Trust Me

by Richard Z. Santos

  Gabe sneered. Thank you for being shot, really nice of you to go get killed. No signs had sported the old man’s name when he came back from the Pacific. No one thanked Gabe when he came back, either. No matter the only blood Gabe saw was when one of the kids in Basic broke his own arm on purpose. Poor bastard had grown stronger without realizing. When that scared kid brought his forearm down on his footlocker, one of the bones popped right through the skin, making a slicing thwick, like a piece of paper torn in half. At least, that was the story Gabe told everyone.

  Sludgy tension crept into Gabe’s mind. He could see the truck’s reverse lights from the accident with Micah. He was convinced those white kids were the sons of cops. Or they might blab. Blabbing would be worse because blabbing would get back to Frederick. Gabe had crossed a line with those kids.

  Walking back into his house used to make Gabe feel better, but tonight it felt empty and cold. Most of the lights were blazing because Gabe hated coming home to the dark.

  There was crystal in his freezer. He had only smoked it once before with some chick he had met at Lucero’s. It was fun. Like swimming. Like almost drowning. He kept the shards wrapped in foil in the freezer, the same way the old man did with batteries and medicine. He sprinkled the plasticky slivers over a few grains of weed in his pipe and set it ablaze. A burnt smell filled the air and his lungs.

  At first, it felt good. Gabe sat on the couch and closed his eyes. The room spun to the left, then paused and came back to the right—smooth, like a swaying boat. It reminded Gabe of the ship he had been on in the Marines. Wait, no, Gabe shook his head. He was Army. His dad was the Marine, six feet of pure Mexican Marineness.

  Gabe scratched the side of his face—it didn’t hurt then but he would notice welts in the morning. It must have been the accident that brought up all those memories. Most World War II veterans came home and never spoke about the war, but Gabe’s father never shut up. Riding horses through the mountains, he would tell Gabe and Lou, “those Jap planes dived so close I could see the pilot’s teeth filed to points.” Bedtime stories for the boys were about his ship sinking and him treading water for twelve hours. “Warm water, comfortable,” he said. “Fucking paradise water full of blood and sharks.”

  Gabe’s dad wore a life jacket, so he lived. Most of the other men panicked and jumped in without one. The old man said he felt a shark’s nose press into his back, but he stayed still, so the shark moved on to some poor bastard who was all flailing limbs and pissed pants.

  “How’d you know it was a shark?” Gabe once asked.

  “Well, it wasn’t a fucking mermaid.”

  That was his father’s wisdom. You have to jump? Jump with a life jacket. If a shark touches you, pretend nothing’s happening. It drove the old man crazy, of course, floating with nothing but southern constellations above and the blood and twitching remnants of his friends below.

  A siren went off. Gabe opened his eyes. A fire alarm, maybe a tornado. Each fiber of the carpet swayed in the wind from the ceiling fan.

  Gabe sat up and his head cleared long enough for him to feel sick. The meth was too old, spiked, poisoned. He needed to catch his breath. He needed help, but he was all alone. He dug through beer cans looking for cigarettes, but all he found were piles and piles of beer cans, enough to build a stinking mansion.

  Once, when he was a kid, Gabe came to his father and told him he had heard something outside the window. His father said, “Maybe it’s the devil. Now, go back to bed.” The siren boomed again, loud enough to shake his skull. It was the police arresting him for the disability scam. No, the man in the white truck came back to finish Gabe off. Geronimo wanted his skull back. Or Frederick. Those kids told Frederick.

  Maybe it’s the devil. He should go to bed. The siren wailed, and Gabe’s arm hairs stood on end. Guns, he had guns in his bedroom. Gabe took the stairs faster than he had in years. He heard his name. A woman’s voice held out the syllables, stretching the vowels to insanity. Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaabeeeee. He locked the bedroom door. Guns in the closet. Lots of them. Hunting rifles, a couple handguns for protection and one big monster assault rifle. Now he heard footsteps on the stairs. Slow, thumping steps. A shotgun in his hands, but he forgot how to check if it was loaded. He looked down the barrel. The pounding moved to the bedroom door. The frame shook and cracked. He locked himself in the bathroom, crawled into the bathtub and cradled the shotgun. He heard wet steps outside, the swish of a current, and the demented wailing didn’t stop.

