“What do you mean, me put him in his crib? You’re the one who’s been tucking him in all this week.”
“No, I haven’t!”
“Yes, you have!”
“No, I haven’t! I was letting you two have a father-son bonding week.”
“When have I ever asked for a father-son bonding week?”
“Last week!” The woman, from her kneeling position, pokes a sharp finger into his right kneecap. “Did you or did you not tell me after Tuesday-night sex that you wanted to spend more time with Bobby?”
“Yeah, more . . . more time, not every single minute of the day!”
Irene makes kissy faces at the baby as she stands up. Turning on her heel, she marches back inside the house. “If you don’t mean something in the future, then I suggest you make that clear when saying what you do mean.”
“Are you saying Bobby’s disappearance is my fault?”
“Of course it’s your fault! Whose fault do you think it is? The milkman’s? The garbageman’s? Maybe the bum on the corner, who plays with himse—” The slamming of the front door echoes down the street.
The two men, having watched from the shadows, retreat along a haphazard path. Backward walking, frequently in their own footprints, they try throwing off anyone following them. An hour passes, then two. People getting off work begin swirling about them.
Ruiz checks the time on his phone. It’s just past five thirty. Tension leaves his shoulders. The cartel shooters will, he knows, be knocking off for the day. Union rules. So he’s got until eight o’clock the next morning to make peace with the organization.
Night falls early this time of year. But he is glad for a least a little reprieve before having to face the cartel in the morning. Mindlessly he follows Ajeno toward the Eden Palace. Pretty soon they pass a police car zooming past, then another, and another; their sirens bouncing off nearby buildings with unlit windows. Most pedestrians barely glance up from the pavement. Fifty seconds of noise and lights, then silence again. Only the click-clack of other people’s footsteps.
But then, rising like a torch between closed factories, the Eden Palace appears, all lit up from within. Illuminated, each apartment appears to be a stage set. Tiny figures can be seen moving behind the acrylic panels of storm windows.
Ajeno tugs on Enrique’s arm. “See, there on the third floor, the fifth box from the end? That’s Mr. Pfennerman. He teaches me numerology.” The fat man’s tone has turned eager. “You know what that is?”
“No.”
“Really?” Ajeno looks taken aback. “It’s interesting. He teaches me on Tuesdays.”
“Why Tuesday?”
“Cause he says it’s the third day of the week, and three is lucky for teaching.”
“I thought Wednesday was the third day.”
Ajeno shrugs. “I dunno.”
Silence again settles on the two men as they gaze up at the lit windows. The cool air is crisp and, for once, the smell of burning leaves almost eliminates the stink of factory emissions.
“It is a good thing, what we have done,” Ruiz finally says. “You are satisfied?”
The wide brow of the other wrinkles briefly. “Yeah, sure, I guess.” A rumbling sound starts up somewhere near their feet, and the Mexican fears it is an earthquake. “I’m hungry,” complains Ajeno. “Being a good guy is hard work!” Turning to Ruiz, he asks innocently, “Is it this tiring to be a bad guy?”
The tall man seriously considers the question. “No,” he says finally, “but only because nothing really matters when you are bad.”
“Funny, huh?” acknowledges Ajeno. “But you wanna see something that does matter?”
Pausing, Ruiz finally nods, surprised at his hesitancy. Why should he be wary? And of Ajeno, of all people?
Taking first the elevator and then the fire stairs, the fat man leads the Mexican up to the roof of the Eden Palace. Ajeno is breathing fast when they burst out of the stairwell. “You’ll like this, I think,” he gasps. “Pretty lights every night.”
He keeps mumbling, but Ruiz no longer hears. All he hears is roaring, blood surfing his brain. The night sky, slowly igniting in falling darkness, is opening up all around them! Still milky from light remnants, stars are burning, circling over their heads. His hands reach gently upward, patting the constellations into order. There’s Andromeda, Pisces, Capricornus, and—one of his favorites—Aquarius! A whimper escapes him. He can see stars that not even the height of the tampon factory can make visible. “This is . . .” Words fail him. He glances over at Ajeno. “Do you come up every night to watch?”
