Dangerous Ends

by Alex Segura

  “I’m worried about Martin,” Jack said. His eyes gave Pete the once-over. Martin was another one of the guys Jack sponsored. Martin hadn’t been sober very long and had relapsed a few times. He was having trouble sticking with the program.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “He strings a few days together, then disappears, and when he comes back, I know he’s been out there. He’s not talking about it either. I know he’s hanging around the wrong crowd. He’s struggling.”

  Pete cleared his throat. He knew where this was heading. Pete wasn’t a sponsor. He didn’t feel like he was ready to mentor anyone about how to stay sober—he’d had enough trouble trying to keep his own head straight.

  “Anyway,” Jack said. “I was kind of hoping I’d see him tonight.”

  “Yeah, it’d be good to see him,” Pete said. He reached for the door.

  Before he could open it, Jack put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Everything good with you?”

  “Yeah, for the most part,” Pete said. “This new case is gonna take up a lot of my time. It’s complicated.”

  “Don’t let it affect what matters most,” Jack said. He said it casually, but Pete got the message. Don’t let work distract you from your top priority: staying sober.

  “I won’t,” Pete said, stepping out of the car. He lingered by the open door. “I’ll give Martin a call too. Maybe he needs to hear from different people. Get reminded a bit.”

  “That’d be good,” Jack said.

  “I’ll catch you later,” Pete said before closing the door. Jack waved as he backed his car out of the space and turned out of Pete’s complex.

  PETE FELT his phone vibrating as he took the steps up to his apartment. Kathy.

  “Yes, ma’am?” Pete said, his tone jovial. The high that came from going to a meeting—discussing his own struggle with fellow drunks for a short time and connecting with himself—was hard to top. It reminded him why he kept coming back.

  The feeling disappeared a second after he heard Kathy’s voice—weak, flat, and in shock. She was in trouble.

  “Pete…I, um, shit, I don’t even know where to start,” Kathy said. Pete could barely understand her. She sounded like she was calling from a tunnel.

  “Hold on a second, what’s going on?” Pete said. He had turned around and was heading to his car. “Where are you? Are you okay?”

  “Fuck,” she said, her voice low, raspy. “He just left. He said he was going to kill me. He had a gun pointed at my head and said I was going to die.”

  “HE SAID to leave things alone…to stop poking around.”

  Kathy’s story came out in a series of long, rambling sentences, as was her way when under duress or anxious. She had been clear with Pete from the moment she got in the car: Do not call the cops. She didn’t want to file a report. All she wanted was to go somewhere safe and sleep.

  Her voice wavered a bit as she spoke. She’d curled herself up on the passenger seat of Pete’s car as they drove back to his apartment. She was staring out the window, her eyes unfocused and wide.

  Kathy’d taken the afternoon off from her other freelance work and had driven downtown to the office of Calvin Whitelaw. Now retired, he still had an office where he did some consulting work—including trying to stomp out the remaining vestiges of Varela’s appeals process. Whitelaw was a Miami legal legend—known as cutthroat, meticulous, hard-nosed, and his own biggest fan. He rarely lost, even when there was little to no evidence to work with. The Varela case was a perfect example—no murder weapon, no motive, circumstantial evidence, and a few questionable character witnesses. Still, Whitelaw made it work.

  She didn’t have an appointment. Standard Kathy.

  “The meeting was a clusterfuck,” Kathy said. “I waltzed into his office and sped by his ancient secretary. That was the easy part. Once I got in to see him, everything went to shit.”

  She fiddled with the strap of her seatbelt. Her breathing had calmed down a bit and her eyes seemed more focused.

  “He was pissed off, of course,” she said. “‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ and, ‘What the fuck’ this, or, ‘Why the fuck’ that. Guess he wasn’t used to being surprised.”

  Traffic was light on the way back home. It was a weeknight, and for a party town like Miami, the streets were quiet—especially the further west Pete drove. The Miami evening was lit by traffic lights and the neon signs that decorated every corner bodega, cookie-cutter restaurant, and dollar store they could see. Soon they were a few blocks from Pete’s apartment.

