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.




22


“Jeez!” he cried out, slamming on the brakes.

The pickup slid through the mud, stopping inches from the edge of the brown, rain splattered water.

The wipers couldn’t keep up with the pummeling downpour so Antonio rolled down the window and stuck his head out.

In front of him, the road vanished into a muddy lake. He was still a quarter mile from the base of the dam. No way was he going farther in this beat up, two-wheel drive truck. Besides, he thought, looking fondly at the cowboy boots Carmelita had gifted him, he wasn’t going to trash these tricolor hand tooled beauties for another dam report that nobody read.

Every week this road got worse. Every week he dragged himself out of bed to inspect a pile of dirt that hadn’t changed in years. And every week he put his report on the city engineer’s desk and the man never bothered to look at him, too busy filling out his social calendar.

Antonio’s stomach growled. Hell with it, he thought.

It took a lot of slipping and spinning tires, but he got the truck turned around and headed back to Puerto Cielo. It was still a long way to breakfast.

Atop the dam, the downpour coursed into torrents washing down the face of the sodden mountain of earth.

Deep inside its burrow, warm and snug, the squirrel slept.

***

They were sitting in the editor’s office, drinking coffee, Sam sharing how he’d lost touch with town happenings after Sophia’s death, when Lucy came in.

“We’ve got another one,” she announced, waving a white envelope.

Espy removed the single page inside, a simple message in small, neat script.

“Ask Alvin in Accounting about Angela Morales.”

Espy passed the message to Sam. He read it and handed it to Lucy.

“Who’s Angela Morales?” Espy asked.

Heads shook.

“Then it’s off to city hall,” she said, picking up her notebook and heading for the door.

There was another unanswered question though.

Who was sending these mystery letters?

***

Outside the Star office, Espy watched the garbage truck, with its orange clad workers, grind up Main Street. Was this the same truck she’d watched so many times years ago? Some things never change, she thought.

Looking right, she saw the three Bernies eyeing her. She waved, “Morning boys!”

Three baseball caps raised in response.

She patted Barbara’s faded roof, “We’ve got another story, girl!” Then sprang across the street and bounded up the steps to City Hall..

Inside, wandering down a long corridor, Espy found the door she was searching for. She entered the accounting department.

Back to her, reeking of cologne, helmet tucked under an arm, patrolman Castillo was pleading his case in front of a desk.

Behind the desk, a young woman, more interested in filing her nails than listening to Castillo, finally said, “maybe another time.”

Her tone implied that hell would freeze over long before that time would occur.

“Well,” the nervous cop mumbled, finally adding, “good day,” with a click of heels.

He turned. Stopped, surprised to find Espy staring at him.

His gaze lowered and he bolted from the office.

Espy stepped to the desk. Intent on her manicure, the woman never looked up. The nameplate on the desk read “Sonya Lopez, Account Manager.”

I wonder if Sonya’s skimpy wardrobe has anything to do with her job title, Espy thought, then said, “Excuse me.”

With the long sigh of someone whose idea of work is a cup of coffee, a romance novel, and doing her nails, the “account manager” looked up. “Can I help you?”

Fighting an urge to respond with murderous sarcasm, Espy simply said, “I’d like to speak with Alvin.”

Without bothering to turn her head, Sonya yelled, “Alvin, someone to see you!

A man hunched over at the desk behind her looked up. 

“Yes, Alvin, there really is someone here to see you,” Sonya added sardonically.

Espy regretted not having lambasted the bimbo.

Alvin pushed heavy black framed glasses up his nose and looked at Espy. He had dark circles under his eyes and a harried look on his face. Running a hand through his thinning, combed over hair, he stood, resigned, and shuffled towards her.

“Can I help you?” came the uninspired response.

Espy looked at the middle aged man whose belly hung over his belt. There were smudges of a previous meal on his rumpled white shirt. She handed him the second mystery letter.

Alvin read it and his face flushed.

He looked at her and quietly asked, “Aren’t you Esperanza Diaz from the Star?”

Espy nodded.

He snuck a look at the girl painting  her nails, quite absorbed in her task. He wavered, then softly said, “Yes, I think I can fix this.”

Alvin returned to his desk, sifted through a stack of papers, then came back.

He handed the folded mystery letter to Espy, “That should do it. Sorry for the problem, these things happen.”

Alvin turned abruptly, shambled back to the safety of his desk, and buried himself in bureaucracy.

Espy took a last look at the room’s other occupant.

Admiring her finished nails, Sonya smiled, then picked up the paperback book on her spotless desk.

