It was Marisol.
She smiled, her lips thick around primordially white teeth.
Holy fuck. Marisol. No wonder she looked familiar in her mother’s picture, but I also understand why she didn’t click in my brain. She was now older and more substantial. Not the girl in pigtails anymore.
“I pay for him,” said Marisol to the confused cashier, who took her money. “I got into a little extra money this week.”
She deliberately mocked the way I said it last time. I couldn’t help but laugh, admiring both her nobility and intelligence. Her smile grew impossibly bigger and all my troubles momentarily vanished into a happy haze.
“Thank you,” I said, grabbing the money from the cashier’s hand and handing it back to Marisol. “But I can’t let you do that.”
I handed the cashier a twenty and she took it, shooting me a dirty look. Marisol reached over, grabbed the twenty, threw it down, and handed her the ten again. The cashier frowned and folded her arms.
“Yes you can,” said Marisol. “I owe you from last week.”
I decided to give her the satisfaction of paying me back.
“Thank you,” I said.
The cashier gave her change and I took my bag to a spot by the front window near the door. I watched Marisol as she paid for her own food. She wore thick-framed dark glasses, loose jeans, a bright blue tank-top, and pink sandals. Her toenails were painted alternately pink and blue. Her body was oddly shaped with tiny shoulders and a skinny waist, but thick and big-boned from the hips down.
As she neared the door, she fumbled with her grocery bags. She hadn’t noticed I was still there and looked up surprised.
“That was very nice of you,” I said, “but you didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did,” she said with a smile that could melt a glacier. “My mother taught me to always, um, pay for myself. It’s a Cuban thing. Never owe anybody anything.”
I nodded. “Sounds like her. I offered her two hundred dollars just for food and she turned me down. That’s rare. Almost nobody would ever do that.”
Marisol’s face expanded, eyes popping, and her mouth fell open.
“What did you say?” she said.
“Your mother,” I said. “I’ve met her. She’s looking for you. She stands on street-corners and at intersections holding up a sign that says ‘Have you seen my daughter?’ with a picture of a girl in pigtails. Your mother’s name is Olivia Martinez-Valle. Your name is Marisol. You’re the girl in the picture.”
Her eyes widened and she trembled all over. She ducked her head and bolted to the door.
Boy, I sure know how to win them over.
“Marisol,” I said as she went out the door and turned left, walking very fast.
I raced to catch up, moving alongside her in front of a shoe store.
“Marisol,” I said. “Marisol, I told your mother I’d find you.”
“Get away from me!” she said.
“Marisol, stop and talk to me. My name is Titus. I’ve talked to your mother. She loves you. She’s out here morning, noon, and night. She’s going to die out here looking for you. Don’t you care?”
She turned to face me. “It’s none of your business! Get lost! Leave me alone or I’ll scream.”
“Marisol—”
She screamed. Several people turned to look. I stopped and put my hands up, feeling like a dirty old man.
She walked away, south down Washington Ave.
Shit.
I’m getting really sick of these mother-daughter relationships. I smiled at the two or three people glaring at me and continued south myself, but at a slow pace. I took out my phone like I was studying a text and walked with my head down while keeping an eye on Marisol.
I let her get way ahead of me and then followed from a distance. If I can figure out where she lives, then at least I’ll have something to go on for her mother.
She turned right at 12th Street, which made it harder to follow her because there were less people on the residential streets. I put on shades and a camouflage head wrap and crossed to the opposite side of the street.
She turned left at the park onto Meridian Ave, heading south. Oddly, this is the exact route I take home. Like she’s going to my place. Who’s following who here? As I followed her, I wondered why a young girl like Marisol would put her mother through so much torment. Can’t mothers and daughters just get along?
At 10th Street, I sped up because I thought I might lose her. Then, she turned and stopped, glancing back. Her eyes fell across the street almost to my exact location. I side-stepped quickly to my right behind a banyan tree.
