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.




26


Head buried inside the engine compartment, Mitch was doing the annual maintenance on Dona Consuelo’s ancient Mercedes sedan. Although it was twice as old as Espy’s Barbara, the aged Merc was in pristine condition, not a dent on it, everything in working order. Quite like the lady who owned the car, he thought, solid and reliable in spite of the years.

He looked out from under the hood at the kids gathered around G2 and her computer. She was focused and direct, giving orders, sending her troops into action. 

The battle lines had been drawn.

Mitch smiled. One would be foolish to underestimate woman power in Puerto Cielo.

***

The rooftop loudspeakers blared “Vote for Roddy!” as the van slowly cruised down the street in the steady rain. Two bicycles came up quickly from behind, then veered to opposite sides of the vehicle. Each cyclist lobbed a bomb up into a speaker.

“Vote for R-r-…”

The campaign rhetoric sputtered and stopped as the bags of flour burst inside the speakers, squelching the sound.

As the marauders made off down an alley, the little dog in one of the bike baskets barked defiantly. It sounded a lot like, “Hasta la vista, baby!”

***

Carmen’s big smile was all over Puerto Cielo. The Zorros had plastered “Carmen for Mayor” posters everywhere.

But Ivan and Gomez were busy tearing the flyers down. At the end of one Main Street block, they stuffed the torn remnants of Carmen’s face into a garbage bin and returned to their car.

Behind the steering wheel, Ivan’s nose twitched, something stunk.

He looked over at Gomez, “You take a shower today, hombre?”

Gomez had just been thinking, man, Ivan reeks. He snapped back, “Of course I did! It’s you that stinks!”

“Me? No way, it’s gotta be you!”

The bickering went back and forth until, hours later, they discovered the dead fish under the seats.

The Zorros had struck again.

***

Perched in the front basket of Gabe’s bike, his little leg cast covered with signatures, Arnold held down a stack of “Carmen for Mayor” flyers.

He growled.

“Hola, chica, just what do you think you’re doing?”

Manny and Gabe turned from posting a “Carmen for mayor!” flyer on a Main Street storefront. There stood Julio with his gold tooth grin, holding a bunch of shredded posters under one arm.

He flashed the gleaming point of a knife in their faces, “It looks like you’re littering, but, no worries, I’m cleaning up after you.”

Shoving the ripped papers into a barrel, Julio flicked a lighter and watched the flames rise. 

Still grinning, he added, “There, much better, don’t you think?”

Eyes locked on Manny, Julio pushed the knife blade towards her nose, “Now, I think you should move along and stop messing up the streets of our fine town.”

Gabe shook his head and whispered, “Boy, you are so very, very stupid.”

Manny stared at the knife, the burning posters in the barrel, and smiled sweetly at Julio.

“Oh, my, you are so scary,” she mocked, then added, “Call it.”

She flipped a coin high in the air. 

Julio looked up at the sparkling, spinning silver and before he could blink, Manny had kicked the knife away, slammed a fist in his gut, and kneed him in the groin.

The bully collapsed, groaning. “Tails,” she said, catching the coin and returning it to her pocket.

“You lose.”

Manny bent down and grabbed his greasy hair, pulling his head back so that the anguished face could see the fire in her eyes.

 She hissed, “Never threaten me again!”

Picking up the fallen knife, she tossed it into the barrel with the burning flyers. Then, pointing a finger at her sprawling, stupefied assailant, she added,

“Ever!”

As Manny and Gabe calmly walked away, Arnold put in a “Don’t mess with me” yip at the astonished tough.

Across the street in a dark grey limo, a girl watched unnoticed from an open window.

***

During  a rare splash of afternoon sunshine, Mayor Roddy was doing his own campaigning, waving to the  people who loved him as the caddy, top down, rolled through town. He failed to notice that his greetings to passersby were often returned with a one finger salute.

Crawling by City Park, the Caddy was buried in a barrage of rotten tomatoes. Juicy, bright red starbursts exploded all over the mayor’s pale blue linen suit.

Walking her poodle nearby, the lady wearing the wide white hat witnessed the attack and heard the mayor’s outraged scream.

She couldn’t have been happier.

So happy, she decided to write another letter.

***