A year later to the day that Big Tom Tunney was murdered in the parking lot of The Pink Flamingo Hotel, Ricardo was lighting up a Cuban cigar as he fiddled with the rabbit ears on a portable Zenith television in the main office.
"Hey, champ," he called to me as I was heading to the Corner Pocket to begin my nightly shift, "c'mere!"
I hesitated for a moment, considered pretending not to hear him, but decided I had some time to kill, so I shuffled into the reception area. "What's up?" I asked.
"What's up? Geez, never see you anymore. Where ya been hiding?"
I smirked as I watched the midget try to singe a bothersome gnat with the lit end of his cigar.
"Not hiding," I returned. "Not hiding at all."
"Ya know what day it is?" Ricardo buzzed with more than his usual bubbly enthusiasm.
"Sure," I said blankly. "It's Sunday. Should be a quiet night."
"Naaa," the midget bleated with a note of scorn.
"OK," I offered, "what's so special about tonight?"
"Special? Hey, this is the one year anniversary of Independence Day."
"Oh, you mean ..."
"Damn rights," the little guy chortled, as he pulled two Stroh's beers from a small fridge behind the counter. "Here," he insisted, "have a beer and a Cuban, courtesy of Consuela. We'll have a little celebration."
"I have to work, Ric, I have a job to do, and so do you."
"Oh screw that. Ain't no Holly here now. Bitch is upstate playing patty-pussy with the other slugs in the big house. So, c'mon. Let's sit outside and shoot the shit for a bit."
I looked down on the bustling night manager, and yes, I did remember that this was the night Holly Krakowski was arrested and summarily charged with 13 separate murders, all truckers who had frequented The Pink Flamingo. With Lucy waiting in the wings to testify, she took a quick plea deal on the Tom Tunney count to avoid the death penalty and was serving a life sentence. She'd never see the light of freedom again.
Ricardo lifted himself into a Bellaire metal lawn chair outside the office door and motioned to me to sit beside him.
"So," he began in his unceremonious way, "youse miss 'er don'ya?"
"Sometimes," I suggested.
"Naaa, youse miss 'er ev'ry day, I reckon."
"Well, there's not a hell of a lot I can do, Ric. They put her in Witness Protection for a reason."
"Oh, lordy, yesss, that they did. She'd be swimming with the 'gators by now if they hadn't."
I took a pull of my beer. It was cold and refreshing, and despite the cloud of cigar smoke billowing around my head, I felt a certain clarity in the night air. I leaned my head back and relaxed.
Ricardo caught the sight line of my glance, and suddenly screamed, "Oh shit, I done forgot."
He bustled out of his chair and into the office.
"C'mere," he commanded. "C'mere ya rat's bastard and see this."
I stretched my legs and stood up. Then I stepped into the office to see Ricardo slapping at the side of his television set.
"What in the hell are you doing, Ric?"
"Shut yer pie hole," the little man shouted. "Shut yer goddamn pie hole, would ya? Look at this!"
There on the screen was the Apollo 11 gracefully descending to the surface of the moon. A voice finally crackled out of the Zenith and into the smoky room, "Houston, uh, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed."
Ricardo let out a whoop so loud that it almost spilt my eardrums. I watched his excitement, and I envied his gung-ho pride and patriotism. I left him dancing around the counter, his war whoops growing louder and louder, and I stepped out into the night air again. I looked up at the moon, still so stark on even such a historical night, and I wondered if maybe Lucy, wherever she might be, was looking at that same moon at just that same moment.
Then my eyes drifted to the stars, and I felt a wave of reassurance wash over me as my eyes focused on the brightest starry diamond in the sky. Lucy was like that star, my one true love, distant and unreachable, but still out there somewhere, shining as brightly as ever.
Elton John ♫ Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds
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