  “I told you the sharks would get you one day, Gabe.”

  Gabe cocked the gun, pressed back into the wall, trying to disappear, his feet slipping on the wet ceramic tub, and he pointed the barrel at the door.

  “I’m going to do it,” Gabe shouted. “I’m finally going to do it!”

  The top half of the bathroom door evaporated into a cloud of dust. In the silence after the gunshot, the siren’s wail eased into the ringing of a cell phone. It was ringing in his own pocket.

  Rose.

  Gabe held the phone in one hand, the shotgun in the other, crouching in the bathtub. He dropped the phone. The world finally went quiet. Dark mold was growing in the space between the tiles, and grey hairs clogged the drain like daisies in concrete. Someone had called him; someone was checking on him. And Gabe was alone, cradling a loaded shotgun. But that was okay. Being alone was okay. It all made more sense that way.

  THURSDAY

  TEN

  CHARLES WAS HUNGOVER, and the road to his new house snaked up the side of a mountain, so his first act in the house might be puking in the toilet. If he could wait that long. Salazar had given him the house keys last night in the office, but he had crashed at Lou’s.

  When he went back to the trailer to grab his suitcases, Lou was drinking beer and watching TV. Charles sat down to have a quick one. Then one turned to two, turned to three, turned to Lou and Charles bonding over how much Diana Salazar scared them. The beer was thin and yellow, and the cop show they watched was boring. Perfect. All of Charles’ DC friends, those who still spoke to him, only talked about politics. He needed a dumb night with a crate of piss beer.

  Charles’ stomach churned as he remembered Lou and Jordan were coming over for dinner on Saturday night. Full of drunken good cheer, the invitation had seemed like a good idea. Now, he was unshowered and almost late for work.

  This road was torture. He was up the side of a mountain just outside of downtown. Juniper and mesquite trees hung low over the street and buckled the asphalt. The houses themselves were set behind adobe courtyards, and Charles had no way to tell if this neighborhood was run down and abandoned or ancient and luxurious.

  When his phone rang, he knew it was Addie without even looking at the screen. Charles answered, put the phone on speaker and placed it on the console next to him.

  “Hey,” he said. “I’m driving. What’s up?”

  “Calling to see how it went yesterday,” Addie said. “You got so excited, then I never heard anything.”

  “You haven’t seen the headlines? Things are blowing up.”

  “Yeah? I didn’t notice anything, but I’m glad something’s up. You were worried the gig was all over.”

  “Definitely not worried about that anymore.”

  Charles had a secret. He could tell her about the casino and Branch’s plans for world domination and wealth. He should tell her. He knew there was no reason not to tell her, but he held back.

  “I think this is going to work out for me,” he said. “There’s a ton going on. I don’t even know where to start.”

  “I’m glad you’re happy. You driving to work?”

  “Dropping my stuff at the new house first.”

  “I got my tickets,” she said. “I’ll be there next Friday.”

  Her voice was neutral, waiting to respond to Charles’ emotion. His silence lasted maybe half a second, but that was long enough.

  “Yeah, yeah that’s good.” He said it loud, as if he could make up for his hesitation. “Things�
��ll be less crazy by then. I can show you around.”

  “Yeah, okay. Great, I guess.”

  Despite her frustration, she was still too generous. Charles knew Addie would work for their relationship, keep sacrificing past all reason. Cold threads of guilt wrapped around his bones.

  “I really,” Charles paused, “I know this is hard, but this job will be worth it. There are real opportunities here.”

  As he drove up the mountain, the houses became more spaced out and the land between them more wild and dense with trees and brush. He found the correct street and pulled into a short, gravel cul-de-sac on which there were only two houses.

  “There’s another thing,” Addie said. “It’s not good.”

  Low walls jutted out of the narrow, adobe house, like two arms reaching forward in protection. A thick wooden door looked like it opened onto a courtyard. The initial impression it gave was of cloistered luxury. A monastery in Beverly Hills. Charles hopped out of the car and almost left the phone behind.

