again.

  “I wouldn’t count on that,” Mojo said.

  Mojo bent over and felt frantically around on the floorboard for the gun. If he was going to have to make a run for it, he at least wanted a gun in his hand. The Cadillac’s engine coughed again. Mojo groped under the seat. The Cadillac’s engine screeched, a piercing sound, metal on metal. Paused. Screeched again. Mojo got down on the floorboard and jammed his entire arm under the seat.

  Mojo had explored most of the floorboard with only a wadded-up Snickers wrapper and a short stack of Willie Nelson tapes to show for it when Juanita suddenly shouted, “Hang on!”

  The Cadillac bounced heavily. Mojo had a sense of falling then bouncing then falling again. Juanita slammed on the brakes. The Cadillac jerked to an abrupt halt. Mojo rammed his already battered head against the dash.

  The Cadillac’s engine screamed, shook once, then died.