Drunk on a Plane

by Zane Mitchell

  I stuck my head out the bathroom door and winked at her. “You’re welcome.”

  I heard her throaty laugh as I shut the door, locking it. I started the shower water running and turned the fan on. Then I grabbed my shorts off the bathroom floor and retrieved my gun. I pulled the bottom towel off the little rack above the toilet, set it on the bathroom counter and carefully unfolded it. Safely ensconced inside was the magazine I’d hidden there the day before.

  Yes, I know we’d called a truce. And, yes, I’d wanted to believe her. But I wasn’t stupid. You really think I’d have handed her a loaded gun?

  Come on! The woman had punched me in the throat just a few short days ago! And then she’d pulled a gun on me the day after that. She’d fooled me once, shame on her. She’d fooled me twice, shame on me. But I was not about to let her fool me a third time. I had much more self-respect than that.

  Once I’d showered, dressed, and reholstered my now-loaded gun, I emerged from the bathroom. “Shower’s free,” I said, giving her foot a nudge with my hand. “Hurry up. We’ve got work to do.”

  * * *

  Nico looked at me as we drove away from her motel room later that morning. Her hair was down, but she had the sides pinned back just below her ears. She looked beautiful.

  “What?” I asked.

  The apples of her cheeks ripened as I looked at her. “Nothing.”

  I poked her underneath her rib cage and she jerked the steering wheel. “Drunk!”

  “Then tell me. What?”

  She shook her head and then turned to stare out the window as she pulled the bullet-hole-ridden car out onto the street. She sighed. “You just surprise me, that’s all.”

  I leaned back in my seat and smiled. Letting my elbow rest on the car’s windowsill, I looked out the window. I’d heard that statement a time or twelve in my life. “It’s all about being underestimated.”

  “Yeah? Get underestimated a lot?”

  “Damn straight,” I said with a puff of air and a nod. “Story of my life. You know, when I was a kid, I was a little guy.”

  “You? You’re huge.”

  I shot her a lopsided grin. “Yeah, I wasn’t always huge. There was a time when I was scrawny. I had these little spindly arms and these knock-kneed bird legs. I was one of the shorter kids in my class too.”

  She shook her head and laughed. I could tell she didn’t believe me.

  “Yeah, my buddy Mikey was always having to take up for me because at that time he was bigger than I was.” The thought of Mikey as a child brought a smile to my face. He was a tubby bastard back then. So fat that his own mother had called him Butterball until he’d reached the sixth grade and begun to stretch out. “You know, thinking about it, it’s crazy now, because Mikey hit his peak sophomore year, but I kept growing well through my senior year, and now I dunk basketballs and he can only dunk donuts.” I laughed.

  “The funny thing was, I knew how to fight. My pops taught me. He called me scrappy or wiry. But my mom didn’t believe in violence. So while I knew how to fight, I also knew that getting in fights meant getting in trouble at home. So I let Mikey take up for me. That’s how my whole life has gone. No one has ever expected much out of me, and therefore, I haven’t had to give much. In school, the teachers knew me as Danny Drunk, the little awkward kid with the stupid name. My pops worked hard, but he wasn’t much of a social guy. So I don’t think he ever went to a single school event. Not parent-teacher conferences, not Christmas concerts, not bring your father to school days, nothing. I think my teachers made some kind of assumption that my father was an alcoholic, and that I was being raised by a single mother. So they floated me.”

  “Aww, poor Drunk.” She patted my leg. Maybe she was being sarcastic, but it sounded sincere.

  I shrugged and looked out the window again. “Not poor Drunk. I don’t feel sorry for myself, and I’m not saying any of that to make you feel sorry for me. I had a great childhood. I had great parents. I didn’t give a fuck that Pops didn’t go to my Christmas concerts. I was a shitty singer, and what good did it do to have thirty second-graders standing on risers dressed in navy-blue dress pants and red sweaters? Not a damn bit of good if you ask me. I was saying all of that to highlight the fact that I’ve been underestimated my whole life. And after a while, you kind of don’t try very hard. Especially in my case. I’m a pretty likable guy. I’m friendly. I’m easy on the eyes. I’m not a bully. I like beautiful women, and beautiful women like me. People let me slide.”

