They called him the El Conquistador because they said his family hailed from the Sea of Cortéz and he had Aztec in him. Or no, wait, it was that his ancestry could be traced back to Hernan Cortéz? No, that wouldn't make sense, Cortéz was a Spaniard, it’d make more sense if his nickname would be the El Spaniard, and not the El Con- - well, no, that moniker would still fit?
Not important.
We met Connie at some cookhouse me and Loomis were hold-up in. We were the in-house sommeliers, checking the potency, made sure what they were selling was quality product.
We had our stupid faces on, spoon still hot from the cook. I cant remember if he had to crouch to avoid hitting his head. Either way he was the biggest man I had ever seen
The cigarette that clung to my lip fell and ruined my jeans along with the upholstery of the couch. Me and Loomis would later have trouble recalling our first introduction to Connie. We both had different tellings when it came to that interaction, but what we did agree on was that we were stoned.
He had hieroglyphs of Aztec, maybe Mayan, folklores, heroes, and calendars, all over his body. Beautiful pieces of art, painted on the most frightening canvas.
We would ask him, after he befriended us, what his tattoos meant. He would tell us that we wouldn't understand, or that because we were gueros, by telling us, he would dishonor his forefathers.
But he always made sure that he wasn't trying to offend us, asked us not to take it personal, it was just that he had a code. Then he’d throw us some loot so we could score.
He did explain one of his tattoos. Said it’s well documented. Something anyone could research. It was of this hombre named Tecum Umam. It was on his neck. The tattoo. A Herculean Mayan bruiser.
Or was he Aztec?
Con said that when Spain began their campaign to steal Central and South America, an army was formed by the native peoples of those lands. They were lead by the guy on Connie’s neck. Legend goes: Tecum Umam killed dozens of Spanish foot soldiers in an ensuing battle. Tecum Umam killed his way till he got to the general of that Spanish battalion.
The general was on horseback and both him and his stead were in full matching regalia and armor. The general attacked Tecum Umam. He was no match for the seasoned warrior. Tecum Umam, he took his spear and rammed it into the exposed area of the horse’s throat. The horse and general fell to the ground.
This Tecum Umam guy, still untouched, believed the horse and the general were one creature, and not two separate entities. The Americas didn't have horses before the Europeans showed up. There were no stallions, stags, or mares. Not even a gelding. Unfortunately, Tecum Umam didn't realize that the general was still alive, and was stabbed by him in the back. He bled out and died right there.
Or something like that.
- - - -
But he was a lovely man, physical size-misgivings and frightening disposition, aside.
El Conquistador.
His passions were in the finer things. Turkish tapestries. Anything black truffle or from Burgundy, France. His favorite architect was Frank Lloyd Wright. To which who he had many opinions about. While he did love Wright’s more recognized work, such as Fallingwater and Unity Temple in Oak Park, what really spoke to him were the ones not so remembered. His absolute favorite was Wright’s estate, Taliesin in Spring Green. Not the bullshit one in, Scottsdale. There was much tragedy there he said. A great dying took place there he said, in his kind of good English, never going into the details.
I couldn't tell why he took a shine to us, but you don’t question someone the size of him.
The El Conquistador had been sent from out West. Or maybe it was South West? I heard him use the words sin aloha on numerous occasions when describing where he grew up. This added to the perplexing whereabouts of Connie’s origins. Samoan, Mexican, it didn't matter. We were his dudes.
- - - -
He didn't sell.
Wasn't in the distribution game.
Loomis postulated that he was some sort of enforcer. Started as muscle for one of the cartels, kept bossing up after entering the life. Loom conjured up this story that Con was sent East to be an anchor, a foot hold, secure proper channels in order for a takeover of the entire East Coast.
But what the fuck did we know.
We didn't really give a shit about any of that.
I mean, he was always great to us.
Really,
Just the epitome of a gentleman.
