by R. A. McGee
Twelve
Porter had no clue when, or if, Quintana would leave for the night, but he was hopeful. It was Saturday and people would be more likely to be out and about than on a weeknight. Regardless, Porter was prepared to keep an eye on the house until he saw movement. Luckily, that didn’t take very long.
Forty-five minutes into his surveillance, a woman and two children left the Quintana home in the white minivan that was parked out front. The van pulled out of the driveway and headed towards the entrance of the neighborhood, where it went east towards 56th Street. Porter watched the van go by and refocused his attention on the house. He poured himself another mouthful of sunflower seeds and settled in.
Two hours later, Abel Quintana’s front door opened. At this point, it was nearly nine o’clock and well dark outside. Fortunately, the porch light illuminated Quintana’s face as he turned from closing the front door. He had a small bag in his left hand. Porter started the Yukon. He was thankful to be moving, because he had been contemplating pissing in one of his empty water bottles.
Quintana got into the driver’s seat of his work van, with its happy wrap advertising, and started the engine. He didn’t sit for long, and left the neighborhood heading in the opposite direction from his family.
Not going to meet up with the wife and kids, Porter thought.
He let Quintana get a block down the road and eased the Yukon out after him. It wouldn’t be too tough to follow the big van, even in the dark, and Porter wanted to make sure Quintana didn’t suspect he was being followed.
As a federal agent, Porter had followed hundreds of people. If there was one universal truth, it was that they rarely had any clue. There were times when he was sure his surveillance had been burned but when he later arrested the person, they hadn’t seen him at all. People were oblivious creatures. In the moment, however, every turn or brake tap seemed like the beginning of a car chase.
Quintana made no such moves. He drove until he made a right turn north. Porter was two cars behind him most of the time. For a while he was right behind the big van, but there was no indication the bus driver knew.
The colorful van turned left into a brightly lit parking lot. Above, there was a large sign with faded letters surrounded by bright, racing bulbs that seemed to chase each other. The parking lot was almost full, and Abel Quintana parked in one of the outer rows, furthest from the building.
It was a bowling alley.
Porter took a right and pulled into the opposite parking lot. It looked like a thrift store that had gone out of business; there was a For Rent sign taped to the front window. Porter gave it a quick look and saw no external cameras. He backed into a spot in front of the vacant building and killed his lights.
Quintana must have needed time to find his bowling mojo, because he sat in the van for nearly twenty minutes. The clock on Porter’s dash showed nine forty-five when the van’s front door opened and Quintana slid out of the front seat, carrying his bag. He’d changed shirts in the car, and was now wearing an unfortunate bowling shirt.
Look at that gaudy thing, Porter thought. Not enough money in the world.
Abel Quintana held up his keys, made the van beep, and headed into the old building.
Porter sat for a few minutes taking stock. The blinking lights of the radiant sign gave him a good view of the parking lot. There were no cameras on any of the outer light poles. It looked like there was one above the front door, to catch people’s faces as they entered. This wasn’t the best neighborhood and it was possible the bowling alley had seen its share of robberies and bar fights.
Still, one camera wasn’t a problem.
According to Rivera, Abel Quintana had a clean record. He was a family man who had never had so much as a speeding ticket, but this didn’t matter too much to Porter. He had made a living listening to his intuition. Some people would call it their gut feeling or the little voice in the back of their head. Porter thought it was a subconscious collection of all available evidence a person could give him: body language, voice inflection, non-verbal clues. It was how he knew Miss Leona had been genuine in her grief when he’d visited her at the Acres. It was the reason he knew that Dreadlocks and Tattoo were an issue and Jamal and Terrell weren’t.
It was also the reason he knew Quintana had much, much more to tell him.
Porter waited a few more minutes to make sure Quintana would be engrossed in whatever game he was playing, then got out of the car and went to his trunk. From the small pile of clothes, he grabbed a dark hooded sweatshirt. Opening the lockbox, he retrieved a dark pair of Mechanix gloves and a small spool of electrical tape. He stuffed the gloves in his back pocket and slipped his button-up off, replacing it with the sweatshirt. He locked up, pulled the hood of the sweatshirt up over his head, and walked toward the bowling alley.
Thirteen
Porter stepped onto the gravel parking lot that separated him from Quintana and cursed under his breath. He would feel every little rock through his Chuck Taylors. As he got closer to the front door, he pulled out his cell phone and buried his chin in his chest as if on an important call. A quick peek up revealed that the front door camera was on the left side of the door.
Porter kept his head down on his pretend call, careful to avoid the camera and stepped through the front door of the bowling alley.
Once inside, a quick look revealed two things: First was that although the lanes were well lit, the rest of the establishment was dark; second was that there were no interior cameras. Porter had seen this often. A victimized business owner adds a camera to regain peace of mind. They don’t think about all the proper angles they need to record. Half the time, the cameras aren’t even running. Porter ended his fake conversation, but kept his hood up.
Inside, the place looked like every other bowling alley. A counter with a cashier and shoe rental up front. There was a small arcade and restrooms along the wall to the left of the cashier; a counter for food and beer pickup on the right, with some chairs and small tables. Porter looked around until he spotted Quintana’s team near the middle of the alley.
