Category Five, page 10
“Think about telling Tío about the Facebook post, Lupe!”
Lupe turned around and smiled as she ran. “What Facebook post?” Okay, this was just an act for her friend’s benefit; in truth, Lupe was creeped out.
* * *
Lupe loved the feeling of the salt spray across her face, the rock and sway of the aging boat. Considering she had grown up in a landlocked part of the world, she certainly felt comfortable bouncing across the top of the water. She might not have gotten the melanin from her Puerto Rican side, but she sure inherited a love of the sea.
Okay, so the thought of the creepy heart post took away from the scenery, but she refused to let it freak her out completely.
She stepped off the boat’s gangplank onto the weathered dock and saw the expected cruiser waiting for her. Or, rather, everyone saw and noticed it. She’d probably still prefer an Uber, but as she got to know the individual officers, and with all the help they’d given her the year before, the cruisers were becoming a familiar and comforting sight.
She slipped into the front seat, as was her habit—though it was against the rules, they all made an exception for her—but was surprised to see Captain Torres scowling at her from behind the wheel. “Oh. Hi. I was expecting—”
“Your uncle was occupied so I offered to pick you up, Señorita Dávila.”
An insincere smile snaked its way across his face. It was the smile of someone who knew something you didn’t and felt pretty damn superior about it. It was her least favorite kind of smile. “Okay…” The word was stretched out as she pulled the door closed and buckled herself in. Though she was usually insistent on not sitting in the back like a perp, she wished she were there in that moment. The man gave her the creeps.
He checked the ferry pick-up traffic and pulled out in front of a sedan as if his car was the only priority. “I offered because I wanted to have a little chat with you.”
Oh, great. She didn’t say anything, just looked out the window as if the dock area was endlessly fascinating.
“I’ve heard that you and that Sam boy have been … inquiring about things related to the town and the resort.”
The clerk at the town office. Must have been her. Note to self: trust no one. She still said nothing, an unusual thing for her, but she felt it was the best course of action in this situation. She was counting the blocks to the condo, it wasn’t far, but the image of the deep red heart on the night beach made her nervous. This was one of the most frightening car rides of her seventeen years, and she had an only-recently-sobered-up father who used to drive her around in his powerful truck after consuming half a bottle of rum. This man made her really uncomfortable. Wait … was she riding with a murderer? She knew of one way to find out.
“So, Captain … are you on Facebook?” Not subtle, but she was not thinking overly clearly at the moment.
“What? No, I don’t have time to waste on social media. That is a game for the young. And, speaking of which, I think it best if you focused on things more appropriate to a teenage girl on vacation.”
That snapped her head around. “And what, pray tell, do you think is ‘appropriate’ for me to be focused on?”
Condescension dripped off his smile. “Oh, shopping, movies, boys, maybe tanning at the beach?” He looked over at her bare legs in a way that made her lunch push against her throat. “And you could certainly use some color, Lupe.”
She pulled her shorts down as much as the cotton fabric would allow. “Yeah, not all young women are interested in the same things, Captain. And I prefer you call me Señorita Dávila.”
He jerked on the steering wheel and turned down a side street she wasn’t familiar with. Her skin started to feel tighter. “This is not the way to the condo,” she said, and wondered once again if her comments were wisely chosen.
“Well, you don’t know everything about this island, do you, Señorita Dávila?” His movements were becoming sharper, anger adding edges to each turn of his head, white to his knuckles gripping the steering wheel. Then he slammed on the brakes and she was thrown forward, reaching out to brace herself against the dashboard.
“What the actual f—”
He wheeled around. “Keep your foul mouth shut! You have no right digging into things you can’t possibly understand. You and that spoiled rich brat will keep your noses out of the business of this island, comprendes?”
“Are you threatening me, Captain?” Her muscles were taut with fear and ready to run, but unless ghosts were coming (been there, done that) she wasn’t a runner. He might not have posted that picture, but he was threatening her, nonetheless.