  “We talked about real stuff for maybe a minute,” Kathy said. She straightened up in the seat as Pete pulled the car into his complex. “Then security showed up. I guess his secretary wasn’t that slow, even if she did look like a mummy. The guard was nice enough, but he did the whole grabbing-my-elbow thing I hate, so once he did that I lost my shit.”

  Pete slid the car into his parking space and turned off the engine. He didn’t move to open the door. He could tell Kathy wanted to keep talking.

  “So I pulled away from the rent-a-cop and it freaked Whitelaw out,” she said. “I mean, before, he was all in control and angry, but now he seemed to think I was nuts, which I figured could work in my favor.

  “That’s when he finally started talking, after I was being led away by this security guy,” she said. “He told me to just leave things be, that the court had decided and Varela was guilty, and I should just try to find another case to make money off. He called me a two-bit Anne Rule. What a prick. Anne Rule is fucking amazing.”

  Pete could see Kathy’s color returning with each word. Her anger was helping.

  She let out a dismissive sigh. “The nerve of that guy, right?” she said, turning to Pete for the first time since they’d parked. “I’ve been a reporter for years—longer than I’d even want to count—and this guy thinks I’m some amateur trying to make a buck?

  “Anyway, the conversation itself was a waste of time,” she said. “I walked out of the office and told the guard to go fuck himself and that I was going to press charges for how he handled me. Bullshit, of course, but still.

  “By now, it was late. I was alone in the garage, trying to remember where I’d parked. After a few minutes of wandering around, I find my car. Not even paying attention, of course. Just pulled out my keys and started to get the hell out of there. It was getting late. Somehow I’d been there for almost an hour, and I’d gotten there toward the end of the workday to begin with. So, it was dark. I didn’t look around my car.”

  She started to stammer more. She was searching for the best way to explain what happened next. She swallowed.

  “Then I felt something—something cold on the back of my head—and somehow I knew, I just knew it was a gun,” she said. “Maybe I could feel the shape or I was just thinking the worst. At first I thought—for that split second before I heard his voice—it was the guard. You know, feeling emasculated and pissed off because I’d made his stupid day more annoying.”

  She trailed off. She didn’t want to talk about this.

  “Then what happened?” Pete said. He tried to be as gentle as possible.

  “He, ah, he—well, it wasn’t the guard,” she said. “His voice was low, real growly and low, like a baritone singer who’d swallowed a lot of glass. Something out of a cartoon. He said to mind my fucking business and leave things alone. That I didn’t know what I was getting into. Give back the money and leave things be…”

  She opened the passenger side door without a word and stepped out into the night. Pete did the same and tried to catch up with her. By the time he did, Kathy had lit a cigarette and was looking out onto the quiet street.

  “You okay?” Pete said.

  “Relatively, yes,” Kathy said. “I think you can understand, right? Let’s visit that hovel of yours.”

  Once inside, Pete motioned for her to take a seat by the dining table. He went into the kitchen and returned with two cups of black coffee. Kathy took hers
and nodded thanks.

  “So, yeah, pretty fucking scary,” Kathy said. “Even for tough-as-nails reporter Kathy Bentley, I guess. You’d think this would be old hat for me by now. Especially after all we’ve been through.

  “At some point, the guy with the gun left,” she said. “I’m not sure when. I tried to keep it together, even with the gun at my head, because fuck this guy. I don’t think he expected that, which is lucky for me. But he was pretty on-message with his threats: Varela was guilty, we would be hurt if we tried to get him off, and I was a stupid bitch. He’d obviously practiced the speech before the gunplay. After a few minutes, he’d had enough of threatening to murder me, I guess, and he left. I didn’t even bother to get a look at him or try to figure out who he was. I was just glad he was gone.”

  “What did you do then?” Pete said.

  “Nothing,” she said. “I was just sitting in my car, trying to breathe again, to calm down enough to drive out of there. The parking lot was pretty full—of cars, at least. I wasn’t really paying attention. But then I heard a tapping on my window and I freaked. I yelled. It was crazy. I didn’t know I could get that loud.”

  Pete inched his chair a bit closer.

  “Who was it?” he said.