Restraining herself once more, Espy left.

Outside in the hallway, she opened the folded letter.

Alvin had written, “9 tonight Beach Drive, Tommy’s Tacos.”

***

The kids were doing schoolwork, Lucy was watching her favorite telenovela, Sam had gone for a beer with Mitch, and Main Street traffic was sparse, as Espy exited the Star office. She walked down the darkened sidewalk to Mama G’s, crossed beach Drive, and headed towards a cluster of people huddled around a taco stand bathed in the glow of a streetlight. 

As she approached, there was a low whistle from her left. Turning, she saw a man come out from the shadow of a palm tree. He stopped and Espy walked across the sand to meet him.

Alvin looked around nervously, “Are you alone?”

Espy looked at his anxious face. Of course I’m alone, she thought, but simply answered, “Yes.”

He took her by the arm and pulled her deeper into the shadows, saying, “I can’t be too careful, those people can hurt me.”

“What people?” she asked as they hid behind a beached fishing boat.

Alvin didn’t answer, eyes still searching for watchers. then he released Espy’s arm and said in a hushed voice, “You wanted to know about Angela Morales.”

“Yes, who is she? Where does she work?”

Alvin took a moment to consider his response, then said, “Angela Morales is on the city payroll but she’s never set foot in City Hall.”

“What do you mean?”

“Here, this should make it obvious.” Alvin handed her a folded sheet of paper, looked around once more, then walked quickly away.

***

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.




21


Espy couldn’t sleep. No music booming from the apartment next door, no people yelling at each other out in the street, no sirens wailing in the distance. Tossing in bed, she’d forgotten how different night noise was in Puerto Cielo. How quiet. How still.

At first, Espy heard nothing. Then the familiar sounds from her childhood drifted into consciousness.

Cicadas. One, then another, then the high pitched drone of dozens of males calling into darkness for mates.

The shrill shriek of a nighthawk piercing the void.

The soft rumble of surf pounding on the sand.

But the sound that set Puerto Cielo apart from the city was the roof dogs.

Most of the town’s houses had flat roofs, the hoped for floors of future additions. As yards and gardens were lacking in many homes, where to put the family dog was always a problem.

A problem solved by putting dogs on roofs.

Not during the baking hot daylight hours, but later, after the sun went down.

The rooftops of Puerto Cielo were inhabited by a nocturnal tribe of creatures that awoke to howl, whine, and bark from sunset to sunrise.

The empty dark would be broken by a single voice, then another, and soon the message would be carried across roofs all over town. Then the racket faded, and quiet blanketed the night once more, until some intrusion provoked alarm, and the chorus sang out again.

Espy listened. The voices outside were silent, but those in her head were roaring.

What was she getting herself into? She’d fled the city to escape violence and now she was confronting it head on.

She’d known other journalists who’d launched investigations into government corruption. Some of them were now dead.

What could happen to her family?

She remembered the bloody street scene in the city, remembered Ricky holding his dying wife.

Remembered the black, evil in his eyes.

A half moon slid out from passing clouds and the roof top choir echoed throughout nighttime Puerto Cielo.

***

Someone else was having trouble sleeping.

Ricky could not get used to the quiet, the lack of sound, the absence of night noise in the world outside the window, making the tumult inside his head even harder to ignore.

His daughter hated him.

He couldn’t fault her. It was his family business, being a mob boss that had killed her mother, that had left her forever confined in a wheelchair.

Hoping to escape his past, he’d brought her to Puerto Cielo. Instead, his past had trapped him in a life he no longer wanted.

He remembered idolizing his father, a man everyone respected, a man everyone feared. He’d wanted that same respect some day, but when it came, he soon realized that it came with a price.

And losing his daughter was a price he couldn’t pay.

***

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.




20


With Arnold nestled securely in one hand and the other clutching her mother’s arm, Manny was being swept along by the boisterous deluge of Saturday morning shoppers.

Above her head, swallows swooped in acrobatic loops above the crowd as a bewildering din echoed through the cavernous public market building. The noise of babbling voices, screaming children, and blaring radio music was sharpened by the cries of vendors.

“Fruit! Vegetables! No better anywhere!”

“Tacos! Tacos! Hot tacos here!”

“Come see the cheese lady, we’ve got everything cheese.”

“You want hamburgers? I’ve got hamburgers!”

“Señora Diaz.”

Mother and daughter looked down to see Dona Consuelo in front of them, her black dress magically untouched as the surge of shoppers separated around her.

