CAROLINA REYNA

For the great unpublished novelist Jack O'Connell life had lost much of its meaning. He was 70 years old, COVID had killed close acquaintances and he was going through the motions. As managing editor of The Brownsville Herald, he had saved the newspaper from perdition. Instead of taking the televisions leads, the daily was breaking news as in the old days when the mainstream press was evicting a president and ending a war. Every week an investigative piece was revealing the pervasive corruption riddling the city and the county.

And there was his column: The Peerless Observer. His reporters acted like tentacles whom he sent on missions to collect information that he would package into a commentary that ran across the entire length of the bottom part of the front page three times a week. It was with a revived relish that the readership picked up their Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday editions. There were no sacred cows. There were only the sacred scriptures of Jack O'Connell.

Though his columns gave him a brief rush, there was no excitement in his life. Three marriages had yielded four daughters. The ex-wives had disintegrated into vague memories and the girls had departed for California, Florida, New York and Washington D.C. They were all happily married, or at least he liked to think so because he wasn't interested in their personal lives other than he hoped that they were pursuing their dreams and not being abused mentally or physically.

They had yielded him nine grandchildren, a collection of kids representative of every color in the racial rainbow. The husbands were nice enough fellows, but they were hollow humans in his opinion, their lives measured in bigger houses and bigger cars. Not a writer! Not a musician! Not a painter! Not one damn artist in the whole money-grubbing bunch. It was a rare occasion that he visited them and nobody had any interest in returning to the border and Third-World Brownsville. His daughters hadn't left fast enough.

The days marched past and nothing distinguished one moment from the next. Life, nevertheless, did not stop. There were evenings when large quantities of alcohol were consumed and long conversations lasted until closing time; there were impromptu gatherings when somebody pulled out a joint while someone else was tuning a guitar; there were women, ones whom you paid to relieve the tension physically and others who left you bankrupt emotionally; and there were the next elections to cover and the roiling controversies to exploit for the public's daily amusement, but these activities were whirlwinds of chasing tails that solely existed to occupy time and space.

Jack wasn't suicidal, or at least he didn't think so until Carolina Reyna walked into his office. When he saw her, he knew that he had to have her regardless of the consequences. She was a Mexican beauty with fine Spanish features and a dash of indigenous blood to give her color.

"May I sit down, sir?"

"Of course," said Jack.

The county's beat reporter had informed him about this ravishing beauty who was running for commissioner. Jack had glanced at the standard story, but he had paused and studied her picture that accompanied the article. She was photographic. She was challenging the incumbent, a grouchy lawyer who had served several consecutive terms. He was considered invincible, not because he was a charismatic personality, but because his constituents needed favors--from a son facing a DWI charge to a mother waiting on her overdue child support payment with the rent pending--and everyone owed him. Though they found him to be a cold and distant person, they respected his ability to manipulate the system for their benefit. He never forgot to remind his electorate that they could pay their bills at the ballot box.

"I'm Carolina Reyna and I'm running for county commissioner. I've heard that I need to be on your good side or I don't have a chance. I've come to pay my respects. I don't want to insult my elders."

"Elders" stuck in Jack's craw. He knew that he was easily twice if not thrice her age, but he recoiled at the thought that she perceived him as old. But Jack was old! Who was he kidding? When he or she passes 70, he or she is numerically old. But reality on the border can lead a man to presume that he still packs the punch of a young buck.

Poverty offers a richness of its own. There are many twenty-something women working in bars and restaurants short on their next cell phone payment who are open to a financial/romantic relationship with an aging gentleman that benefits both. As long as a man has money, he can count on attractive and entertaining companionship. These gals oftentimes grow fond of their grizzled guys. The affairs had given O'Connell a confidence that there wasn't a woman he couldn't seduce if circumstances were fortuitous. But he recognized that his best days were behind him as he contemplated Carolina's big eyes and full mouth with perfectly aligned white teeth. She was in another league.

"Somebody is exaggerating my importance. May I call you Carolina? Thank-you. And please don't say sir. I'm Jack. I'm a lowly journalist who writes stories for an audience starved for a cheap thrill. You make me sound like I'm a kingmaker when I'm somebody's pawn without realizing it."

"I'm not falling for your false humility, Mr. O'Connell, I mean Jack. You have been the difference on who was the last county judge, the last mayor, the last head football coach and the last attorney for the school district. People believe you. Everyone with whom I've talked, the obvious exception being your victims who discovered to their chagrin that your pen was a dagger, say that you're trustworthy and that you have been the voice of the powerless against the powerful for decades. I know I don't have a chance against Commissioner Broncafuerte if you don't give me a fair shake."

