by Mara White
Tiago shoved his hands in his pockets as he headed back to his rumbos. Sweat trickled along his hairline and in the downward slope between his shoulders. He hadn’t felt the same since the accidental overdose. He wasn’t hooked on the shit and he wasn’t delusional about how addictive it was. He’d seen people lose their lives, beautiful, enviable ones that were worth something. Lost the people who loved them, then their friends, their possessions, even their souls. Dope ate away at people like a disease, pulled ‘em under, left them scrambling like cockroaches—either that or dead, and one wasn’t necessarily better than the other. But he was far from being a junkie, didn’t even like being around them. People who were hooked looked like zombies to him, aimless, soulless fucks who were walking a plank that hung out over a black vortex waiting to suck them up. Once they got hooked good, they never got off the shit. Sure there were ups and downs, but every elevator eventually stops on the bottom floor. Game over. Shit. His mother was probably dead. They hadn’t heard from her in over a decade.
Sirens wailed in the night and cops raced by whooping out with the bull horn beep followed by the rumbler that you could feel through your feet on the sidewalk. Somebody else’s dime, somebody else’s problem. Tiago stretched his arms up to the sky and let his spine crack, adjusting itself all the way down, the vertebrae popping as they slid into place. He wore his jeans low and his tank tops long, hair shorn close to his scalp and the sides, the braids on top long, and his Yankees cap was always tilted to the side. He sometimes yearned to be clean, honest, and kind, but the environment he’d grown up in was all ride or die. Live hard, play hard, survival of the fittest. But Tiago didn’t want to just survive, he wanted to rise and soar even if that meant a fiery send off in the end. Desire was inside him, so was ambition, but they had to take a back seat to eating and paying the fucking rent. On the superficial he gave off collected and cool, but underneath the player lived a man who was anxious for something different—an exit, a porthole, a passion to cling to.
Tiago tossed his glass beer bottle toward the wire garbage bin at the end of the street. It hit the curb instead and shattered into tiny pieces. The surprise of the smash informed him how fucked up he was. Usually, he could depend on a basket. He squinted through one eye and eyed the dark silhouettes on the fast-approaching corner. He cocked his hat harder and held his pants up at his hip bone. He whistled an old radio bolero to remind the neighborhood and the whole fucking world that he owned it.
Sometimes, like the siren, Tiago could sense brewing danger through his feet, a certain vibration the sidewalk tipped off or a jolt of energy that smelled like adrenaline, sour, sharp and yet still sickeningly sweet. The hand on his hip slid into his pocket almost seductively, his fingers wrapping around the butt of his .38. He’d grab a beer and loosie at the bodega and get inside, he was too drunk to get involved in anyone else’s business.
The deli was bright and crowded for a weeknight. Too hot to sleep so everyone stayed out as long as they could, talking shit and throwing back cold beers to kick the heat. A line at the Powerball even at this time of night, homies listing out baby’s birthdays and social security numbers hoping that a win was around the corner, their money made for life. Some loser was screaming at the Arab behind the counter arguing over change and the price of his hero.
“Don’t buy! You don’t buy!” the proprietor yelled as he threw the guy’s sandwich into the garbage. Serves him right. Why you gotta start shit with some guy just trying to do his shitty job? You gonna start a fight over a sandwich?
He grabbed a beer out of the cooler, the blast of cold air welcome as it hit the sweat on his face. He’d crawl in there and go to sleep—the fucking heat was no joke. The whole fucking city smelled like it was cooking. Cockroaches, fried food, stinking garbage and cigarette smoke. Tiago heard the gun cock as he stood up and his hand jumped back to his pocket. He expected to see la tira or immigration or some shit when he looked up. Not hooded thugs with sawed off shotguns hitting up a deli in Spanish Harlem. His muscles poised tight and smooth like a big cat on the prowl; experience had taught him not to make sudden movements when guns were pulled out. He made himself invisible instead, blended in with the wall.
What the fuck? There wasn’t any money to be made robbing delis, it ain’t a fucking bank or the Ritz. It was the damn A-1 Garden 105th Deli, not a jewelry store. Tiago internally shook his head at the losers as he watched the old guy behind the counter reach down and hit the police panic button. Twenty to life in the box for armed robbery, for what? Fifty bucks apiece?
