Both Sides

by Gabino Iglesias

  Izzy bent forward over her belly, covered her face with her hands and started crying. ¡Ya wey! Enough already. My simpatía gauge was running on fumes. I was tired of being accused of something I wasn’t even thinking about.

  Just then I got a text from Terri.

  La Cindy just called. She says she has something for you, she won’t say what. I don’t know what to think. It smells kinda fishy. Maybe you should go check it out. Come by the office after, if you can.

  I turned and walked back out the door. I heard Izzy call out my name but I didn’t answer. I went down the stairs two at a time and came out onto the street.

  No matter how crazy Izzy had been acting, no matter what my cousin had asked of me, I should have stayed at home to comfort my girl.

  It was something I’d live to regret, probably for the rest of my life.

  15

  I didn’t feel like walking back down to Humboldt Park again. A #53 southbound bus was coming, so I hopped on. My mind was at war with itself: Irritation at the friction back at home, curiosity about what lay ahead.

  I got off at West Augusta and started walking east. I saw the Ukrainian Village Tavern in the distance and knew I was getting close. Then I heard a familiar voice, talking fast and loud. La Cindy was pacing the alleyway between the bar and Blue Line Station. I heard the desperation in her voice before I could make out the words.

  “Dammit Stuey, will you listen to me? I told you I’ll have your money…Yes, all of it. I swear…Oh, for Christ’s sake! I just need a little time. A client has a project this Friday…Yeah, the studio pays out the same day. Just work with me, Stuart. I won’t stiff you this time, I promise.”

  So, in addition to her drinking, La Cindy had another habit. It sounded to me like she might be owing money to her dealer. A tight spot to be in, I knew.

  She emerged red faced from the alleyway, cursing under her breath. The sunlight was harsh on her face. Maybe she was closer to tail end of her forties. Cindy’s frown turned into a phony smile when she saw me coming closer. “Well, if it isn’t charming José again. We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

  “I was just on my way to your place. I hear you got something for me.”

  “Absolutely,” she patted the side of her leggings though I didn’t see a pocket. “Let’s not transact our business on the street. Come into my office.”

  I followed her into the bar, where she led me to a corner with a pool table.

  “What’s this about?” I asked her.

  “Just a friendly game of billiards, amigo.”

  I didn’t like the sound of Spanish in her mouth. “I didn’t come here to play.”

  She ignored me and racked up a set. “Twenty dollars a game.”

  “I don’t play against women and I never play for money.”

  “Then we’ll have to play for drinks,” she grinned.

  “I don’t really do liquor, chica. Nothing more than a Corona every now and then.”

  “Aw,” she pouted. “Is the wittle bitty Mexican a-scared of the big, bad Patrón?”

  That’s when I knew that Cindy was hustling me. She probably conned everybody she came across. La Cindy was hard up for money by the sound of that phone call. More likely than not, gambling was her co-addiction. That had probably been her bookie on the phone, leaning on her hard.

  La Cindy continued to tease me. “I’ll go ahead slum it with you for drinks. I usually play the big money crowd.”

  Damn straight, I thought. With other people’s money. I made the second mistake of the day. “Fine, Cindy. Whatever. Let’s get this over with. I expect you to give me what I came or when this is over.”

  The bartender lined up ten shots at the far end of the table. La Cindy chalked up her cue stick. “Loser pays all.”

  Here’s the killing thing about it. The drunker she got, the better Cindy played. The tequila seemed to sharpen her focus and steady her shaky hands. When I was down by two to her six, she called for another round of shots. By the time she had beat me eleven to eight, we were both wasted as fuck. La Cindy drank way more than me and was practically falling over.

  I ain’t never been down with spirits, chulo. It makes me stupid sick. I get hot and start turning red all over, which ain’t easy for a brown skinned Mexican like me. Couldn’t handle booze is how I started tussing as a teenager. I didn’t notice the after-affects until it was too late to stop.

  The day was warm enough that someone had a side door propped open. La Cindy staggered over, sat on the step, puked into the alley, then lights out. She slumped in the doorway like a rag doll.

