by Mark Rogers
The wallet in my hand was flipped open to Siete’s Dominican driver’s license.
“Siete,” I said. I held the wallet up. “Says it right here.”
I tossed the wallet on the floor. “I remember your face. I never forget a face. You got that hood on me pretty fast — but not fast enough. You fucked me up pretty bad.”
“Just tell me what you want,” said Siete, hardly loud enough to hear. “And then let me go to the doctor.”
“You’ve taken my son and I want him back.”
“Not me. I know nothing about that.”
“I’m on a deadline, Siete. I don’t have much time.”
I drew on the cigar until its tip was a red-hot coal. I came up close and held the cigar an inch from Siete’s bicep.
“Wait,” said Siete, his eyes wide.
The tip of the cigar was close enough to redden his skin.
The Dominican was fully conscious now. “Please… I can help you. Let me help.”
I took a step back, looked into Siete’s eyes, and pressed the cigar against my own bicep. I willed myself to show nothing as my flesh sizzled and burned.
I could only endure so much, and when I took the cigar away Siete began a wordless whine. He thrashed against his bonds. A repulsive and confusing smell of cooked meat rose with the cigar smoke.
Panting, I leaned over, my head between my knees. The pain was coming in waves. Pass out and I’d never see my son again.
I got the pain under control and straightened. I said to Siete, “If I can do that to myself, what do you think I’ll do to you?”
“Please…”
It only took a puff or two to restore a fiery coal on the tip of the cigar. I took a step closer and held the cigar even with Siete’s eye.
I moved it closer.
“Motherfucker,” I said. “I’m only getting started.”
The Dominican snapped. “Okay! Okay! I know. I can tell you.”
Ten minutes later, after Siete unloaded, I felt an intense panic. Anyone looking at me would never have guessed. I was calm on the outside, as though I was strolling through deep clover, or wading through the warm sea.
There was only one solution. At least to this immediate problem.
“I’ve got no stomach for torture,” I said. “But you’re a problem for me.”
“No,” said Siete. “This is over. I won’t tell nobody.”
The shack didn’t have anything resembling a kitchen. It did have a sink and cabinet. I rooted around inside the cabinet until I found what I was looking for — a plastic bag.
Standing in front of Siete, I wanted to feel sorry for him. But I couldn’t. Not after what he told me. “You a religious man, Siete?”
“I’ll go away.”
“I can’t take that chance. My son’s worth ten of you.”
“No. It’s all good.”
“Quiet now.”
I pulled the bag over Siete’s head. It wasn’t easy, the way he twisted from side-to-side. I finally got it all the way on and taped it tight around his neck.
I backed away, wishing it was black plastic instead of clear. I could still see the Dominican’s eyes as he realised whatever breath he had was gone.
He managed one strangled, hiccupping scream. His final action on this earth was to lurch so hard the chair fell over.
His legs kicked a couple of times.
Then it was over.
No.
It was just beginning.
Chapter 16
From where I was sitting in the blue shanty I could watch Dominican boys kick a soccer ball back and forth. If I closed my eyes to slits I could imagine Dylan playing among them. He was a fair soccer player and could probably have kept up with the Dominican kids.
Sally came in the door holding a bag. “I got what I could from the bodega. It’s not all that much.”
“Let’s get it done and hit the road.”
“This will have to do.” Sally took out antiseptic, gauze bandages, Excedrin.
I washed down three Excedrin as Sally bandaged the cigar burn on my arm.
Sally taped the gauze in place. “Did Siete do this to you?”
“I’ll tell you everything,” I said. “Just give me a chance.”
“Did he do it?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Where’s Dylan? Did that motherfucker tell you?”
I got up from the chair — the burn throbbed. I didn’t care. It made me feel mean.
“We don’t have much time,” I said. “I know where Dylan is.”
Sally grabbed her bag. “Then let’s go.”
I put both hands on Sally’s shoulders. I was going to need her to listen. “All the phone calls, all the running around, getting the money — it’s bullshit. They don’t give a damn about the seventy-five-grand.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dylan’s a pawn,” I said. “They’re not gonna hand him over to us. They don’t give a fuck about us.”
“Why? Why won’t they take the money? This is crazy.”
“We want Dylan we’re gonna have to take him.”
“This is crazy!”
“It’s fucked,” I said. “But we’re the only chance Dylan has. Renaldo has the police in his pocket.”
“Renaldo?”
“That’s what Siete told me.”
“Your friend Renaldo?”
“Yeah.”
Sally shook her head. “You are some piece of work. You are a world-class asshole.”
“You know what? You won’t get any argument from me.”
I stepped outside, the car keys in my hand. The humid sunshine, the brightness of the sky and leaves — it all seemed a joke. They were going to kill my son.
Sally followed right behind me. “And what’s will stop this Siete character from going straight to Renaldo?”
“Stop it. Someday I’ll tell you what went on up there. But right now, all I give a damn about is Dylan.”
“What happened?”
“We gotta hit the road. Now!”
I didn’t see it coming — Sally hauled off and slapped me across the face.