Blue eyes twinkling, the petite lady said, “I was quite impressed by the latest issue of your paper, please keep it up.”

“Thank you,” Espy replied, and Dona Consuelo was swallowed by a sea of bobbing heads.

Espy and Manny moved deeper into the market, past kaleidoscopes of fresh flowers, past tables filled with homemade wines and liquors, past handmade shawls, past hats, sandals, and always, smiling faces.

From behind a counter displaying rows of fish on ice, a woman with hair tied up in a kerchief called out,

“Esperanza, so good to see you. Is this your daughter?”

“Hola, Rosita, yes, this is Manny.”

“A pleasure to meet you, señorita. How can we help today?”

Espy answered, “Shrimp, we’d like some shrimp.”

“Certainly, over here, caught this morning.”

Manny watched the two women negotiate the purchase. It’s so cool how everyone knows my mom, she thought. This had never happened in the city.

Pressing on, the pair turned, only to be confronted by the towering bulk of a man in uniform.

Sheriff Eddie tipped his tattered hat, “Welcome back, Señora Diaz.”

“Thank you, Sheriff,” said Espy, “and this is my daughter, Manny.”

He nodded, “A pleasure, señorita.” 

They watched as the hat, a head taller than any around it, floated away.

Yes, Manny thought, it was nice to be popular.

A voice boomed above the tumult, “Espy Diaz! Espy Diaz! Come, I have something special for you!”

They crossed through the pedestrian current to a side aisle and greeted a white capped man wearing a blood splattered apron, his ample girth evidence that he seldom missed a meal.

Espy smiled back at the grin that had lost several teeth.

“Ernesto, how are the wife and kids?”

The butcher hollered behind and four female faces appeared beside him, each with big brown eyes, long braids, and wearing an apron.“Here they are, “ he proudly pointed, “my beautiful wife Lupita, and our three daughters, Louisa, Laura, and Lucinda.”

The four little women smiled shyly, then went back to work.

“That was some story you folks put out in the Star,” Ernesto said, “of course everyone knows what was going on, but we were all afraid to do anything about it.”

“Now,” said Ernesto, wiping hands on the crimson splattered apron, “how about some beautiful veal cutlets, special today?”

“Perfect,” said Espy.

Ernesto was handing over the wrapped package of meet when he heard the bark. He peered over the counter to see Lazy looking up expectantly. Then Ernesto saw two more eyes looking up from Manny’s arms.

“Lazy, amigo, where have you been hiding? And who’s your friend? And what happened to his leg?”

Manny explained Arnold’s injury. 

Ernesto shook his head, “We have some bad people in this town. But wait, I have something for my little friends.”

The butcher disappeared then returned with a bag for Manny. She set Arnold down and looked inside.

Four hungry eyes stared up at her.

Espy laughed, “Go ahead, they’ve been good boys.”

Manny opened the bag on the floor. Two delighted dogs, one with a noticeable limp, scampered off with bones clenched in their jaws.

***

In the mayhem of shopping and selling around him, no one noticed Blue Boy bending down to leave a long string of firecrackers at the base of the produce stand.

More than anything else, Blue Boy loved to make noise. Not just any noise, but BIG noise. Noise that bounced off buildings, noise that chased dogs under beds, noise that scared people. When he first discovered the explosive world of pyrotechnics, he thought he’d died and gone to heaven.

Which is almost what happened, sort of.

For his sixth birthday, back when he was called Jose, years before he became Blue Boy with the Mohawk cut, his older sister had given him a box of firecrackers. He’d immediately gone outside and lit a two inch “Devil Bomb.” The resounding blast was orgasmic, although he was far too young then to appreciate the sexual implications of the experience.

Thrilled with his new power, the boy lit a few more of his presents, each KABOOM whipping him into rapturous ecstasy. But it was Sunday morning, and he had to curtail the fun and follow mother and sister to church.

It was somewhere during the padre’s sermon when Jose discovered a pocket rocket in his jacket. Never one to consider long term consequences and prone to emotion driven decisions, the young miscreant who’d been left alone in the back row because of his constant fidgeting, thought to himself, why not?

Which is how a missile called “Satan’s Screamer” was launched under the pews towards the front of the church, exploding with a thunderous KABAM! at the foot of the altar.

There was a brief second of stunned silence, then an eruption of pandemonium. From high in the pulpit, the priest gaped in shocked amazement at his fleeing congregation.

Jose snuck out in the resulting chaos, but as usually happens, his part in the unholy destruction of the service was eventually uncovered. After a lengthy session in the confessional and several hours of slightly remorseful prayers, the  culprit was given the task of scrubbing the church floor every day after school and on weekends for a month.