This one time he invited us over to his apartment, in this rundown building on the other side of town. Even for us, it was suspect to venture there when the sun went down. When we got to his place, which he had us chauffeured to, he opened the door, but we kind of looked past him, into the duplex. He was living as a Sultan from one of those countries that have sultans, but in the slums.
Wall to wall aquariums.
Gold fixtures,
Platinum sconces,
A piece of modern art, so he told us, hanging above the toilet.
He greeted us in shorts, a hockey jersey, and slippers with socks on. And he was genuinely happy to see me and Lester. His butler took our coats, handed them to another attendant, who disappeared for the rest of the night until we needed our coats back.
The night began with a board of charcuterie with all the fixins’. Garlic pickled cherries, cured meats, shallot jam, whole grain mustards, freshly warm sliced baguettes, olives, and unpasteurized French cheeses that tasted as criminal as all our nocturnal activities.
Then came the amuse-bouche which consisted of wagyu ribeye tartar, with a quail egg yolk served on a spoon. It was a prep for the delicacies coming our way.
What proceeded were food courses meant for 18th century European Royalties and Aristocrats. His chef prepared for us a tasting menu of Connie’s choosing.
It consisted of a foie gras three ways on bite sized croissant crostini’s and blistered tomatoes.
A dish featuring duck confit with sour-orange rind preserves.
Fresh made fettuccini served with a sea urchin,
Excuse me,
Uni, ragù,
Served over a bed of crispy fried parsnip strips.
I couldn't remember all the other courses, just that they were paired with the finest Napa Valley wines.
He served this Martha’s Vineyard Cabernet, 97’, which Con said was: a good year, that left everyone emotional.
And to tie everything together, the dessert was a super-sweet corn gelato, with a light dusting of bottarga powder.
Grappa or Port as the digestif.
We had no right eating like that.
None.
Two junkies, who didn't necessarily have a home, had no business with that sort of palatable perfection. But Con thought we deserved it. Thought of us as good people. And he never asked for anything in return. No reciprocity needed. He really just enjoyed our company.
Fuck all if I knew why.
The saddest part of that night was when me and Loomis got home, when we shot up, then puked every morsel, every ounce, speck of salted meat, refined wine, and felonious cheeses we inhaled hours earlier.
The thing was that I was sure that the El Conquistador knew this would happen, but he wanted us to enjoy it anyway.
Really, just an all around great guy.
- - - -
There was this one night that was kind of fucked, though.
Me and Lester were driving around with Connie, coming down, when he got a call on his burner. We didn’t know what the voice on the other end of the phone said, and I couldn't be bothered with seatbelts, but the call had set Con off.
He busted a hard U.
I went flying across the back-bench seating of his minted gasoline guzzling Monte Carlo. He apologized for the detour, I couldn’t remember where we were going to begin with, and assured us his business would only take a few minutes.
Loomis had that look in his eye. We hadn't dosed since earlier in the day. From the front seat, looking in the rear view mirror, Loo flashes me the sign that means we needed to score.
Hey Con, I think we need to skate. My fix is on the way and we don’t want to blow up your shit.
El Conquistador had slyly been loading slugs into barrels, and checking the sharpness of knives hidden on his body. With a Buddhist nonchalance, Connie took out this chode of a joint. Its circumference, topped by its eerie and perfect thickness and length, could be used to calibrate astronomy equipment. He explained to us that it’s his own mescla, and that it was meant to keep things at bay.
We had no idea what he was saying, but looked at each other, the situation, things, and pieced together that this joint was meant to keep us quiet.
Loomis took the chode, which we later understood was laced with PCP, and began lighting it. Con was slapping magazines into place and making sure the piece wouldn't jam in the event of extended firing, muttered something about counting each bullet fired, to know when he was about to be out, and reminded himself that barrels warp from extreme heat.
I don't speak Spanish, so I’m paraphrasing.