  “Even as an adult? I find that hard to believe. At some point, you have to give things your all.”

  I lifted a noncommittal shoulder. “Maybe, but I haven’t gotten to that point yet. Think about it. You’re a teacher and you have two guys. One’s an unattractive asshole who misses an assignment and blames his fucking dog, and the other’s a good-looking suave fella who apologizes and brings you a snack and says it’ll never happen again. Who you gonna cut a break?”

  She laughed and turned the car down a side street. “I got it.”

  “Yeah, exactly. I’m not a bad guy. I think I’ve just become a bit lazy over the years. At least that’s what my mother says.”

  “You ever gonna change?”

  I shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe. Maybe I’m being forced to now. Maybe this is some kind of cosmic karma that’s happening.”

  “You believe in karma?”

  “That’s a hard fucking yes. Everyone gets what’s theirs eventually.”

  “Not everyone.”

  I looked out the window again. “I’m a cop. I have to believe that justice will prevail. Otherwise, what am I doing? Look at Jimmie. While I don’t think he deserved to be murdered, he certainly caught karma right between the eyes.”

  “Yeah,” she said with a quiet nod.

  I turned to her and rubbed her arm. “I’m sorry. Was that too cold-hearted?”

  “Maybe a little graphic. But I agree, he didn’t deserve to be murdered.”

  “Yeah, so the way I see it. Someone else has some karma coming to them. You know, for taking Jimmie’s life. Worthless as it might have been. I mean, I know he stole from your boss, but I don’t know what else he’s done in his life. Maybe he was a rapist before he turned into an international thief.”

  “Maybe he was a priest.”

  My head bobbed up and down. “Or maybe he was a goddamned monk. Exactly. We don’t know. It’s not our place to judge.”

  “So we’re going to go talk to this Cami Vergado, and then what?”

  I sighed. I wished there was a clear answer to that question. It would make my day go so much more smoothly. “And then we get her to talk to the cops, tell them what she knows, and then they find the bastards that killed Jimmie and I’m in the clear.”

  “You make it sound so easy.”

  “Let’s hope it goes that easily.”

  “And then how are we going to celebrate?”

  I reached a hand over to caress her cheek. “I think you know the answer to that question.” I smiled. My life of celibacy was officially over.

  43

  There were parts of Paradise Isle that were beautiful. Large parts. The beaches were gorgeous. The ocean views continued to amaze me. Fenced estates sat pristine, likely worth a mint. The touristy shops downtown, which ran the length of the harbor, were kept immaculately groomed to accommodate cruise ship day-trippers. And the resorts, at least mine, anyway, were little slices of heaven.

  But then there was the rest of the island. The urban parts. Those parts of the island looked much like an impoverished inner city or a third-world country. Not having been on the island long enough, I had no direct knowledge of the crime statistics. I only knew what I could see. The buildings were all in poor repair and looked as if one big tidal wave could obliterate the better part of the island’s infrastructure. The schoolchildren, dressed in uniforms, played ball in the streets. Produce vendors lined the sidewalks, and men selling bottled water out of cardboard boxes stood on the street corners. Goats,
chickens, and domesticated animals ran amok, and the traffic buzzing by seemed not to notice.

  Cami Vergado lived in what might be considered an upscale neighborhood to an islander, though in many cities around the United States, it still would have been considered “on the wrong side of the tracks.” Her home was in a three-story apartment building. Painted a sun-faded yellow, the stuccoed exterior crumbled around the foundation.

  Nico parked her car along the street.

  “Let me do the talking,” I said quietly as we walked up the front sidewalk. I gave a nod at two women sitting on a bench six feet away, smoking cigarettes.

  “Are you sure? She hasn’t been to work all week because she’s scared. Do you really think you talking to her makes the most sense? I’m a woman. Women feel more comfortable with other women.”

  “Clearly you’re underestimating me once again,” I said with a smirk. “I make women feel very comfortable. I got you to ease up, didn’t I?”

