Javier’s eyes tick between Brian and the men. “Okay—yeah—this guy is my homeboy, and yes, he’s on staff as our permanent, full-time loco.” He grabs Brian’s arm and starts pulling him toward the cars. “Now time to get my friend back to work.”
Brian lets himself be led forward, but as he walks his body feels pervaded by low-level trembling—his heart is beating in a strange way and it becomes harder to walk normally. Some vital thread in his fabric has been tugged away and he seems to be coming apart. “I want . . .” he says hoarsely, lumbering to a halt. “This isn’t right. I want to help these men.”
Javier’s face swings around, eyes shining: he has the look of someone trying to carry a buddy out of a bloody battlefield. His jaw seems to have lengthened and his lips are pale. “Not now, Brian. Now is not a good time.”
Brian pats his pockets, again coming up empty. “Damn, dammit.”
“Listen, homes, you really work for these people? You already done plenty for us,” Sunglasses says. Gazing at his patient face, Brian understands that the three men are just as eager as Javier to see him gone. He wonders if Jack Parkhurst assigned these three to keep an eye on this lot. Parkhurst had done something like that with an abandoned warehouse and parking area he’d acquired in a ravaged section of Liberty City. “What can I do?” he asks mournfully, already sensing defeat. “Is there something I can do for you guys? Do you have résumés?”
“Oh yeah, right here with our business cards,” Shaved Head says.
“Yeah,” Red Shirt says with a hard laugh. “Give us your car. What about that?”
“No . . .” Javier is shaking his head, eyes closed.
Brian looks at Red Shirt, wanting to do something to shock the smile right off his face. Something extraordinary. Reckless. He places his hand in his pocket, feeling the outline of his keys. “Brian,” Javier warns. “Stop.”
“What does it even matter?” Brian asks, caught up in the euphoric jolt of his idea. “With that Steele investment, I’ll be able to buy any—”
“It’s not—” Javier snaps his sentence off, lowers his head, shaking it silently. “No, no. Bad idea.”
“Why the hell not? You know what—I’ll probably give a bunch of that money to charity anyway.”
“Because,” Javier hisses at Brian, “there isn’t going to be any money.”
“What?” Brian blinks.
“Fuck you. Charity.” Sunglasses and Shaved Head have backed up as if Brian has announced he has plutonium in his pocket. “Yo—like, we don’t jack people’s fucking cars, man,” Sunglasses says, and Shaved Head protests, “Fucking charity, asshole? The fuck outta here.”
“What are you saying?” Brian stares at Javier.
“Later, man,” Javier mutters, flicking a look at the young men.
“What in the goddamn hell?”
“You called me here.” Now Javier’s face is narrow with fury. “You drove in here due to losing your fucking mind, and I had to come get you out.”
Red Shirt watches their exchange with interest. “Man, you think like giving us a freaking car makes it all okay, you really out your mind. You insane in the membrane all right. You talking about what your people done to my people? You give me your car, your house, your wife, and your great-granny, man.”
“Word,” says Sunglasses.
“But, okay, so if the dude is really feeling bad about shit, like I think he is . . .” Red Shirt turns to the other two. “I say why not. I mean, it don’t change nothing, but if the cat really wants it so bad . . .”
“Un momento, un momento.” Javier holds up one hand. “What your people–my people we discussing? You people make your own mess in this country. My Americano here don’t have nothing to do with los Haitianos.”
A visible physical tension rattles through the men as their attention turns to Javier. Shaved Head—the one Brian has come to think of as more restrained than the others—says quietly, “You fooling with me?”
The men murmur as Javier holds up his hands, backing away. “Hang on now. Listen, my homeboy here cannot spare his car. He really isn’t right in his head, in case you haven’t noticed that. This car—it belongs to his wife. You hear me? He gives this car to you, she’ll be down here with la policía so fast. But look, okay—” He fishes two-fingered in the breast pocket of his shirt and flourishes a pair of folded sunglasses. “Do you see these? These are Leonards—and they’re so exclusive you’ve never even heard of them.” He nods at Sunglasses’ head. “I see you have a nice pair right there.”
The younger man lifts his head.
“I know those weren’t cheap—those Ray-Bans.” He uses his glasses to point.
