The Christmas Present

by Tracy Wolff

  The look Rafael shot her over his shoulder said more than words.

  “Oh, you mean suicidally depressed,” she murmured. Pictures of her sister flashed into her mind, but she pushed them down. She wouldn’t let her feelings for Merry intrude here.

  “Yeah,” he sighed as he unlocked a door at the end of the hall. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

  “What is this?” she asked, as she followed him inside the darkened room.

  “My apartment.” He flipped a switch and suddenly the room was flooded with light. “I need a shower.”

  “I didn’t know you lived on the premises.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, well, when I first opened Helping Hands, we were operating on a shoestring budget. I needed to be here almost all the time, anyway, and living here cut down on my salary.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I’m used to it. I can afford to move out, but why bother? I still spend most of my time here.”

  She nodded and tried to look as if she understood, when inside she was reeling. How many men did she know who were willing to sacrifice so much of themselves for a cause they believed in, to put the needs of a bunch of underprivileged kids above themselves?

  None that she knew of, save Rafael.

  An awkward silence stretched between them and finally she said, “Go take your shower. I’ll be fine.”

  “Help yourself to a drink—I think I’ve got some cold stuff in the fridge.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem,” he said as he headed for what she assumed was his bedroom. Her last glimpse was of his well-defined back as he disappeared inside the room, pulling his T-shirt over his head as he went.

  She wandered about the living room as she waited, impressed by how comfortable he’d made the small space. One wall was dominated by a huge navy leather sofa and ottoman. There were a few throw pillows in shades of blue and gray in its corners and what looked like an extra-large, homemade afghan draped across the back. His mother? she wondered, as she fingered the sophisticated pattern. Or an ex-girlfriend with mad crocheting skills? Vivian hoped it was his mother.

  Another wall was taken up by what she considered the requisite guy stuff—a decent-size flat-screen TV, a DVD player and a bunch of stereo equipment. But it was the side wall that really held her interest. It was packed with books of all shapes and sizes, interspersed with some surprisingly sophisticated pieces of pottery. A few snapshots—sans frames—as well as some really beautiful replications of Mayan and Incan art, were scattered about.

  As she glanced at the well-worn volumes, she found everything from the philosophical works of Sartre and Camus, to books on the politics and economics of the third world, to biographies of famous artists. Mixed in were quite a few novels that had topped both the literary and mass-market lists. It was an intriguing collection, one that was surprisingly similar to her own. On the top shelf, she spotted a biography she’d been thinking of buying, and wondered what he’d thought of it.

  “Did you get something to drink?” Rafael asked as he came through the bedroom door. She tried not to stare at his ripped stomach, and was relieved when he finally covered it with a faded 49ers T-shirt.

  Thank God he seemed oblivious to her staring.

  “Um, no, not yet. I was just checking out your books.”

  “See anything you like?

  If only he knew. “I’ve been wanting to read that biography on Frida Kahlo. I love her paintings.”

  “Yeah, me, too.” He reached in the fridge and pulled out a Dr. Pepper and offered it to her. “Take the book with you when you go.”

  “Are you sure?” Vivian popped the top of the soda and took a sip. “Between Diego’s case and my other work, I’m completely bogged down. It may be weeks before I can read it.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve already read it, so I’m in no hurry to get it back. Take it if you want it.”

  She got the feeling he was talking about more than the book. His eyes challenged her. Dared her to step outside her boring world of court cases and long, lonely nights. Tempted her to reach out and take what she wanted for once, without worrying about the consequences.

  And she wanted to—God, did she ever. She just didn’t know how.

  INDECISION WAS WRITTEN all over Vivian’s face and he wanted to push her. Wanted to push and push and push until she ended up where she belonged—under him in bed, where he could do to her every wicked, wild thing he’d been imagining.

  But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. She had to want him enough to come to him.

  Well, wasn’t he turning out to be the gentleman? Sensitive and sweet and oh so considerate.

  And, he told himself, it had nothing at all to do with that Harvard Law sweatshirt she wore so effortlessly, while he’d worked so many hours that he’d barely managed to squeak through at San Francisco State—after he’d been released from prison.

  He took a long swallow from his bottle of water and then settled himself on the couch, gesturing for her to do the same. But the second she got close, he realized he’d made a strategic error. She smelled fresh and warm, and his body was responding.

  Deciding he needed cooling off in a bad way, he said, “So, I’ve been talking to more people in Esme’s neighborhood, trying to see if the police overlooked someone.”

  She leaned forward. “What did they say?”

  “So far nothing. But a few of them were nervous, too nervous. I didn’t push, but I wanted to.”

  “Give me their names—I’ll do it. Things look different with a legal seal attached.”

  “That’s kind of what I was thinking.” A strand of hair had fallen into her eye, and he brushed it out of the way. He liked to see her eyes.

  She cleared her throat. “Have you talked to anyone else? I’d love to have something concrete before I go into that hearing on Friday.”

  “I’m going to stop by Esme’s place. When Diego and I were talking this morning, he mentioned that he thought one of his attackers sounded like Esme’s brother Ricardo.

  “The prosecution is going to play it like the beating was payback.”

