Five Midnights

by Ann Dávila Cardinal

  Javier looked up to see a large man silhouetted in the doorway, removing mirrored aviator sunglasses as he walked into the church. He could spot a cop a mile away, but as the man came closer Javier recognized him. Not just a cop, but the cop: Esteban Dávila, the chief of police. Javier could feel his feet pulling beneath him, as if his old skills, his old life, still ran through his veins telling him that cops were people you ran from. But that was then. He was clean now. “That’s me.”

  The policeman stood in front of him and though Javier was almost six feet tall, Dávila towered over him. Jefe was big, in more ways than one.

  “Esteban Dávila.” He flashed his badge, the gold glinting in the low church lights, as if Javier didn’t know who he was. “You’re a friend of my wife’s nephew, Isadore, verdad?”

  Javier nodded.

  “And Ludovico Belasco?”

  Another nod.

  “Mind if I ask you some questions about him?”

  Javier looked back up at the shrouded altar as if Vico were there, watching them from the shadows, reminding him of the code: never talk to cops. But that wasn’t his code anymore, and it certainly hadn’t served Vico well. “Yeah, I suppose.” He looked longingly at the doorway, wishing he’d left when he’d had the chance.

  Chief Dávila pulled out a small, leather-covered notebook from his jacket pocket without taking his gaze from Javier’s. Javier had only met Izzy’s tío a few times, but he was always surprised by the warmth in the man’s eyes, by the thin lines that punctuated his expression, as if a lifetime of smiling had etched them there. Izzy always had respect for him, and fear, Javier remembered that.

  “Ludovico was a childhood friend of yours, right?”

  “Yes. We lived on the same block.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” Javier was certain Dávila said that line all the time with his job, but it didn’t sound insincere. “When was the last time you talked to him, son?”

  “At his mother’s funeral. Right here. A year ago April, I guess.”

  Chief Dávila just stared at him. “A lot of loss for a young man.” Javier wasn’t sure if he meant Vico, Izzy, or Javier. Didn’t matter, he supposed. They’d all seen more death than someone five times their age. His throat tightened and he just nodded.

  “So you and Señor Belasco were members of a gang called—” He consulted his notebook. “Los cangrejos?”

  Javier snorted. “Gang? No, man. Our mothers gave us that name when we were little kids.”

  Dávila smiled, just a bit. “The crabs? Why?”

  “There were five of us born in the same two weeks in July.” The big man just stared at him. “You know, Cancer? The crab? Our mothers met at a birthing class before we were born, or some shi—something like that.” Javier felt his temper slipping. The whole thing was giving him a headache. “Look, I have to go.”

  The smile was gone: the policeman was suddenly down to business. “Javier, do you have any idea who could have done this? Did Ludovico have any enemies?”

  Javier chortled; it was an angry sound, stones spitting away from tires. “All drug dealers have enemies. You know that as well as I do.”

  Dávila nodded. Then he just stared. Javier started to feel like the man was looking through him, into his soul and seeing all the things Vico and he and Izzy had done together when they were younger, seeing the weakness Javier fought on a daily basis. He looked away, trying to break free from the cop’s stare.

  “Padre Sebastian tells me you’re clean, is that right?”

  Javier raised his head higher. “Yes.”

  Chief Dávila snapped his book closed. “Good. That’s no life for a young man. And he says you have a job at the church?”

  Javier nodded.

  “Excellent.” Then he handed Javier his card. “Call me if you think of anything, tu sabes?”

  Javier nodded.

  “Oh, and son, have you seen Isadore around lately?”

  Javier swallowed. So even Izzy’s family didn’t know where he was. “No.” They just stared at each other, the moment frozen between them, that shadow he felt pressing down on them.

  The moment broke when they both noticed raised voices coming from the church steps.

  The two of them started toward the door, their footfalls echoing among the buttresses of the now empty church.

  When they arrived in the doorway they found a girl blocking the entrance, her thin arms spread wide, her high heels far apart on the black and white tiles. “I told you, blanquita, you’re not coming in this church. You will not dishonor my brother’s memory with your white-girl presence.”