Although the punishment did little to curb Jose’s budding addiction to noise making, he did become a bit wiser when choosing where to light matches. Then, one day as the lonely sinner was performing his ablutions on the sacred floor, Father Bartholomew shared words that left the boy’s eyes ablaze with blissful ecstasy.

“You know, Jose,” confided the priest with a gentle hand on the kneeling boy’s shoulder, “there are times when God likes, nay, even loves, noise.”

Jose stopped scrubbing, his face looking up in surprise.

“Yes, the Lord likes celebrations, especially celebrations of his holy days. At such times, firecrackers are seen as holy tribute to a loving Father.”

Jose’s mouth dropped.

“Of course,” added the priest, “such celebrating needs to be conducted outside the confines of the church.”

At six years old, Jose didn’t comprehend the spiritual significance of this insight, but one thing was absolutely clear. God loved him because God wanted him to light off firecrackers.

However, There were many in Puerto Cielo who did not appreciate Blue Boy’s religious zeal, particularly lighting off celebratory explosive outbursts several hours before sunrise on holy days. And God only knows, there seemed to be no limit on what the church thought made a day holy.

Fortunately for the town, Blue Boy’s meager allowance did not permit him to buy many big firecrackers, somewhat limiting his well intentioned “good morning God!” escapades.

It was precisely because of limited means that Blue Boy’s present prank was a bit smaller than hoped for. Still, he thought, as he lit the long fuse and casually slipped into the Saturday market throng, this should be fun!

***

“Señora Diaz, I hope all is well.”

Espy and Manny turned from the table brimming with peppers, squashes, potatoes, onions, all sizes, all colors of vegetables.

There he was, Ricky Ruiz, immaculately attired in a linen suit, smiling, seemingly unfazed by the recent smashed brick drama at the Red Rooster.


“Yes,” Espy hesitated, then said, “please let me introduce my daughter, Manuela.”

She added, “Manny, this is Señor Ruiz.”

“A pleasure, Señorita,” Ricky responded, extending his hand.

Manny looked at the offered hand in disdain and said nothing. 

Unbothered, Ricky said, “Good day, ladies.”

“What a creep!” Manny muttered 

BAM! BAM , BAM! BAM! BAM!

The stream of people froze.

Then screams and bedlam.

There was a crash as bins of produce fell to the floor. Then louder screams as frightened shoppers noticed wild eyed Tibo, crouching in a surge of rolling tomatoes, hysterically waving a gun in the air.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

“W-w-w-where a-a-re they?” Ricky stuttered.

B-BAM! BAM! BAM!…BAM! BAM!

From the center of this maelstrom, Frank’s strong arms lifted Ricky up and dragged him away, still muttering,

“W-w-h-h-er-e are they?”

Watching from the fringe of the bedlam, Blue Boy chuckled, then he frowned. Would he need to share this “celebration” in confession?

Up on the balcony, unperturbed by the commotion below, two dogs gnawed on their bones.

Beside them, leaning on the rail, the ghosts of two mothers watched the chaos subside as the river of shoppers started flowing again.

***

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.




19


Sam stopped, holding up a hand.

Gabe watched the white cane poke ahead. It tapped a slithering round form crossing the path.

“Boa,” Sam said.

Gabe shivered watching the rosy striped snake slip silently into the undergrowth. He’d never seen such creatures slithering on city sidewalks.

They were pushing their way through a dense jungle of vines and leaves. Brightly colored birds called out as they flew overhead. The trail was puddled with recent rain and the air smelled heavy and musty.

The women had gone shopping, the men were going fishing.

“How do you do it, Gramps?”

Sam turned back, “Do what?”

“Find your way through all of this without seeing.”

Sam chuckled, “But I do see, just not with my eyes. I see with this,” he said, holding up his cane. “It tells me what’s in front of me, and I see with my mind, memories of the world before I went blind.”

“Still, it must be hard,” Gabe said.

“It took some getting used to, but all my other parts work. If I couldn’t walk or talk or use my hands, now that would be difficult.”

Suddenly the canopy opened up and they were at the edge of the lagoon. A bridge of sorts, planks tied together and suspended with ropes, stretched to a bamboo shack raised on stilts above the water.

“Careful,” cautioned the blind man as he nimbly navigated across to the shack’s door. It took Gabe several steps to adjust to the bridge’s swaying motion, another new experience for a city boy.

They entered a single room, simply laid out, a cot, a small table and two chairs, a corner kitchen area, with windows opening out to the sparkling lake beyond.