Sunglasses snorts. “Cheap! Correct, muthafucka, these were not cheap.”
“Yeah. But let me ask you—did you pay twenty-six hundred dollars for them? These”—Javier holds his own pair up again—“I bought when I made my first million-dollar commission. Remember the Olympic Hotel deal?” He nudges Brian with his arm. “These were custom handmade in Florence, Italy. German optics. Made of titanium—lightest substance known to civilization. Twenty-six hundred dollars, I shit you not. I had to make an appointment to come in and get fitted. I had to reserve them seventeen months ahead of time. And they’re numbered—limited editions—you see this right here—what’s this say?”
Squinting at the inside of the stem, Sunglasses reads, “Number 18.”
“That’s right—there aren’t maybe twenty, twenty-five people tops, walking around wearing these. I happen to know that the Sultan of Brunei is one of them.” Still smiling, Javier slides them off again with the tips of his fingers and hands them to Sunglasses. “Try them on. Go head. See what they feel like.”
“Huh.” The young man frowns, then takes the glasses, slipping them on. “Yeah, they all right.”
“Nice, yeah?” Javier folds his arms in his smooth black suit. “You wanna trade?”
The man, stares hard at Javier, then removes the glasses. He holds them up to the light, tries them on again, keeping one hand on the stem. He looks around. He looks at Brian. The other two men each try on Javier’s glasses, then the Ray-Bans, consulting with each other in low voices. Sunglasses cuts his eyes at Javier. “You didn’t pay no twenty-six hundred for these. You wouldn’t be trading for these if you did.”
Javier keeps his arms crossed high over his chest, his head lowered, nodding slowly, judiciously. “Sure, yeah, that makes sense, obviously. I see that.” He lifts his sharp face. “Now let me tell you why you might be wrong. Maybe I’m doing this because my loco veridad over here drove up your street and tried to give you his car and I’m just trying to get his ass out of here without anyone getting killed.”
The men stare at him, their faces set, eyes glittering with hard, unamused stares.
“But maybe—and here’s where I want you to pay attention—” Javier holds out the edge of one hand, just as Brian has seen him do at the dais in carpeted hotel conference rooms, pointing to the projected schematics of new buildings. “Maybe I just want your glasses, hombre, because, what the hell, I bought these glasses. Buying is easy. It’s nothing, in fact. Anyone can get themselves a credit card—they can do the same damn thing.” Javier snaps his fingers. “It just takes a little more green than usual. But those glasses?” He points at Sunglasses’ head. “Well, those babies came from you—a badass muthafucka up in Little Haiti. It’s like snatching the crown off the lion’s head. There we were, alone in this crazy, broke-down field, surrounded. Dude was all set to fuck up my friend and me together. Instead we get talking? Next thing I know—he made a hell of a trade for himself. See, those glasses come with a story. And, for a sorry old viejo like me? Worth way more than some fancy store-bought crap.”
The young men look at each other, their faces wary to the point of anger.
As Brian watches Sunglasses hand over his Ray-Bans—the exchange made in a kind of respectful silence—he has a sense of observing something like a primordial ceremony. Then Javier takes th
e fob from Brian, unlocks the SUV, and helps him up behind his own steering wheel, swinging the door shut behind him. Wearing the Ray-Bans, Javier salutes the three men and returns to his own car. He waits for Brian to pull out first. To make sure I’m going, Brian thinks. He doesn’t dare even to wave at the men. The tall man is now wearing Javier’s glasses, the curved lenses glitter blackly; the man looks unreadable and imperial.
BRIAN’S PHONE RINGS as he passes another mural of MLK—this one painted on the side of an on-ramp as he turns onto 95 southbound, hard to see in the lowering light. The evening is mottled and hazy. “You okay over there?” Javier, coming up beside him in his satiny blue Jag.
Brian looks at the car. “Were those glasses worth twenty-six hundred?”
“What do you care?”
“I want to know if I owe you twenty-six hundred.” The roots of his teeth ache. “Because I can’t really tell what anything is worth anymore. At least as far as you’re concerned.”
“Let’s go to one of the hotels, we can have a drink, and we’ll talk.”
“No.” Brian squeezes the steering wheel. “Tell me now. I want to know what the fuck is going on with that Steele Building project.”
