They All Fall Down

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  Behind us, Desi and Wallace continued to nap in their chairs. They hadn’t heard or suspected a thing.

  “You okay?” I asked Javier between breaths.

  Javier said, “No, but I’m about to be.” He plucked a brushed silver pill case from his shirt pocket and popped it open. White powder. Not confectioner’s sugar. He dipped his long pinkie fingernail into the small mound of cocaine, snuffed it, flicked at his nostril, then offered me a bump.

  “No, thank you.” I settled back into a cushiony high stool at the breakfast bar. “Feeling better now?”

  “Oh, yeah. I think all this drama calls for a drink.” The chef pulled himself to stand, then grabbed the bottle of vodka from the breakfast bar. He twisted off the cap.

  “It’s not even noon yet,” I pointed out.

  “Screwdrivers have orange juice in ’em. Breakfast of champions, baby.”

  “Eddie has guns,” I blurted. “Lots of guns, and I have proof. Look.” I plucked my phone from my pants pocket and found the pictures I’d snapped of the gun cases and the ammunition.

  Javier took my phone, then swiped through the shots I’d taken. He grunted his indifference, then said, “Where the guns at? I only see ammo.”

  I blinked at him. “Why does he have ammo if he doesn’t have guns?”

  Javier shrugged. “You said, ‘He has lots of guns,’ and I don’t see no guns. Don’t matter anyway. We’re here now.”

  “It does matter. Why the hell does he have boxes of this shit?”

  Javier shrugged. “Don’t know. C’mon, Miriam. It ain’t like you trusted that fool before you saw them bullets. That dude is wound tighter than a yo-yo.”

  “Exactly. So?”

  “So … what?”

  “Don’t you wanna know for sure if we should be scared? Don’t you wanna know if he has something planned? A violent act of revenge or … or … if we’re now targets in some Great White Hunter bullshit, cuz I sure as hell didn’t sign up for that. And I’m not gonna be silent about it, either.”

  He smiled at me. “You’re so dramatic. Ain’t nobody paying attention to that nut. They don’t care about him carrying guns around. If that’s what it is, if that’s what these rich fools want, crazy white boys with guns, then that’s what they’re gonna get, boom, boom, boom, no matter what you say, no matter what I say. If they want you gone, and I’m sure they do, you’re gone.

  “It’s just like they did me. That’s why I’m here. Paying my dues. Cuz see, they were trying to take me down, but Phil told ’em, ‘Back the fuck up.’ Cuz Phil was badass. You know what, though? Fuck ’em. I’m gonna show ’em all.” He poured orange juice into two glasses, followed with generous pours of vodka. “They not gonna win. Nuh-uh.” He shook his head as he offered me a screwdriver. “Here’s to Phil O., baby.”

  We toasted. I sipped, coughed. “We need to do something about Eddie.” I coughed again.

  “Lightweight.” His laugh filled the kitchen. “How you gon’ do something about a crazy dude with a TEC-9 and you can’t even drink right?”

  “But he’s—”

  “Listen to me. Fuck him. If he pulls a gun or some shit like that? Run. I know you know about that.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Don’t wanna talk about him anymore. He reminds me of assholes I left behind at home. We’re here to celebrate while we got the chance. Fate is fate. Hate is hate.”

  “Fine.” I sipped more of my cocktail, unsure what to do next except enjoy the icy warmth of vodka slipping through my veins. “So how are they trying to take you down?”

  Javier gulped a third of his screwdriver, then said, “You ever watch that show Cook or Die?”

  “My daughter and I used to watch it together.”

  “I thought it was stupid at first. Walk the plank if the captains think your food tastes like ass. Really? But I went on anyway since Ofelia, that’s my wife, wouldn’t shut up about it, and I won the final challenge. My starter was reindeer pâté, the main course was herb-crusted elk chops, and for dessert, I made mangosteen sorbet.”

  “What’s mangosteen?”

  “It’s this purple fruit kinda like citrus. Anyway, I won the damned thing, and I opened up my restaurant B.I.G., right off the Strip in Vegas? And anyway, my waitress, Trixie? She warned them fools that it wasn’t for pussies, but they ordered it anyway.” He shrugged, then guzzled the rest of his screwdriver.

  I scrunched my face—had I missed a part of the story?

