by Mark Rogers
I said into the phone, “Start again.”
“You want your son?” said the voice. “San José de Ocoa. About 20 miles outside Bani. The Bodega de Plata. Go to a blue shanty across an empty lot.”
“How do I get there? How far from Santo Domingo?”
The voice said, “Get a map.”
“This is it, right?” I said. “We’re gonna do this thing?… Hello… Hello?”
I put the phone in my pocket.
“Was that Dylan?” said Sally. “Was he on the phone?”
“I don’t know. Listen, we’re gonna get you a room.”
Sally shook her head and said, “No.”
“There’s no sense putting both of us at risk.”
“I’m going.”
“Sally…”
“It’s a confidence issue,” said Sally.
“You don’t trust me?”
“Oh, I trust you,” she said. “I just don’t trust you to get it right.”
Chapter 13
Paperwork in hand, we headed across the rental car lot toward a red Corolla.
Sally said, “I’ll drive.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Give me the keys.”
I stopped, gave her what I thought was my best don’t push me look.
Sally held out her hand. “Give me the keys.”
The Corolla’s headlights illuminated the tropical landscape. My ex-wife was behind the wheel, driving carefully, braking whenever we hit a curve.
Sally glanced over at me. “When you were on the phone, you were going, “Dylan… Dylan?”
Instead of saying anything I stared out the window. Why share what I heard — what sounded like Dylan being hurt?
Sally wasn’t going to let it drop. “What did you hear?”
“Nothing.”
“Was he — ”
“Sally. Please.”
She was on the edge of pressing further but the moment passed. The car rolled through a tunnel of green as the last bits of sunlight gave way to quick-falling tropic night.
Another hour passed with the dark road becoming narrower and rougher. Concrete buildings gave way to small houses made of wood and sheet metal. Streetlights were nonexistent and Sally had to be wary of hitting Dominicans walking alongside the road.
I pointed ahead, at a small building lit up in the dark. “There it is. The Bodega de Plata. See the empty lot?”
Sally peered through the window. “Yeah.”
“On the far side of the lot there should a blue shanty. That’s where they told us to go.”
“I can’t see it.”
As we drove past the open bodega, several Dominicans loitering outside the door gave us the once over. Tourists were rare in this part of the country, especially on their own and driving at night.
Ahead we saw a shanty in the shadows.
“Is that blue?” I said. “It’s so dark.”
“It’s blue,” said Sally. “C’mon. Let’s go.”
I scoped out the dense shadows surrounding us. “You know they’re out there. They’re watching us.”
“I don’t care,” said Sally. “Let’s give them the money and go.”
Sally pulled off the road and shined the headlights on the shanty.
I said, “Wait in the car.”
Too late. Sally was already out of the door. I had to hustle to catch up to her. Without hesitation, she opened the door and stepped inside the shanty.
Sally didn’t even look for a light, and instead shouted, “Dylan! Dylan!”
I found a cord, pulled it and harsh light from a bare bulb illuminated the room. The walls were bare wood. There was nothing but a table, chairs, and cot.
Sally cried out again, “Dylan!”
“He’s not going to be here,” I said. “But he’s near — I know it.”
I went to the front door and stared out at the dark foliage surrounding us. Sally shouldered past me and shouted into the darkness —
“Give us our son! We did what you said! We have the money!”
Silence.
Sally shouted again. “Give us our son!”
I paced the porch of the shanty. Only one word kept coming out of me. “Motherfucker… motherfucker.”
Sally turned to me, eyes wild, “What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“You said they were watching us. Why won’t they answer?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why isn’t he here,” cried Sally. “What do they want?”
I walked back into the shanty. I hadn’t noticed it when we first came in. Why would I? It was only faint scratches in the wooden wall by the cot. Two words. Stingray City.
I looked over my shoulder at Sally. “Dylan was here.”
We heard the music first — the rough percussive sounds of reggaetón. As we got closer to Bodega de Plata, we saw three men and a shy-looking woman hanging out in front of the store. All four watched us approach.
I lifted a hand in greeting and said, “Hola.”
The skinniest of the group, wearing a Knicks basketball jersey, returned my greeting.
I asked Sally, “Do you want a beer?”
She gave me a nod, maybe too nervous to speak. She stayed close by my side as I went inside the store and withdrew two Presidentes from the cooler.
I paid and handed one of the beers to Sally. “Let’s find out what these guys know.”
Walking outside, I lifted my bottle to the skinny guy and his companions. “Your health.”
“The Bodega de Plata serves the coldest beer in the D.R.,” said the skinny guy. “See the frost? Your bottle wears a wedding dress.”
I gave Sally a grin. “My wife wore black.”
That got a laugh out of them.
I said, “I have a question.”
They became attentive, as though a question from me was important.
“The blue shanty over there.” I pointed in the shack’s direction. “Was there a little American boy over there? Nine years old.”
Sally dug in her purse and flipped open her wallet. “He looks like this.”
The Dominicans gathered around the picture. The woman gave it the closest inspection.
“I see him,” said the woman. “Playing soccer.”