“Me?” The fat man has a firm grip on the fire door. “Nah, I like watching stars from down there.” He points over the roof’s edge. “I like ’em when they’re framed by brick, steel, and concrete—lotsa, lotsa concrete.” He licks his lips. “Wish I had a cookie right now.”
“But why . . . why not witness the stars from here? Where they are muy hermosa?”
“Cause I like . . . stuff.” Ajeno’s big hand waves again at the roof’s edge, where not even a parapet signals the vertical descent. “Here in Dayville, there’s stuff. Lotsa, lotsa stuff. Keeps us safe, keeps us stuck right here.” The fire door that he’s gripping groans as if under pressure. He glance skyward. “Up there, there’s nothing to stick to. You know?”
Ruiz understands. A little. He remembers what it was to fear the winter between stars. He felt that a long time ago, as a child. It must be that of which Ajeno speaks. But now the fat man is again speaking of being hungry. Ruiz turns back to face him. He sees the other, shadowed by the elevator shaft, as just a large area of blackness—a dark space speaking to him.
“But,” says the voice, “you like it, right?” The fat man steps into the light, his round eyes glimmering in moonlight. They shine so brightly that, his grin fading, Ruiz can’t immediately answer. Suddenly, he feels so small, like he did when sitting awash in starlight next to his dead mother.
He lifts his eyes upward, yielding. “Yes, very much.”
“Then you stay here . . . with us?”
Ruiz begins to answer but stops. He knows what he wants to answer, but it is too impossible. What of the cartel, the police, and the dozen memory sticks in his pocket with pirated FRCs? “I do not know.” He looks curiously at the other. “And you? Can you stay only here, in Dayville? You do not want to wander?”
Ajeno looks away from Ruiz to contemplate the cityscape. “I like here. It’s got people, lotsa people. Don’t got to be alone. Don’t like that. Being alone. Alone before, but then Papa and even Mama, they lie near me as a baby. And when bigger, I’m still not alone cause of Alejandro beside me, and he snores.
He giggles. “Now there’s Crystal. I like that. Hearing her little grunts when she farts.” He giggles again, his gaze turned back to Ruiz. “I like buildings to hold us and lots of food to make us heavy. It’s a good place, don’tcha think?”
***
“What do you think you’re doing?” Crystal had demanded this just thirty minutes before. She was opening the apartment door in response to a heavy pounding. Police officers stood outside in the hallway. Pushing past her, they began telling her of their suspicions regarding Ajeno. They’d just lifted an enormous thumbprint from a box used in a kidnapping case.
“Here,” they shouted while storming past her, “Read this!”
Stunned, she could only glance at the piece of paper shoved in her hands. It was inscribed with the alarming phrase Property Search Warrant.
After the seven-member SWAT team crammed itself into the one-room apartment, they took turns waving guns into both the shower stall and the apartment’s only closet. Obviously infuriated by bumping into each other continuously during the search, they dumped out all the pans from her kitchen cabinets and kicked to death the three-legged ottoman she’d found at the dump two weeks before.
“Where is he? Where is he?” They yelled at Crystal over and over again, as if repetition would force compliance.
“I don’t
know. I don’t know!” She cried this over and over again as if repetition would aid belief.
“We don’t believe you! Where did you keep the baby?”
Crystal’s mouth dropped open. “What baby?”
“The baby you stole. Where was it? Did you give it a multivitamin this morning? Tell us before we beat it outta ya!”
She buried her face in her hands. Maybe if she couldn’t see them, they wouldn’t really be there. “I don’t know. I don’t know!”
“We don’t believe you. We don’t believe you! Where was the baby kept?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know!”
***
“I must go,” says Ruiz. Across the rooftop, low in the southern sky, shines the Phoenix constellation, twinkling as if just for him. He drops a shameful gaze to his feet. “I have a very important pickup this evening.” He heads for the stairwell. “Perhaps it will make up for losing the Dawdleman FRC. Then with the rest of the memory sticks, I might convince the cartel that they should not kill me.”
“Okeydokey.” Following, Ajeno slaps his feet down, hard, on the concrete stair treads. “I come and help. There’s time before my late shift at the diner.”
Enrique makes to protest but shrugs instead. “You may come, but you must stay absolutely quiet. Yes?”