  “It was Whitelaw,” she said. “The absolute last person I expected to see. He seemed concerned—you know, in the weird, creepy way people with no emotions show concern. ‘Are you alright, miss?’ Probably thought I was having a meltdown. Which I kind of was. I mean, I’d just had a gun pointed at me.

  “So I told him what happened,” she said. “Maybe not the best idea, but he actually showed he was a real human after all. He offered to call the cops and hung around until I was sure you were on your way. Not what I would have expected. I didn’t get anything else out of him, but at least he showed a shred of humanity.”

  “Life is weird like that,” Pete said.

  “Fuckin’ right it is,” Kathy said, a dry laugh escaping her mouth.

  “What did Whitelaw say then?” Pete asked. “Anything you could use?”

  Kathy’s eyebrows popped up.

  “Anything I could use?” she said. “Having second thoughts?”

  “Well, things have gotten a little more complicated,” Pete said.

  “Oh Christ,” she said. “What now?”

  “I ran into our old pal Robert Harras earlier,” Pete said. “And he had some interesting info.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Quit stringing me along and spill, bro.”

  “He’s on the case,” Pete said. “Varela pushed for Maya to hire him and help us.”

  “What? Like an equal partner?” Kathy asked. She’d stood up and started pacing. “That’s not cool at all. I’ll have to check our contract, but I am not giving that guy any of our money. They’d better be paying him on top—”

  “Not an equal, I don’t think,” Pete said. “But definitely part of the team. The term he used was consultant. Someone to help us navigate the investigation process. He and Varela go back a ways.”

  “A babysitter,” Kathy said. “Fucking great. Well, look, this is even more reason for you to excise your little teen demons and decide if you’re doing this with me or not, because I am not pairing up with Harras alone.”

  “I’m in. I can’t let you work this alone and get all the glory,” Pete said. “Though I’m not sure what I think of Varela yet.”

  “Well, neither am I,” Kathy said. “But that’s not the point. We get to write a book about the case. We don’t have to write it a certain way.”

  “Varela’s paying us, though,” he said. “It’s hard not to feel like there’s some kind of expectation there. Especially with all the access he’s promised.”

  “I’m sure there is,” she said. She’d taken her seat again, the Harras news a small distraction. “But that’s their problem, not ours. I just need to know you’re with me on this, though.”

  Pete rubbed his eyes. It was getting late. He was usually in bed close to eleven. He could feel his body winding down. But circumstances were different now. He had work to do.

  “I’m with you,” he said. “Let’s worry about the rest.”

  “Whatever,” Kathy said.

  Pete’s phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number. Normally he’d ignore such a call, but he answered anyway.

  “This is Pete.”

  “Yo, hey, man, it’s Martin,” the voice on the other end said. “Martin from the Miller Drive meeting on Wednesdays. Jack gave me your cell.”

  Martin. Jack’s sponsee. The one Jack was worried about.

  He raised a finger to Kathy and walked to his bedroom and closed the door. He ignored her annoyed look.

  “Hey, Martin,” Pete said. “How’s it going?”

  “Eh, not so good,” he said. “I’m, uh, I’m just calling to keep my mind off things, you know? Trying to stay focused.”

  “I hear you,” Pete said. He was pacing around his small bedroom, trying to keep his voice low enough to avoid Kathy’s sensitive ears. She knew Pete was in the program, but he didn’t feel the need to immerse her in the details of his recovery.

  “I’ve been trying to keep it together, man,” Martin said. “Been going to meetings, been reading the Big Book, you know, the whole nine yards. But one of my boys texted me last night and wanted to get together and, shit, I know what that means. I know what he wants to get together with, you know?”

  “Yeah, I know,” Pete said. “You have to protect yourself from that. Remember, people, places, and things. You have to change your habits.”

  “Man, I know all those sayings,” Martin said. He sounded annoyed. “It’s easy on paper, easy at a meeting, but damn, I need a release.”

  Pete let the conversation go quiet for a beat before responding. He knew what Martin was dealing with. Recovery was tough—even on a good day. He knew you had to remind yourself of the bad times or you’d be prone to fall back into them.