Little did Marisol know, but in that moment she saved my life. As I ducked behind the big tree, the unmistakable sound of a gunshot blasted through the air, blowing off a huge chunk of wood with a bone-jarring sound like an exploding bomb. I dove, grocery bag dropped, gun in hand, and was crouched on the ground behind a parked car before I even thought about it.
Time slowed. Electrical impulses fired in my brain—seeing, recording, evaluating, strategizing. I was in a zone where a second became a minute, aware of every drop on every leaf, every crack in the pavement, and every ridge of tree bark. I heard insects, the flutter of bird wings, and distant sounds of children at play, all in extreme slow-motion. On my haunches, I raised myself to look through the windows of the parked car.
An old brown Buick was three-quarters past my location and accelerating. The front passenger window was rolled halfway down, a shotgun hanging out.
I raised myself to the roof of the parked car and fired three shots at the brown Buick. The back and rear right windows shattered. The car lurched to its left, side-swiping a red Volkswagen on the other side of the street with a nasty crunch, but corrected and sped up fast, running the stop sign and barreling right at 9th, causing two cars to slam on their brakes, nearly hitting each other. The alarm on the red Volkswagen screeched.
Windows opened. Eyes peered out. I could almost hear all the 9-1-1 calls being made.
I ran across the street, gun up, and looked for Marisol. No sign of her. She must have either turned left at 9th Street or run further on down Meridian Ave when she heard the loud gunshot. Either way, she was gone. She’s likely safe. They were after me, not her.
I heard sirens coming from the west. I wasn’t in any mood to deal with any more police today, so I turned left at 9th Street, holding my gun low and down. Once around the corner, I removed my head wrap and sunglasses, implementing a casual stride like a man out for a leisurely stroll. The sun vanished behind a wall of dark clouds and a hot breeze thick with the promise of rain caught the palm fronds and tossed them around.
At Washington Ave, I tucked my gun away and crossed. I heard a cruiser with its sirens blaring and then saw it heading toward me from Collins Ave. I ducked into a clothing store on the corner and began to intensely browse. The cruiser flashed by in the window.
I grabbed a loud pink shirt with palm trees all over it, a Panama hat with a turquoise feather in the brim, and a pair of Wayfarer sunglasses with bright multi-colored pastel frames.
I paid the girl behind the counter and stepped to the side of the cash register. Both she and an old lady stared at me as I removed my black Henley t-shirt, plucked the garish shirt out of the bag, ripped the tags off, put it on, and tossed the t-shirt in the bag. I donned the Panama hat and the sunglasses and walked out the door.
I felt like a Christmas fruitcake as I walked toward Collins Ave, trying to gawk like a goofy tourist amazed he’s in South Beach. Another cruiser blasted past. I turned right at Collins Ave and south to 5th Street, where I turned right again. Light raindrops began to fall.
Shit. I remembered I forgot my grocery bag, lying there on the sidewalk at the foot of the big tree with the chunk blown out of it. They’re going to find that and maybe question people at Art Deco Supermarket. Better not go back there for a while.
As I waited for a break in the traffic to cross at Meridian Ave and down to my place, a
car slowed to nearly pause in front of me.
It was a silver Audi A5.
My heart skipped a beat as my hand went to my gun. Pleasant but cold gray eyes under a scraggly tousle of salt-and-pepper hair looked right at me with a faint chiseled smile, then accelerated and sped off heading east. It was the wrinkly man I had seen earlier at the Leucadendra Country Club.
The sinking feeling returned full force.
Gun out and close to my side, I continued on down Meridian Ave to my building. Before going in, I circled the block to scan for anything out of place. The rain kicked in full.
Scraggly tousle of salt-and-pepper hair must be Z. Whoever tried shooting me with a shotgun in that brown Buick was no pro. That was a local. A notch above Eddie Corrado maybe, but not on Z’s level. I saw it behind his eyes as he slowed the silver Audi—a cool calculated competence. The fact he even slowed and smiled at me was an irresistible taunt to display his high-level skills. His inflated ego wanted me to know he’s top shelf—and that he’s coming for me.