“Yep.”
Chapter Thirteen
In an alley running parallel to Fifth Street, Marcos waits for Enrique Ruiz. He tenses. The approaching sound of the fat man’s shoes splashing in puddles is unmistakable. Marcos is not surprised anymore to see the fat cook with the once-much-feared agent of the cartel.
Watching them approach, he risks a grin. Ruiz no longer intimidates him. Otherwise, Marcos would never have made a deal to betray him to the Feds or even taken a chance by putting out a hit on the cook with the Stormin’ Hamsters. But how dangerous can a man be who befriends such a fat loser?
He steps forward to meet the pair. “Hola.” He risks a glance at his cell phone, to indicate that they are late.
It’s immediately noticed by Ruiz, who slams him up against the brick wall of a diaper factory. “You are concerned about your phone?” With his arm pressed against Marcos’s windpipe, Ruiz snatches the device. “Maybe it does not work so well.” He tosses it a few feet away, toward a storm drain. The phone skitters along pavement until going silent, free-falling into the sewer. “I suggest buying a new one. ¿Entiende?”
Marcos can only nod faintly against the pressure of the other’s arm. The tall man then releases him so abruptly that he staggers before catching himself. “Yes,” he coughs, “I will do that.”
“Good.” Ruiz casts furtive looks around the alley as he speaks. Something besides the other man’s disrespect is making him uneasy. Quickly, he quantifies what’s wrong. For one, there is noise that is missing. No rats are scampering about the alley’s dark corners. And another thing are the trash cans.
He knows this alley well. And he knows that tomorrow is the day when garbage is picked up. The cans should be overflowing and pushed toward the alley’s center. That way the lazy garbage collector is forced to stop his truck to empty them. The Mexican’s neck prickles as, with a glance, he sees the cans neatly shoved to the edges of the pavement. “Ajeno . . .” He turns to warn the fat man but finds that he’s gone.
A bullet whistles past his ear. He dives for cover behind a fortuitously placed dumpster. Of Marcos, he hears only footsteps receding down the alley. Shots ping off the metal container. Ruiz pulls out his gun. Catching his breath, he steadies himself to listen. There is only one shooter. This he knows by the frequency of the shots and their point of origin. He thinks fast. Cradling his cheek against the steel container, he calls out, “Is there a problem?”
Shots momentarily cease. A pause and then a voice: “Not really. At least, not anymore. Your friend Marcos has been very helpful. Cooperating with law enforcement is the quickest way to citizenship. Now,” the voice turns businesslike, “if you would be so kind, please step to the center of the alley, and we can get this over with.”
Ruiz licks his lips, gauging the precise location of the voice. “No,” he says finally, “this I would prefer not to do.”
“Ah, yes. Naturally, I can understand. But, really, this expenditure of bullets is just very bad. Especially for the environment. The antimony in the lead alloy is extremely toxic, you know. And escape really is impossible.”
“You are sure?”
“’Fraid so. The fact is, you’re surrounded by the best federal agents in the country.”
Ruiz shifts his weight from kneeling to the balls of his feet. In his mind, he’s creating a picture of the alleyway. The voice is ten feet to his right and up at least twelve feet. The fire escape! “I do not believe you.”
“No?” The voice mumbles something Ruiz cannot hear. Headlights suddenly illuminate the narrow space, casting magnified shadows away from utility boxes and trash cans. If not for the dumpster, he would be completely exposed. “Satisfied?”
“All right!” Ruiz tenses, his body already rehearsing the moves he will make. “I am coming out.”
“Excellent.”
Moving rapidly, he edges around to the dumpster’s other end, away from the corner where he’s expected to exit. He throws himself into the line of fire, his gun hand already locked onto the fire escape. Shots erupt as the rusted fire ladder, where John Doe hangs like a bat, drops to the ground. Ruiz’s bullet has snapped off its locking mechanism. A loud “ooommph” signals the other man hitting the ground.
On the pavement himself, Ruiz again aims his gun, but a pull of the trigger does nothing. He winces. A jammed gun likely means a death sentence! He throws himself behind a generator box while breaking his gun down, trying to unjam it. More lights are being trained down the alleyway. Now it’s lit up like a theatrical stage.