Unless A-1 Garden Deli 105th was a front for another kind of business. Entirely possible. He worked on the West side of town and that’s how he liked it. Tiago drifted silently behind a rack of chips, moving out of their line of vision. He wasn’t getting shot in this shithole on somebody’s botched job. He regretted not grabbing an ice cream while he had the chance. He’d eat it like popcorn at the movies and watch them fuck shit up. Clueless. That’s what they were.
“Get down on the fucking floor!” one of them yelled to the junkies, drunks and lotto hopefuls. What they gonna do? Rob the homeless guys for handfuls of busked quarters?
The reaction was slow, cause the poorest bottom-of-the-barrel couldn’t even believe they were being robbed. Most of those people were too old to just drop to the floor. Tiago heard someone behind his shoulder. Recognized her scent before she even turned around. Antiseptic, like lemon hand sanitizer but with a layer of powder underneath. Her blue eyes were electrified with fear, but also glazed with booze. Doctor Heidi of the Hills liked to hit the sauce too—who knew? Maybe Salana would remember him if her life were on the line. He put his finger to his lips as hers parted to speak. Yeah she was drunk, but he could have sworn recognition was somewhere in the look she gave him. This time he could see her whole face. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind, the doctor was also the same girl who’d once flown halfway around the world to seek out his comfort when she was down.
They were in the back, farthest from the front door and slightly obscured by the racks of chips and cookies. Safe.
Maybe not. Gunfire sounded like popping fireworks, bullets hitting a bag of Fritos which exploded, raining chips onto their heads and shoulders like wedding rice, landing like crunchy rose petals among their feet. Bodega wedding for him and the bitch doctor who denied his existence. It hurt that she didn’t remember him. Their history meant everything to him. For some reason those moments he’d spent with her were his most precious memories. She’d just erased it from her mind like she had a delete button.
It took him exactly two seconds to realize she’d been shot. The music from the corner didn’t stop with the gunfire. It still sounded like a party, only difference was people were now dying. Tiago could distinctly feel the thump of bass in his gut. Her hit was only a graze, he was sure, but when she clamped her hand over the entry wound blood spread out between her fingers. He clamped a hand over her mouth because she was on the verge of a scream, the other around her waist, and he walked her backwards toward a door he’d spied in the back of the place. He felt like they were moving out of time, in slow motion. Her blood was warm and wet, sliding between his fingers. Still obscured by the rack of chips, he was confident no one had seen them. It was maybe five steps to the back exit and he made them without removing his suffocating hand from her mouth, arm wrapped just under her breasts, dragging her backward. He knew what it would look like on a security camera. Probably get a life sentence for saving her.
Once through the door, he flipped the dead bolt on the other side preventing the thugs from coming in, but also shutting out the owners and other patrons. He didn’t have another choice, he wasn’t gonna let her bleed in front of them and they’d shoot her again in panic if they saw it, the amateurs they appeared to be, fucking blowing up a bodega in Spanish Harlem.
Although the lights were off, a quadruple black and white television set up advertised a meticulous surveillance system in the store. She was gasping for air and he remove
d his hand from her mouth.
“Don’t scream!” he whispered.
She nodded.
He hovered a second, observing the man with a sawed-off shotgun holding the gun in the face of the owner as he shoveled cash into a paper bag. Despite the ski mask and all, Tiago was pretty sure he didn’t know him. Watching the robbery unfold behind a locked door was surreal, like it was just TV and it wasn’t really happening. He’d been able to recognize Salana’s eyes in a mask. Her body felt just as familiar under his fingertips.
She whimpered and he remembered her arm.
“Can you wiggle your fingers?” he asked her. Their eyes connected in the semi-darkness. A burst of realization sprung into her eyes. Maybe her distance had been legit the first time.
“Another reunion,” he whispered. “But you’re the one bleeding this time.”
Shots rang out again and he glanced back at the screens. His eyes caught on the safe underneath the security set up.
Dead meat.
“Fuck me.” He gritted his teeth. It looked like there were at least four of them with two standing guard on the street. Sitting ducks, he thought. This would be their next move. Make your money and get out. He knew how this shit worked better than he liked to admit.