I raised my hand to hit her back —
She slapped me even harder. This one rattled me. As I shook my head to clear my brain, she moved in close and kneed me in the belly, knocking me off balance so I sprawled in the dirt. From the corner of my eye I could see the soccer kids running over, cheering the fight. She kicked me hard in the ribs. I scrambled and rolled and managed to regain my feet.
“Hey!” I held out my hands and backed away.
Sally was breathing hard. I didn’t know she had it in her.
“Just stop,” I said. “Whether you like it or not, you fuckin’ need me in one piece.”
We were miles down the road driving westward before either one of us spoke.
Sally finally gave up staring out the window and asked, “Did he say anything about Dylan? Is he hurt?”
“He’s alive.”
“How fast can we get there?”
“A couple hours. We gotta go to Pedernales — all the way at the western tip of the country.”
Sally lapsed back into silence, probably hating she had to depend on me to get us there.
I asked, “You ever hear of Nancy Holloway?”
“You must think I’m an idiot,” said Sally. “Of course. The girl who went missing in Aruba.”
“When that happened, Aruba’s tourism went in the toilet. If someone mentioned Aruba, the first thing they’d think of was a beautiful blonde girl, murdered on vacation. I remember interviewing the minister of tourism after things began to settle down. He was still a basket case — he could hardly get a word out he was shaking so bad.”
“Maybe Aruba’s not such a great place.”
“See. That’s the natural reaction. Aruba eventually recovered — but not all the way. It probably never will.”
“I don’t give a fuck about Aruba,” said Sally. “And I don’t give a fuck about the Domini
can Republic.”
I began to speak and then shut up. She’d get the rest of it soon enough. Too much, too soon and she might fall apart.
We drove in silence for a few minutes, passing through a small town, not much more than a crossroads. The residents stared at us as we drove by, as though a couple of tourists in a rental car was an exotic sight.
Things were moving too fast for guilt to catch up to me. I considered myself lucky to have never fought in a war. What I did to Siete? Maybe it was on the same plane as a soldier mowing down the enemy on the battlefield and then laying down at night to sleep; lying in the dark, fearing what tomorrow would bring, rather than feeling guilty for the terrible things he’d done that day.
There was only one goal and that was to free Dylan. Later, Siete’s death may weigh heavy on me or maybe it wouldn’t.
Maybe I’d hold it up in my mind as a golden prize.
Once we were through the town and back rolling through the green landscape, I asked Sally, “You ever shoot a gun?”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“No, I’m not.” I patted my pants pocket. “That seventy-five-grand is going to come in handy. Going up against these guys, we’re gonna need more than a tyre iron.”
Sally shut down on me again and went back to staring out the window, probably wondering how things ever got this fucked up.
The little tienda attached to the gas station had guava candy, Bimbo bread, fresh papaya, cigars, Nacional cigarettes, and lots of chips and cookies. All I was interested in was what was in the cooler. I took out two ice-cold Presidentes and paid the shy girl behind the counter. I was impressed she wore a plastic flower in her hair, putting her best foot forward as she made change for customers.
Outside, Sally stood beside the car under the awning, watching an attendant fill our tank. I handed one of the beers to Sally. Before she took the first sip she dug into her purse and came up with a prescription bottle. I watched her pop two Zoloft in her mouth and swallow them with a gulp of beer.
Maybe I should have let it go but I didn’t. “You’re still on those?”
“What do you think?”
“Zoloft and Xanax?”
“Doctor prescribed.”
“Shit,” I said. “Mike Tyson was on Zoloft.”
Sally surprised me. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“Does Dylan know you take those?”
Sally looked away. “I don’t keep secrets from Dylan.”
“They calm you down?”
“Most times.”
“Maybe I should take a few.”
“I don’t think so — you better keep your edge.”
“In that case go easy on the pills,” I said. “You’re gonna need an edge of your own.”
“Who do you think got that woman to talk? We’d still be back in that blue shack if it wasn’t for me.”
That shut me up. I took a big slug of beer.
“You know what?” I said. “You did real good back there. We make a good team.”
“Please… Where have I heard that before.”
“I think, maybe, back around the time you were pregnant.”
Sally gave me one. “We did good for a while.”
I watched a tour bus pull into the station. The bus hissed to a stop and a mass of tourists — mostly women — disembarked and made a dash for the souvenir shop next to the market. The first one off the bus was a man I recognised. He stood there with a clipboard in his hand, watching the bus unload and doing a headcount.
I muttered, “Oh, shit…”
“What?” asked Sally.
“I know that guy. Stuart Bobbs. He’s a tour operator back in the states. Pilgrim Tours.”
Stuart saw me and did a doubletake. Then it was a big smile and wave. He began walking over and when he was ten feet away he was already talking.
“Mr. Caribbean. What are you doing off the resort? I’m used to seeing you around the pool with a drink in your hand.”
“Hi, Stuart. This is Sally.”
Stuart gave Sally a smile and a head nod. “Charmed.”
I gestured toward the bus. “Travel agents?”
“Yup. I’m running a fam.”
Sally looked at me, confused. “Fam?”