“Walk the plank! Walk the plank!”

Gabe moved closer to see the big gray parrot perched on a pole inside the doorway to the deck.

“Swab the decks! Swab the decks!” commanded Captain Hook with a flap of his wings.

“Better feed the old boy,” Sam suggested, showing Gabe how to offer mango to the sharp beaked parrot without losing a finger.

“Shiver me timbers! Shiver me timbers!”

Leaving Hook to his snack, they picked up rods and a tackle box and descended a ramp to a float below the deck. Sam told Gabe where to load the gear in the flatboat tied alongside.

Gabe looked out. The clouds had flown off to the east and warm sun had burned off the morning haze. The world around them was alive with birds, floating, flying, singing, screeching, all colors, all kinds.

“Ever run an outboard motor?” Sam asked, then added, “No, likely not. Come here, I’ll show you how.”

With a few instructions, Gabe had the motor started and the boat headed out into the lagoon. Out in the center, Gabe killed the motor and Sam helped him bait his hook with live shrimp.

Then they waited.

Sam interrupted the quiet, “You hungry?”

“Sure, I’m famished.”

Sam reached into a cooler and handed Gabe a bag of Doritos. 

Gabe laughed, “Doritos? Mom definitely didn’t pack this lunch.”

“No,” Sam smiled. “Doritos are a fisherman’s best friend, throw a few of these bright orange treats onto the water and the fish come running. Wait, you’ll see.”

Gabe crunched into a chip and watched Sam toss a handful into the water.

After a moment, Gabe asked, “Do you miss her?”

Sam looked back at the young boy’s innocent face, “Miss her?”

“Do you miss Grandma?”

There was a long pause before the answer came.

“Every day…”

Another pause.

“All the time.”

“Got one, Gramps!” The young fisherman yelled as the tip of his pole bent towards the water.

***

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.




18


“Pump House Scam”

The headline shouted as the Zorros pedaled the streets hawking the latest Star edition.

The front page story told how big money and corrupt city officials had built a pump station that diverted water to the Palm Estates at the expense of the townspeople.

Chattering excitedly, the ladies in black gathered for their morning coffee klatch, marveling at the Star’s revelations.

Dona Consuelo folded her copy of the paper, thinking things were going to get much more interesting.

At another table, three pairs of eyes watched Mama G exit the kitchen.

Lazy, not one to miss a free lunch, had long ago figured out that this was more likely to happen at Mama G’s than sitting on the porch with the Bernie brothers. Those guys could be counted on for a beer and occasional pretzel, but that was about it.

Then Lazy noticed Sheriff Eddie always appeared at Mama’s around noon. He tagged along and discovered the sheriff didn’t mind the company and Mama didn’t mind an extra mouth to feed. With Mama’s approval, Arnold had also hopped on the gravy train.

“Here you go,” said the kindly cook, sliding a plate of fish tacos in front of Eddie. Stooping, she set two more plates of the same on the floor, ”disfruta chiquitos.”

The three hungry guys dove into their meals.

Straightening up, Gina put a hand on Eddie’s shoulder. She pointed at the Star headline on the table, “What are you going to do, Eduardo?”

Eddie paused mid bite. Besides his mother, Gina was the only person who ever called him Eduardo. He looked into the soft brown eyes that had loved him since elementary school.

He swallowed, shrugged, “I don’t know, Gina.”

She squeezed his arm and returned to the kitchen. He removed his old felt hat and scratched his head. Then the familiar black SUV drove by.

He sighed. Some problems weren’t going away.

But they could wait until after lunch.

***

The Red Rooster wasn’t known for its food, which was a partial explanation for why Tibo and Roddy had the place to themselves. The fact that Tibo was often in residence also thinned out the lunch crowd. Frank’s hulking presence nearby didn’t help things either.

Savoring a sumptuous last spoonful of marisco chowder, it occurred to Ricky that there was little in Puerto Cielo that was an improvement over the city, but he had to admit the seafood here was excellent.

He wiped his neat mustache with the cloth napkin, then studied the sullen man across from him. The mayor was fondling his long empty coffee cup. Roddy had not been invited to lunch.

The Star headline blared up from the table top.

“Seems you’ve been caught with your hand in the cookie jar, Roddy,” Tibo mocked.

“Me! I didn’t set this up. I’m not to blame.”

“But you’re the mayor, the man who’s supposed to keep these things from happening, and you certainly took your cut of the action.”

Roddy had no comeback.