Loomis was pulling hard on the joint, still trying to light it. He went wide-eyed with every rhythmic toke in. He finally got it going, took a deep drag.
Release.
Hit it again.
Goes for one more and you could hear his lungs burning.
Am I gonna be able to- - can I hit that, or what?
I toke, try to inhale, then take another drag.
The smoke is battery acid, and I desperately try to cough it out, as the capillaries in my eyes burst with each heave of my diaphragm.
- - - -
The hallucinations happened immediately. I started to hear my grandmother tell me to stay away from him, went on to say that he was the harbinger of death, that, where he went, dying followed.
Who?
El Conquistador.
My grandmother had been dead for ten years.
And I tried to reason with her, explaining that Connie had made the most magnificent soufflé a fortnight ago, but she wasn’t having any of it.
We pulled up to the cookhouse where we met Con. That first night. How I knew this I don't know, but the place seemed different now. It could’ve been some sort forced-perspective trick, or the drugs, or gravitational lensing, but the house was alive. It breathed, flexed up then down. Expanded then contracted, and the sky behind it went from black to crimson, then back to black.
I turned to Lester, wanted to see if it was just me?
Loomis, apparently feeling the drugs as I was, was having a dialogue with I don’t know who, about the whole is-a-tomato-a-fruit debate.
SO WHAT IF IT HAS FUCKING SEEDS! He points to the nothing in front of him.
Con was in the zone.
Focused.
He told us panda hoes to stay put. That if we ventured into the house, we’d get got.
No- - shot. Or was it stabbed?
Connie popped the trunk, grabbed something I couldn't see what. He was walking in slow mo toward the house, every step he took weighed a thousand pounds, crushing the concrete under his feet. He knocked, then disappeared into the gapping black of the door.
Loomis had gotten out of the car, presenting his case to the jury, facing the house across the street, giving me the asshole,
DON’T YOU START WITH THAT CUCUMBER SHIT! becoming more staunch with each escalation of his argument.
There was a series of loud pocks emanating from with in the house. Some were softer than the others, depending on the screams and pleas that came before it. Shadows began escaping the house. At first it was through the doors and windows that hadn't been bordered up. I saw a few crawl out second story windows and even a few that got on the roof and leapt into a starless sky, never to be seen again.
I got out of the car, thinking that some fresh air might do me some good.
I turned to Loomis, see how he was doing.
- -FURTHER MORE!
The chaos going on in the house had slightly hushed. One side of the house was in flames. The smell of summertime barbecues was in the air which, I must admit, made me a bit hungry, but curios as it was the dead of winter.
I hear Loomis behind me,
In closing- -
The rest of the house caught fire, which quickly became an inferno. I didn't hear any sirens, nor see any flashing lights. Everything around me glowed orange, and the heat was pleasant against the cold of the night.
El Conquistador stepped out of the fire, walked right through the front door, like he only went in to use the bathroom.
He was draped in red, his skin was red, devil red. He had horns, ram horns that went up and curled toward the back of his head. Flames cascaded off his shoulders like falling water. He was breathing fire. God help me, he was breathing fire.
And the only thing I could think, outside of my appetite still being there, was: Man, this is some really good shit.
I was looking at him, mind deep, deep into a high that I had not anticipated, and remembered that I hadn't used the spa day Connie gave me for Christmas last year. Wondered if the gift certificate had expired?
Connie returned to his human form the closer he got to me. He got back in the car, told me to corral Loomis, who was now crying. He lost the case.
I looked back at the house, shoving Loomis into the back seat, saw it explode, the cookhouse, from the lab inside.
It was actually kind of beautiful.
The intensity of the heat.
Ears ringing.
The acrid taste of crushed asprin.
Colors you’d only ever see in a chemical fire.
The smell of burning wood and charred hotdogs.
It reminded me of childhood campfires on a macro scale.
Connie turned to me as he was starting his car, before we fled the scene, asked if we were hungry?
Said: let’s get some tacos.
