If you recall, my government had asked me to use my Witness Protection Program undercover skills and infiltrate a domestic gang with terrorist aspirations. This amazingly true and vivid encounter continues...
"I am Julio Lugo, shortstop, Tampa Bay Devil Rays."
"Say it again."
"I am Julio Lugo, shortstop, Tampa Bay Devil Rays."
"Say it again."
"I am..."
We'd been doing this for hours, and I was exhausted. But Julio pushed me to keep going, to keep practicing his timbre, his nuances, his inflexions. He was a great teacher.
By now, my charm had completely won over Julio Lugo, then shortstop of the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. He suffered from a terrible case of Stockholm Syndrome, a psychological response sometimes seen in an abducted hostage, in which the hostage shows signs of loyalty to the hostage-taker, regardless of the danger (or at least risk) in which the hostage has been placed. I was giddy with how my skills at causing this response were still in top form (a shout out to a certain bank manager and his staff in Paris, Texas should be included right about now). Julio Lugo proved his mettle by preparing French Toast for me one morning. It was over that meal that I told him I would be leaving for a while and he'd have to get along without me for a while. He wept as I chained his ankle to the steel radiator in the rear of the room at the back of the house. "Don't worry," I said, "I'll be fine. Keep an eye on your rations and pray the battery doesn't die on the TV remote." He said he'd be strong for me. I nodded and looked away. His breath smelled of rancid maple syrup.
My FBI fella had told me where I could find a member of the would-be terrorist gang, whom we'll dub the CHiPs (after my second favorite Erik Estrada soap opera). His name was X-Lax and he worked a corner over by the Potsdam section of Corning, NY.
"You X-Lax?" I said, coming upon him like a dog would upon a strange scent in the grass.
X-Lax looked at me like he knew me. He did, but only from TV. "You're Julio Lugo," he said, a little spit accidentally striking me under my right eye. I gently rubbed.
"Si," I said. "I'm Julio Lugo, shortstop, Tampa Bay Devil Rays." My first test. I had the look. But could I do the sound?
"Sup?"
Yes, I could. "Is off season. Looking for an outlet for my energy. Ju guys have any openings?"
X-Lax smiled. He'd just had his lower molars removed and he liked to show off his orthodontist's work, so he smiled frequently. "Your timing's good. We just gonna put something up on Craig's List."
"Soy tu hombre," I said without making eye contact.
"You mean 'ombre. You tryin' to be funny, pronouncing the H?"
I obviously needed to concentrate harder. "Si."
"Come on with me," X-Lax said, smiling. "I'll take you to some people." I wiped some spittle off my forehead and followed.
We drove for more than two hours. X-Lax didn't say much, and I certainly wasn't going to stick my foot in my mouth again voluntarily. So our early-autumn journey was one mostly of silence, aside from the hum of the highway underneath the chains (a careful driver, X-Lax kept chains on his tires year round "just in case"). Occasionally, X-Lax would turn to me and pose an innocuous question like, "You know the Tampa Bay Devil Rays suck, right, Julio Lugo?" I'd nod my head and sigh, letting my body answer the question so my oration wouldn't have to. "You should be one a dose free agent guys. Go to a team dat's good." Nod, sigh, wipe spit off my chin. "Team sucks with you, they can suck without you." He never stopped smiling.
"Yo!" A tall, skinny, bespectacled man, who looked more Apache than Puerto Rican or African-American, looked at X-Lax with a menacing glare. Clearly, we had come at the wrong time. Steam filled the air. The mirror was fogged up. The man removed his shower cap and replaced it with a baseball cap - Montreal Expos. "You caught me with my pants down." X-Lax handed the man a towel. He dried off his glasses first. "I"m Sancho Panza. Sorry I don' have no Devil Rays hat."
I shrugged.
"Julio Lugo don' wanna talk too much," X-Lax said.
I laughed as Sancho wiped the spit off of his glasses. X-Lax looked at me. I silently wished for a large window pane to separate the two of us. "Know why they call him Sancho Panza?" I shrugged again, eager to find out but not wanted to give myself away, and brushed away the damp touch of moisture that had landed onto my lower lip.
"Don Quixote was crazy," Sancho said. "Sancho Panza wasn't." He pulled on a pair of MC Hammer-style big pants. They had splashes of yellow, black and red swirling about. Terrible. "Like my pants?"
"Si," I said, hoping to God I hadn't said "C" or "See."
"We cool," Sancho said.
X-Lax nodded, smiled, and said, "Sancho hook you up, Julio Lugo. He knows people in da CHiPs, you know?"
X and Sancho high-fived before X-Lax left. I felt a little uncomfortable alone with Sancho Panza. It was a small bathroom.
"What chu wanna do?" Sancho said to me. He'd begun to shave his armpits without any shaving cream.
"Get to da top," I said. I needed to find out where Sancho Panza stood in the CHiPs hierarchy, and I needed to do it quickly. I'd only given the real Julio Lugo enough packets of Instant Quaker Oats (apple & cinnamon flavor) and prune juice to last two days. In other words, I now had less than 48 hours to get back before his Depends (athletic fit) became uncomfortable.
Sancho pulled the razor horizontally, cutting himself. He was a dyslexic shaver. "I get you there. Now a good time?"
Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting alone in the middle of an empty swimming pool, shallow end, when I met with the King Fish, the Grand Dragon, the Pizzeria Uno.
Only there was one problem - I already knew who he was. And he knew me. I was going to have to dig deep into my bag of tricks to make this all work out.
You see, the man sitting down across from me was my brother.
Coming Soon: Hopefully, I get to the sex scene.
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