So who hired the locals in the brown Buick? Is it the same person who hired Z? Doubtful.
Great. Now I’ve got two enemies hiring thugs to kill me. One is Rexford J. Hayes, I’d bet the farm on it. But who’s number two? Eddie Corrado? Maybe, but again doubtful. Eddie thinks he can do everything himself. Which makes me wonder: why hasn’t Eddie come back for me? A guy like Eddie would take the beatdown I gave him as a personal insult to his identity as a lowlife thug and would need to finish the score.
What about Tommy Nero? Am I getting too close to something he doesn’t want me to find?
Again, doubtful. Tommy’s guys are on my level. They wouldn’t use a shotgun. It would be quick and silent and nobody would ever know. Nope, not Tommy Nero.
Then who?
I had finished circling the block. Nothing. No silver Audi A5. No brown Buick.
At my building, I was about to walk to my door when I noticed a light on inside my apartment. A corner window was open. I stepped behind the sea grape tree in the courtyard.
I carefully studied the windows built into the corner of the crumbling green stucco. I heard something, a movement, from inside.
I crouched down and sneaked up to the door from the left, suddenly remembering how brightly I’m dressed.
I put the key in one notch at a time, keeping my arm out of the doorframe. Then, I took a deep breath, turned the knob, and kicked the door open. I held my gun out with both hands in front of me as I swiveled in.
I almost couldn’t believe what I saw.
On her knees facing me from the other side of the room—and pointing a small gun at me was Allie Hayes.
TWENTY-FIVE
“IS THAT YOU?” ALLIE SAID. “TITUS?”
“Allie?” I said.
She giggled, lowered the gun, and put it back into her purse. Then she giggled again.
“Nice outfit,” she said. “I didn’t know you were gay.”
I put my gun back in its holster and walked in, shutting the door behind me.
“What are you doing here, Allie?” I said.
She looked nothing like the girl in the space costume from last night, nor even the girl with the glowing eyes in the sprayed-on multicolored dresses from the pictures. She almost looked normal in a loose black dress made of light fabric. She wore black-frame glasses and no makeup. Her blonde hair hung straight to her sides. Her denim purse and an olive green duffle bag with red trim lay on the floor next to my airbed.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I needed some help and I thought of you.”
“Last time I saw you,” I said, “you didn’t seem to want any help, especially from me.”
She looked down. “Yeah, I know. Sorry about that. I was high from the show last night—and some other stuff. I was really mean. You were just doing your job, and I’d like to make it up to you.”
Alarm bells went off in my head. “How did you even know where I live?”
“I asked your friend who was with you at Hinraker’s party. He knows someone I know. I forget his name.”
“Jason Stark.”
“Yeah. God, he hates you.”
“I’m good at making people hate me. It’s a gift. How’d you get in?”
She looked down and around. “I, uh, know how to get into places. Long story, I’ll tell you later. Look, I know this is weird. I know I was really mean to you. And I know it’s weird I’m in your place, but I really needed to see you because—this is going to sound strange—but you seem like a good guy and some of the stuff you said last night really made me think.”
The lie detector in my ears rang off the scale. That’s not the reason she’s here. But whatever. She’s here and I need to deal with it. Better to deal with honey than vinegar. I locked the door and forced a smile on my face.
“Well,” I said, “I’m not thrilled you did a B & E on me, but I am glad you’re here, Allie. Time to get things finally straightened out.”
She smiled and bit her lower lip. “Yes.”
“Where’d you get the gun?” I said.
“Oh, that. A friend. I’ve had it for a while.” She stuck the knuckle of her index finger between her teeth, keeping her chin down while looking up at me with big eyes. She bent a knee and placed one bare foot on the wall. I know that pose.
“Can I see it?” I said.
“See what?” she said in a playful tone.
“Your gun.”
“Oh. Why do you want to see that?”
“When people point guns at me in my own apartment, I get skittish.”
