can a frustrated single mom and failed big city journalist save her family and salvage her career by returning to a town run by a gang of bungling thugs?


“The Resurrection of Puerto Cielo” is a novella published in serial form, 43 posts.




4


Laying dead still on the wooden porch, Lazarus baked in the morning sun. No one remembered how the mangy mutt got his name, the locals just called him Lazy.

Beside the lifeless dog, three pairs of well worn cowboy boots tapped time to a small radio’s Mariachi music. While most of Puerto Cielo still slept, the Bernie brothers had already assumed their positions. Sitting on the bench in front of the 3 B’s store, sheltered from the hot Baja sun by the arcade which ran the length of the block, they had a commanding view of Main Street.

The brothers were identical triplets, much to their mother’s surprise. She was so shaken that the expected single boy was three, she named them all Bernardo. Her logic, which made some sense, was if they all had the same name, she would never mix them up.

This practicality turned out to be quite convenient. If someone asked the name of one of the brothers, the response was simply, “Oh, that’s Bernie.” However, between themselves, the brothers had adopted the nicknames of Paco, Poncho, and Gus. And they had other differences, as noted by their baseball caps. Paco cheered the Dodgers, Pancho the Yankees, and Gus the Seattle Mariners. By amiable agreement, radio broadcasts of the games were rotated. 

The Bernies had been an enterprising trio, starting the town’s first video rental store, which had done exceptionally well. They’d been practical businessmen, offering videos that did not conflict with the town’s religious standards, although it was rumored that a special collection of “art films” existed in a back room. 

The brothers had expanded into the blossoming IT industry. By the time videos had disappeared and DVD’s and online streaming became the rage, younger family members had taken over the business. 3B’s was now the town’s largest internet service provider, along with cell phone and computer sales and movie rentals.

Looking at the grizzled faces under the faded baseball caps, old men wearing spotted shirts and dirty dungarees, one would never guess that these were the three richest guys in town.

And so, each with a cold brew in hand, the three kings surveyed their kingdom.

From this spot, provisioned with a cooler of beer on ice, they could oversee the town’s goings on. And so they did each day, from sunrise until sunset, excepting Sundays when their wives dragged them to church and the beer cooler was off limits.

The Three B’s store sat on a corner with the Puerto Cielo Star , the town’s newspaper, next door. Downhill from the Star the arcade ran past a string of shops, ending at the far corner with Mama G’s, the town’s most popular restaurant. On the other side of Beach Drive, framed by palm trees, fishermen were pulling their boats from the sparkling Gulf of California.

Across Main Street from the 3 B’s, stood the plain two story city hall and police station. Alongside, the Catholic church with its lofty bell tower, the tallest landmark in town. The church fronted onto the lush gardens of City Park.

To the side of city Park, farther down Beach Drive, the vast Public Market building was coming to life. Shop shutters rolled up as proprietors began a new day.

Three baseball caps turned to peer up Main Street. A motorcycle was approaching.

***

Patrolman Castillo was in a hurry. Having taken longer than usual to shine his knee high boots, wax his mustache, and primp in the mirror, he was late. Castillo gunned the midget motorcycle. It howled. A hive of mad hornets screeched as Castillo whizzed past Main Street’s brightly colored buildings, desperately dodging potholes. He winced each time the wheels clunked into a crater. The motorbike splashed through one last hole before slowing in front of City Hall.

The Bernie brothers watched Castillo kick out the bike stand and dismount. He hoisted the loaded equipment belt up his ample waist. Removing his helmet, he ran fingers through receding hair, twirled his mustache, then, taking a small bottle from a chest pocket, liberally doused himself with cologne.

Satisfied, Patrolman Castillo tucked his helmet under an arm and strutted up the steps.

It was time to make acquaintance with that good looking new girl in accounting.

Across Main Street, a bottle was removed from the cooler and the top popped. the beer was put in front of Lazy’s nose.

An ear twitched, an eye opened.

Lazarus was alive.

The dog slowly rose, shook himself, and turned to the hand with the open bottle. Beer was poured into a dry throat. With a loud belch, Lazarus was resurrected.

He watched a weathered finger point across the street, then set off on his mission, springing from the high curb onto the street, sauntering around puddles, halting at Patrolman Castillo’s motorcycle.

With all the patience of a priestly ritual, Lazy squatted beside the parked bike and dropped a steaming load. Not quite done, the dog then lifted his leg on the front tire, leaving a stream of yellow urine dripping down the wire spokes. Satisfied, he retraced his steps to the porch.

The opened bottle of beer was tilted into Lazy’s mouth. He chugged the entire contents  in a series of long gulps, paused for a deep breath, and finished with another loud belch..

The morning exercise over, Lazarus circled twice and collapsed, lost, once more, to the land of the living.

It was Paco’s turn to make the call and he dialed 911. In a frantic voice, he told the operator that a domestic dispute was happening and gunshots had been fired. He gave the address of the mayor’s house in the west side of town and hung up.

Patrolman Castillo had made an unforgivable mistake. One afternoon, he’d stopped the Bernies pretty niece, Alicia, for a bogus speeding violation. When Castillo said she only had to go out with him and he’d forget the charge, she’d showered him with profanity. The cop had no choice but to cite her for obstructing justice. The judge had tossed the ticket, not wanting to lose his privileges to the Three B’s back room art films. The patrolman now had enemies who would scare the Sicilian mafia.

Three more bottles of beer were retrieved from the cooler, tops popped, and the boys waited.

It didn’t take long.

The city hall entry door flew open and patrolman Castillo dashed out, yanking the helmet onto his head. He stepped around his cycle, slid a leg over the seat and kicked the engine into life. He rocked the bike forward to release the stand, then stopped.

He stared down, slowly raising his boot from the pile of shit.

Despite the helmet covering his face, the cop’s curse was plainly heard across the street.

Three bottles of beer clinked together as the irate cop putted off to another calamity that didn’t exist. Neither had the peeping tom at the whore house, the armed robbery at the kindergarten, or the multiple car accident at the town dump.

Yes, it was a new day in the quiet beach town of Puerto Cielo. The Bernies nodded as old Santos tipped his sombrero passing by with his nopales cactus laden donkey. Two women with baskets atop their heads, waved on the way to market. A backfiring bus clanked by and tooted its horn.

The three caps spun to look up Main Street.

An engine coughed, wheezed, and died as a dusty car rolled slowly towards them.

***

To be continued-

Copyright 2024 tio Stib