  “Babe, I’ve never seen a house like this. It’s out of a magazine.”

  “Can’t wait to see it, but I have to tell you about your friend Jim Hawley.”

  The courtyard door had been repurposed from an old church. Through a cross-hatched grill, he could see a spread of cacti and coarse desert grass. In the courtyard, the air smelled dark and fertile with overgrown plant life.

  The front door was frosted, corrugated glass. Inside, the thick plaster walls were smooth as icing. The ceiling was lined with walnut-brown vigas and the floor was slate, cool to the touch. Charles wanted to caress the smooth surfaces and take it all in.

  “I’m listening, I swear,” he said. “But this place is unreal.”

  “Jim was arrested in Syria,” said Addie.

  Charles noticed a pair of high heel shoes by the front door. “Hello?” Addie asked.

  “I’m here, but what do you mean? Like, Syria Syria?”

  The shoes were out of place, left behind, but they also looked at home, arranged as if the owner knew exactly where to put them.

  “Some NGO work,” Addie said. “I’m not sure. Democracy-building stuff, but the Syrians came in, busted it up, accused everyone of spying.”

  Charles looked down the hall towards the bedrooms. The house was empty. It had to be.

  “You don’t seem concerned,” she said.

  “Well, Jim Hawley had a temper. Every campaign he punched a hole in the drywall. Every campaign. He did it to make a point, but it became a joke after the fourth or fifth time he did it. Probably decked a Syrian senator. Do they have senators?”

  “Charlie, he’s being accused of spying. Everyone else was released, but they’re going to make an example of him. State has threatened to pull the ambassador.”

  One of the bedroom doors was cracked open a bit, and Charles pushed it open all the way. He felt the ground cut out from under his feet. He knew he was standing, knew he was awake, alive, but this had to be a mistake or a dream.

  Only a dream, a bad dream, would explain why he was looking at his ex-wife.

  Olivia pulled the blankets up around her neck. He had awakened her, and she was blinking at him like she was the one seeing a ghost. A bottle of champagne and two glasses, one empty, sat on the nightstand.

  Olivia smiled. “Well, you’re a little late, dear.”

  Charles heard Addie’s voice from far away. At some point, he had lowered the phone to his side. He brought the phone back up to his ear. “Sorry, sorry, you cut out on the last part.”

  “This all just happened,” she said. “But I figured you’d want to know. I thought he was your friend.”

  Charles and Olivia had not seen each other for more than ten years. He took a tiny step towards the bed, feeling like a lion tamer whose act had started to go sideways. They had met in Chicago when they were both in their twenties. He was working a campaign and she bartended at the bar near the office. She hated politics, and he was kind of a stiff. For a few months, it was perfect. Then, it stopped being perfect. She cheated. He cheated shortly afterward. They split, and he almost never thought of her.

  Finally, he managed a few words to Addie. “Hawley was a jerk. I wouldn’t worry about it. He was probably drunk and rubbed someone the wrong way. He’ll sleep it off.”

  Olivia laughed, sat up and smoothed her hair back. She was wearing a black nightgown. “Is that your wife?” she stage-whispered.

  Charles covered the phone. “Look, I’m really losing you up here. Can I call you later?”

  Addie sighed. “You seem annoyed that I took the time to tell you.”

  “No, no, no. I’m just running late and need time to process this.”

  Olivia reached for the champagne and poured herself a splash. She offered the bottle to Charles, who smiled and shook his head.

  “Call me later?” Addie asked. “I want to hear things.”

  “Definitely. For sure.”

  Charles hung up feeling guilty.

  “Welcome home, husband.”

  He looked down at his phone. “I just got bad news about a friend. A guy I worked with a while back. But I can’t even think about it.” He looked around the bedroom, wondering who else would pop out. “What’s happening right now?”

  “I’m in bed. You’re standing over there. We’re in a million-dollar house on a mountain.”

  “I knew you’d say something clever like that. How are you here?”