“I only pointed it at the door because I didn’t know who was coming through, silly.” She giggled and bit her knuckle again. I wasn’t liking this at all.
“Let me see the gun, Allie.”
“Fine,” she said with a sigh and rolled her eyes. She took the gun out of her purse and handed it to me.
It was a Ruger .22 revolver with five chambers, lighter than a grilled cheese sandwich, good for shooting butterflies. The serial number had been scraped off. All rounds were loaded. There was no visible residue nor any brass filings. I sniffed it. No gunpowder smell.
“This is a street gun,” I said. “No serial number.”
“Whatever,” she said.
“Do you even have a gun license?”
She shrugged, still biting her knuckle.
“I didn’t think so. I’m going to hold onto this for now, okay?” I said.
Her foot went back up the wall, her knee protruding from under the dress again. She flicked her head to the side, causing a strand of blonde hair to fall across her face. She left it there.
“You’re impinging on my Second Amendment right to self-defense,” she said like a girl taunting a boy in a playground.
“You committed a felony,” I said. “You’re lucky I don’t call the police.”
“You don’t really mean that.”
She shuffled around with a coy seductive smile. Feet planted, hips out, hands behind back, and head tilted. I know that pose, too.
I went over to the closet and opened it. I pressed on the spring hinge and the door to my stash spot fell open. I put her gun on the shelf. She scooted up close to me on my left.
“What’s that?” she said, staring at the shelf.
Her hair flowed forward into my field of view, the scent of perfume drifting up my nostrils, the heat of her breath on my neck, her fingers lightly touching my back. A fire lit inside me, but quickly flamed out when I remembered the dominatrix with the Cage Girls and the slave boys.
“Nothing,” I said.
“That’s so neat,” she said. “It looks like it isn’t there but you’ve got a little shelf and everything. What’s under the shelf?”
“Just space. I built the shelf so it’d be easier to reach things while standing up.”
“What’s in the envelope?”
I considered that for a moment and made a decision. I took out the manila envelope still full of Pam Hayes’ money, removed five crisp one
-hundred dollar bills, stuffed them in my front pocket, closed the envelope, and handed it to her.
“Yours,” I said. “Minus five hundred for my recent expenses.”
She opened it and looked.
“Oh my God,” she said.
“It’s what your mother paid me to find you. It’s kind of a ridiculous amount. So there. I found you. My job is done. Your mother and father now want me to go away. They don’t even want the money back. In fact, your father tried to pay me a whole lot more just to stop finding you but I wouldn’t take it. So, this is yours.”
“Thanks,” she said. Her eyes went wide like she thought of something. She leaped forward and grabbed two fistfuls of my ridiculous shirt.
“Have you ever been to L.A.?” she said.
“No.”
She pressed her body into me. “Oh, you should go. We should go. Right now. Let’s just get on a plane.”
“Allie—,” I grabbed her wrists and pushed her away a foot. “Allie, what are you talking about?”
“Come on! It would be so much fun. You seem adventurous. Don’t tell me you’re one of those boring guys who stays home all the time. You would love L.A.”
I gazed into her eyes, trying to figure out her game. Maybe I should just ask.
“What’s your game, Allie?”
She grunted. “God, I’m sick of Miami. I want to move to Hollywood.”
“With a man you just met last night?”
She looked me up and down like she was considering buying me. “You seem like you’d come in handy.”
“To protect you, right?”
She bit her lower lip and twirled on one foot with her hands in front of her like a schoolgirl flirting with the captain of the football team. “Sure, but not just to protect me.”
I shook my head. “Subtle is not one of your skills, Allie. Why Hollywood?”
“A girl can make money out there.”
“I heard that somewhere.”
I closed up the stash space and grabbed a black Henley t-shirt from the small pile on the high shelf. I removed the palm tree shirt and threw it in the trash. I put the Panama hat and Wayfarers on the high shelf.
“Oh,” she said, looking at me shirtless, “you definitely need to come with me to L.A.”
Miami Burn (Titus Book 1) Page 17