by Mark Rogers
“Please…” Sally wasn’t buying it. For her, the entrance to memory lane was strewn with police tape.
Maybe she was right — maybe I was taking it too far. But there seemed to be no harm in trying to get a smile out of her. I made a gesture, taking in the room. “You don’t think this is romantic?”
“Too bad your big-ass Brazilian isn’t with you.”
I turned that over in my mind and then said, “She didn’t have a big ass.”
“You’re disgusting,” said Sally. But she said it with a smile.
My cell phone buzzed. I stood and pulled it out of my pocket. “Yeah?”
Sally stood up beside me.
The voice dug right in. “In the morning, at eleven —
“What do you mean in the morning? We’re here. We got the check. Let’s do this now.”
“Don’t interrupt me again. Go to the Bancomer on the corner of Duarte and Luperon. In the colonial district. Eleven o’clock. Go to the male teller at the window on the far right. He will exchange your bank check for pesos. He knows nothing of importance. If you question him, we will kill your son.”
“You don’t have to go there,” I said. “We’re here to comply. We have the money, we’re more than willing to part with it. So, let’s keep cool heads about this. We give you the money and you give us our son.”
Sally leaned toward me. “Ask him when we’ll see Dylan.”
I asked, “When will we see our son?”
Instead of an answer the call went dead.
My ex-wife and I were stuck under the same roof again, even if only for one night. Without saying it out loud it was clear neither one of us wanted to contemplate each other from across the dinner table. Instead, I walked out and got us takeout sandwiches and a few beers. We ate the sandwiches in silence. That silence said it all — we were done with each other.
When Sally went into the bathroom to get ready for bed, I clicked on the TV. The only station in English was a BBC news channel. That was too depressing. Terrorism in the Congo. The rise of the alt-right in Austria. A ferry sinking in India. I clicked it off and when Sally got into bed, I washed up and did the same.
With the lights out, I managed a “Good night.”
In return I got a muffled, “Good night.”
Our marriage was dead years before we brought up divorce. There was a long stretch where we barely talked. We didn’t fight. We didn’t argue. It was a stalemate — with the accent on stale.
One night during this prelude to divorce, we attended a cousin’s wedding reception and were briefly drawn out of our mutual bunkers. While the open bar had something to do with it, the tipping point came when the band dug into a medley of Guns N’ Roses songs. It was an impulsive move, grabbing Sally and pulling her onto the dance floor. If it had been one song, no switches would have been thrown. But one hard-charging tune led into the next until we were reaching what could only be called an ecstatic state. After the set was done, Sally’s sister said, “I didn’t know you two could dance like that.” There was a glow between us the rest of the night, but by the time we were driving home, the glow was faint. Walking through the door of our home, there was no glow at all. She disappeared into the bathroom for a long shower. In a healthy marriage, a shower after an evening like we had would be a prelude to sex. Instead, I couldn’t help thinking she wanted to wash the night off. I switched on the TV and lost myself in a Clint Eastwood movie. When I went to bed myself, Sally was about as far to one side of the bed as possible, stock-still — either feigning sleep or dead to the world.
It was like that tonight in this love motel. I could tell she was awake by her breathing. She was still — too still. A sleeping person moves.
So be it. I felt the same way.
As I drifted off, a thought persisted. We have the money. We’re going to ace this and bring our son home.
Chapter 11
The traffic signal changed and Sally and I hustled across the street toward the Bancomer on the corner. Inside, we scanned the teller windows and Sally said, “There he is.”
Walking toward the window I could see the slightly-built bank teller was nervous, as though he’d been waiting for us to arrive. There were a few customers in the bank — anyone of them could have been one of the kidnappers keeping an eye on the transaction.
I held out my hand. “Sally, give me the check.”
Sally rummaged around in her purse and handed me the cashier’s check. I slipped it through the window to the teller. “I’d like to exchange this for pesos, large notes.”
“Passport,” said the teller.
I handed him my passport. He gave it a quick look and slid it back. I watched as he counted out the equivalent of $75,000 in Dominican pesos. It was a stack of money when he was done.
I leaned closer. “Got a bag for that?”
The teller hesitated then gave me a white plastic bag with a Pollo Loco logo. It still smelled like chicken.
I gripped the bag hard and said to Sally, “Let’s go.”
Outside on the sidewalk, we hadn’t taken ten steps before we got another phone call.
The message was brief. “Wait on the Malecon. Across from the Sheraton.”
When I hung up, Sally asked, “Why? Why can’t they get it done and over with?”
“Maybe they watched too many Dirty Harry movies. Maybe they plan to run us around until we’re dizzy.”
Our taxi drove away, leaving us on the sun-blasted highway fronting the Malecon. During the ride in the cab I’d split the Dominican peso notes into two bundles and folded them into my pockets. With my shirt untucked no one would notice the bulges. Until we had Dylan returned to us, these wads of cash weren’t leaving my possession.
Standing next to Sally I gestured at the ocean and the boulevard. “So, this is the Malecon. Kind of like a boardwalk. But with more dogshit, thieves, and drunks.”