His lips stretched into a thin line and she imagined the foul things that wanted to make their way out of his mouth. But she watched him suck back his anger and swallow it, and she could tell it tasted bitter. “Mind your own business and we will have no further problems.”
She looked at the sparse and seemingly abandoned street, the only sign of life a stray dog who regarded them with hope and visible ribs. There was so much she wanted to say, to ask about what he had to hide—and if he had nothing to hide, why did he care? Then her self-preservation kicked in—was Marisol right? was there someone out to get her, after all?—so she responded “Fine,” and wondered if she could get her cell phone out without him noticing.
He pulled into a driveway, grass growing up from between tectonic plates of asphalt, and backed into the street, his hairy arm reaching over the back of her seat as he ignored the backup camera and looked around, old-school style.
She let out a long breath as they pulled back onto the main drag. The few blocks to the condo seemed to go on for miles and miles, but finally he pulled up in front of the building. She was reaching for the door handle before the car came to a complete stop, but he grabbed her upper arm before she could jump out. She looked down at his sausage fingers and then at his face as if she could shoot lasers from her eyes.
“If you tell your tío about our little talk, I’ll deny it ever took place.”
She narrowed her eyes. “He’ll believe me.” Her voice was slow and even. “He always does.” She wasn’t sure of much, but she was sure about her uncle.
“It doesn’t matter. He should be worrying about his own job, anyway.” And a smile snaked up his face again.
“What is that supposed to mean?” She hated that the question shot out so quickly. It was like giving this man something to bite, but she couldn’t help it.
He just laughed and let go of her arm.
Though she wanted to ask more, to make him answer, her instincts kicked in again and she slipped out of the car. As she watched the cruiser drive off, she rubbed at her arm and the red marks his fingers left there and wondered what that nasty little man had meant about her tío’s job and what it was that he was so anxious to hide.
Chapter Fifteen
Esperanza, Vieques
CHARLIE MURPHY STUMBLED off the main drag of Esperanza, the small town where he was staying on the south of Vieques. It was well past midnight and most of the houses were dark. He liked walking around at that hour. Fewer humans with tiny, boring lives who he had to pretend to give a shit about.
The asshole bartender at his regular hangout had shut him off around ten. He spent the last few hours drinking with the local guys in a kiosk near the beach. It was a dump, but at least it was cheap. He was going to have to find a decent place to—
Wait, did he hear something? He jolted to a stop and listened.
Wind in the trees.
A car revving its engine a few blocks away.
Music pouring from the overpriced restaurant on the corner.
Nothing. He was imagining things.
He wheeled back around, and as he started to walk again his feet tangled. Before he knew it, he was heading toward the ground, face-first. The pavement slammed into him, the impact shuddering throughout his body. That was going to leave a mark. He lay there for a moment, as if he were stretched out on the couch in his apartment, and stared at the loose pebbles peppering the asphalt of Calle Tintillos. He could kind of imagine them as mountains, and he was a giant about to crush them all.
Maybe he’d had too much rum at the bar.
He slowly got to his knees, stopping for a second when the block started to spin, and then brushed off stones that had become embedded in his forearms. Long drips of blood trailed down his pale arms and soaked into the hems of the short sleeves of his crisp white guayabera shirt.
“Shit.” He stood, weaving, and brushed off the knees of his khakis. Good thing he wasn’t one of those douchebags who wore cargo shorts like they were on goddamn safaris or something. He stood for a minute and lit a cigarette, the lighter’s flame glowing unnaturally orange in the heavy night air. Lord, summers were hot on this godforsaken island. But six more months, tops, and he’d be out of there. Six months and another cool million in profits. He smiled to himself as he resumed walking, looking more carefully at the street beneath him.