***

In the center of City Park, a young mother watched her toddler splashing in the fountain as bronze porpoises leapt from the pool. Nearby, an old man shook out an empty bag of crumbs to a gathering of pigeons and walked away.

Seeking more food, a few of the beggars waddled towards a bench in the sun dappled shade of a orange flowering hibiscus tree. Sitting alone, face concealed by a broad brimmed straw hat, a lady in a long satin aquamarine dress poked at the advancing intruders with her closed parasol.

“Shoo you disgusting creatures!”

The well manicured white poodle at her feet barked menacingly, ensuring the message was clear.

The offenders lifted off to find friendlier company.

Waving down a girl on a passing bike, the lady was handed a newspaper.

Amused by the headline, she reached down to pet the dog.

“Well, Jasmine, it seems the mayor is in the hot seat. What else can we do to fan the flames?”

***

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.




17


The doors burst open and pandemonium spilled outside as students dashed from school. Gabe and Dante darted through the onslaught of kids to the bike rack. In seconds, Dante was pedaling them through honking horns and waiting cars. Minutes later, he shot through a hole in traffic and coasted into M&M Motors, greeting a short, round girl with pink hair pumping gas into a beater truck.

“Hola, Sarah!”

She waved, “Hola chicos.”

Dante skidded to a stop. Inside an open service bay, a crowd of kids on bicycles clamored around a girl sitting in front of a computer.

“Hey G2, what you got for me?” yelled a heavy boy with a bright blue Mohawk cut.

“Hang on,” she answered, pulling a page from a printer and handing it to Blue Boy. “Señor Hernandez needs his meds from the pharmacy. Do good!”

The Mohawk scanned the instructions, shoved them in a back pocket, and rode off, shouting, “Adios, amigos!”

More voices spoke up.

“G2, what about me?”

“And me?”

G2’s fingers danced over the keyboard. She was G2 because she had the same name as her mom, Gloria, the police department dispatcher. More pages flew from the printer and were handed out. Groceries and meals to deliver, dogs to walk, cleaning to do, help for the elderly and disabled in the community. Soon the throng around her was nearly gone.

“Mr. Gabriel Diaz, I’ve been expecting you.”

Gabe turned to see Mitch, hand extended, coming out from under a car raised on a lift.

They shook and Mitch smiled, “Your gramps left something here for you.”

With that, Mitch disappeared into a back room. He returned moments later rolling a bicycle which he parked in front of Gabe and said,

“This is yours.”

Gabe stared in wonder. Just like the bikes he’d seen the other kids riding, it had a basket in front, a rack on the back and a bright gold “Z” on both sides of the frame. Just like Dante’s.

Speechless, he caressed the handlebars, looked up and said, “Wow!” Adding after a pause, “Thank you.”

Mitch’s eyes twinkled. He said, “Thank Grandpa Sam. Now, G2’s got a job for you.” And he went back to work.

Dante grinned and said, “Welcome to the Zorros.”

***

That evening, with Arnold and his autographed cast perched in the front basket, Gabe was beaming as he pushed his new bike into the courtyard.

He announced, “Look what…”

At that instant, he saw Sam, freshly showered and shaved, sitting at the family table with Manny and Espy.

Gabe leaned his prize against a palm and rushed to hug Grandpa, exclaiming, “Wow! Gramps, this bike is so cool!”

The reunion was interrupted by Arnold’s frantic barking.

The panicked warrior was confronting a monster that looked ready to devour him.

Unperturbed by the dog’s frightened protests, Max raised up on his hind legs and flicked his forked tongue at the distraught creature.

Freaked, Arnold leapt out of the basket, saved from falling by Manny’s cradling arms.

Convinced there was no easy meal here, the monster meandered into the garden foliage with Arnold’s eyes watching every step.

“Don’t worry, Arnold, Max is vegetarian,” Manny comforted, adding, “mostly.”

The family focus changed when Lucy set a pot of posole on the table. As they scooped soup into bowls and covered it with fresh cilantro, cabbage, onions, radishes, avocado, and lime, Gabe told of his new friends, the Zorros.

“We all have the same cool bikes, with the gold  ‘Z’ on the frame, and we use them to help people. Dante and I took meat, cheese, and vegetables from the public market to Señora Gonzalez. She lives alone in an apartment on the edge of town.”

Sitting in the vacant chair beside the candlelit courtyard altar, the ghost smiled. Sophia’s family was together again.

***

The mood in a Palm Estates kitchen was quite different.