I said, “Familiarisation tour.”
“We just got done with a ton of hardhat tours in Pedernales,” said Stuart. “Have you been there yet?”
“Not recently.”
“It’s gonna be the next big thing.”
One of Stuart’s travel agents, a middle-aged woman in Bermuda shorts and neon pink shirt came out of the store. She had a mulatta doll in her hand.
Seeing me, she stopped short. “Are you Mr. Caribbean?”
I gave her a nod. “That’s me.”
“I read every issue of Travel Sense. I’m Gladys Tower from Tower Travel in Perth Amboy. We are having so much fun with Stuart. And we’re learning so much.”
Sally touched me on the shoulder. “We don’t have time for this.”
This didn’t seem to faze Gladys. She held her doll up in front of Sally’s face. “See what I bought?”
Sally’s lips compressed in a thin line — thin enough to snap.
“Gotta go!” said Gladys. “My turn for the window.”
I watched Gladys join the flow of agents toward the bus. All were loaded down with snacks and drinks and hideous souvenirs.
I said to Stuart. “I don’t know how you do it.”
“Do what?” asked Stuart.
Chapter 17
An hour later I pulled over to the side of the coastal highway. A dozen feet ahead of where we parked was a weather-beaten sign:
Barahona
22 Kilometers
I got out and pissed by the side of the road. Desert plants and sun-washed boulders, whitecaps on the sea, a rusted out junker in the brush, and — for a touch of surrealism — a black umbrella caught in the branches of a tree. The landscape was real instead of being carefully manicured for tourists.
Sally came up behind me, a bottle of water in her hand. I tucked myself back in my pants. Sally didn’t seem to care or notice.
I said, “The window to make a decision is getting smaller.”
“What do you mean?” asked Sally.
“Up until now, we had a choice. Lay it on the line with the police and hope they don’t fuck things up. Or go balls-to-the-wall ourselves and hope we don’t fuck it up.”
“How much time do we have?”
“Today. Tonight.”
“That’s all?” said Sally, touching the side of her face. “Oh, god.”
Sally stared at the horizon. I couldn’t tell if it was the drugs she was taking or all of the compressed anger and fear she was bottling up, but she seemed ready to blow.
I said, “We’re gonna do this.”
“I don’t know much about cops,” said Sally. “Especially Dominican cops. But if we go to them, we’re going to be what they call a person of interest. They’re not going to make a move until they take our story apart ten different ways.”
I watched her drink from her bottle of water. “Then it’s decided.”
“Yes. It’s up to us.”
“Then let’s do this.”
Sally held out the bottle to me. “Sip?”
I stared at the bottle in her hand. “No thanks.”
I watched her walk back to the car, past the umbrella in the tree, which twisted in the wind, threatening to pull loose. Renaldo’s betrayal made me question whether I knew anything about anybody. Maybe I was a complete fool when it came to people. Only a few nights ago, there I was bantering with Renaldo by the pool as he plotted the kidnapping of my son. Holding a cocktail in my hand. Laughing at his jokes. A betrayal like Renaldo’s made me want to turn my back on everyone but my son. Live in a trailer in the woods. Find a new profession offering only minor interaction with other human beings.
But I knew I’d never follow through with such a plan. When the light shone full b
last on me it revealed a dismal truth.
I needed other people. I needed other people for a good reason.
I didn’t much like myself.
Twenty minutes later we were driving through the outskirts of Barahona, a scruffy-looking town on a beautiful stretch of coast. I’d seldom ventured this far west. My travel was predicated on advertising and what a destination or resort could promote. As far as I could tell, Barahona had nothing packaged for American consumption. Real travellers would appreciate the beauty of the place. Tourists not so much.
I peered out the window. “It hasn’t changed much since the last time I was here.”
“What are we looking for?” asked Sally.
“I’ll know it when I see it.”
We drove down one street after another, past bodegas, cinderblock homes, hardware stores, and simple restaurants. Finally, we came upon a corner bar — La Belle Negrita. It looked disreputable enough for our purposes.
When I parked in front of the bar, Sally asked, “We’re going in there?”
“I guess it’s no use asking you to wait in the car.”
“No,” said Sally.
“We’re gonna need firepower. The people in that bar aren’t gonna trust us. But if we wave enough money around they’ll fold. They’ll make a deal.”
Sally stared at the bar’s façade, which featured a silhouette of a naked woman. “Is this the world you’ve been living in?”
“Are you kidding? I’m flying blind.”
Coming from the bright sunlight into the gloom of the bar blinded me for a moment. Merengue music played — a song I recognised by Elvis Crespo. As my vision adjusted, I saw a line of Dominicans at the bar — some dressed for flash, others in work clothes. A few chicas were working the bar, showing plenty of leg. Lots of heads turned our way. There was an open space at the end of the bar and Sally and I found seats. I gestured to the bartender, a broad-shouldered guy with a bristling moustache, wearing a cranberry-coloured guayabera.
“Two Presidentes.”
The bartender set the bottles in front of us. “Glasses?”
“No.”
I pushed a hundred-dollar bill across the bar. “Keep the change.”