  When he arrived at the edge of the crowd, Javier recognized Vico’s sister, Marisol, blocking the door. She was surrounded by a crowd of teenagers; from the way they were dressed they had just come from the service. Half of them looked horrified, the other half hoping for a fight. Javier couldn’t say he was surprised—Marisol had had a screw loose since she was eleven, she had even done some time in a psych ward after their mother died—but when he noticed the other girl time seemed to slow.

  She was standing tall, her hands on her hips, the sun catching her honey-colored hair as she faced Marisol. She wore black jeans, a T-shirt, and a beat-up pair of laced boots. She was completely surrounded by onlookers, but she didn’t look scared at all, just pissed. Javier wasn’t about to pick a fight with Marisol and find out, but he thought if he was facing off with her, he might be scared.

  “What’s going on here?” Esteban Dávila boomed and everyone froze, except the blond girl.

  She put her hand up to him like she was the cop. “Nothing, tío. I got this handled.”

  Tío? The girl was Chief Dávila’s niece? Izzy’s cousin? That made no sense. Javier couldn’t take his eyes off her. There was something about her eyes, like they were lit from inside.

  Even when she talked to her uncle, she never took those eyes off Marisol. “Look, this is a public place and I have a right to go into any church I damn well please.”

  Javier smiled. Gotta love a girl who used a curse word at the entrance to a church.

  “I don’t think so, little white girl. Why not skip on off in your combat boots and run to Starbucks or something. You don’t belong here.”

  There was a chorus coming from the onlookers, varying from “Leave the girl alone” to “That’s right, girl, you tell her!”

  Dávila’s niece took a deep breath and said, “Look, I’m sorry about your brother. I know you must be—”

  “Oh no! Don’t you patronize me, blondie!”

  Marisol was not street like her brother, but Javier knew she was dangerous nonetheless. From his viewpoint he could see the muscles across her back tense like a lioness about to pounce. This blanquita didn’t know who she was dealing with. Before he knew it, Javier was ignoring Padre Sebastian’s non-interference advice yet again by slipping underneath Marisol’s arm and placing himself between them, putting the blond girl at his back.

  “Think you better cool down, Mari.”

  At the sound of her nickname, Marisol finally pulled her eyes from the girl and a crooked smile snaked across her lips. “Well, well, if it isn’t Ja-vee-air. You come back to the old neighborhood to slum it? You get clean and think you’re better than us, huh?”

  “I don’t think I’m better than anyone, I just—”

  Javier felt the niece shove him from behind, pushing him into Marisol. “Hey, I don’t need you to fight for me!”

  Before he could turn around, Marisol poked her bony finger into Javier’s chest. “So much for los cangrejos. You get out and never look back, just leave Vico behind like garbage, you self-righteous pendejo!”

  Javier felt like he’d been punched. He began to stammer. “It—it wasn’t my fault—I mean, Vico could have—”

  The flames behind Marisol’s eyes caught higher, like he’d thrown gasoline on them. He supposed he had.

  “Okay, enough of this.” Dávila literally lifted Marisol and placed her to the side. Marisol’
s eyes shot up at him when her feet hit the floor again, but Javier could see her recognize the chief and hold back her retaliation. Javier could still feel her rage as if it were heat.

  Some of the girls were pulling her away, but she strained to look back at Javier. “Somebody’s gotta pay. Somebody. It’s people like you and this gringa here”—she threw her arm in the direction of Dávila’s niece—“who killed Vico. Monsters don’t come unless someone calls them!”

  Javier thought he knew what angry was until he looked into Marisol’s eyes. But that wasn’t new: she’d changed sometime when los cangrejos were still together. One day Vico’s little sister was gone for good, replaced by an enraged and dangerous person. He made the sign of the cross. The girl gave off dark energy. Suddenly he was pulled around by his jacket sleeve, and found himself staring into the ocean blue of the niece’s eyes. With all the pain from Marisol’s words, he was glad he had at least protected the girl—

  “What the hell was that?” Her hands were back on her hips again.

  “Lupe…” A warning from her uncle.