Ricky watched as Grandmother Fernanda put dinner plates on the table. He knew his wife’s mother would never forgive him for her daughter’s tragic death. Fernanda was here only to care for her granddaughter, Maria. In her mind, Ricky did not exist.

On the other side of the table, Maria, red faced, glared at him. Neither woman had said a word since he’d come home.

The quiet was amplified by Frank’s stoic presence sitting silent beside Ricky.

Then Maria went off, screaming, “I finally find a friend in this hick town and your goons throw a brick through the window of her family’s business!”

Tears spilling from her face, Maria stormed, “You’re a loser! Because of you I’ve lost the only friend I had in this hellhole.”

The silverware rattled as she banged the tabletop with her fists. Her wheelchair jerked around and she quit the room.

Staggered, heart broken, Ricky Ruiz sat stone faced. Maria was all he had left to live for.

His mother-in-law scowled at him, nothing but ice in her eyes.

The women in his house were at war.

And Ricky was their enemy.

Nearby, the ghost of the departed wife and mother stood and watched. A tear slid down her cheek.

***

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.




16


Returning from the market, Lucy passed the workmen replacing the window. Good, she thought, Espy must have taken care of that.

Entering the Star, Lucy heard Espy’s angry voice. The editor’s office door was closed.

“Where have you been? What kind of example are you setting for your grandchildren? What would Mom think of you running off to get drunk?”

Unshaven, rumpled, dejected, Sam sat in front of Espy with nothing to say. Sat in front of the desk that for years had been his, while his daughter fumed.

She threw her hands in the air, staring at her father in exasperation.

Then she saw the lost man in front of her. The man whose shoulders slouched, whose hair had gone white, whose sightless eyes were filled with tears.

She stood, slid around the desk, took the bottle of beer from his hand, and pulled him up and close.

Tears ran down both faces as they hugged.

“Dad, we need you.”

There was a tap on the door, then a cheerful voice.

“Coffee?”

Sam and Espy turned and smiled as Lucy entered with three steaming cups.

There was  work to do.

***

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.




15


It was a drenching drizzle, a dismal beginning to a gray day.

From the shelter of the 3 B’s porch, Arnold, his new leg cast already muddy, sat beside Lazy. The dogs watched two hooded figures trudge across the street headed to school. 

“Good morning boys!”

Main Street’s three guardian angels turned to see Espy wave as she left the Star office.

Three caps tipped.

A truck pulled up in the street behind Barbara and two men got out.

“Buenos dias, Señora,” said one, “we’re here to replace the broken window.”

“Great!” Espy answered. Lucy must have made a call, she thought, continuing down the sidewalk to Mama G’s and coffee with Carmen.

***

Plunking into potholes, Sheriff Eddie’s patrol car slowed as it approached City Hall. Peering through the rain splattered windshield cleared by hesitant wipers, he noticed two workmen repairing a broken window. He’d heard about the brick and he knew who was responsible.

He also knew he wouldn’t do anything about it.

The patrol car bumped down the street towards Beach Drive. Then Eddie saw a man poking his way around the corner at Mama G’s. The baseball cap and white cane were familiar.

Sam Diaz was back.

***

The stream of students split apart avoiding the angry girl confronting the surprised face in the wheelchair.

“Your dad is Tibo!” screamed the voice behind her.

Maria spun the wheelchair to find Manny glaring at her.

“Your dad is a gangster, a hoodlum, and his goons attacked me and my family,” Manny yelled, her angry face inches from Maria’s astonished eyes.

“We’re done!”

The former friend stomped away. watchful faces flowed by as the stunned girl suddenly slammed the arms of the wheelchair and exploded,

“NO!”

***

In the near empty Red Rooster, the thin man with the snarling smile and his pig eyed squat companion stood ready to be praised. After all, with a brick through the window, they’d shown that Diaz woman just who was running the town.

Sure, the tire slashing had been thwarted by the lucky toss of a beer bottle, but the point had been made.

You make trouble for us, we’ll make trouble for you.

Ivan and Gomez smiled at each other as Tibo slowly stood from his seat at the corner table.

With frightening ferocity, he slashed the now infamous brick across both men’s faces.

The pair crumpled to the floor, hands holding broken, bleeding noses.

“I-i-i-diots!” he raged down at them, dropped the brick, and exited the bar, shaking his head in frustration.

***

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.




14


Mama G’s was packed and bustling when Espy entered with her two kids. Suddenly conversations stopped. Then everyone sprang from their chairs, clapped and cheered. Carmen rushed up to greet them.