He pulled Salana by the arm, wrapping his fingers so that they pressed over her wound. He felt along the back wall for another door, shuffled his feet for a hatch that would lead to the basement or maybe to the back of the building. Being trapped wasn’t on his list of favorite pastimes. Santiago kicked the wall to see if maybe there was another room on the other side of the one they’d found.
A large walk-in freezer seemed like the only option. Not a bad escape on a day like today when the streets were burning in upper Manhattan.
“We’re going in here, ‘cause they’ll hit the safe next,” he said as explanation. Liquor made the girl docile; he had the feeling he could walk her into a burning building and she wouldn’t question his choices. Maybe she was in shock.
The cold air shot out from the fan and made his nipples go hard under his T shirt. She gasped at the cold and he felt sorry to drag her through this. The light went out when he pulled the thick insulated door closed. Complete blackout. Her breathing got louder. He ran his hand along the seam of the door to see if he could lock it from the inside. Nothing.
“Didn’t you lock the other one?” she asked.
“Yeah, but they can shoot through a deadbolt.” He ran his hand along the bumpy and frosted aluminum side until he hit some cloth. Aprons, maybe freezer jackets. He yanked them off the hooks and pulled out his lighter. The white butcher’s jacket wasn’t entirely clean but he found a white spot and shredded the cloth. He wrapped it around her arm twice right above where the blood was still trickling.
“Cops should be here in a minute, but it looks superficial anyway. Can you feel your arm?”
“I can, Doctor,” she said. The girl had spirit, always had, he’d give her that. Sure she probably saw her fair share of shit in the ER, but she was pretty relaxed for getting shot up in a robbery.
“Are you saving me?” she asked him.
“Sure I am. Whisper, though, would you? I don’t know if this shit is soundproof. But yeah, I still got a bruise where you stuck me.”
He could see nothing at all but he could feel the heat pouring off of her body, smell the drink on her breath. He felt suddenly sober, blinking his eyes in the dark. She started to shiver and he pulled her close to his body. It felt natural to do it; he certainly wasn’t hitting on her.
“Do I know you from somewhere?” She wavered on her feet. He kept his mouth shut. Wanted to see how long it could possibly take her. Salt was white girl wasted.
“OD. ER,” he replied begrudgingly.
“Oh yeah—how’s your habit?” she asked him. Devil in scrubs.
“I told you, I ain’t no fucking addict.”
“Are you clean then? Right now?”
“That depends on your definition. You don’t look so sober yourself.”
“My boyfriend and I broke up.” Her teeth began to chatter. He pulled her closer so that the length of her body fit into his.
“What’s your name, Doctor?” Just making sure.
“Dr. Livingston,” she said. “You can call me Salana,” she whispered, her teeth clacking in the dark. He could feel the curve of her breast and he liked how alive she felt, liked that she was bleeding on him. The warm river of blood reminded him of the last time they’d hung out.
“Salada? Salty, huh? You do have an attitude.” She had no idea who he was. Maybe it was the braids, he’d grown his hair all the way out. The beard? It did make him look older, maybe a little bit evil too. Or maybe the tats? He’d had a few as a kid, but nowadays he was covered and they lived in places he couldn’t cover up even if he wanted to.
How could two people interpret the same moment so differently? Maybe to her he was some random guy she slept with once. To him, the encounter had been transformative—a nick in his very soul that had never quite scarred over all the way.
“S-A-L-A-N-A,” she said. And he could imagine her tongue touching the back of her two front teeth as she over-pronounced the L. “What’s yours?” Her voice was thick with booze.
“Santiago Al-”
“Oh yeah, Alcatraz, I remember. A 172nd on your hand and a skull and gun on your throat. How could I forget that?” She said it disparagingly, but somehow he still liked that she remembered his skin. It meant that she had taken a good look at him. He’d made an impression even if it wasn’t a great one.
“Good memory,” he said sarcastically, absolutely floored she didn’t know him. Did the woman have amnesia?
Was it all so forgettable to her? It was the exact opposite to him.
“They were so charming; how could I forget? Those things never come off, you realize that, right?” She’d forgotten where they were and her voice rose as she spoke to him.
“Is that how they work, Doc? Whisper for me, okay?” She was so drunk.
“How old are you?” Again that tone. What was it her voice was threaded with? Disgust? Superiority? He got the sense that she was a mean flirt.
