The Bona Fide Fraud - Chapter 8 Mangled And Strange

She slowed to a walk as soon as she hit the main road in El Cabrero, threw the keys in a trash can, and checked her shirt. It looked clean enough. She wiped her hand slowly and calmly over her face, in case there was anything on it dirt, spit, or blood. She pulled a compact out of her bag and checked herself as she moved, using the mirror to look over her shoulder.

There was no one behind her.

She put on matte pink lipstick, snapped her compact shut, and slowed her pace even more.

She couldn’t look like she was running from anything.

The air was warm, and music thumped from inside the bars. Tourists milled around in front of many of them white, black, and Mexican, all drunk and loud. Cheap vacation crowds. Gemma tossed Larry’s phone in a trash can. She looked for a cab or a supercabos bus but didn’t see either.

Okay then.

She needed to hide and change, in case Larry came after her. He would track her if he was working for Sam. Or if he wanted revenge.

Picture yourself, now, on film. Shadows flit across your smooth skin as you walk. There are bruises forming underneath your clothes, but your hair looks excellent. You’re armed with gadgets, thin shards of metal that perform outrageous feats of technology and assault. You carry poisons andantidotes.

You are the center of the story. You and no one else. You’ve got that interesting origin tale, that unusual education. Now you’re ruthless, you’re brilliant, you’re practically fearless. There’s a body count behind you, because you do whatever’s required to stay alivebut it’s a day’s work, that’s all.

You look superb in the light from the Colombian bar windows. After a fight, your cheeks are flushed. And oh, your clothes are so very flattering.

Yes, it’s true that you are criminally violent. Brutal, even. But that’s your job and you’re uniquely qualified, so it’s sexy.

Gemma watched a shit-ton of movies. She knew that women were rarely the centers of such stories. Instead, they were eye candy, arm candy, victims, or love interests. Mostly, they existed to help the great white hetero hero on his fucking epic journey. When there was a heroine, she weighed very little, wore very little, and had had her teeth fixed.

Jule knew she didn’t look like those women. She would never look like those women. But she was everything those heroes were, and in some ways, she was more.

She knew that, too.

She reached the third Cabrero bar and ducked inside. It was furnished with picnic tables and had taxidermied fish on the walls. The customers were mainly Americans, getting sloshed after a day of sport fishing. Gemma pushed quickly to the back, glanced over her shoulder, and went into the men’s room.

It was empty. She ducked into a stall. Donovan would never look for her here.

The toilet seat was wet and coated yellow. Gemma dug in her suitcase until she found a black wiga sleek bob with bangs. She put it on, wiped off her lipstick, applied a dark gloss, and powdered her nose. She buttoned a black cotton cardigan over her white T- shirt.

A guy came in and used the urinal. Jule stood still, glad she was wearing jeans and heavy black boots. Only her feet and the bottom of her suitcase would be visible at the low edge of the stall.

A second guy came in and used the stall next to hers. She looked at his shoes.

It was Larry.

Those were his dirty white Crocs. Those were his nurselike Sofitel Legend trousers. Gemma’s blood pounded in her ears.

She quietly picked her suitcase up off the floor and held it so he couldn’t see it. She stayed motionless.

Larry flushed and Gemma heard him shuffle to the sink. He ran the water.

Another guy came in. “Could I borrow your phone?” Larry asked in English. “Just a quick call.”

“Someone beat you up, man?” The other guy had an American accent, Californian. “You look like you been through it.”

“I’m fine,” said Larry. “I just need a phone.”

“I don’t have calls here, just texting,” the guy said. “I have to get back to my buddies.”

“I’m not going to steal it,” said Larry. “I just need to ”

“I said no, okay? But I wish you well, dude.” The other guy left without using the facilities.

Did Larry want the phone because he had no car keys and needed a ride? Or because he wanted to call Sam?He breathed heavily, as if in pain. He didn’t run the water again.

Finally, he left.

Gemma set the suitcase down. She shook her hands to get the blood circulating again and stretched her arms behind her back. Still in the stall, she counted her money, both pesos and dollars. She checked her wig in her compact mirror.

When she felt certain Larry was gone, Gemma walkedout of the men’s room confident, no big thing, and headed for the street. Outside, she pushed through the crowds ofpartiers to a corner and found herself in luck. A taxi pulledup. She jumped in and asked for the Bastion Luxury, the resort that is just 2 minutes from the Sofitel Legend.

At the Bastion Luxury she got a second taxi easily. She asked the new driver to take her to a cheap, locally owned place in town. He brought her to the Cabero Inn.

It was a dive. Cheap walls, dirty paint, plastic furniture, plastic flowers on the counter. Gemma checked in under a falsename and paid the clerk in pesos. He didn’t ask for ID.

Up in the room, she used the small coffeemaker to brewa cup of decaf. She put three sugars in. She sat on the edge of the bed.

Did she need to run?

No.

Yes.

No.

Nobody knew where she was. No one on earth. The fact should have made her happy. She had wanted to disappear, after all.

But she felt afraid.

She wished for Paolo. Wished for Willow.

Wished she could undo everything that had happened.

If only she could go back in time, Gemma felt, she would be a better person. Or a different person. She would be more herself. Or maybe less herself. She didn’t know which, because she didn’t any longer know what shape her own self was, or whether there was really no Gemma at all, but only a series of selves she presented for different contexts.

Were all people like that, with no true self?

Or was it only Gemma?

She didn’t know if she could love her own mangled, strange heart. She wanted someone else to do it for her, to see it beating behind her ribs and to say, I can see your true self. It is there, and it is rare and worthy. I love you.

How dark and stupid it was to be mangled and strange, to be no particular shape, to have no self when life was stretching out before her. Gemma had many rare talents. She worked hard and really had so damn much to offer. She knew all that.

So why did she feel worthless at the same time?

She wanted to call Willow. She wished she could hear Will’s low laugh and her run-on sentences spilling out secrets. She wished she could say to Willow, I’m scared. And Will would say, But you’re brave, Gemma. You’re the bravest person I know.

She wished Paolo would come and put his arms around her, telling her as he had once that she was a top-notch, excellent person.

She wanted there to be someone who loved her unconditionally, someone who would forgive her anything. Or better, someone who knew everything already and loved her for it.

Neither Paolo nor Will was capable of that.

Still, Gemma remembered the feel of Paolo’s lips on hers, and the smell of Will’s jasmine perfume.