“Girl, you’re the talk of the town,” Carmen declared, hugging Espy. “Wow! You walked right into the Red Rooster and thumped Tibo’s table with a brick. This is the most excitement we’ve had around here since Louisa Sanchez caught her boyfriend two timing her at the Pink Pillow.”

“Pink Pillow?” asked Espy.

“The local whore house, “ laughed Carmen.

“Sweet Mother Mary, somebody finally stood up to that thug!”

Espy turned to see Mama G. Then Mama saw the little lump of fur looking up at her from Manny’s arms.

Arnold was back with the living, but his front leg was wrapped in a plaster cast. Mama couldn’t resist those sad brown eyes.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Mama cooed softly petting Arnold’s head. “Just wait, I’ve got something for you,” and she was off to the kitchen. Stopping in mid flight, she called back, “Come with me Gabriel, we can use your help tonight.”

Not used to hearing his full name, he hesitated, then the young draftee followed.

The women sat at an empty table. the air was alive with the din of daily happenings. Dante and Gabe appeared with salsa and chips, two cold beers, and a tamarindo for Manny.

“You’ve no idea what you’ve stepped into,” Carmen said as they sipped their drinks.

Espy looked at her friend, “I thought I was bringing my family home, to a small, safe, friendly town where we could put our lives back together. What happened here?”

Carmen shared the story of how Puerto Cielo, a sleepy beach community, had surrendered to a band of thugs who ruled through fear and intimidation.

“And the guy leading this gang is El Tiburon, the man I once knew as Ricky Ruiz?” Espy asked.

“Yes, things went downhill fast when Tibo came to town. How did you know him?”

Espy told the story of the interview she’d almost had, the ambush, the dead wife.

“Then Ricky Ruiz disappeared, fell off the map,” Espy said.

“Now you know where he went,” said Carmen, “he came here with his daughter, Maria, in a wheelchair.”

Manny perked up, “What’s that?”

“Ricky lives in a Palm Estates mansion with his daughter and mother-in-law,” Carmen replied.

“And the daughter’s name is Maria and she’s in a wheelchair?”

“Yes, she was paralyzed in the shooting,” replied Carmen, “a tragedy, she’s a beautiful girl.”

At this moment, Mama G appeared with Dante and Gabe, arms laden with steaming plates. the delicious smell of fragrant rice, beans, and carne asada enveloped the table.

Arnold wasted no time devouring the juicy chunks of grilled beef put in front of him.

But Manny had lost her appetite.

She was seething.

The father of the girl she’d just met at school had sent his hoods to attack the Star.

***

Swirling fog shrouded the night. Light spilled through the closed window walls onto the empty veranda. All the action was inside at Mama G’s, patrons enjoying the warmth and flavors of delicious food, drink, and spirited conversation.

A solitary figure emerged from the grey soup and slinked across the street. It hunched down beside Barbara’s lonely form. A knife glinted under a faint street lamp.

Kapow!

“Ow-w!”

The figure jumped up, rubbing its head, as a bottle shattered on the street.

Dazed, the would be slasher squinted into the darkness.

“Move it hombre, before you lose your manhood,” boomed a voice from the shadows.

The hooligan melted into the mist.

“Quite a shot for a blind man,” the voice said to itself. Then a laugh, “but the bottle bounced off the car before it hit the guy.”

A man moved into the light. He was wearing a baseball cap and using a white cane to navigate.

He chuckled as he passed and patted Barbara.“Sorry, old girl, let’s keep this small matter between us.”

He walked on, continuing the soliloquy, “Just another quiet night in Puerto Cielo. but, damn it, I only drank half that beer.”

He headed towards the shack, the silent ghost beside him.

“Oh, my dear Sophia, I so wish you were here,” he whispered into the empty hour.

But she was, the ghost sighed, she was always there.

***

On the far side of the lagoon, in a grand house that far outsized the needs of its four occupants, father, daughter, grandmother, and bodyguard sat around a small kitchen table.

The daughter eagerly shared the adventures of her first day at school. She’d made a new friend.

For the first time since coming to Puerto Cielo, Maria had hope. 

***

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.




13


What stood out was the stink. The grimacing reek of death, the foul accumulation of years of guts tossed from the fish processing pier. Though the ever squawking gulls inhaled most of the carnage, enough spilled up the beach to gift the neighborhood with a permanent stench.

Across the street from the beach no one walked on, a ghostly mist shrouded the flaming neon Red Rooster sign. A steady stream of featureless forms vanished into the bar’s shadows.

Inside, dim light and smokey haze hid years of spilled beer and broken dreams. At the bar, men nursed drink