As if on cue a woman in rags began rummaging through a pile of garbage at the curb. God knows what she was hoping to salvage from the mess. Across from her, three teens sat on a stone wall, sharing a joint.
“How long do we have to wait?” said Sally, sitting down on a concrete bench.
“They didn’t say. Just told us to wait.”
Sally shook her head, disgusted. “That sounds like the last three years of our marriage.”
“Believe me,” I said. “I can relate.”
I walked over to a vendor and bought two Cokes.
I handed one to Sally and sat next to her.
“What do you think?” I said.
“About what?”
“How do you like the D.R.?”
She made a face like she was biting into a lemon. “It sucks.”
“It’s an acquired taste.”
“What’s there to like?”
I thought about that for a second. “It’s the Wild West with guayaberas. Imagine the Sopranos with sand in their shoes.”
“That’s the kind of place you chose to bring our son?”
“Hindsight is twenty-twenty.”
“Yeah?” said Sally. “Well your foresight is legally blind.”
I heard a familiar voice call out to us. “Turner!”
I looked over my shoulder and there was Renaldo, leaning out of the passenger seat of a silver Toyota Land Runner pulled to the curb.
Sally stiffened. “Is that them?”
I stood up. “No. He’s an old friend.”
Renaldo got out and walked toward us. He carried his familiar air of confidence, a trait I sometimes envied.
“What are you doing here?” asked Renaldo. “You just left a day ago.”
“I got back and my editor had a ticket to Santo Domingo in his hand.”
I watched Renaldo scope out Sally with approval. He gave her a smile then said to me, “It must be big if you’re back so soon. Tell me.”
“I’ll keep you posted.”
Renaldo turned his attention to Sally. “I’ve known this man for ten years. His taste in women contin
ues to improve. Amazing.”
“Well,” said Sally, “since I married him ten years ago, I’m not sure how to take your compliment.”
Renaldo didn’t miss a beat. “The philosophers say perfection is a circle.”
I took Renaldo by the shoulder and walked him away. “Perfection is a circle?”
Renaldo raised his hands. “How was I to know?”
I stopped a few feet from the Toyota. “Something’s going down. It may be more than I can handle.”
“Do you know something you’re not telling me?”
“This has nothing to do with tourism. I’m in the middle of a situation. You may get a call from me in the middle of the night, asking for help.”
“For you, anything,” said Renaldo. “But tell me, is there money to be made?”
“This time, no. I don’t want to go into the particulars unless I have to. Maybe I’ll manage on my own.”
Renaldo reached and gave me an abrazo — a brotherly hug. “You need me, call me.”
I watched the Toyota drive away. Maybe I was going to need a compa, a friend. Someone to watch my back.
I was almost to the bench where Sally sat when my phone buzzed. This time there were no words at first, just ugly noise — static — and then a laugh. I heard the words, “Wait three hours.”
The call went dead. I felt like tossing my phone into the ocean.
Sally had heard the whole thing. “We can’t wait any longer.”
“They’re playing with us.”
“We have to call the police — the American police.”
“No. They’ll fuck things up even worse.”
I dug my reporter’s notebook out of my pocket. “Last night I couldn’t sleep.” I held up the notebook. “I’ve been making a list. Of all the people I’ve ever pissed off.”
“You overestimate your importance.”
“I turn on a light and the roaches run.”
“Oh, please…”
“There’s only one person who hates me enough to do something like this,” I said, flipping through the pages of the notebook. “It goes way back. But things got worse recently. He pretty much laid it out for me — that he was gonna get even.”
“You’re sounding crazy. You know that.”
“And the thing is? He’s right here in Santo Domingo.”
I tapped a contact number on my phone. Francisco. I felt odd, that someone who could do this to my son was in my list of contacts.
His secretary answered, “Hola, Gran Sol.”
“Hola, Pilar… Yeah, it’s me, Turner. No, you wouldn’t believe where I’m calling from. I’m in Santo Domingo. My interview was cancelled and I’m looking at some serious downtime. I thought I might manage to snag Francisco for a Q&A with the magazine — kind of a peace offering. I know he was bent out of shape over that last article I wrote… No, don’t bother him if he’s on the golf course… You’re a sweetheart… I’ll catch him next time.”
I gestured to Sally to get up. “C’mon. Let’s go. I’m tired of waiting. You’re about to meet Francisco.”
Chapter 12
There he was, dressed in white shorts and a bright orange Polo shirt, Francisco — executing a flawless drive against a backdrop of rugged sea-cliffs and graceful palms. With him were two caddies and another golfer, a chubby guy wearing pressed khakis and a Tommy Bahama baseball cap. They were on the 16th hole.
There must have been something alarming in our determined approach since the chubby guy tapped Francisco on the shoulder and pointed us out.
I wasn’t close enough to hear, but it looked like Francisco mouthed the word, “Asshole…”
I called out, “Francisco!”
Francisco scowled and looked at his watch. “What? Am I gonna get a call from your sales department in half an hour? They gonna beg me to renew my contract?”
“Don’t bust my balls. I figure I owe you one.”
“What? An apology?”