  “Maybe it was.”

  “You don’t look convinced.”

  “I’m not.” He took another sip of water, tried to communicate his instincts. “Word is her brothers are in serious trouble—some drugs went missing, and their supplier wants them back.”

  “And you think he killed Esme instead of going after them?”

  “If he goes after them, he’ll never get his money or the drugs.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “I agree. Which is why I think it’s worth paying the brothers a visit. Could be they’re trying to deflect attention off of themselves and onto Diego.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “I was stating a fact, not looking for an opinion.”

  “You wish.” There was no way he was taking her into the dirtiest, darkest area of the Tenderloin.

  “I know.” She glanced around. “Do you have a notepad?”

  “Sure.” He walked to the kitchen and got one out of his junk drawer. “What for?”

  “I need to take notes. Who did you see today? What did they say, exactly? And then I want to plan for what we’re going to ask when we see Esme’s brothers later.”

  “Vivian! I’m serious—you’re not going with me.”

  The look she leveled at him was just as determined. “I’d like to see you try to stop me.”

  She turned back to the notebook and began taking notes, when all he wanted to do was pull his hair out at the roots. So much for the docile, little rich girl of his imagination. Vivian had claws, and how sick was it that those claws only made her that much more attractive to him?

  THREE HOURS LATER, Vivian was walking through an area of the Tenderloin that made Ellis Street look tame. Drug addicts lined the street, looking for money—or an easy mark—and prostitutes plied their trade on every co
rner. Homeless people wandered the streets, wine bottles clutched in their dirty fists, and low-riding cars cruised by, filled with boys wearing gang colors and carrying guns.

  “Not exactly your typical Christmas scene, huh?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “When we get there, I want you to let me do the talking.” Rafael repeated the same instructions he’d given her before they left the community center. “These guys don’t respect women and they don’t respect authority. It’s survival of the fittest out here and the only thing they do respect is the guy who’s stronger and faster than they are.”

  “And that’s you.”

  He ran a teasing eye over her as they turned the corner, stepping past two young prostitutes and a pimp not much older than Diego. “Well, it sure isn’t you. You’re so scrawny you look like a strong wind could blow you over.”

  As the cold breeze battered them, Vivian wished she’d thought to grab the jacket she always kept in the trunk of her car. Evenings in San Francisco were always cool, but with Christmas approaching, the temperatures were dipping toward freezing. Not that it looked much like Christmas down here. The bleak, depressing streets made her appreciate the cheery rec room at Helping Hands even more.

  “Where does Esme’s family live?” she asked, shivering.

  “Right here.”

  Rafael stopped in front of a wooden house that had seen better decades. It had at one time been painted a bright yellow, like so many San Francisco homes. But time and lack of care had worn it down until there was more primer and wood showing than paint.

  Junk was piled in the yard and two of the upstairs windows were broken. Someone had taped cardboard over the holes, but it had been there so long that the tape had faded and the cardboard was nearly translucent.

  “Esme lived here?” Vivian whispered, her heart clenching at the thought of a young, pregnant girl living in such a depressing place. Had she had proper nutrition? Or even hygienic conditions?

  It seemed ridiculous to worry about the nutrition of a girl who had died ten weeks earlier, but Vivian couldn’t help glancing up and down the street and asking herself how many other girls were living in the same squalid situation.

  “Remember—”

  “I know, I know.” She gingerly climbed the rotting steps. “I’ll let you do all the talking.”

  He looked doubtful as he knocked on the door. “I’m serious, Vivian.”

  “I know you are. It’s—” She stopped midsentence when it swung open.

  A woman stood there. No more than five feet tall, even with her hair pulled into a severe bun at the top of her hair. She looked tired. And defeated. As if life had finally got the best of her and she’d given up fighting the bad parts.

  “Hola, Rafael.” Her hands twisted in the faded skirt of her housedress and her sad eyes grew even sadder as she looked at him. “Cómo estés?”

  “Bien, Marta. Y tú?”

  The two spoke in Spanish for a couple minutes, and Vivian remembered just enough from college to understand that Esme’s brothers were sleeping, but that Marta was going to wake them up—at Rafael’s insistence.

  She ushered them into a family room with a faded, broken-down couch and a three-thousand-dollar, flat-screen TV. The dichotomy amazed Vivian. Who would choose to spend that much on a television set, but not on the house in which they lived?

  A few minutes passed in silence as she and Rafael stood staring at a cooking show blaring in Spanish. Rafael gestured for her to sit down, but she was too scared of the numerous, suspicious stains on the couch to do more than stand near it and pretend absorption in the television program.

  Finally, just when she’d decided that Esme’s brothers weren’t going to show up, they ambled down the stairs. Both were dressed in oversize jerseys and baggy jeans, and both looked mean as hell.

  Her first glimpse of them had any thought of taking notes at this meeting skittering away once and for all. No wonder Rafael had shot her a look of pitying amusement on their way here.

  A quick glance at Rafael had her starting in surprise. Gone was the understanding when he’d stared at Marta, and in its place was a glare so fierce she could only be grateful it wasn’t aimed at her.