It was hard to believe he’d been there for only nine months. It felt like an eternity. The winter had been okay. He’d come down as soon as the flights had been reinstated after the hurricane. He went where the money was, and that meant jumping right on it before everything settled down. Take advantage of the chaos, he liked to say. If he were going to write a business book, that would be the title. Yeah, he liked that. Wait! Ride the Chaos?
He’d come up with a title later.
He turned the corner onto his street, Calle Magnolia. He couldn’t wait to fall into his bed in his blissfully air-conditioned bedroom. When the power was out and kept going out, he had been miserable. His skin would get burnt to hell during the day and he would want nothing but to lie in front of a fan, but no power. The mainland got power back on way before Vieques, and though that pissed him off, it only made his fundraising more effective. “Help the tiny island of Vieques recover from the devastation of Maria!” He posted photos he’d taken of downed trees and strangers working on repairs as if they were being funded by his “organization.” His loud laughter echoed off the buildings on his short street. Screw his neighbors if he woke them up. He wouldn’t have to put up with them much longer.
He’d gone out to celebrate. His website had taken in a daily high of almost ten thousand dollars, thanks to some idiot, guilt-ridden, wealthy housewife from Des Moines and a photo of a stray dog with big eyes. Little did she know he’d kicked the mutt right after he’d snapped the photo. But she wanted to “help the dear animals who were left homeless after the hurricane.” People were so damn gullible. Few more days like that and he’d get to head back to the States sooner rather than later. If he had to eat any more damn fried plantain, he was going to kill someone. What he wouldn’t give for a plain old American steak or decent New York pizza.
A skittering sound echoed behind him and he whirled around again, this time taking care not to fall.
“Wha waz dat?” he slurred, squinting into the dark corners of the street.
Probably Ms. Vasquez’s scrawny cat.
God, he hated that thing.
He’d poisoned two of her other cats, but this one was too damn wily and wouldn’t take the food he tried to give it.
Oh well, he was almost home. Soon they could all kiss his lily-white, wealthy ass. He turned onto the walkway of his little rented house and tried the front door. Locked. Shit. The cleaning lady must have locked it. He felt in his pockets for his key, but nothing. He always left the back door open. He spun around and leaned his hand on the side of the building as he walked. The ground was tipping a bit. He hated when it did that. The backyard was pitch black, the stars the only source of light overhead. He stopped to take a breather. Boy, he was more tired than he thought.
Another sound came from around the side of the house. Damn cat! He picked up a rock that edged the decorative garden the owner had wasted money on and turned toward where the noise had come from. He was going to bash that little shit’s head in once and for all and bury it in this ridiculous garden.
He put his back against the building and edged his way to the corner. He peeked around but couldn’t see the cat. All the movement was making him feel queasy, and the greasy mofongo he’d had for dinner pushed up his throat.
To hell with the cat. He dropped the rock and lurched to throw up on the nearest gardenia bush. He could taste the acidic edge of cheap rum on the back of his tongue. Next time he was going to spring for the good stuff. He stood there for a few minutes, hands on his knees, wiping his mouth. When he was sure he was done, he slowly raised himself up to standing. His stomach lurched again. He just needed to make it inside and fall onto his bed. He wouldn’t even take off his clothes.
He stood for a second to let the earth stop its weaving and saw a shadow pass behind him.
That was no cat.
“Who’s there?” he yelled. Damned if he was going to let some punk take his hard-earned money. He grabbed the pinwheel garden stake—why did anyone waste their money on such shit?—pulled off the shiny metallic top, and turned it over to its business end. The stake was pointy enough. He whipped around, wielding it like Excalibur, swinging it wildly in the air.
“Come out, you coward!” He spun again, and then felt another wave of sickness wash over him. He was bent over once more, thinking he was going to be sick, when the rock hit his skull with a dull thunk. As he fell onto the garden’s packed earth with its covering of white decorative rocks, his last thought was “God, I hate this garden.”