  “That’s the down side of being sober, man,” Pete said. “You can’t hide. When life gets tough, you have to face it. But that’s good too. You push forward. You remember where you were the last time you picked up?”

  “Barely, man, barely,” Martin said. “Probably on the street, belly-up in an alley or getting my ass kicked out of a bar. I don’t even know. Shit.”

  “Keep that fresh in your head,” Pete said. “Because that’s where you’ll end up if you pick up again. You don’t get a training period and you don’t get to ease back into it. You start right where you left off.”

  Martin was quiet on the other end. Pete wondered if he’d hung up.

  “You right, you right,” Martin said. He cleared his throat. “It’s tough, though, man. I don’t do anything anymore. Just work, go to meetings, read. Shit is boring.”

  “It gets better,” Pete said. He wasn’t sure what else to say. “You have to keep at it. You know what they say—don’t quit before the miracle happens.”

  Martin laughed for a moment.

  “Yeah, man, I could use one, a miracle,” he said. “I’ll leave you alone, Pete. Thanks for talking to me. I needed that. Glad I’m not the only one with a brain working overtime.”

  “You got it,” Pete said. “Let’s get a coffee or something this week.”

  “Coffee it’s gonna be, man,” Martin said. “‘Or something’ got me in trouble for too long.”

  They laughed and Pete hung up. He looked at his phone for a moment before sliding it into his front pocket.

  When he walked out into the living room, he found Kathy curled up on the chair, her knees close to her chest as she scrolled through her phone. She seemed much better than when he picked her up.

  “How was your super-secret call there, buddy?” She didn’t look up as she asked. “Because I was pretty bored out here while you were having phone sex in your room.”

  Pete ignored her and took his seat.

  “What’s next?” Pete said.

  “We need to do is meet with Varela’s attorney,” Kat
hy said. “I called her when we got hired and let her know we’d like to talk. Her secretary is ‘trying to fit us in,’ as they say.”

  Pete leaned back in his chair. Kathy had gotten a second wind, but Pete didn’t feel up for talking through the case until the wee hours.

  His phone vibrated again. A text message. He looked at the display. Another unknown number.

  “You’re popular tonight,” Kathy said.

  Pete checked the message.

  Hey Pete, it’s Maya Varela. Sorry for the random text, but are you free for breakfast tomorrow?

  Pete started typing a response.

  “Are you even listening to me?” Kathy asked, her voice sounding like a long whine.

  “Gimme a second, I just got a text from our client’s daughter,” Pete said.

  “Oh, right,” Kathy said. “She asked me for your number. What did she say?”

  Pete: Sure, sounds good. When/where?

  Maya: You pick the place. 10am too late? ☺

  Pete: La Carreta on Bird. See you at 10.

  “She wants to have breakfast,” Pete said, putting his phone away. “That’s weird.”

  “You’re blushing.”

  “No, I’m not,” Pete said. “She probably wants to talk about the case.”

  “I’m sure that’s it,” Kathy said. She’d gotten up and plopped herself on the couch. “Can we do something fun now? Put on the TV. I need to turn my brain off for a little while. Surely there’s a Law & Order marathon going on somewhere.”

  Pete followed her to the couch and sat on the opposite end. He grabbed the remote and flicked on the television. The screen came to life. It was late, and the local news was on. A young reporter named Hansel Vela appeared, reporting live from what looked like an abandoned field. The banner at the bottom was not subtle: Vicious Murder in Peacock Park. Pete turned up the volume.

  “Authorities have yet to identity the body,” Vela said, his slim, tan figure surrounded by the fluorescent camera light, the shadowy park creating an ominous backdrop. “But Channel 10 News can confirm the victim, a man in his mid-to-late thirties, was found stabbed to death right here in Coconut Grove’s Peacock Park, his body left on the outskirts of this wooded area. A late-night jogger made the discovery and alerted the police. While the murder bears the familiar signature of Los Enfermos, a dangerous and violent street gang that has made a mark on the city over the last decade, Miami PD are refusing to call this a gang-related slaying. We’ll have more info right here on 10 as this story develops. Back to you, Brad.”