  I went over and shook her shoulder. “You said you had something for me, Cindy. Come on, I ain’t got all day.”

  The bartender came over with the check in one hand and a cup of black coffee in the other. He frowned at La Cindy lolling in the doorway before turning to me. “Drink up, pay up and get her the hell out of here.”

  “Hey,” I protested. “I’m not the one responsible.”

  “You came in with her, didn’t you? You can’t leave her here like this. We’ve only been open an hour and Cindy’s already three sheets to the wind. Looks like you could use a little sobering up yourself.”

  “La verdad,” I agreed. “You’re not lying. José Cuervo ain’t never been no friend of mine.”

  I downed the hot coffee, grabbed La Cindy around the waist, half-walked and half-dragged her home. I got us both up the steps of the coach house and fumbled through her purse for the key.

  Suddenly the door flew open from the inside. A tall blonde in what looked like a men’s suit stood there scowling at me. She might have been pretty if she didn’t look so damned mean. I wondered if she lived there. She wasn’t old enough to be Cindy’s mother and they didn’t look like sisters.

  “What the hell is this?” she hissed. “And who the hell are you?”

  I tried to climb out of my drunk to answer her coherently. “Cindy got drunk at the Ukrai… Ukrai…at the bar back there. They told me to bring her home. She lives here, right?”

  The blonde stared at me another second before holding open the door. As I helped her inside, Cindy opened her bloodshot eyes and squinted at the other woman.

  “Hey, Monica,” she slurred. “I want you to meet my good friend. My very, very good friend. His name is…Wha’ you say your name was?”

  “José,” I answered. “Where do you want her to go?”

  Monica pointed to the sofa. When I dumped there, La Cindy pulled me down on top of her. She slobbered all over my lips and neck, then turn her head and puked into a throw pillow.

  I looked back and saw Monica was still standing at the open doorway, gripping the doorknob so hard I was afraid she’d break it off. I realized the suit she wore was an airline uniform.

  “Hey, what are you?” I asked stupidly. “A flight attendant or something?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, José, but I’m an airline pilot. Now get the hell out of my house before I call the police.”

  I headed toward the door, then stopped in my tracks. “Wait a minute, Monica. Cindy and I got business. She owes big money. She’s been ripping off my client.”

  “Your client?” she hissed in disbelief. “What kind of client do you have?”

  “She’s jacking Jimmy Hill for all his money and trying to force him into porn.” I pointed to the summons lying on the floor where it had fallen. “If you don’t believe me, read it.”

  Monica picked up the document and looked it over. She seemed extremely pissed off with what she saw but not all that surprised. She let the summons flutter back to the floor.

  Monica walked over to a roll top desk, took out a folder, opened it, wrote something down, tore it off and slid it in an envelope.

  When she handed it to me, I looked inside and saw a check, the numbers and letters swimming before my eyes. Even as drunk as I was, I could see it was made out in the sum of twenty-five thousand dollars from Monica Wei
ssman to Jimmy Hill. The memo section read, “Services paid in full.”

  I left the coach house and started weaving my way toward the El station. When I got there, I realized I didn’t have my cell phone on me. I searched the Ukrainian Village Tavern and didn’t see it. I tiredly trudged back toward La Cindy’s house.

  A Lincoln Town Car was double parked out front. Monica came out carrying a suitcase, a jacket over her arm. She opened the car door, got inside, then climbed back out again. When she ran into the gangway I followed in my Chuck Taylors, silent as the wind.

  I came out into the yard and ducked behind a blooming snowball bush. Monica Weissman was muy intimidante. I sure as hell didn’t want to mix it up with her again.

  The coach house door was sitting open. The same one who’d been legless and puking into a pillow a few minutes ago was back on her feet. La Cindy stood in the doorway holding up a leather satchel and wearing the same silky robe she had on earlier. Monica took the steps two at a time, grabbed the bag from her hand, leaned in and planted a kiss on the lips.