  Lupe. The blanquita’s name was Lupe. “I— Look, you don’t know that girl like I do. I was only—”

  “And you don’t know me at all.” She poked her finger into the same spot that Marisol had. Javier wondered if there would be a bruise. “I don’t need anyone to fight my fights for me, comprendes?”

  Javier couldn’t say anything. He just stared at her and—God help him—he smiled. That really seemed to piss her off, her glowing eyes becoming stormy. Her uncle was guiding her away before she could yell at him some more, but Javier wished she would stay and yell at him all she wanted.

  “Lupe, I think that’s enough excitement for your first afternoon, don’t you?” As he walked her down the steps, Dávila looked back over his shoulder and flashed a sympathetic grin at Javier.

  Javier gave a half-wave and stepped outside so he could watch them walk to the car. Even as they were pulling away from the curb, he scanned the silhouettes inside to try to catch another glimpse of Lupe until all he saw were the red brake lights like eyes, peering around the far corner of the square.

  It was then that he was grabbed once more, this time from behind. Would this never end? He was pulled around 180 degrees and left staring into the face of Keno, the guy from Vico’s gang who’d been calling Memo earlier. Javier yanked himself from Keno’s grip.

  “Hands off, asshole.” He straightened his tie and jacket. Thugs like this didn’t scare him. “You run out of old ladies and little kids to bully?”

  An oily grin spread across Keno’s face, lifting the admittedly fierce scar next to his left eye. “You always did have a smart-ass comment for everything, didn’t you, Javi?”

  Javier matched the grin. “I try.” He looked around at the gaggle of thugs that surrounded them. Just before he looked back to his opponent, he noticed Memo hiding behind one overly tattooed guy in the back. “Was there something you wanted?”

  “Oh, I see. You’re all ‘I’m a good citizen’ and shit now, huh?” Keno leaned in until his face was right in front of Javier’s, the smell of drugstore aftershave overpowering. “I remember when you were a strung out mother-f-er. You weren’t so good then, jefe.”

  Javier felt his hands instinctively tightening into fists. He tried to breathe slow and steady. “What. Do. You. Want.”

  “You bring that cop to Vico’s funeral? You disrespecting my homeboy’s memory before he’s even in the ground, pana. What kind of friend are you?” He shoved his finger into Javier’s chest. Now there was definitely going to be a bruise.

  He poked Keno back. “I didn’t bring him, he was asking about Vico, trying to find his killer. You don’t want to know who killed Vico? What kind of friend does that make you? Or does that make you something worse? I mean, Vico’s not even in the ground yet and already you’re taking over Las Calaveras? Now that’s friendship right there.”

  There were mumblings among the posse. Javier could see the color rise in Keno’s face. Once again his smile betrayed him. This seemed to really piss off Keno, too.

  “I’m watching you, Utierre! I find out you turned narc, and you’ll wish for a death like Vico’s.”

  “I heard he was killed by someone with claws … a relative of yours maybe?”

  Keno lurched toward Vico, his right fist making a wide arc, but before it connected with Javier’s face, Memo leapt from the back and grabbed Keno’s fist until he was hanging off of Keno’s arm. It was almost comical when Keno noticed Memo hanging there and tried to shake him off. But Javier realized that laughing again probably wasn’t a good idea.

  “Damn, Memo, what’s the matter with you?” He finally shook him off, but the mood was broken. Keno rolled his shoulders and looked back at Javier. “You’re in my crosshairs, Prince Javi. Remember that.” Then he turned and strutted away with his ape gang.

  Javier sighed and relaxed his own shoulders.

  It truly had been the day from hell.

  July 6, 4:45 P.M.

  Marisol

  MARISOL YANKED OFF her spike-heeled pumps and kept walking. The cracked and uneven concrete of downtown Amapola dug into the soles of her feet, but she didn’t care. In fact, she welcomed the pain. Her mother was dead. Their family home repossessed. Now her brother was dead, too. Vico is a drug addict and idiota, but he’s family.

  Was.

  Past tense.

  The scene with the gringa outside the church had been the topper on the worst day of her life. Who the hell did that girl think she was?

  Marisol stopped, closed her eyes, and took a deep but shaky breath. The thumping had started inside her skull, like something was trying to get out. Last time it had gotten this bad she’d woken up in the psych ward after a two-day blackout. She’d woken up to find out that her brother was dead.

