by Dan Alatorre
Rossi pulled his hand free from Marla’s, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand. “What, are you a cop now? I was home.”
“Alone?”
“Yeah. Asleep.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Hung over? Strung out?”
“No,” he said. “I’m clean.”
“Good. You look like it.” The traffic light turned green. Marla pulled her car into the intersection. “So you were home, alone. Asleep. Can anybody vouch for you on that?”
“How can somebody vouch for me being asleep in my bed, alone?”
“Sometimes a good-looking guy meets a girl. Sometimes he hires one.”
Rossi sat up straighter. “I don’t hire girls. I can find plenty of company if I want.”
“Okay, sorry. That was a cheap shot.” Turning the wheel, Marla drove the sedan down a smaller street. “So—could a neighbor have seen you? Or noticed your car had been in the parking lot all night, and could say so?”
“My old beater barely runs. I doubt anyone would have paid attention to it.”
“But it does run,” she said. “And it could have taken you around to International Mall and Hillsborough Boulevard and Town-N-Country, all this morning, to maybe . . . let off some pent-up steam.”
“No, it didn’t.” He tossed her phone into a cup holder in the center console and clasped his hands between his knees. “It didn’t.”
She rolled up to a stop sign. “Rossi, I like you. We went through Basic together, took incoming in the desert together, became close friends . . . and occasionally more than that.” She reached out and stroked the hair over his ear again. “We shared time in ways that other people can’t understand, so I’ve got your back. I’m just saying, if you went on a little drive today to vent some aggression—would you remember? Is that the place your head is at?”
Rossi shrugged. “I . . .”
“Did you remember anything after Atlanta?”
“I . . . I remember they wouldn’t stop laughing.” His eyes met hers. “There were four of them, and they wouldn’t stop calling me names and laughing.”
“They’re sure not laughing now.” She pursed her lips. “But, baby . . . it took you a while to detox enough to recall it, didn’t it? Like, a week?”
“Nine days.” His hands stayed between his knees. “Nine days they locked me away, all by myself, while the guards threw chicken bones at me.”
“Nine days in lockup because twenty soldiers—” Marla cleared her throat “—twenty eye witnesses, all trained in combat conditions, ran into the brush across the compound and hauled you and your rifle out after you gunned down a group of defenseless—”
“They weren’t defenseless.”
“They were unarmed.”
“They weren’t defenseless.”
“Okay. And you . . .” She watched his eyes. “You settled your problem with them.”
Rossi sat, quivering, staring at the floor of her car.
“Let’s change gears.” Marla checked the rearview mirror. The street was black behind them. No cars were visible against the trees and hedges of the quiet suburban street. Putting the car in park, she tucked a leg up under herself and turned to face her passenger. “If you had another problem this morning . . .” Her voice was calm and soft. “Could you have gotten up and driven to International Mall? Maybe hang out by the mall bus stop for a few minutes, then head north of the airport, to a restaurant parking lot, and then maybe take a short hop over to a Town-N-Country gas station? One out by that big flea market? Could you have done all that and then maybe driven home and gone back to sleep?”
“I . . .”
“Because that’s what you did in Ft. Brannon, Rossi. You tossed the tear gas into the tent and then shot everyone who came out—and then you walked right back to your bunk and went to sleep. They had to wake you up, remember?”
“I had problems back then.” His gaze stayed on the floor, his whole body shaking. “I—I don’t think I have problems now.”
“Rossi, you’re my buddy. You saved my life when we were taking heavy fire in the desert. I don’t forget things like that. And now, if my duty is to help you keep your butt out of the electric chair, I’m gonna salute the mission and get on with it.” She leaned over and pulled his trembling hands from between his knees. “But you have to level with me, baby. I’m not saying you did that stuff this morning. I don’t think—no, I know you didn’t. I believe in you, Rossi. I do.” She gave his fingers a squeeze. “I’m just saying, if you could have done it, if you wanted to do it, was there enough time? Could you have driven to all those places and done those things?”