“No one’s answering the phone at Prescott Filson.”
Brian rubs the outer edges of his eyes: they feel gritty, as if there’s a mineral residue. “Well, for how long?”
“Forty-eight hours. Give or take.” There’s a crackling rush of car echo. “They split. There’s a lock on the development office door—the listing agent told me.”
“Unbelievable. They actually blew town?” They slow down behind a backup headed to the beach exit.
“The FBI’s already into it. These two guys, I guess they siphoned money from some project up in Delaware to try to get the Steele Building going.”
“You’re telling me I was about to give you all that money, and it was all just a big fucking scam? What, the developers took down payments and split to Grand Cayman?”
“Ah.” He can almost hear Javier’s shrug against the car seat. “I swear to you, Brian, I’m as blown away about it as you are. There’s no way I would have taken that deal to you if I’d had the smallest idea.”
“But you did know—why the fuck didn’t you tell me the deal was crap?”
“What, when you called? I wasn’t sure what was going on. The listing agent had just called me. He was freaking—he has clients who’ve already paid their money. He thinks the financing fell apart and the guys decided to hit the road . . .” Javier’s voice seems to lose volume, as if he’d moved his mouth away, then back, “. . . distracted, a little. I took my eyes off the ball, I admit it and I’m sorry, man, disculpe, I apologize.”
“Sons of bitches were a bunch of crooks! Or losers and phonies. And you’re dealing with people like that? And dragging me in too?”
There’s a silence filled with ringing highway noise, then Javier says quietly, “I fell for it—that’s right—but there were plans and they did buy the property and they did develop other projects up north—I checked—and six other smart, rich bisneros gave them about eighteen million.”
“Damn.” Brian twists his hand on the wheel. “I guess it is what it is,” he says. “But goddamn.”
Javier sighs. “You are fine, man—right? Look—you didn’t jump on it and gracias a Dios, eh?”
Brian feels ground down, too exhausted to do more than follow the bumper in front of him. He might just end up tailing this car to the Everglades or Key West. Simply can’t think about it. He still doesn’t know the truth about those glasses. After a moment, he squeezes his tear ducts and says, “Hey, buddy, I’m gonna head home, okay?”
“Claro, man, of course.”
“I’ve gotta get things ready . . . with the storm and . . .”
“No, man—you gotta do it. Supposed to be nasty tomorrow. Get yourself home, get it sealed up. Hasta la vista.”
“Thanks, buddy. Really.”
“No, no. For what? Go, get home. It’s good to get ready for things, no?” Javier asks. “What do those Boy Scouts say? Be prepared?”
Avis
SHE THINKS SHE CAN FEEL A NEW WEIGHT IN THE AIR—tomorrow’s storm, but the first thing she’d noticed this morning was a sense of tranquillity. As she showered and dressed it gradually occurred to her that she was not hearing—for the first time in weeks—the bird’s racket. No deafening braaah, no singing, no little boy crying out to playmates; no mad laughter. Nothing. Avis had stepped outside to look for Solange and found only the enormous birdcage, still as an empty bell.
When she went back in, someone was at the front door. The man seemed astounded when Avis swung the door open. He was well over six feet, wide and solid in a square-shouldered black jacket and black collarless shirt. Avis had the impression she’d seen him before. His face was a mask of pain—coruscated, eyes burnt to crusts: consumed in a way that was all too familiar.
He’d said, “My wife is missing—perhaps you might’ve seen her? We live around the corner.”
Avis’s stomach tightened with dread: she wanted to shake her head and flee into the house. She had her own private losses to contend with. But he’d looked so stricken, his face shock-white, a livid streak in each cheek—she couldn’t help stepping back. She invited him in and slipped from the room to fetch coffee and sugar.
Now the man hunkers over on their couch, taking up the center, radiating loss. His jacket neatly folded beside him. For some reason, he calls to mind her mother with her reams of poetry, slender chapbooks filled with her essays. Each one trying to get at Heaven. Essayer means to attempt—she told Avis. As a girl, Avis imagined her mother pulling arrows from her quill, aiming over her head, trying to hit the obscure target.
