Keys of Babylon by Robert Minhinnick

p.m. Maria walks into room 42. Larry is sitting in his armchair, head down. Someone has put the Rocky Point DVD on for him, but there’s no one else there. ‘The Breeze and I’ is playing, his waste bin overflowing again.
    Hey Larry, she says. You didn’t eat lunch.
    He looks up and scowls. Then he smiles.
    That crap? It’s invalid food. What about a steak one time?
    Well Larry, you know we don’t run to steaks. You’re trying to bankrupt the organisation. And have you really got the teeth for it?
    That’s my problem, not yours. Just a steak one time. Porterhouse, like we used to eat. Hanging both sides off the plate.
    And gravy?
    Sure gravy. Why not gravy? With red wine in it and a glass of red wine. French wine. Fancy. And Bohemian crystal. On a white tablecloth. Yeah, that’s Bo-hem-ian.
    How Larry loves that word in his mouth. Its smooth jewel. He licks his chops.
    Maria sits down. You know I used to work in the kitchen and I can’t remember us ever serving steak.
    Larry’s son is on the TV screen holding Mickey’s tequila. He’s giving the bottles to the people on the next table. A barechested young man with military tattoos, a girl in a bikini top, her hair wet and pulled back.
    Now those two look like they’re enjoying themselves, says Maria.
    Sheesh, sneers Larry. Get a load of the jugs on that.
    Hey mister, she laughs. You’re the lively one today. I think we might take a walk.
    A colleague helps her hoist the old man into his wheelchair and they go down the cool corridor. Larry has his ballcap and dark glasses, but when Maria taps in the code and the door opens, he recoils. The air is a hotplate.
    A concrete path with passing bays has been built around the Sunset. There’s no meat on the old man, but it’s an effort to push him up the incline towards a cottonwood and a bench of recycled plastic. On the bench is a plaque that says ‘to Ben & Martha, who loved this place’. She parks Larry and sits down.
    So, Maria says. Rocky Point.
    Larry shrugs. Surprised they went, he says. That’s some drive you know. Through the National Monument.
    Oh I know, she says. It’s a long way to Puerto Penasco. Or Rocky Point as you call it.
    I was down there one time, says Larry, looking up at last.
    Around them the low hills are studded with iron-pointed cholla. There’s a Chevron gas station sign next to the road.
    We stayed in this hotel. They claim it was where Al Capone used to hang out, trying to smuggle booze and guns north. Alphonse Capone. Died of the clap.
    With Maria’s help the old man sits back and lets the sun do its job. Soon it will be too fierce but now it is balm and benediction. She looks at him. Old tortoise in fashionable Ray-Bans, his red Cardinals cap too big.
    Hey, he says. What’s that smell?
    Maria looks around. It’s fresh air, she laughs. Good Arizona air. You’re just not used to it.
    Larry’s paralysed down one side. He used to give the staff hell but soon realised where the power lay. She’s had to promise Chernowski that the night nurses take his father’s mobile away. Before that he would ring at all hours, describing his nightmares. Recently they’ve started giving him an 8 p.m. Temazapan that sends him off till morning.
    Now, Larry, says Maria at last. I’m going to break my pledge. My pledge with myself. I’m going to tell you my story.
    Behind his shades she cannot tell if the old man is listening. Sometimes he’s spot on, talking about Obama or the gangs in Phoenix. Sometimes he’s drifted right away.
    We came north, she says. Out of the desert. We stood on a hill and could see Rocky Point. See Puerto Penasco glittering in the distance. Right then, on that rise, we thought it was the Promised Land.
    We had been walking for five days. The three of us. Juan, me, Juanita. Coming from somewhere you’ve never heard of. The sand was like flour, but there were tracks