“I told you.” Rossi’s voice was barely audible. “I was home, asleep.”
“Okay. You still work out?”
“I work out,” he said. “I run, lift weights. Mostly, I go on long walks through the woods.”
“Nice. Like where?”
He ran his hand over the back of his neck. “Al Lopez Park, Egypt Lake, Sweetwater Park . . .”
“Those are all off Hillsborough Boulevard.” She rubbed her chin. “Aren’t they?”
“I was home.” He frowned. “Asleep.”
“Okay.” She put the Buick back in drive and pulled through the intersection. “But remember, that’s what you told the MPs in Atlanta and Ft. Brannon.”
Rossi jolted upright. “What?”
“When they pulled you from your bunk, you were dead asleep and swore you couldn’t have done any of it.” She turned onto a narrow residential street. “Even though a dozen soldiers saw you do it and followed you back to your bunk. Even though you had gunshot residue all over your hands and your weapon was still warm—and the magazine was missing the exact number of rounds that had been fired. But you? You laid down and went comatose. And when they finally got you to wake up, you didn’t remember any of it. Not right away. And that’s pretty much the story you’re telling me now.”
His jaw went slack as Marla’s words hung in the air.
“And I’m the one who convinced them to get you to a doctor,” Marla said. “And not stand you up in front of a firing squad.”
“You—you can check my place. It’s . . . I . . .”
The car came to a stop in front of Marla’s condo building. She glared at him. “If I did, would I find tarot cards?”
Rossi’s eyes went wide. “That—that doesn’t mean . . .”
“I know,” she said. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
Chapter 11
Sergio sat on a stool, his head leaning on his arm as he slowly spun his replacement phone on the top of the bar.
A shapely bartender wearing a Santa hat sauntered over and picked up the empty glass by his elbow. “Another beer, sugar?” She smirked. “Or did you want hemlock this time?”
Lifting his head, he read her nametag. Laney. He laid his head back down. “I don’t think you guys sell what I need, Laney.”
“Bad day, huh?” She folded her arms and rested them on the bar. “Wanna talk about it at my place? I get off in about a half an hour.”
He looked at her and managed a smile. Laney was cute and friendly. She reminded him of a happier time at another establishment.
Carly checked her phone as Sergio crumpled a napkin and dropped it into the empty plastic basket.
“Man, that was a good lunch. Those wings really hit the spot.” He sat back in the booth and waved at the server to bring the check.
“Yeah, they were good wings.” Carly took a sip of her water. “We might have to come here again.”
As the waitress approached, Sergio dug into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. The server laid the receipt face down on the table, sliding it close to Sergio’s elbow and smiling as she turned away. Sergio’s eyes lingered on her tight black shorts as she strolled toward the kitchen.
Picking up the check, he read it and smirked.
“What?” Carly said.
Sergio shook his head, folding the paper and digging a few bills out of his wallet.
Carly grinned. “Let me see it.”
“It’s nothing.” He lifted the receipt to his shirt pocket.
“Let me see.” Carly reached over the table and snatched the paper from his hand. Sitting back, she held it up and unfolded it, scanning the contents.
The handwriting on the check said “Thank you” and was adorned with a smiley face—followed by the server’s name and a phone number.
Carly rolled her eyes. “Sheesh. Again. It’s ridiculous.”
“What can I say?” Sergio chuckled. “I’m irresistible.”
“Almost.” Carly handed him the receipt and slipped her phone into her bag.
“Almost?” He grinned, tucking the paper into his pocket. “So, I’m making progress?”
Carly smiled. “Let’s go, lover boy.”
The memory brought a warm feeling to Sergio, but it quickly faded, erased by the hollowness enveloping him from his suspension and possible termination, his partner not wishing to talk to him at the moment, and a crazed sniper who was shooting people all over Tampa. With Sergio unable to help track the killer down, his replacement phone allowed for a long, depressing binge session of sniper news stories all afternoon.