  “Not my problem, man,” he continued, his eyes shiny now as he poured more vodka into his glass, but then he drank straight from the bottle. “There’s this thing called ‘free will,’ and the food’s good, and ain’t nobody else complained. The natives told me there’s good fishing in these waters. So, that’s for dinner, Miss Miriam, and y’all gonna love it and the world’s gonna talk about how I impressed them fuckers on the island for Phil’s going-away, and maybe I’ll donate some of the money he paid me for this gig to the guy’s family so they can shut the hell up and drop the suit. Just leave me the hell alone and lemme cook, you know?”

  I stared into my cocktail. “Guess we all have our problems, huh?”

  He pointed at me. “Not you, baby. Ain’t nobody fuckin’ with you and getting away with it.”

  I clinked my glass against his bottle, then drank. “I play to win, amigo. Phillip loved that about me.”

  “Hey.” Javier’s face darkened, and he leaned forward until it was mere inches from mine. “Some advice: stay the hell away from Eddie. That fucker’s crazy. Shit get nutso ’round here, though, for real? Like I said: run … but run straight back here. My bag’s in the pantry. Eddie ain’t the only fool on this island—I got me a gat, too. Bought it off some pendejo before I hopped on La Charon. I don’t go nowhere if I’m not strapped. Remember that, ’kay?”

  I nodded, and the chair swayed beneath me.

  “Good.” Javier straightened, then flicked his hand at me. “Now leave. I got some cookin’ to do.”

  I held up my glass, then tapped the breakfast bar. “You’re on my team, though?”

  “Hell yeah, I’m on your team.” He winked at me. “Team Miriam all the way.”

  I wobbled away from the breakfast bar, lighter than I’d been all morning.

  “Hey, Miriam?” Javier said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Stay sober, baby. Stay sober.”

  12

  Stay sober.

  Good advice from a drunk chef and owner of a black-market gun that was stowed near the boxes of bread crumbs and chicken stock, whose veins were filled with Florida orange juice, Russian vodka, and Colombian blow, the same man who’d mixed me two cocktails in nearly three hours.

  Stay sober, indeed.

  Screwdriver in hand, I shuffled out to the terrace with my shoulders loose, and with my knees weak and wobbly from the booze and the morning’s dosage of Valium.

  “Hey, girlie.” Desi skipped over to me from the chaise lounge and pulled me into a hug. She smelled of cherry Laffy Taffy and baby powder again, and felt as smooshy as almost-set soufflé.

  Wallace stood from the table and dropped a napkin onto his plate of untouched eggs and potatoes. “Miriam, would you like to come with us? We’re strolling down to the docks to greet more of my guests.”

  Desi wiggled her nose like a bunny. “Say yes. It’ll be a hoot.”

  Didn’t really feel like sweating and hiking again, especially after just guzzling a screwdriver, but I’d do anything to make Wallace look favorably upon me.

  And so, I joined the couple and trod the path we’d taken yesterday. Desi talked nonstop about her momma and her daddy, about Larry and how his accounting business was thriving before his death.

  I was barely listening to her—mosquitoes had, once again, found me, the roving buffet, and so I focused my energies on slapping and scratching, clawing and panting.

  “You’re like an alley cat back there,” Wallace said to me from the front of our short line.

 
“I should’ve kept my behind back at Artemis.” Pebbles had found the insoles of my shoes and now rolled and scraped every part of my foot. A hike in suede Steve Madden flats? (You are as stupid as they said you were…) A hike wearing white linen Calvin Klein? (You knew better than that. Who are you now?) For those two decisions alone, I deserved to be miserable.

  Each tortured step, though, brought us closer to the roar of the ocean and its cool breeze. I pictured myself running into the water to cool off and … and then more sand would fill my shoes, and it would rub and rub my feet until they became two size-six pearls. “How many people are you expecting?” I asked Wallace in an attempt to think about something, anything else.

  “Twenty, total,” Wallace said. “Phillip didn’t want a three-ring circus. Just one big ring.”

  We broke through the jungle. Gray waves rolled in from the sea and crashed onto the white-sand beach. The boathouse had survived another day but it looked more slanted, more of an example of an obtuse angle than a working shed. Those fluffy clouds I’d enjoyed during breakfast now looked heavier, and grays and greens tinged their perfect bodies.