Instead of answering I took a wood from Francisco’s golf bag and made a half-hearted swing. Golf was never my game.
The chubby guy — an American judging by his accent — said to Francisco, “Who is this guy?”
“Nobody much.” Francisco turned toward me and asked, “You here to make nice?
Instead of answering, I took a few steps away, where I had a good view of the sea cliffs. It was a wonderful course. I said to Francisco, “You’ll want to hear this.”
Francisco shrugged and walked over. I heard the chubby American say to Sally, “Well, hello.”
Francisco and I stood side-by-side at the edge of the cliff.
I looked at him. It wasn’t often I saw him in the sunlight. It wasn’t a sight to savor.
I said, “You’re not too smart.”
Francisco gave me a heavy frown. “You came here to tell me this? I don’t give a damn about your article. The only reason I raised hell was to get a better page rate.”
“Caterina Roxo. What about her?”
Francisco looked confused. “Who’s Caterina Roxo?”
“You set me up.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Brazilian. The one being followed around by a video camera, pretending to do a show. You knew I’d bite.”
“Oh, her,” said Francisco. “That’s her name? The woman was a knockout.”
“You put her on me.”
“Fuck you, Mr. Caribbean,” said Francisco. “Do I look like a pimp?”
The fuse was lit and Francisco was ready to go off with a bang.
“Time to come clean,” I said. “Where’s my son?”
“Do I look like a fucking babysitter?”
“I want him back.”
Francisco glanced at the American then back at me. “You think I’m playing a game? I’m doing business here.”
“I don’t know shit about golf.”
“And that’s important to me for some reason?”
“I know you have him,” I said. “I can see it in your face.”
“You’re psycho.”
I looked over at Sally. She mimed, ‘What’s going on?’ her hands spread, eyebrows raised.
I lashed out with the golf club, hitting Francisco in the shin —
With a yelp he fell to one knee. I had to restrain myself from connecting with his skull.
I watched him painfully regain his footing. “Game’s over,” I said, gesturing with the golf club. “I want my son.”
Francisco’s voice was pitched an octave higher. “I don’t have your fucking son.”
Raising the golf club shoulder high, I said, “I’m gonna scramble your fucking brains.”
The moment was all well and good. I felt like I was riding a wave. But everything changed when Francisco stiff-armed me in the chest, sending me sprawling across the grass. The golf club fell from my grasp and Francisco snatched it up.
His eyes never left me as he hollered, “Call the police!”
The chubby American had his cell out in a flash.
The first blow with the club whacked against my shoulder. I rolled with the hit and came up running toward Sally. A second blow hit me in the small of the back.
I grabbed Sally by the wrist. “Run!”
We sprinted toward the parking lot. Luckily, I’d had the foresight to ask the cab to wait.
Sally, huffing and puffing, blurted, “This was your plan?”
I looked over my shoulder. Francisco was staring after me like he truly thought I was crazy.
We hustled into the cab. As it pulled away, I turned to Sally, who was livid. Literally — her face was a different colour — pale and tinged with purple.
“Back to Plan A,” I said. “I could have sworn it was him.”
“You’re insane,” said Sally. “Know what? You have a narcissistic personality disorder.”
“Oh? And you don’t?”
“You actually think someone would kidnap our son because of a stupid article? How did you get so stupid? You weren’t this stupid whe
n we met.”
There was only one place left to go. The Malecon. Where this morning the voice on the phone had told us to wait for three hours. The misfire with Francisco had only eaten up a little more than two hours. We were still in their window of waiting.
My shoulder throbbed with pain as I sat on the same stone bench we’d sat on in the morning.
Sally didn’t sit. Instead, she stood over me. “I’m calling my father.”
“No. Don’t do that.”
“But he’s a senator.”
“Sure,” I said. “I know he cares. But do you think our government gives a damn about something like this? It’s all about money. They’ll sacrifice Dylan to keep the free trade zones running smoothly.”
“Dylan has been gone for more than forty-eight hours. Do you ever stop and think how frightened he must be?”
“All the time.”
“I’ve let you make all the decisions. You were always great at making decisions. Trouble is, you were always making the wrong ones.”
“Let’s not launch into your Greatest Hits.”
“I’m going to call.”
My cell phone buzzed. I took a step away from Sally and as I paced she stayed by my side. “Hello?…”
The distorted voice said, “Where have you been?”
“What do you mean?”
“We can see you now. The both of you.”
I looked at the Sheraton across the street, wondering if they were up there somewhere. “Stop fucking with us — ”
Silence.
“I have your money…”
Nothing.
“I want my boy.”
“Not yet,” said the voice.
“No,” I said. “That’s not gonna fly.”
Over the phone came the sound of someone being hurt, bad enough they cried out.
I winced. “Dylan?… Dylan?… Okay, okay… Okay.”
Jesus. Were they hurting my son?
Sally grabbed my arm. “Is it Dylan?”
The voice said, “I have directions.”
I waved at Sally to be quiet and said into the phone, “Hold on.”
I pulled my notebook and pen out of my pocket and handed them to Sally. “Write this down.”