Sergio slid his glass toward Laney. “I think I’d better just stick with a refill for now.”
“You sure?” She lifted a finger to her hair and curled a golden blonde strand around it. “We had fun last time.”
His phone rattled on the bar, lighting up. The name “Deshawn Marshall” appeared on the screen.
Laney stood up, taking his glass to the beer tap behind the bar. “Think about it.”
Sergio lifted his phone and put it to his ear. “Hey, boss.”
“I’m checking in. How you doing?”
“Awesome. Suspension brings out the best in me.”
“It’s supposed to hurt,” Deshawn said, “so it gets your attention. You haven’t been answering your phone for a while. Everything okay?”
“Not since Carly found out I put her Camaro in the bay, no.” Sergio raised himself up and put his elbows on the bar, slouching. “That kind of put us on non-speaking terms, for some reason.”
“Go figure. If you put my car in the bay, you wouldn’t be able to make smart aleck remarks because you wouldn’t have a head.”
“You’re not very good at this cheering up stuff, are you Sarge?”
Deshawn huffed. “Where are you?”
“At the Rusty Pelican.” Sergio looked around, waving his hand. “I’ve been here since I left the station. After I went by the phone store. My old phone kinda went swimming.”
“It’s almost six o’clock. You’ve been there all day? Let me talk to the bartender.”
“What? No, I’m fine.” He winked at Laney. “Right?”
“Let me talk to her,” Deshawn said.
“What, are you my mother? Stop.” Sergio held his phone out to Laney, pressing the speaker button. “Tell my sergeant I’m fine.”
She walked over and leaned toward the phone. “He’s fine, Sergeant. A little mopey. He’s shown no interest in me or anything else around here, despite my best efforts. Must be the downside of the sugar high—he’s been drinking root beer all afternoon.”
Sergio put the phone back to his cheek. “Happy now? I told you, I’m fine.”
“So you said. I’m guessing you didn’t hear the announcement about Carly, then?”
“What announcement?” Sergio sat up. “Is she okay?”
“Crap. Yeah, she’s fine. She . . . put in for a promotion. My job. I’m getting looked at for a position upstairs.”
“Carly’s taking a promotion? Wow, that’s great. And you, too. Congratulations, Sarge.” Sergio’s mouth hung open. “Aw, man! That means she and I won’t be partners anymore.”
“Breitinger is stepping down,” Deshawn said. “They’re forcing him out because of all the bad PR the department’s been getting.”
“Geez, what a mess.” He frowned. “What a mixed day this has turned into.” Breitinger might have been able to fight for Sergio a little during the suspension hearing. Now, that was probably gone. Sergio slumped forward, squeezing his eyes shut and resting his head on the bar. “Man.”
“Look, maybe it’s all for the best,” Deshawn said. “The city of Tampa will survive without you for a month, and that’ll give you a chance to cool your jets and realign your thinking.”
He rocked his head back and forth on the countertop. “I just cooled my jets for a week on medical leave.”
“Clearly, it wasn’t enough.”
Sergio groaned. “We had three shootings this morning, Sarge. I shouldn’t be sitting on the sidelines with all this going on.”
“That’s exactly where you need to be. The department doesn’t feel it can trust you right now. Anyway, I know money might be tight for you right now, so if you need anything . . .”
“No, I’m good. I reached out to John Tyree. Department rules still allow you to do things like security work, so I’m meeting him tomorrow about a temp job. Hopefully temp.”
“Yeah, Tyree’s solid. That’s a good call.”
“Thanks. And thanks for reaching out, boss.” He ended the call and set the phone down, staring idly at his drink.
Laney came over, removing her Santa cap. “I’m off the clock. Need a ride?”
“I, uh . . .” He glanced at her, sighing. “I’m gonna go.”
“Got another date?”
“Sort of.” Sergio dug his car keys out of his pocket. “It’s Wednesday, so . . .”
“You have a regular appointment with a lady friend on Wednesdays?”