  “That doesn’t look good,” Desi said, squinting at the sky.

  Wallace didn’t look up. Instead, he peered out at the horizon. “La Charon should’ve been out there by now.” He glanced at his watch, then walked onto the rickety dock. “They were supposed to arrive before one o’clock.”

  There was nothing out there in the shape of a yacht. Just that ocean and those clouds.

  “Maybe there’s weather back on the mainland,” I offered.

  He grunted and glared into the distance with his jaw clenching and unclenching.

  Desi and I made “uh-oh” faces at each other, but we dared not speak. The wooden planks, though, groaned beneath our feet. Exactly, planks. Exactly.

  “This upsets my plans for today,” he said. “Fucking Mexicans—no offense. Raul and Andreas are Mexicans and they have screwed up my plans.” He tossed me a fake smile that immediately slipped off his face. “The sky this morning was perfect. Raul checked the weather just two days ago, and the forecast…” With hands on his thin hips, Wallace paced the dock, gaze still trained on the horizon.

  “There’s a radio, right?” I asked. “You can call Raul and see what’s happening, can’t you?”

  Wallace kept pacing, the planks beneath him kept groaning, and no one spoke for a very long time. Finally, he ran his hand along his sweaty forehead and limp wig, then dropped his arms to his sides. “You’re right, Miriam. I should do that. Edward has radios. I’m sure Raul will have a good explanation—he’s never failed us before. Really: the man’s always come through, even in the most dangerous moments. Bringing over construction workers and supplies and whatnot.” Wallace cupped his hands at his mouth, then shouted into the distance, “Sorry for calling you a fucking Mexican, Raul! You’re one, not the other. Apologies, my friend.”

  Desi giggled. “Wallace, you are a hoot.”

  I said, “Yeah, a real hoot,” then scratched the bite now welting on my neck. Were those guests in Phillip’s will, too? If so, would they receive their share if they didn’t show? Those questions sidled up to my lips, but I didn’t ask, not with Wallace’s smile gone again, not with his violet eyes hot like that, and his fists clenched into hard balls of fire and fury. Yeah, asking him about money would’ve been the end of me.

  Eddie, bullet hoarder and secret assassin, met us at the porch. “Where’s everybody else?” He almost looked relaxed, not rage filled at all—which meant that he didn’t suspect that I’d visited his room and had poked around in his bags.

  “No idea,” Wallace said. “I need to use one of your radios to call Raul.”

  Eddie said, “Got it,” then nodded. “I had this one case, boat was supposed to pull into the Boston Harbor around seven, right? It was one of those day-fishing boats that took weekend fishermen out to catch shit. Anyway, guy with a gun and a speedboat hijacked the fishing boat. Took everybody’s cash, jewelry, all of that. The captain tried to be a hero, and boom, bad guy shoots him dead. Second mate? Tries to be a hero. Boom, dead. We get there, the real heroes, and the entire—”

  “Edward, please.” Wallace, pale now, squeezed the bridge of his nose. “More radio, less Cold Case, please.”

  Eddie pivoted on his heel, then both men charged into the house.

  Desi plucked leaves from my dirty blouse. “You’re a mess, girlie. Like you’ve been—”

  “Cutting brush and walking in the jungle?” I asked as I scratched at the bites on my hand. “If you don’t mind, I’m about to hog the bathroom.”

  Desi flicked her bite-free hand. Guess her blood wasn’t as sweet as her perfume. “Take all the time you need. Hey—come to my room afterward. You can help me pick out an outfit for tonight. Maybe there’ll be more men in this second group of people.”

  More men? I bit my lip, then smiled. “Didn’t think of that.”

  “I’ll even let you have first pick.”

  “As Wallace would say: Desi, you’re a doll.” I thought of telling her about the ammunition I’d found in Eddie’s bags. I thought of pulling out my phone and showing her the pictures I’d taken. But Frank ruined that moment once he strolled out to the porch with two Bloody Marys in hand.

  “For you, my dear.” He offered Desi a glass.

  She curtsied and said, “Aren’t you sweet?”

  He lifted the second glass to his lips and sipped.