All of them in those God-awful shirts, Porter thought.
He took a seat at one of the food tables so he could keep an eye on Quintana. He was a shit bowler. Porter watched as Quintana went frame after frame, failing to ever pick up a complete set of pins. Porter wasn’t sure how you could come here enough to be on a team and have a shirt, but still be so bad at the game.
“Get you something, buddy?” A skinny girl with stringy hair was standing to Porter’s left. The tag on her vest said her name was Adrestia. She tapped her notepad and chewed her gum.
“Busy night,” Porter said. “Is it like this all the time?”
“Nope, just on the weekends. Extra busy on the first and third weekends of the month. Need anything?”
Porter didn’t want to look out of place. “Water?”
“Tap or bottle?”
“How’s the tap?” Porter said.
“Depends. Do you want dysentery?”
“Not a huge fan,” Porter said.
“Bottle it is.” The girl turned and headed through a set of swinging doors on the wall behind Porter. He watched her go, and turned his attention back to the bowling team. They looked like average guys, plumbers and electricians. Maybe a schoolteacher or two. Men who needed some time away from their wives and a pretense to drink large amounts of shitty draft beer.
Adrestia materialized a few moments later with a bottle of water on her tray. “Three bucks.”
Porter fished in his front pocket and peeled off a five from his money. He always kept his wallet in his back pocket, and his money in the front. Something he’d learned from his dad. “Son,” he would say, “I’ve seen people get their wallets picked bumping into people in a crowd. It happens. But no one other than your mother should have their hand in my front pocket.” Porter figured he was extra safe, since no one else should have their hand in his front pocket.
“Here you go,” he said a
nd handed the waitress the five. “No change, but I do have a question.”
“The name, right? My family’s Greek,” the waitress said.
“You get asked a lot?”
“What do you think?” she said as she walked away.
Porter smiled and opened the water bottle. Before taking a drink, he pushed the hood off of his head. There’s only one camera in this place, he thought, and who knows if it’s even recording. No sense in pretending anymore. Let him see me.
Porter continued watching the shitshow, and Quintana didn’t get any better. Multiple pitchers of beer went to his team’s table.
It shouldn’t be long now, Porter thought.
No one said anything to him for nearly an hour, not even the waitress. Porter imagined she knew he wasn’t going to get drunk enough to tip her an incredible amount, so there was no reason to waste much time on him. Porter respected that. Finally, as he began to wonder if Quintana was Superman, it happened.
The last frame ended and the men were cueing up another game. Quintana stopped polishing his ball and set it down in the ball retriever. Speaking with his hands, he said something to the group and gestured backward, like he was hitching a ride in the opposite direction. They all nodded, and he stepped out of the lane and up to the worn-down carpet that ran the length of the hall. He turned right, away from Porter, and went through a small door next to the arcade.
About damn time.
Quintana entered the bathroom fifteen seconds before Porter. Porter turned an about-face before opening the door, to make sure none of the other shitshow bowlers had the urge to evacuate their bladders at the same time. Seeing none, he pushed through the door.
The bathroom was a small affair, with a sink, two urinals and a stall opposite. The bathroom was empty save for Quintana, who was at one of the urinals.
Porter had been holding in a massive piss since his surveillance in the Yukon. Might as well kill two birds with one stone. He stepped to the urinal between Abel Quintana and the sink. It was the short one, for boys. He had a standard joke for that.
“Man, this water is cold. And deep,” Porter said, as he unzipped his jeans and uncorked the waiting stream of urine.
Until that point, Quintana had literally been minding his own business. Most guys would lock a death stare onto their own unit while in proximity of another man peeing. No one wanted to let their eyes innocently roam around and get accused of meat gazing.
Quintana looked up and to his left. “What the fu—”
“Mr. Quintana, I gotta let you know that you are the shittiest bowler I’ve ever seen. You would be better off digging a hole in your backyard and burying the money you spend here.”
“Are you… are you… following me? How… why…”
“I know it’s tough to think while you have a hand full of hog. Real awkward; I get it. Don’t worry, I’ll talk, you keep aiming.”
Quintana made no move to sheath his member, but anxiously looked around the bathroom.
“If I’m being honest with you, I wasn’t too satisfied with the answers you gave me at your house. Deep down, I know you’re full of shit.”
Quintana looked at Porter. Porter could see him having a quick internal debate with himself, and in a moment it was over. The bus driver had decided to continue his lie.
“I already told you, I don’t know anything. That’s the same thing I told the police,” Quintana said.
“No, you said you wouldn’t tell me what you know. That’s different.”
“I made a mistake. My English isn’t so great. Just a translation accident.”
“You were born in New York, you piece of shit,” Porter said.
“Yes, yes, but I speak Spanish all the time. It’s just a mistake. Lo siento.” Quintana made an exaggerated shaking motion and zipped his pants. He moved back from the urinal, keeping his eyes on Porter.