"Why wouldn't I give you a fair shake? I endorsed the commissioner's opponent in the last election, but for someone as powerful as you portray me, my support didn't help the challenger. In fact, my critics started chirping that I was a has-been and nobody was reading me anymore."

"Don't sell yourself short; I'm not having any of it. In the last city race the three candidates you endorsed won easily against stiff competition. I overheard you one night at Le Club Noir. I was sitting at the table adjacent to yours, but you didn't notice me. You had had a few too many, which undoubtedly led you to speak in a loud voice. You said and I repeat: 'I'm a saddle and I can provide a politician with a smooth ride, but if that horse doesn't want to run or is just plain slow, my saddle isn't capable of magical powers.' I'm not asking for a saddle, but I want you to know that I intend to run and I'm not slow."

Jack leaned back in his chair. He had been a sucker for instant attractions. He had no doubts that Carolina could take him to the edge. Every time he left a woman, it was his intention to love one last time. Carolina was that one last time. If she wasn't willing, he recognized that he had reduced his life to one goal: He had to fuck her at all costs!

"The election is three months away. To be honest, I haven't given the county elections any consideration. We're recovering from the municipal wars. We may have prevailed, but there are a few corpses out there who are hoping to rise from the dead and haunt me for the rest of my life. Regardless of the outcome, no one escapes without another scar or two. You might say I'm licking my wounds during the dog days of summer. Winning is the perfect salve, but there is a recovery period. First of all, there is no way I'm jumping on Broncafuerte's band wagon, so if no one announces, I'm in your corner. How is that for objectivity?"

"A little subjectivity never hurts. Perhaps, you could scare other candidates out of the race. I'm not asking you to do this for me. You would be doing it for the community since you know that Commissioner Broncafuerte needs to go and I know that I can beat him. I have deep family roots in Brownsville and Matamoros. We know everyone on both sides of the river. Nobody has delivered more babies than my father and nobody is a more respected professor at the university than my mother. Everyone wants a change y yo soy el cambio."

Damn! What a babe! Jack recalled the article. She had a B.A. from Harvard and a Master's from UT. She owned a computer business and was cutting million-dollar deals to supply the school district with laptops.

"I know about your professional life, but I know nothing about your personal life."

"Be careful. Curiosity killed the cat."

"But I'm a dog," laughed Jack. "Are you married? Do you have children? And, obviously, I know about your parents. Do you have siblings? I hope I'm not flying the envelope by asking you your age."

"I'll begin with the last question. I'm 28, I'm an only child, I've never been married and I have no children. Short and sweet. I hope that suffices."

It did except for one question, but if he asked her if she had a boyfriend, he would be revealing his hand. Jack kept a poker face. As he had noted earlier, he was out of his league. Then it occurred to him. Should he request her cell number? That would be about as smart as gambling with his cards face-up. The reporter must have the number, he told himself, and if not, he would have no problem obtaining it.

"I believe Commissioner Broncafuerte has met his match."

They exchanged pleasantries before he walked to the office's door and opened it for her. It wasn't so much that Jack was a gentleman as much as he liked looking at a chick's ass. Carolina had a fine ass with a pair of tits that were the mathematical equation of perfection. He was out of his mind. He had embarked on a road of no-return. He didn't give a damn about the price he might have to pay. Before he died, he had to feel himself ejaculating inside her vagina. His wayward, twisted existence had brought him to this culminating climax.

O'Connell mulled over his predicament. He wasn't going to ask her out for dinner. Her family and friends would ridicule her for being seen in public with a man ten years older than her parents. He went about his life in its usual pattern. On the surface, he gave the impression that nothing had changed, but beneath the placid exterior he felt murderous urges that transcended sexual lusts. If he had to rape her, he would rape her. He had often repeated that in order to be good at something, you had to be obsessional. But he was taking his own perspective in the opposite direction: In order to be really bad at something, you had to be obsessional.

Slowly, a plan coalesced in his mind. Despondent that he could never conquer her in a conventional manner, his inchoate thoughts crystallized around a wretched scheme. Armed with her cell number that his underling had readily produced, he would call her and convince her to allow him an interview at her home. If she granted his request, and there was no one at her house, he would rape her. With his trusty Smith & Wesson. 45, he would have different options in the aftermath of his demented deed. If she resisted and successfully defended herself, he would shoot her for being a bitch and then turn the gun on himself. If he consummated the heinous act, he would spare her and only kill himself. But the dye had been cast and blood would flow.

When he appeared at her home on a hot, sultry evening, she answered the door attired in a loose fitting T-shirt that revealed cleavage, a pair of shorts that could be described as modest and flip-flops. Her down-to-earth semblance enhanced her beauty.