  “I’m from here. What are you doing here?”

  “This isn’t a coincidence.”

  “Can’t get anything past you.” She rolled her eyes. “I knew you were staying here and I wanted to see you. Then I fell asleep. You’re the one who walked into my bedroom.”

  He shook his head. “No, no this house belongs to my, to, to . . .”

  Charles turned around and walked into the living room. He sat down on one of the couches. His best hope, really his only chance at this point, was if she never walked out of that bedroom. If no one was there. If she was a ghost or, if he was lucky, a tumor chewing through his brain.

  Then, he heard her bare feet coming down the stone hallway.

  Olivia had thrown on a pair of jeans and a white button-up shirt. It was so much preppier than anything Olivia wore back in Chicago. Now that she was out of bed, Charles got a good look at her. She used to have more of an edge. He could see traces of it in her walk. Ten years had turned her into a woman with money.

  “Oh, I thought you’d be a little happy to see me. A smidge?”

  “I’ve been working with these people for almost a week, interviewing for two weeks before that. Your name did not come up.”

  “You’re mad. I get it. You’re mad because we’re both losers.” She made an L out of her thumb and forefinger and placed it on her forehead. “Remember when people did this?”

  “I’m not a loser.”

  She laughed and shook her head.

  “That laugh,” he said. “That little snort you do. It used to sound nice. Do you work for Branch and Salazar? Those are the only people in the state who know me, and don’t give me a sarcastic answer.”

  “Don’t we all work for him?” She rolled her eyes. “Fine, sorry I didn’t tell you, I’m married to your boss.”

  “Cody Branch is not my boss.”

  “Oh, Charlie, you’ve been out here long enough to know better than that.”

  He curled up on the couch. The room was on its side and felt quiet and cool. The leather couch smelled like money, and the entire house hummed as if vast machines toiled in the basement. This whole job, airport or casino or whatever, really had been too good to be true. Of course, the signs had been there. Thompson’s skepticism. Addie wondering how they got his name in the first place. He had shrugged it all off.

  “This is stalking,” he said. “Manipulation. You got me this job but didn’t tell me.”

  She laughed. “Stalking? I mentioned your name to Cody. That’s all. You got yourself hired.”

  Charles thought
of his mother. This was the kind of stunt she used to pull all the time.

  When she donated stacks of cash to party committees or to PACs in states where Charles had taken jobs, she referred to it as “voting with her pocketbook.” Soon, bald men wearing gold rings were gripping his shoulder and introducing him as Lena O’Connell’s son.

  “You can’t do stuff like this,” he said. “You’re not allowed to sneak into my life.”

  “I’m from here,” she laughed.

  “You could have sent one email. ‘Hey, heard of a gig. Interested?’ But I didn’t even get to decide if I wanted to owe you a favor.”

  Olivia sat on the couch’s arm, but he stayed curled up on his side.

  “Look, all I did was give my husband a name. That’s the truth.” She came closer.

  Charles looked at his watch. “I’ve got to go to work.”

  “Were you always this whiny? Diana won’t be mad if you tell her we were together.”

  “I am not doing that.”

  “You really don’t have a sense of humor anymore. Did you ever? I can’t remember.”

  Charles pushed himself up and looked at her. “Why would you marry that guy? Don’t say money.”

  She stood up and put on her sunglasses. “Not only a loser but a judgmental loser.” She walked to the door. “If I said he used to be different, would you believe me?”

  “No. No, not really.”

  She slipped on her shoes. “Look,” she said, “you could use a friend out here, and I’m a little short on allies myself. I have a show, an art show, at a gallery tonight. It’s my first solo. You can come. I left a postcard on the counter.”

  “Does he know about our past?”

  Olivia snorted and opened the door. “Would he hire you if he did?”

  She grinned, and Charles could almost see a wink behind her sunglasses. Even the smooth way she locked the door behind her dripped with nauseating confidence. Charles pressed his face back down on the couch, the cool leather calmed his stomach. When he wondered if Mr. or Mrs. Branch picked out the color, he went to the bathroom and finally lost all the beer he had drank with Lou.