“Listen,” Porter said, “this can all be so simple. I just want to know what you know.” He fixed himself and flushed the urinal. Noticing that Quintana hadn’t flushed, he leaned over and gave his urinal a flush as well.
Abel Quintana was almost all the way out the door. “I tell you, I don’t know who took the girl. Just leave me alone.”
The bathroom door slammed shut behind him.
While Porter washed his hands, he looked at himself in the mirror. There’s no other way, he reasoned. When he was finished washing his hands, he pulled his hood back up and reached into his back pocket and grabbed his Mechanix gloves. As he pulled on a glove, his gaze lingered on the plunger sitting in a bucket near the stall.
Fourteen
Porter reached over and grabbed the plunger out of the bucket. He closed the rubber end in the stall door so it wouldn’t move and rotated the handle until it was unscrewed. He let go of the stall door, and the rubber bottom fell down to the floor.
He stepped over to the sink and ran water over the wooden handle until it looked clean, then patted it down with paper towels. He stuck the plunger handle in his back pocket, covered it with his sweatshirt, then walked out of the bathroom and scanned left and right.
If Quintana had told his buddies Porter was there, things could get messy. It didn’t look like that happened. The bus driver had returned to his group and was changing his shoes. He was going to make tracks. Porter moved toward the emergency exit on the left.
Approaching the exit, Porter had a brief thought that opening the door might sound an alarm. Deciding the alley was low-rent enough that the door wasn’t actually hooked up to an alarm, he punched out of the exit door. No noise.
Good.
Porter was now outside the building, facing the street. He couldn’t see his Yukon from where he was, but he could see the top of that stupid van Quintana drove. He headed towards it.
When he got to the corner of the building, he took a quick peek towards the front door. No one was coming out. In front of him was the furthest right row of parked cars. There was just enough space between those cars and an old building they were lined up in front of for Porter to squeeze past. He used the space between the car’s bumpers and the building as a walkway to approach Quintana’s van unseen. He kept walking, the uncomfortable gravel digging into his shoes, until he got to the large Excursion next to the van. Standing in between the vehicles, no one could see him.
Porter took a knee and looked under the bumper, toward the front door. Quintana was standing still, looking around. He must have decided he was clear to go, because he hustled across the parking lot. Porter couldn’t believe how quickly his stumpy legs could carry him.
Porter watched the stout man move, looking around and behind him. Quintana even jogged for a few feet—then he stopped. Porter thought he might go back the way he came, but after a few moments, he started walking again, this time at a normal pace.
Quintana was only two cars away, and Porter could no longer see his head from under the bumper. He stood up with his back towards the Excursion. He could hear Quintana walking on the gravel. Small crunches as he got closer. Porter reached into his back pocket and grabbed the plunger handle, holding it by his side. Porter heard the crunches get closer, then he saw Quintana’s head clear the back of the Excursion. He was digging through his bag for his keys.
Porter had to take a shortened swing with the plunger handle since there wasn’t much space between the two vehicles. He took a small step that pivoted him left and smacked Abel Quintana on the mouth with the handle.
Damned short swing.
Regardless, Quintana dropped to his knees and gave Porter a look that said he was closer to sleep than wakefulness. Porter helped the transition.
He stepped out from between the cars. No longer boxed in by the vehicles, he was standing directly in front of his quarry. Porter brought the plunger handle in a big looping arc and struck him in the side of the head, near the temple.
Quintana departed from consciousness.
Fifteen
Porter let the plunger handle slide through his gloved finger
s. He stepped over the bus driver and pulled him into a seated position, then locked his arms around Quintana’s thick torso, bear-hugged the man, and dragged him between the two vehicles. Out of sight. Then Porter came back out again and looked around.
Nothing. No one had seen anything. This would be easier without witnesses.
He found Quintana’s keys on the ground and opened the back doors. It turned out that while the van was manufactured to seat sixteen, the two back rows of seats had been removed to enlarge the trunk.
He threw Quintana’s bag into the back of the van and then walked back to the unconscious man. There was blood pooling from his mouth and the beginnings of a serious black eye on his left eye. Porter didn’t feel bad. He could have easily killed the man if he’d put any effort into his swings. As it was, he’d laid the plunger as evenly across Quintana’s face as he could. He needed the bus driver asleep for a while, not dead.
Porter rolled Quintana onto his stomach and took his shoes off, then threw them into the van. Reaching into his pocket, he found the electrical tape and bound the man’s hands behind his back. Then, he grabbed Abel Quintana underneath the arms and pulled him to his feet. He was a heavy man, but Porter had the strength to cope. Porter lifted him off the ground and walked him back to the open van doors. Porter had to place Quintana in a fetal position to fit him in there. Before closing the back door, Porter grabbed a sock off the man’s foot and stuffed it into his mouth.
The sock was dirty.
Porter gave the area a quick scan and, seeing that he’d left nothing behind, moved to the driver’s door. Opening it, he slid the seat as far back as it would go, hopped in, and fired the van up.
He checked the gas gauge and found it was nearly full. Porter adjusted his mirrors and backed the van out of the gravel lot onto the main road, then pulled out onto Florida Avenue.