“Same age as you, Doc. We’ve met before, but I guess it didn’t mean that much to you,” he said.
“How do you know how old I am?”
“You’re twenty-seven, Salt.”
He pulled her closer when he heard the shot that probably hit its mark, the lock on the outer door. Her body jumped and he held her still, a prisoner in his strong arms.
“Jesus,” she said. He wasn’t sure if it was a response to the gunfire or to his comment. “Tiago? Really? Oh my God. Oh my God.”
She was shaking. He could hear them talking, definitely not in English or Spanish or even Haitian Patois. It wasn’t Arabic, maybe it was an African language. He wrapped his arms around her back like you would a lover, nestled her head under his chin and felt her soft blonde hair tickle his neck. If he could protect her from a spray of bullets, he would. He kept his back to the door and his body arched over hers.
“You didn’t recognize me in the hospital for real?” he asked her in a whisper. Keep her talking. Cops would come soon. They wouldn’t have to spend the night in the freezer. Blue lips, frozen open eyes, faces frosted over on the hottest night of the summer. Front page of the New York Post for sure, maybe the Daily. “Hell Freezes Over for Odd Couple in Spanish Harlem.” If the fuckers made it through the door and found them they might spend the night in the morgue. She was probably still a good person, didn’t deserve to die even if she didn’t remember him.
“I wasn’t sure so I tried not to, I guess. I didn’t let myself look at you. The last time—we… that wasn’t my best moment.”
He laughed at her answer, even though it wasn’t funny. She was trembling so hard he wanted to pull her inside his clothes. He also wanted to be her best moment. Vowed silently in that instant that he’d make it happen somehow—that they’d have more moments and he’d show her how goo
d they could be.
Gunshots fired in quick succession. He could hear them shouting as they kicked the door down to the back of the deli—the room they were in. They might not check the freezer. Then again, they might and they’d be shot for sure.
Sitting ducks. Dead meat in a meat freezer.
He never imagined going out like this. He held his breath, asked God to look after his grandma.
“Don’t talk,” he whispered quickly as the voices got closer. He grabbed the back of her neck, gathered her hair in his hand and gently pulled until her lips were tipped up to his.
“I’m scared.”
“Don’t be.”
All he saw was blackness. All he felt was her body, her warm blood, and her heart beating against his.
It helped shut her up, the kiss. Or that’s just what he told himself. It slowed his pulse beat down, forced him into the moment. She was shocked into paralysis at first, a block of ice with a rapid heartbeat underneath that fluttered against his chest. Tiago and Salana together made up the blood-red living heart inside the thick walls of the walk-in freezer. Maybe they would die there together, slow down until they stopped, frozen in time and wrapped around one another. His kiss was steadfast and strong; she slowly melted into the shape of his body, then opened her mouth tentatively to let him in. He concentrated on the soft pull of her lips and the slip of her tongue. Salana was a sensual kisser, just like he remembered. It was still there, that energy that lived under their skin connecting them. Time, space, and experience did nothing to dull the roar that resounded between them. She didn’t hurry or force it, but was pliant and very sweet, not salty in the least bit.
Chapter 10
Tiago
If he’d had a choice, he would have brought her to the hospital where she worked. Tiago assumed they’d take care of their own and get her what she needed. The blood wasn’t too bad, but it was more than he’d imagined from a graze. The EMTs put her into the back of the ambulance and the cops asked him to stick around for questioning. The rotating red and blue always told his feet to run. Run! He wanted to get the fuck out and not be branded a snitch, he was itching to just up and go. Who knew who those hoods ran with or what organization they belonged to? Don’t sit tight at the scene of a crime. Move! Her blood was all over him, his white T-shirt almost saturated in one place near the armpit, the tops of his jeans even spotted with the warm stickiness. Salt had been coherent enough and, he supposed, kind enough to tell the detectives that he wasn’t the one responsible for her condition. They took her to Mount Sinai because they were practically in that hospital’s back yard. He answered questions in the back of a cop car on the condition that he wouldn’t have to give his name and they kept the overhead lights off. Alls he needed was to get his fucking info on their radar. Thank God he’d unloaded the rest of his shit on Chico before heading home, ditched his .38 inside one of the meat carcasses in the freezer.