Jason Among the Nightingales

The wind smote him like the slap of familiar snow in Minnesota, but now he was in Guadalupe, or at least he remembered as much. He had come in search of art, and capital. His brain buzzed with a dozen margaritas, but his Versace was streaked with an incongruous purple. His fingers traced the bricks in the alley street as he staggered up. His contacts had dried to a glint overnight. Equilibrium was never his strong suite.

When his call center relocated to Guadalupe, he followed. For forty cents, he could employ an army. He recalled vaguely hearing, "Muchos trabajo, un poco dinero," and this became his siren call. He was off, in search of art, and capital.

His ring and Rolex were missing. His hand was cut.

His first thought was to call his lawyer, and then he remembered.

Hidalgo had debated him at the bar last night. "Secular humanism is merely the logical extension of abstract empiricism," Hidalgo said. "You gringos are the modern heretics, inheritors of the Gnostic dialectic. You are spirits above the dust, only you are dead."

This was more than Jason could take. His call center was failing. This was not in the framework. He had discovered, ruefully, that their sense of time was off. Even their breakfast was in the evening. And the Nightingales were disappearing, endangering the enterprise.

The Nightingales were the chicas who arrived at 4 a.m., abandoning children and families for twelve hours to don headsets and repeat, "Thank you for calling Westway; how may I help you?" He even employed readers, as in the traditional cigar factories, who read Hemingway to the crew during smoke breaks.

Hidalgo grinned and awaited his reposte. Even in the darkness Jason could discern his Asiatic features, his farmer's hands engulfing the beer mug, and he knew that there would be no synthesis.

Rumors were that the Nightingales were abducted near the tracks and buried in the river. The investigations died, like his last argument, where the water lapped the sagebrush.