  Nico rolled her eyes. “Not at first! At first you were like a bull in a china shop!”

  “I admit, I might have come on strong at first, but that was because you called for it. I mean, look at you! You’re not just any woman.”

  “Fine. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. You go ahead and do the talking, and we’ll see where that gets us. Alright?”

  “Thank you,” I said, holding the door for her. The dank, musty smell of wet sheetrock hit us immediately.

  “Ugh,” groaned Nico, holding her nose.

  Just as repulsed by the smell, I tried not to show it. I pointed to the stairs. “Second floor. Cami’s in apartment two ten.”

  We launched ourselves up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Apartment 210 was the last door at the other end of the hallway. I knocked while Nico peered out the square window that faced a narrow alley and a matching apartment building on the other side of the alley. I stood in front of the door, holding my breath, willing her to answer. When she didn’t come to the door after several additional knocks, I looked at Nico. “Now what?”

  “Come back?” she suggested with a half shrug.

  “We could get a key from her landlord.”

  “You know which one is the landlord?”

  “Not a clue.” I looked at the door then and wondered if I could break it down. It looked flimsy enough. Maybe one kick would do it. I held a hand up to Nico. “Stand back. I’m gonna kick it.”

  Just as I reared back to give it a solid kick, she grabbed my arm. “Hello? You can’t be serious. Bull in a china shop?” she reminded me, lifting her brows. “You are not going to kick the door in, Drunk. Why would you kick it?”

  “What if she’s in there and hurt or something?”

  “Again. Why would you kick it?” She rolled her eyes and put her hands in her hair. “I realize you’ve got brute force, but that doesn’t mean you have to use it. Sometimes things can be handled with a much lighter touch.” She held up two bobby pins she’d pulled out of her hair. “Step aside, sweetie.”

  I let her push me out of her way and watched as she gnawed off the rubber end of one of the pins. She straightened it and bent the tip, then bent the second pin into an L shape. She squatted down in front of the door and began to work her magic. It took her less than two minutes before she was able to turn the handle and the door opened.

  She stood up and smiled at me. “See? Light touch.” She handed me the pins. “You’re welcome.”

  Nico strutted past me. “Hello! Anybody home?” she called out, announcing her presence in the apartment while I stood in the doorway, observing the sexy confidence she exuded, seemingly without effort.

  It was hot.

  I removed my hat and tucked the pins into the inner hatband. I’d keep the pins as a memento. I guess I was sappy like that. Buried somewhere in my old room at my folks’ house, I still had the panties from the woman who had taken my virginity. Yes, woman. I was sixteen, and she was Mikey’s twenty-five-year-old cousin, Alexis, visiting from Topeka. She’d tucked her panties into the waistband of my Nike athletic shorts as she’d kissed me goodbye, and I’d learned that older women really were a beautiful thing. Nico would now live in infamy as the second woman to have taken my virginity, and her bobby pins would be my constant reminder.

  Replacing the hat, I followed her into the apartment. “See anything?”

  Nico returned to the doorway with her weapon drawn in front of her chest defensively. “No. She’s not here. Close the door.”

  I laughed at her. “What’s the point of holding the gun? You don’t have any ammo in it.”

  She shoved it into the holster she wore on her hip. “Yeah, because of you I don’t,” she barked. “Thanks again for that.”

  I shrugged as I pushed the door shut behind me. “Better safe than sorry.”

  “Yeah, well. I’d rather carry it and look scary than not carry it and look like a pushover.”

  “Oh, trust me. You’re plenty scary without the weapon,” I said with a chuckle. I threw my arms up. “So, she’s not here. Now what?”

  “Think like a cop, Drunk.”

  “Right.” I hadn’t had my morning dose of Dr. Pepper. My brain felt like a watch with a stuck second hand. I walked to her fridge and peeked inside. She had a six-pack of diet soda inside. I pulled one out and looked at it with a wrinkled nose. “Diet, ugh,” I said as I cracked open a can. Something was better than nothing.

  “Are you seriously stealing this woman’s soda?”