Sally said, “Soccer?”
“For a white boy he play good,” said the woman.
“Where?” I asked.
The woman pointed at the empty lot. “In the yard.”
The skinny guy said, “Graciela…”
I asked the woman. “That’s your name? Graciela?”
She nodded and I asked, “Was there anyone with him?”
I watched the Dominicans exchange glances. It was clear they were warning each other to shut up.
“Guys,” I said. “Come on.”
They looked at me and shook their heads. Graciela was on the verge of saying something but remained silent.
I took out my wallet. “I don’t expect something for nothing.”
“It ain’t like that,” said the skinny man.
“One hundred pesos,” I said. “Simple question. Did they have the boy in the shanty over there?”
When Graciela looked to speak, one of the men nudged her in the side.
“He playin’ soccer,” said the skinny man. “That’s all we know.”
Sally spoke up. “We’re talking about our boy.”
Instead of answering, the skinny man reached down and turned up the volume on the boombox.
“Our boy’s gone,” said Sally.
The skinny man turned his back and began talking in Spanish with the other Dominicans.
Sally wasn’t about to give up this easy. “You’re not going to help a mother find her boy?”
This wasn’t going to go anywhere. Not right now. I touched Sally on the shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s go.”
“Where?” said Sally. “Just where the fuck are we supposed to go?”
“C’mon.”
<
br /> Sally gave them a parting shot as I led her away. “Motherfuckers.”
The skinny man grinned at his friends, shrugged.
When we were halfway back to the shanty, I looked back over my shoulder. The men didn’t spare us a glance.
The sole woman, Graciela, watched us with what appeared to be a sympathetic look in her eyes.
Chapter 14
There was nowhere to go but back to the shanty and hope for contact from the kidnappers. I watched Sally pace back and forth across the room. We could call the police and risk everything or we could wait.
Sally stopped short and gave me that glare of hers. “Sit and wait? You call that a plan?”
“I know,” I said. “It sucks. But this is where they told us to go. Maybe they have their reasons. Maybe they’re watching us.”
“Us? What the hell is us? You deserted us a long time ago.”
“Like you had nothing to do with it.”
“You took our son into danger.”
“Bullshit,” I said. “I took him into life. There are no guarantees in this world. Control freaks don’t last.”
“You didn’t protect him.”
“I didn’t baby him. There’s a difference.”
“There’s no talking to you,” said Sally. “You’re incapable of admitting when you’re wrong.”
“I’ve been wrong plenty of times.”
“Are you wrong now?”
“Stop it.”
“Are you?”
“Yeah,” I said, turning away. “I was wrong. I fucked up.”
“You sure did.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Sally sit on the cot. I could feel her staring at me, but I avoided eye contact. I was wrong. I was a fool. I was defenseless. My eyes remained fixed on the tabletop, its stained Formica pattern of odd loops resembling infinity symbols. I wanted to go in there. Fall into the table. Escape into space.
I stared at the table for a long time — I don’t know how long. When I looked up, Sally was lying on the cot, fully dressed and deep in an exhausted sleep.
Was I awake? Was I asleep? I don’t know how much time had passed. Maybe hours. My head lay on the table pillowed by my arms and I was sobbing.
I wiped at my eyes and saw Sally standing by my side.
She reached out and touched my shoulder and said, “It’s all right.”
It should have been hard getting the words out, but it wasn’t. “I’m so sorry.”
I wasn’t one to cry but the sobbing wouldn’t stop. In between breaths, I said again, “I’m so sorry.”
Sally backed away. I could see the sympathy bleed away from her eyes to be replaced by the fear her ex-husband and father of her child was crumbling. I tried to get control but couldn’t. I watched Sally retreat to the cot and lie down, facing the wall, her back to me.
Exhaustion. A merciful God. Pressure valves in the heart and mind. Whatever the reason, I froze down into sleep, my head on the table, cushioned on my folded arms.
I was looking at Dylan from behind, his cheek and shoulder. Beyond him were swirling shadows. He was still. Too still. My breath began to catch in my throat, and the tubes of my body — the veins, the oesophagus, the intestines — all began to pulse with irritation and pain…
I woke up to daylight in the shanty.
Blinking, I shook off the effects of the dream. The cot across the room was empty. I stood up, feeling stiff from sleeping at the table, and walked over to the sole window of the shanty.
Looking out I could see Sally sitting at a table behind the bodega. Across from her was the woman from last night, Graciela.
Halfway there I saw that Sally was drawing a pencil portrait of Graciela. Two Styrofoam cups of coffee were on the table. As I approached, Graciela took a sip of hers and set it back down. She didn’t look pleased to see me.
Sally glanced over her shoulder as she heard me approach.
“I’ve got this,” she said, and went back to sketching.
I kept my mouth shut and watched Sally sketch. Sally’s strokes with the pencil were bold and assured. A portrait full of character was emerging on the paper. When she was done, she said to Graciela, “I wanted to sketch you ever since I saw you last night. You have a good face.”