  She was turning away when Cindy yanked open her robe. Monica couldn’t resist. She reached in and groped around, mashing lips with her again. When Monica finally left, Cindy leaned against the doorway with her robe hanging open, rubbing herself between the legs.

  If there was any question about their relationship, it was now clear as glass.

  16

  Katrina had brought her baby with her to the office. I hadn’t realized that the kid was a Afro-Latino-Arab terrorist. Gusto Amrani was hollering up a storm, crawling around and pulling things down. Terri kept moving things out of his way and rolling her eyes at her sister.

  The cousins couldn’t understand why I came rolling in drunk as a sailor. When I tried to explain why I had to play pickled pool with La Cindy, it didn’t make sense even to my own ears.

  “You smell like a damned distillery,” Terri frowned. “I don’t remember you as a lush.”

  Her harangue was interrupted by the arrival of Jimmy Hill. This time he was styling in a light summer suit, complete with a pocket watch and panama hat. Our boy was looking GQ clean. When Terri handed him the check, tears came to his eyes.

  “Is this for real?” he exclaimed. “You’re not a detective, you’re a miracle worker.”

  Terri inclined her head toward me. “With a whole lotta help from my drunk cousin. Get that check to the bank right away. I’m sending you my bill and I don’t want it to bounce.”

  “Hey,” Katrina smirked in Jimmy’s face. “Wouldn’t you like to ask the miracle worker out?”

  “Trina!” we both shouted.

  “No, thank you,” Jimmy shook his head. “I’m not really into that.”

  “You see!” Terri said triumphantly. “I knew the man was gay!”

  “Oh, I’m not gay.”

  Katrina wouldn’t leave it alone. “What, so you don’t like Afro-Latino women?”

  “Your sister is very pretty. But I’m not attracted to anyone, male or female. I’m what’s known as asexual.”

  “La verdad?” I stirred out of my drunk to ask. “They got Viagra and shit for that.”

  Jimmy Hill shook his head, pointing to the pin on his suit lapel. “I’m fine the way I am.”

  “Asexuals got their own flag?” Terri asked.

  “The purple is for our community. The white is for our sexuality…”

  “Which you say you don’t have any of,” Katrina interrupted.

  “Actually,” Jimmy explained. “There’s a spectrum between sexuality and asexuality. The gray stands for demisexuality. Some people have urges now and again that they may or may not act on. The black is for strict asexuality, which goes for people like me.”

  “Well, he’s about as useful as a broke-dick dog,” Katrina shook her head when he left. “I’m so confused right now. That’s a criminal waste of pretty.”

  “Even if Jimmy wasn’t asexual,” Terri told her. “I could never be with anybody so much finer than me.”

  “That’s lies,” I sang. “Ain’t nobody finer in the state of Carolina in the morning. You’re fine as wine, dolomite.”

  I went into Michael Jackson’s “Pretty Young Thing,” got up and drunk-danced Terri across the tiny office before she pushed me away. “Get off me, you drunk fool. I’ve never seen you like this.”

  They sent me home in an Uber and told me to sleep it off.

  17

  It was beginning to be like Groundhog Day. I came home and found Isabella in the same place, sitting at the computer desk in tears. Her head was buried in her hands.

  “You made me do it, Lalo. This is all your fault.”

  A splotch of blood was seeping through her pants and spreading upward.

  “Izzy, this is nobody’s fault. I think your water broke. We’re going to have a baby.”

  I called 911, and an ambulance took us to Illinois Masonic. In the maternity ward we found out that Izzy was in false labor. Her blood pressure was dangerously high, so the doctor decided to keep her overnight.

  They must have given her something because she was drifting in and out sleep. I tucked the sheets around her and noticed scratches and bruises on her wrists. “How did you hurt yourself?”

  Izzy burrowed into her pillow. “I tried and tried to call you, Lalo. You never answered the phone.”

  “Yeah, I lost it somewhere. The last time I remembering seeing it was at the Ukrainian Village Tavern.”

  “That’s not the Ukrainian Village,” she mumbled. “It’s Humboldt Park.”