"Excuse me for the way I look, but I have been in heels all day and perspiring profusely because I was at my warehouse overseeing the unloading of equipment. I should have worn my tennis shoes and, as you can imagine, there is no air-conditioning in the warehouse. I had to work late. Since our meeting everyone has told me you're a laid-back guy and I wouldn't have to stand on ceremony. I decided to come home, take a cold shower and dress as if I were at the beach."

Jack's pistol, pressed against his back and tucked inside his belt, would not contribute to his conception of a laid-back guy, but as clichés go: Ignorance is bliss or appearances can be deceiving. She lived in a house that resembled a cottage out of a fairy tale. Located in one of Brownsville's chic neighborhoods, it was worth a half-million dollars. Everything about her front room communicated comfort. She directed Jack to a large couch that was soft to the touch, but as he sat down he could feel the barrel going down the crack of his ass. To his surprise, she plunked down on the same couch but at an appropriate distance. She was so natural, There was nothing pretentious about her. It blew Jack away to think that within 30 minutes they could both be dead and lying in pools of blood.

"You've been very philosophical in your writings lately," she started. "But before I begin, would you like something to drink? A friend of mine shipped a box of Malbecs from Mendoza that I've been dying to try. Are you game?"

"Nothing is more genuine than a Malbec from Mendoza," said Jack.

"I had a feeling you wouldn't resist my offer. I uncorked a bottle and it's breathing in the kitchen. Sit tight and I'm be right back."

She returned with two glasses of wine and a plate with cold meats, cheeses and crackers.

"I've been living alone for so many years that I've become an expert at pleasing myself. Help yourself. What is wine without munchies."

"I've been admiring your paintings. Are they done by the same artist?"

"They are. His name is David Orozco. He is an old friend of mine who is held in high esteem in Mexico and throughout Latin America. He lives in D.F. and is something of a bohemian. When he visits, he leaves me a painting. He must make loads of money, but you would never know it. He says that painting is his own form of worshipping those unseen forces that exert a control over our lives. I don't know if even he believes what he's saying because I don't need an ulterior motive for doing something that I like doing."

"I'm impressed by their starkness."

"I've been reading your columns. They have had a stark quality about them. They're almost foreboding."

"Really?"

"Writing about Brownsville as you used to know it when Matamoros was magnetic filled me with a sadness that I associate with a past that we're trying to recapture but has escaped us forever.  I don't think about the past. I concentrate on the future and focus my all energies on a present that will guide me toward my objectives."

"I'm the contrary. I'm grounded in the present scrutinizing my past in search of stories and ideas. I dismiss the future because it will realize itself."

"Your anecdotes about your family are melancholy. Since I'm an only child, I can honestly say that I don't have a feel for family. My parents have been good to me, but my father is a preoccupied person who seems to have something on his mind all the time and my mother hides behind her books. They come from small families, so I never grew up with aunts and uncles and cousins. I hardly remember my grandparents. Your family sounds like they were characters created by an Irish novelist who simply transposed reality into fiction."

"We were close, but with the passing of my parents and the fact that I left home so many years ago, I only have the remembrances to keep me company. Fortunately for me, they are easy to recall and flow effortlessly onto the screen."

"Where were you raised?"

"Chicago."

"Where did you go to college?"

"Notre Dame. I went on a football scholarship and started my junior and senior years as a receiver. My junior year we won the national championship."

"How exciting. I'm ready for a refill. You look like you're ready too."

She departed for the kitchen. The pistol's barrel was burrowing further into the crack of his ass. He was growing antsy. He  pulled out a small pad and pen from his pocket.

"Are you going to interview me?" she laughed as she returned with the glasses. "I thought we were going to have an off-the-record chat?"

"If you prefer."

"I don't feel like discussing politics and you must grow weary of talking politics. I feel I would be forcing you to take your work home if you interviewed me. It has been such a long time since I have had company that I could gossip with you and tell my girlfriends later about our deep discussion."

He put the pad and pen on a side table. He would never touch them again. There were many people that they both knew, but he was on more familiar terms with the first generation and she was more at home with the second and third generations. She talked and he listened. He would nod as he sensed the pressure building. He was going to explode, but he couldn't reach over and grab her. He had to wait until she was in a more vulnerable position.

"I'm ready for a third. The third is the charm, right?''

"No bottle should be left unfinished," he stammered for lack of a more insightful reply.

She rose and headed toward the kitchen. He followed. He could feel the end of the barrel poking his anus. She didn't seem to notice that he was behind her. She placed the two glasses on the counter next to the stove and was reaching for the bottle when he wrapped both of his arm around her. He could feel the insides of his arms pressing against her breasts. He was hyperventilating as he buried his mouth into her neck.

"Let me look at you," she exhaled breathlessly.

He released her. She turned and stared straight into his eyes.

"I wondered how many glasses you would have to consume before you made a move."

He still had his life. And now he had his girl.