Chapter Sixteen
Javier
JAVIER WAS DREAMING about the hurricane. He was standing on a sidewalk in his hometown of Amapola, and the storm came and lifted him up off the ground, tumbling him out of control and over the city, rain pelting him in the face like bullets, the roar of the wind like a train coming straight for him. He was flailing, trying to right himself as he spun, and someone was holding his hands. Nothing frightened him as much as not having control over his own body. He started to scream and thrash.
“Javi! Stop, man! It’s me!”
His eyes shot open and he saw his friend Carlos’s face right in front of his. He looked around wildly, trying to get his bearings, and recognized the sad little room the resort had rented for him to stay in during the week while he was working on Vieques. His breathing slowly returned to normal. He looked down at his hands, and Carlos still had them clutched in his. He must have given him a look, because Carlos dropped them and put his own hands up like he was surrendering.
“Sorry, man, but I gave you a shake, and you started punching me. You wouldn’t wake up.”
Javier rubbed his hands over his face and into his hair, the long curls reminding him that he was overdue for a haircut. “I was having a nightmare. About a hurricane.”
Carlos sat back with a sigh. “Most Puerto Ricans are these days.”
Javier’s mind began to clear. He took a good look at Carlos and saw that he was in full Papi Gringo star gear. Leather jacket, gold chains, sunglasses as dark as midnight. “Wait, what are you doing here?”
“Well, when a brother won’t answer your phone calls or call you back, you have to resort to desperate measures.”
Javier just stared at him. Was he making any sense?
“Jesus, Javi.” He threw his hands up in exasperation. “The concert? The grand opening?”
How long had he slept for? “But that’s not till Friday.”
“Rehearsal? Sound check? Any of this familiar?”
Javier always had trouble rectifying the image of his childhood friend, goofball Carlos, with the strutting reggaeton star Papi Gringo he had become. It all seemed like he was playing dress-up or something, but since he had an internationally best-selling record it clearly was real to a hell of a lot of people. “Sorry. Things have been kind of wild here.”
“Yeah, I heard. My manager wanted me to cancel. He was worried about my safety. Ha! After being five feet from El Cuco this is nothing, ¿verdad?” He put up his fist for a dap.
Javi smiled and pressed his fist against Carlos’s and they were kids again. “What have you been trying to reach me about?”
“Don’t you want to go back to sleep? We can talk in the morning.…”
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s gonna happen now.” He pulled the T-shirt from last night over his head and turned on the lamp on the night table. Now that Carlos was there, in front of him, he felt bad for ghosting him. “It’s been weird, man, being around all these murders again. I mean, what are the odds, right?”
“I don’t know, bad luck seems to follow us around like a lost dog.”
“Not you, ’mano! Your song is an international hit! I saw your sorry ass on the Grammys!”
Carlos smiled. “It was a trip, Javi. I mean, I got pretty big here, you know? But that’s a whole nother scale.”
“Pretty much a dream come true, ¿verdad?”
“I guess.”
“You guess?”
Carlos took off his dark sunglasses. “It’s just … when you’re playing on a field that size, you’re not calling the shots anymore. The record company won’t let me do anything different. I want to try some different kinds of music, stretch different creative muscles … but they made a shitload of money from the El Cuco album and now they want me to just pump out more of the same shit.”
“But it was your writing that made the album so good. Can’t they trust your instincts?”
“Nah, they keep talking to me about the ‘Papi Gringo brand,’ like that’s someone else. It’s like I’ve created a monster.”
Javier gave him a look. “No, man, no more monsters.”
Carlos smiled, but it had a touch of sadness around the eyes.
Javier looked at his friend for a bit. He’d never thought about it that way. He could never do it, he liked his privacy, but he thought Carlos lived for that shit. Just goes to show you, the grass ain’t never greener. He put his hand on Carlos’s shoulder. “I’m just glad you’re here now.”
“That’s why I took this gig. Wanted to get in touch with my roots, have my friends—my real friends—backing me up.”