  The afternoon was cooling off a bit, and she could feel a slight breeze moving through her hair. She felt her heartbeat settle a bit, and opened her eyes.

  A car drove by and honked, a female voice yelling, “Mari!” She waved at the receding lights and smiled. Damn, she missed her neighborhood. People knew her here, accepted her, freak-outs and all. Sure, her cousin’s condo was fancy and he and his wife were nice to her, but she felt like some kind of pathetic orphan there. Besides, she didn’t fit in in Isla Verde. Too fancy and beachfront for her tastes. She liked the real Borinquen. The island beneath the one the tourists saw.

  Speaking of which, the smell of frying plantain and garlic suddenly reached for her like a carnival barker. In response her stomach growled and her smile widened. Chachu’s! She could identify the smell of the restaurant’s delicious tostones from miles away. Deep-fried goodness from right here in Amapola: that would make her feel better. She walked to the next block, slipped on her shoes, and waved to the men sitting at the outside tables sipping their cafecitos. The minute she stepped through the open doorway, Chachu’s sister Nivea called to Marisol and came out from behind the counter.

  Nivea gathered her up and locked her in a tight hug. Marisol started to pull away, but the woman just held her tighter, and eventually she let her body melt into the cushion of Nivea’s ample bosom and lost herself in the smell of flour, oil, and a hint of bleach. She reminded herself she wasn’t going to cry. Not today.

  Nivea released Marisol and held her at arm’s length. “M’ija, I’m so sorry about Ludovico. But he’s reunited with your mother now, descansen en paz.” She let go of Marisol just long enough to make the sign of the cross. “How are you, niña?” She looked her up and down with that discerning Puerto-Rican-mother eye. “You look too skinny, verdad, Chachu?”

  Nivea’s brother’s graying handsome head appeared in the pass-through window to the kitchen. “Leave the girl alone, Nivea! You can’t make the whole world as gorda as you!” He flashed the dazzling smile that broke many a heart in his day, and said, “You let us know if you need anything, Mari. You hear?” And then he was gone.

  Marisol’s throat tightened as she loo
ked into Nivea’s big brown eyes. “I’m okay, thank you for asking, Señora.”

  Nivea dropped her grip. “Bueno. Good. Now what can I get you?” She scooched behind the counter, moving sidewise so her wide hips could fit through the narrow entry.

  Marisol ran her eyes over everything in the glass case: golden fried plantain and yuca, pieces of moist chicken peeking out from a sauce of fresh tomatoes, onions, and garlic, and crispy chunks of pork stacked on a bamboo skewer. Her mouth watered at all the options. “Do you have bacalaítos today?”

  Nivea’s face lit up. Like so many islanders she loved feeding people. “For you? Of course!” And in seconds she was handing over a golden salt-cod fritter cradled in a white napkin.

  Marisol brought the delicacy to her mouth, blew gently on the edge of the oily pancake, and took a careful bite. The crispy breading gave way, releasing a puff of steam, and the taste of the mild white fish filled her mouth, followed by a citrusy hint of cilantro. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to be lulled by the sound of plates clattering, oil sizzling, and conversation around her. She opened her eyes and smiled at Nivea. “Delicioso, Señora. Just what I needed.” She flipped open her purse, but the older woman reached across the counter and stopped her hand.

  “No! Your money isn’t good here, cariño.” She looked at Marisol with the liquid eyes of pity that the girl was getting way too much of lately.

  Marisol let her hand drop and took another bite. “Gracias, Señora.” Her abuela had taught her not to talk with her mouth full, but she figured Nivea didn’t mind. “I miss your food so much! I have to ask my cousin to bring me here next weekend for dinner.”

  Nivea sighed. “I’m afraid we won’t be open.”

  Marisol stopped chewing. “What? What do you mean?” But in the pit of her stomach, she already knew.

  “The building has been sold—the whole block, actually. We can’t afford the new rents.” The older woman was looking off in the distance as if to a bleak future.

  Marisol’s throat closed.

  “Monday is our last day. The Americano investor who bought—”