  “Did we seriously just break into her apartment?” I retorted before taking a big swig of the nasty-tasting sludge. All I wanted was the caffeine to infiltrate my veins. I’d suffer the taste just to get my brain to turn on.

  Nico rolled her eyes and walked towards an open door. “I’ll check her room for any clues as to where she might be. You check out here.”

  I nodded and strolled around the kitchen. It was tiny by American standards. One small white cupboard hung over a four-foot-long counter with a sink. A miniature gas stove and a refrigerator flanked the counter. No microwave. No toaster. Her coffeemaker was a teakettle on the stovetop, and the filter was some sort of sock attached to a wire. There was a small wooden table and two chairs in the middle of the kitchen area. I poked through the unopened pieces of mail on the table. It was just bills and junk mail, nothing that looked like it might offer any clues to her whereabouts. I sucked down another slug of the sugar-free soda and walked to a small stand in her living room area where a phone and answering machine sat. I pushed the blinking button. The machine beeped then spit out an assortment of messages.

  “Camila, es mami. Llámame cuando llegues a casa del trabajo.” Beep.

  “Hello, dear, it’s Mrs. Acosta. Are you coming into work today? Call me when you get this message, please.” Beep.

  “Camila, es tu madre. Llámame por favor.” Beep.

  “Cami, it’s Mrs. Acosta again. Are you okay dear? I’d really like to hear from you. Give me a call.” Beep.

  “Cami, it’s Mariposa at work. Is everything alright? Are you coming in today?” Beep.

  “Yo, Cami, it’s Freddy. Just checking on you. Mari said you haven’t been showing up at the resort. Everything okay?” Beep.

  “Cami, it’s Mrs. Acosta. I’m really getting worried. It’s not like you not to show up for three days in a row. Please call me.” Beep.

  “Ahora estoy preocupado por ti. ¿Estás bien?”

  The machine beeped again as Nico reentered the room. “Sounds like lots of people are worried about Cami.”

  “She hasn’t checked her message in days.” I shook my head. Even I was beginning to get worried about her. “This isn’t a good sign.”

  Nico poked her head into Cami’s bathroom.

  “Maybe we need to get ahold of someone who knows her,” I suggested. “Mrs. Acosta, Freddy, or her mother.”

  “Yeah, unfortunately, how are we supposed to find any of those people? This place is pretty sparse. I didn’t find any clues in her bedroom. But I did discove
r that the woman enjoys a decent pair of high heels.”

  “You wouldn’t think it would be that hard to find out who Mrs. Acosta is. Obviously Cami was working for her. So we ask around.”

  Nico nodded. “Let’s try those two women out front.”

  I locked her apartment door as we left, and Nico and I rushed outside to fresh air. The women who had been sitting on the bench smoking were now gone.

  “Great,” said Nico, shoulders slumped forward.

  A loud banging on the side of the building caught our attention. “I’ll check it out.” I sprinted to the far end of the building to discover a maintenance man unloading garbage into a dumpster. “Hey!” I hollered at him.

  He looked up at me. “Yes?”

  “You work here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know any of the people who live here?”

  He nodded. “Of course. I know them all.”

  Nico caught up to me.

  I pointed towards the building. “We’re looking for the woman that lives in apartment two ten. She hasn’t shown up for work in a few days, and we’re worried about her.”

  “Her name is Camila Vergado. Cami,” added Nico.

  “Yes, I know Camila,” he said, his furrowed brow telling of his concern.

  “Have you seen her lately?” I asked.

  He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Maybe a week or two ago was the last time I saw her. She works a lot.”

  “Two jobs, right?” said Nico.

  He smiled. “Yes, she’s a very hard worker.”

  “We’re coming from the Seacoast Majestic,” I said. “Do you know where else she works? Maybe I could check with them and see if they’ve heard from her.”

  “We know she works for a Mrs. Acosta,” Nico added for authenticity. “We just don’t know how to get ahold of Mrs. Acosta.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Acosta. Yes. She is an apartment manager. Camila cleans apartments for her a couple days a week, in the mornings, before she goes to the resort.”

  “Do you know how we could get in touch with Mrs. Acosta?” I asked.