  The two men on the stairs didn’t seem overly intimidated, though the second one did shift uneasily under the scrutiny, his right hand going to the waistband of his jeans.

  “Rafael—” She started to warn him that something wasn’t right, but he simply put a calming hand on her shoulder before stepping slightly in front of her as if to shield her.

  But she didn’t want him to—she wanted to get as far away from this place as she could. There had to be another way to get the information they needed to help Diego.

  Rafael was calm though, and she told herself to settle down. After all, she was the one who’d insisted on coming on this quick little jaunt into hell.

  “Rafael, what are you doing here, man?”

  “Hey, Danny. Ric.” He nodded at them with a half smile, not showing by word or deed that he was in any way uncomfortable. Vivian tried to follow his lead, and put on her best poker face, but she had a feeling she looked more sick than relaxed. She couldn’t get her lips to do more than curve in a parody of a smile.

  “Get out. And take your little whore for hire with you.”

  Vivian felt Rafael tense, but he kept his voice smooth and easy when he said, “Is that how your mother raised you to talk to women?”

  “It’s how she raised me to talk to bitch lawyers who are defending the asshole who killed my little sister.”

  “We all know Diego didn’t kill Esme, Danny. So why don’t you save the posturing?”

  “That’s bull, man,” said the one who looked like a serial killer. “He did her. He got her pregnant, and then killed her when she and the baby got to be too much trouble.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “Damn straight.”

  “Then why’s he still alive?”

  Danny got right in his face. “Because I want that little prick to spend the rest of his life in a cage. A member of the living dead.” He paused, then pulled the gun. “But I don’t have the same wish for you, so why don’t you take your skinny, little, skanky lawyer and get the hell out of my mama’s house. She doesn’t want you here.”

  “That’s a lot of cursing and protesting for two guys who claim Diego’s the bad guy.”

  The gun never wavered. “What do you mean by that?”

  “You know exactly what I mean. Maybe your…extracurricular activities came back to bite you in the ass and Esme was just collateral damage.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “Don’t I?” Rafael towered over him, using every inch of his height to intimidate Danny.

  “You think we’d let some coked-out pendejo kill her? Esme was our sister!”

  Rafael shook his head with a snarl. “Don’t act like you give a shit about that. You never liked her. I’ve heard you going on about her any number of times, talking about how she was too stuck-up for her own good.”

  “That doesn’t mean we wanted her dead.” Ric spoke up for the first time, his voice filled with a desperation that raised Vivian’s eyebrows—and her suspicions.

  “No. But it also doesn’t mean that you’d throw yourself in front of traffic for her, either. Which makes your preoccupation with Diego more than a little suspect.”

  “He raped and murdered our baby sister!”

  “Did he, Ric? Or is he just an easy fall guy while the guy who really did her gets away with murder?” Rafael’s smile was a deadly threat. “What’s a little murder between friends, anyway?”

  Danny leveled his gun straight at Rafael’s head. Biting back the scream that rose instinctively in her throat, Vivian reached for Rafael. He shook her off, while he made sure his body was between hers and the gun.

  “You’re about to find out. You have exactly twenty seconds to get out of my house, or I’m going to blow your brains out.�
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  “I’m going to find out what happened to Esme, Danny.”

  “You know what happened to her—her punk-ass boyfriend killed her. And you’re protecting him.”

  “No.” Rafael stared the kid down, and Vivian watched in alarm as the gun began to shake. “Someone else killed your sister. Someone who’s finding it really easy to hide behind Diego. That stops now.”

  “He killed her.” Ric’s voice was desperate, his eyes wild as he moved forward to stand next to his brother. “Diego killed her. Everyone knows that.”

  “I don’t know it, and neither does his attorney. We’re going to find out what happened. If you know, if you were involved, it’s better to come clean now before all hell breaks loose.”

  “You’re sick, man. We never would have hurt our sister.”

  Rafael stared at him until he was forced to drop his eyes. “Can the same be said for all of your associates?”

  “Get outta my house!” Danny’s voice was louder than before, more anxious. There must have been something in it that triggered Rafael’s radar because suddenly he was moving as if the house were on fire, grabbing Vivian’s arm and shoving her toward the front door.

  “We’re leaving. But we’re not going to let this go, Danny. I’m not going to let it go.”

  “Screw you, man. Your little boy’s gonna fry.”

  “If he does, I’ll make sure he’s not the only one. Remember that.”

  As Rafael closed the door behind them, Vivian half expected to hear a gun go off, was scared to death that she was going to look up and see Rafael covered in blood, but to her surprise—and undying gratitude—nothing happened.

  They didn’t speak until they’d gotten up the block and around the corner.

  Finally, when she was sure Danny and Ric weren’t lurking somewhere, prepared to gun them down, she hissed at Rafael, “Have you lost your mind? You all but issued them an ultimatum.”

  “Diego’s in the hospital, you’re being threatened—you’re damn right I issued them an ultimatum. And if things go as planned, they’ll come after me to make sure I don’t deliver.”

  “Is that was this is about? Setting yourself up as bait? Are you kidding me? That’s your big plan—sacrificing yourself for Diego?”