Desperately, Ruiz rolls to avoid the lights. He hopes to tackle the other man, but he is unaware of Doe’s parrot-like prowess. The federal agent didn’t take all those years of ballet lessons for nothing! And that’s how Ruiz finds himself staring up into the kohl-lined eyes of his pursuer.
The gun in the other man’s hand is pointed straight at Ruiz. Doe is shouting at him, asking him something that, for a minute, sounds like gibberish. “Did you think I couldn’t do my part of a pas de deux to defeat you?”
The Mexican stays silent. First, because he doesn’t know what Doe’s talking about. And second, because he’s noticed a key weakness that just might save his life. “I . . . uh, I am foolish,” he admits finally. “I was not thinking. To be honest, I was distracted.”
Doe is busy slicking his gelled hair back into place with his free hand. “Distracted? You want to know about distracted?” He shakes his head, and Ruiz senses fatigue in the powder-blue figure. “Because of you, I’ve been busting my butt all day with explosives experts. And let me tell you, they are not an easy bunch to be around. So damn picky, shouting ’bout every . . . little . . . thing.” His face twists in mimicry. “Green wires, blue wires! Don’t play with the C-4 putty! Stop clicking that pressure switch! I swear, my own mother wasn’t as controlling as those guys.”
Ruiz nods sympathetically. His hand, in the shadow of his slacks, inches forward. “Yes, people can be very annoying. This is true.” A thought hits him, and his hand pauses. “But what is this that you blow up?”
At first Doe looks like he’ll ignore the question. But then he shrugs, a gleam of pride showing in his smirk. “It’s a brilliant idea of containment if you must know. Mine naturally.” He glances around for eavesdroppers. “I’ve been tracking you for a long time, mi cuate. Your little FRC operation’s been threatening big federal plans. Oh, you’re slick, I’ll give you that.”
Admiration fills his eyes momentarily. “Problem was, I didn’t have the faintest idea what you looked like. That is, until I saw your face in that newspaper article, along with the intel on when you’d hit town. Up till then, I just wasn’t that sure of catching you. So, I figured it might be neces
sary to blow the dam above this godforsaken burg just to flush you out.” He cocks an eyebrow. “Literally.”
Ruiz can’t move for a second. He’s seen (and done) many terrible things in his life, but the idea of killing an entire town horrifies even one such as himself. “That is . . . really? You would kill a whole town for one man?”
“It’s a dirty job, but,” Doe waves his hand theatrically, “someone’s gotta rinse the sponge. So, don’t talk to me about being distracted.” His brow furrows. “What did you mean, anyway, ’bout that?”
Ruiz feigns embarrassment. “Your fly, it is open.”
“What?” Doe’s glance drops involuntarily. With a mighty pull, the Mexican snatches the cardboard lying under the other’s feet. Doe lifts his gaze, but it’s too late. His feet fly out from under him, and he’s thrown backward as Ruiz scrambles to his feet.
Now it is Ruiz standing above, with his gun pointed at the other. “You will stop this explosion! There is no need.” He gropes with a free hand in his pocket. Memory sticks rain down around Doe’s shoes. “There! Those are all the FRCs. I will leave this place and trouble you no longer. I give you my word.”
Doe, his own gun upraised, eyes Ruiz over the barrel of his Glock. “But why trouble myself believing your word? We’re still going to blow the dam.” He cocks his head with obvious regret. “Just to make sure.”
Ruiz stares down at the other man. The coldness in Doe’s eyes reminds him of how his own had once felt. But no more. He won’t be the cause of a whole town’s destruction! Abruptly, he loosens his grip on the automatic until it no longer points at Doe, his arms lifting away from his body in abject surrender. “There is no need. I am your prisoner.”
The muzzle of the other gun lifts, and automatically, Ruiz’s eyes close. He wishes, in that second, for his ears also to be silenced, to be deafened from the inevitable shot. But then a second becomes two, then three. Warily, he opens his eyes.
Doe is frowning at him with a quizzical expression. “Your psych profile,” he says tartly, “doesn’t include a tendency for surrender. Why now? Why here?”
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