She’s pleased with the steadiness of her hands as she brings coffee—the cups silent on their saucers. She has practice in panic—like an expert nurse or sponsor. She places the cup and saucer before him and watches him curl forward. He puts his hands on his cranium as if to hold it in place, stubble bristling through his fingers, and stares at the tops of his lace-up shoes.
“So, you live around the corner? On Camillo? Or Fluvia?”
He nods, still not lifting his head.
“Have you called the police yet?” She feels competent, almost motherly. In her element. “Do you have a photograph of your wife?”
He straightens, patting at his jacket pockets, produces a wallet, its edges white with wear, and extricates a curved photograph. He places it on the table between them. Avis stares at the familiar face: her face is plumper and milder, her hair is uncovered and glimmers in a close-cropped halo. “Ohh . . .” She leans in, taking the photo by its edges.
He looks up, hearing something in her voice; his face a beat of hope. “Have you seen her? She liked to work outdoors, in the back.”
Avis holds the photograph in her cupped hand like a bit of eggshell. “You were—you’re married to Solange?”
“You know my wife?” He straightens.
She shakes her head slowly, a sense of unreality rolling over her. “We’ve been getting to know each other.”
“My God.” His head lowers, his fingers push into his eyes.
Avis returns the photo to the table, as if it belongs to neither of them. She takes deep breaths—a technique she’d learned years ago from a grief counselor, to stave off panic attacks. “Have you contacted her family? When did you see her last?” Avis slides forward on the seat. She looks toward the windows, tries to will her thoughts into clarity.
The man seems stuck in some kind of maddening torpor. “Well, yesterday? Last night. I’m doing everything I can think of. She doesn’t have any people here. I tried to track down her aunt and cousins, but it seems her family are all . . .” His head tips again, as if his skull is too heavy. “She wasn’t happy. I always knew it. The police told me to write down everything—the details—what she was wearing, what she liked to do, the names of her friends. I’m at the ministries office all day—I worried about
her getting lonely. I didn’t know she had any friends . . .” His eyes flicker over hers hopefully. “I’ve been going from home to home—you’re the first to know her name.”
Something new occurs to her, a sliver of ice snaking down her center. “Is it possible she’s been kidnapped? This city—things happen all the time.” Avis stands and takes her keys and purse from the entry table. “We can go back out into the neighborhood to start. Did you contact both Gables and Miami-Dade police? You can’t wait for them anyway—she’s just another name on the roster to them.”
The man shakes his head—that heavy movement again. I contacted all the hospitals—even shelters. “I’ve been looking all day, driving and walking. She doesn’t have any money that I know of, and she doesn’t know her way around. I drive her everywhere.” The slow shake, the hands.
Avis feels hard, old energy welling under her skin. “It’s too soon to panic—it hasn’t been twenty-four hours? Perhaps she’s just . . .” She moves briskly to the French doors, envisions a route Solange might’ve taken: Fluvia to Salzedo to Ponce de Leon. Perhaps a bus: a return to the beach. The imaginary escape routes fill her imagination, golden, bisecting lines. There are too many possibilities—the lines cross and recross, moving in opposite directions. Avis hears herself, the words she imagines for this process—escape route. Behind her, the man speaks as if Avis were still sitting across from him, saying desolately, “I think Solange doesn’t want to be found.”
AVIS TAKES HIM to the backyard and shows him the place in the shrubs where she used to spy, and then pass through, to visit with Solange. Now the wind is starting to pick up, so they pull the lawn furniture close to the house for shelter, and sip the cold coffee. The energy has shifted, crumbling away from Avis, creating a quiet passage, like a shared trickle of grief. He tells her his name is Matthew, he’s from Vancouver, B.C. “Here is the true chapel,” Matthew says wistfully, staring at the fronds.
“I suppose—it’s a nice way to think of it.”
“Not that different from Haiti. In some respects.” His face is mild and quizzical. “I was a minister there—in Cap-Haïtien—for six years. A missionary—technically.” Avis hears confession in his voice, sliding beneath the words. He keeps turning the china cup around in his fingers and she fears for it. “Somehow, over time, I lost interest in conversion. I started to feel that even in a religious community, faith is a choice made in private. Or should be.” He breaks off, eyes lifted toward the fronds between their yards. “I’ve changed quite a lot, I guess.”
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