Passion Play Read Free Page B

his thumb; no longer firm, they shifted slightly, almost imperceptibly. One day, without warning, when he collided at polo with another rider or was unseated by him, they might simply fall out. He kept a log of the steady remolding of his face, particularly when fatigue set in, the folds in the eyelids thickening, the overpliant chin sagging with flesh.
    At such moments, Fabian saw his spirit as remote from his body. His attempts at mechanical perfection, his horsemanship, his polo, were acts of violence committed by the spirit against an unwilling, submissive body. But now, his body, once only the expression of his spirit, had become a form for aging, nature’s own expression.
    Like any other creation, he was also to be changed according to nature’s own timetable; like a ruin, any ruin whose walls crumbled away from life, he might be the setting for a striking drama.
    Fabian was about to enter his VanHome when a middle-aged man came up to him briskly, one arm raised in salute. He was Hispanic, lithe and wiry. A sweeping hat, its brim cocked at an extravagant angle, crowned his eager, vigilant eyes as he read the Sign INTERSTATE WILDLIFE CRUISER .
    “Hey, wildlife man,” the man called out jauntily, “you need a farmhand? Body servant? Wet nurse? Meat for the lions? Anyone, or anything?”
    “What if I do?” Fabian replied. “Are you, sir, meat for my lion?”
    The man’s hand shot out. “I’m Rubens Batista, once of Santiago de Cuba, now of these here freedom-loving United States.” Fabian took the hand, its fingers a riot of ornate rings.
    “That’s some fancy rig, Mr. Wildlife,” Batista said, surveying the VanHome with admiration. “Never seen anything like it. A real palace on wheels,” he declared, stroking the VanHome’s aluminum siding.
    “I’m glad you like it,” Fabian said.
    “So am I. And those mustangs in there must sure like it.”
    “How do you know about my horses?”
    “I heard them horsing around inside. And I smelled them.”
    “Smelled them?”
    “I smell a lot of things.”
    “What else do you smell, Mr. Batista?”
    “I smell a rich
caballero
, all alone in his big bed on wheels, who might be able to take advantage of my services.” Batista jogged in place as if about to dance. “Those I horse around with call me Latin Hustle.”
    “Latin Hustle?”
    “The fastest footwork you’ll ever see, Mr. Wildlife.”
    “And where can I see your footwork, Mr. Batista?”
    At once, Latin Hustle was all business. “At a place, where you can find yourself some household help.”
    “What kind of help?”
    “A man, a woman, even a whole family. People from voodoo land,” he said, “just fresh from Haiti, just aching to work for you here.”
    “And you’re hired to get that work for them?”
    “I am. By people who brought these voodoos here,” Latin Hustle explained. “I take a finder’s fee, of course!” His teeth gleamed.
    “Why can’t these Haitians get a job by themselves?”
    “The voodoos can’t get anything by themselves. They don’t speak English, Mr. Wildlife. They’re not-” he paused-“strictly legal. Strictly speaking, they’re illegal aliens,” he announced briskly. “And there is no way back for them, no way. Get it?”
    “I get it. I was once an alien myself,” Fabian said. “Where are these people—and where’s the sale?”
    “A couple of miles away. A different place each time a new shipload comes in, on the fishing boats, by way of Florida. That’s two or three times a month, if the sea cooperates.”
    “Let’s go,” Fabian said.
    “At your service, Mr. Wildlife. Just follow me.” Latin Hustle tipped his hat rakishly to Fabian. He swaggered across the street to where a silver Buick Wildcat was parked, then slipped behind the wheel. Fabian climbed into his VanHome and waved that he was ready.
    With Latin Hustle in the lead, he picked his way first through the city’s dense and rushing heart, frantic with business, then swept by rows of