  “Don’t worry about it, babe. Just try to relax.”

  I called Izzy’s parents, though I knew they didn’t like me. When Matteus and Marina Esposito arrived, the nurses told us Izzy could only have two visitors at a time. Mrs. Esposito gave me a dirty look when she smelled the booze on my breath.

  “You go home now,” she ordered. “When you are in good condition, bring nice nightgown for my daughter to wear. This hospital one is crap.”

  Since Izzy had her people with her, I decided to follow orders. When I got home I started on the overnight bag we’d never got around to packing. Suddenly I heard the sound of a cell phone ringing. I followed it to its source, the computer desk drawer.

  I didn’t know if I was still drunk or dreaming. My cell phone shouldn’t be there. I’d lost it at the bar or in La Cindy’s place. Or, could I have had it on me all this time, brought it home, put it in the desk drawer and forgot it? No, I was drunk but not that drunk.

  The ringing stopped then started over again.

  “Hey,” I answered to my cousin Terri. “Izzy’s in the hospital.”

  “Is she having the baby?”

  “No, not yet. They’re keeping her for observation.”

  “I pray she’ll be okay. Look, you haven’t seen the news yet, have you? Turn it on and call me back.”

  It was so surreal that I couldn’t believe my eyes or my ears. One Cinderelle Brandy McGhee had been found dead that afternoon in the Humboldt Park residence she shared with a friend. Cause of death, undetermined. The police were investigating.

  I called Terri right back. “Cindy McGhee is dead! How did this happen?”

  “I checked in with some of my CPD contacts. It looks like foul play. They’re just waiting for the medical examiner’s report.”

  “Terri,” I took a deep breath, trying to push my way out of intoxication, “I had nothing to do with this. You got to believe me. Cindy was alive when I left there. Terri, you there?”

  There was a pause at the other end, before she finally responded. “Yeah, I believe you. But you were probably one of the last people to see her alive. Don’t be surprised if the police call you in for questioning. Who do you think could have done this?”

  “Who knows? The girlfriend may have had a motive to kill her. It seems Cindy slept around. A guy named Stu—I think he’s her bookie—was threatening her on the phone. Hell, Jimmy Hill himself wouldn’t be sorry
to see her gone, especially now that he has his money.”

  “I’m sending Katrina over there. You’re going to need counsel on this one.”

  “Well, have her meet me at Illinois Masonic,” I said. “I’m going back there now.”

  I picked up the overnight bag and headed for the door. My mind was ticking like a time bomb, banging against my brain. Something clicked in place.

  That’s not the Ukrainian Village, it’s Humboldt Park. How did Izzy know?

  You made me do it, Lalo! This is all your fault. What did Izzy mean?

  My lost cell phone ringing in the computer desk drawer. How did it get there?

  I went back, logged onto the computer and found out what my girlfriend had been hiding from me. Isabella Esposito had had me under surveillance for weeks. The “Find My Phone” application was open, my telephone number selected. I went back through the history.

  Izzy had been tracking the cell phone she’d given me. The last report showed it traveling from Humboldt Park to Hermosa, arriving back here at 2:37 p.m. But wait, I hadn’t come straight home. I’d stopped at Terri’s office first.

  The realization kicked me in the gut like a mule. Somebody had gone to Cindy’s house, found my cell phone there and brought it back home.

  When the cops rang the bell, I waited for them at the front door with both hands raised. “Officers, I’m confessing to the crime. But before you take me in, I need to use the john. I’m not trying to escape but I think I need to puke.”

  18

  It’s all your fault…it’s all your fault! Those words followed me through the reading of Miranda rights, the handcuffing, the walk to the cruiser. They taunted me on the ride to the precinct, the lockup, the arraignment and onto Cook County Jail.

  You made me do this, Lalo! echoed in my head, nearly drowning out the monkey mouth in the bunk below me singing “Drunk on a Plane” when it should have been “Locked Up.” It broke through my blinding hangover, puke rising at the back of my throat.

  Everything was my fault.