Graciela came around to examine the portrait. She looked pleased, but there was a wariness about her, as though she wondered where all of this attention would lead.
“Last night,” said Sally. “It felt like you wanted to tell me something. But maybe the men being around, you felt like you couldn’t.”
“It’s none of their business,” said Graciela.
“What isn’t their business?” asked Sally. “Do you know where my son is?”
Instead of answering, Graciela looked away. I wanted to ask her what she was hiding but managed to stay silent.
“Where is my son?” said Sally, an edge to her voice.
Graciela looked ready to speak and then swallowed her words.
“Are you a mother?” asked Sally, managing to make it sound like a question instead of an accusation.
The Dominican woman patted her abdomen and shook her head no.
“I need to find him,” said Sally. “More than anything in the world.”
The tense mask slipped away from Graciela’s features and she said, “I don’t know where your boy is. But I know the men who took him. One of them is still here.”
“Please,” said Sally. “Tell me. I’ll give you money.”
“I don’t want money,” said Graciela. “I want to see her suffer.”
“Who?” asked Sally.
Graciela spit on the ground. “That puta. I saw him first. She took him away from me. Siete was going to be mine.”
“Please,” said Sally.
“That puta pushed me aside.”
“Where’s my son?”
Graciela dumped her coffee on the ground. “I’ll tell you.”
Once she did, there was only one thing left to do.
Chapter 15
The Toyota’s trunk popped open. I reached in and found what I was looking for — a tyre iron. In my pocket was a cigar and lighter I’d bought in the bodega, along with a roll of duct tape.
Sally stood there watching me. “Should we get the police?”
“I don’t trust the police.”
I was surprised to see Sally nod in agreement.
“This so-called puta?” I said. “She’s gone?”
“You heard Graciela. She said this Siete guy is alone.”
“You’re sure?”
Sally gave me a frown. “How can I be sure about something like that.”
“If I’m not back in an hour, or if you think this whole thing went south, you take off. Go back to Santo Domingo. Take a room at the Sheraton and I’ll meet you there if I can.”
I dug my wallet out of my pocket and took out Renaldo’s business card. I handed the card to Sally. “Call Renaldo. He’s the guy we met on the Malecon. He’s a good guy. He’ll help you.”
“I never saw you fight,” said Sally. “Do you know how?”
“This isn’t gonna be a fight,” I said, hefting the tyre iron in my hand. “It’s gonna be a beating.”
Graciela had told us how to find the mulatta’s shack — that was what she called it. It was along a trail through a small field of sugarcane leading to a hill overlooking the bodega and blue shanty. Instead of using the trail, I went a half-mile out of my way to approach the shack from the rear, swatting away at insects and stepping carefully. I held the tyre iron in my hand. I was hoping Siete would be alone. Man, woman, dog — if they were in that shack they were all going to be at risk.
From the outside, the mulatta’s shack was even more dilapidated than the blue shanty. The roof was covered by a plastic tarpaulin held in place with broken pieces of cinderblock. The paint on the outer walls had chipped and faded until the wood was now a weathered gray.
I eased close and peered through a back window smeared with dirt. A man — it had
to be Siete — sat at a table by a front window, with an iPad in front of him. I recognised him right off as one of the guys that gave me the beatdown in my hotel room. I watched him look up from his iPad and peer out the front window. He was probably keeping an eye on us, ready to report if we made a move.
Getting in was going to be easy. Late morning had turned hot and humid and Siete had the front door open to catch a breeze. Crouching low, I made my way around to the front, careful not to make any noise. The tyre iron felt lethal in my right hand. I wasn’t a brawler, a man of action. But something was happening to me in the seconds leading up to mayhem. There was a ring of blood — almost an itch behind my eyes. My knees and elbows were vibrating with adrenalin. Commitment. I hadn’t felt commitment in a long time. It was a good feeling.
I hurtled through the front door with the tyre iron held high. Siete barely had time to look up before I cracked him hard on the collarbone, knocking him out of his chair. He raised his hands to protect his face and I gave him a hard whack on his knee. This second blow got a terrified scream out of him. As he tried to scramble to his feet I put all my strength into a blow against the other knee. This was the proverbial final blow and Siete went down with both hands held up in surrender.
“No! No!” he cried.
I cocked my arm. “Shut up.”
“Stop! Tell me what you want!”
I took a step back, figuring he was tenderised enough to listen. Instead, Siete leaped up and rushed toward me —
That’s when I gave it all I had — a tremendous crack against his skull.
Siete hit the floor. I nudged him with my foot, ready to hit him again at the slightest movement.
Nothing. He was out.
It took a while.
I wasn’t watching the clock, but I figure it must have been fifteen minutes before Siete began to stir. He seemed to regain consciousness in pieces — his leg twitching… one eye opening… his chin lifting off his chest.
Duct tape wrapped Siete’s wrists and ankles. Strapped to the chair, he wasn’t going anywhere.
I took a hearty puff on the Davidoff cigar I’d brought along. I wasn’t much of smoker but a guy could get used to these. A cigar definitely made me feel more masculine.