His head bobbed. “Every Wednesday, whenever I can make it. And it’s two ladies.”
“Wow.” Grabbing a pen, Laney picked up a cocktail napkin and scribbled on it, sliding it across the bar to Sergio. “Well, if you get stood up, give me a call.”
“I won’t get stood up.” He put some cash down and stepped away backwards, winking at the server as he headed for the exit. “Goodnight, Laney.”
Chapter 12
Mrs. Martin still resided in the small house on the west side of Tampa that she and her husband had built decades earlier. Since Sergio’s childhood, the neighborhood had gone through some ups and downs, but his parents refused to move.
“This house is solid as a rock and it’s paid for,” his father would say. “Why would I move?”
Flooding during hurricanes, the neighborhood generally being in decline . . . Any answers offered by Sergio were always met with the same reply.
“Bah,” Mr. Martin said. “Those little punks don’t scare me. And we’ve been through three hurricanes in this house. Never got flooded, never lost so much as a shingle off the roof.”
And that was that. With the marker laid down so firmly, Sergio never stood a chance of getting his mother to move after his father passed away.
Sergio leaned on the steering wheel of his car, staring at the quaint little home. The setting sun cast a warm glow over the house. His sister’s car was parked in the driveway, with his mother’s in front of it, nestled snugly inside the car port. To the side, rows of hanging pots dangled from the edge of the roof, cradling a few stubborn flowers that hadn’t yet surrendered to December’s chilly breezes.
The front of the house displayed a short row of bushes, decorated in colored lights. A fat Christmas tree stood in the front window.
He got out of the car and strolled up the walk, the smell of frying oil wafting outward from the residence.
At the entry, Sergio put his hand on the knob, staring at the doorbell. He considered knocking or ringing the bell, but he knew if he did, his mother would admonish him for acting like a stranger.
He twisted the knob and pushed open the door, sticking his head inside with a big grin. “Hello! Anybody here?”
The clink and clank of pots came from the kitchen, just past the tiny living room. A few wrapped presents were already under the tree.
His sister peeked around the corner, a dish
towel in her hand.
“Sergio!” Mina ran across the room and threw her arms around him. “Oh, Momma will be thrilled.” She released him and stepped back, holding his hands and smiling. “Are you staying for dinner?”
“Smells too good to say no.” Sergio pushed the door shut with his foot. “What are we having? Fried shrimp or fried shrimp?”
His sister laughed, pulling him toward the kitchen. “What else is there on Wednesdays in this house? And with French fries, of course.”
Their mother called from the kitchen. “Is that my long-lost son? The one who doesn’t know how to pick up a phone and call his mother?”
“Geez, it’s starting already.” He broke his sister’s grip and turned back to the front entry.
“Oh, no you don’t!” Mina grabbed his arm and spun him around, hugging him again.
“Here, I have something for you.” Sergio reached into his pocket and pulled out a check, pressing it into his sister’s hand. “Next semester’s tuition. And some extra, for some Christmas presents—if you don’t spend too much.”
“Are you sure?” She smiled, looking at the check. “I can always get a student loan.”
“And come out of college in debt up to your eyeballs?” Sergio shook his head. “No. Dad paid for me, I’m paying for you. Now, put that away before Momma sees—and be sure to get her something from both of us, okay?”
“Okay.” Mina grinned, shoving the check into her pocket. “Thank you, big brother.”
“Where’s my son?” Mrs. Martin shouted from the kitchen, over the distinctive sound of a wooden spoon being banged on the side of a frying pan. “Or are we being home invaded? Should I call the police?”
Sergio raced past Mina into the kitchen. His mother stood at the stove, holding a bamboo spoon and poking at a bubbling pan of golden-brown shrimp. Coming up behind her, Sergio slid his hands around his mother’s ample waist, pulling her close and kissing her on the ear. “It’s a hungry burglar. Give me all your shrimp.”
“Careful!” She laughed, swatting him away. “You’ll burn the house down.”