  I smiled, then mimed drinking from a glass he hadn’t brought me. “Mmm, it’s absolutely delicious, Frank.”

  Frank shrugged. “My apologies, Miriam. Didn’t see you standing there.”

  Desi giggled, then tapped Frank on the chest. “You’re awful.”

  Yeah, awful. The opposite of Javier, who had lined up glasses of Bloody Mary on the breakfast counter. I snagged one, thought about snagging a second, then guzzled half as I stumbled down the hallway to my bedroom.

  Back in my quiet place, I closed the door behind me and placed the near-empty glass on the nightstand. So peaceful. So far from everything. Like the cops and their questions about Prudence’s last visit to my house. It would be her word against mine, and neither of us had been upright in the last year. But I had video of Thursday night captured on my security camera, and even though I’d had problems playing the recording that night—unable to connect to the internet and then No video available—I was sure everything would come out right. And if I had only video without sound, even better. I could create the narrative, who said what to whom. Most important, Detective Hurley would see me on the ground. He would see Prudence kick my arm. That’s all that mattered. One act of violence.

  The room was cold, and goose bumps rose next to the mosquito bites on my skin. I stepped over to the thermostat—sweet lord, it’s sixty-two degrees, no wonder—and clicked the red arrow button until the digital display hit seventy-five.

  With one long sigh, I fell onto the bed, then studied the pictures on my phone that I’d taken of Eddie’s boxes of ammo. Javier was right, although I didn’t agree entirely with his conspiracy of rich men wanting us dead. But I played devil’s advocate as I lay there, and I could easily explain away all of those weapons. Second Amendment, hunting island wildlife, personal safety, gun show. If I said something to the group again, Eddie would simply pull out his shooting instructor license, say that he was there because Phillip had taught him to shoot and that he wanted to perform a three-gun salute in the dead man’s honor. And then, then! The others would mock me forever for crying wolf and Wallace would take back the money Phillip had left me and I’d never be invited to Artemis again.

  I tapped each picture, then moved my finger to tap the trash can icon.

  No. keep them. Just in case.

  In case of what?

  In case you need proof. After the smoke clears and everybody’s dead, you’ll have proof that you tried to warn them all.

  Javier was right: I was so freakin’ dramatic.

  Still, I
left the pictures in the album. Took long breaths in and pushed long breaths out as I lay on the bed, eyes fixed to the ceiling. Other than the plane ride to Mexico, none of the last forty-eight hours had been expected—from Prudence’s late-night assault and Billy’s dismissal to finding TEC-9 ammo in a red-walled bedroom. All of this was bizarre—and made for great television. America would have been entertained and they would’ve rooted for me after all, had this been a reality-show competition. I would’ve been a fan favorite, invited to all-star seasons and …

  My breathing slowed as I stayed in bed, as my mind wandered back to the mainland and to the people I’d left behind.

  What was Morgan doing right now? Packing for Disney World? Watching YouTube and learning how to fix a new hairstyle or learn a dance move? Were she and Ashlee chomping spicy tuna rolls and slurping udon noodles at Sugarfish? Was she buying bath bombs the color of dreams? Did she miss me? Did she…?

  13

  My eyes popped open. I’d fallen asleep.

  Where am I?

  My eyes scanned the ceiling of the dimly lit room, then slipped over to the damask-covered headboard, to my suitcase spilling clothes near the closet, to the cold dark fireplace and my cocktail dress draped across the chaise lounge and waiting to be worn. Something was scratching. Not a loud scratching, more like a mouse making a hole in the wall.

  Where…? I’m lost. Again.

  “Artemis. I’m at Artemis.” I swiped at drool on my lower jaw, then groaned as I turned over in the bed. My arms and legs were sore from traveling from one country to the next, from hiking jungle trails in Steve Madden flats, from Prudence McAllister’s nearly lethal kick.

  What time…?

  I found my cell phone tangled in the folds of the comforter: six ten.

  The reception on the terrace started in a half hour.

  I sat up in bed and looked out the window.

  The sun had dipped somewhere in the west, leaving the jungle dark and making the light in my bedroom gray. All windows were closed—but a chill swept between the four walls, and the glass beads on the chandelier tinkled. And even though it was Mexico in July, I still shivered—the room’s temperature was closer to fifty-eight degrees than seventy-eight.