Most Wanted

by Michele Martinez

  Guilt and anxiety were familiar emotions to Sophie, like old friends, but she’d never experienced them with this paralyzing intensity. She was first generation, grappling with the restrictions of her old culture, fighting to adjust to the new. Life wasn’t easy. But still, she’d always done her best. She could look herself in the eye as she put up her hair every morning. She’d never had this feeling before, like she’d done something wrong, like it had terrible consequences.

  She paused at the corner of Melanie’s block. The doorman, Hector, stood under the long green awning leading to the curb, fanning himself with his cap in the wet heat. She thought he noticed her, but then he turned away to watch two small dogs yap wildly at each other, their owners yanking on their leashes to pull them apart. Hector was a nice man, with a jolly laugh and a paunch, always offering to fix her up with his accountant son. Would he read her guilt in her eyes now? Would he turn away in disappointment, in disgust?

  “Hey, Miss Cho! How’d you get the little one?” Hector called, spotting her with the stroller.

  She managed a demure smile as she approached him, always the polite daughter, even under stress.

  “Melanie had to work. She asked me to bring Maya home and baby-sit.”

  “So late? Too much working for a mommy. Not good.”

  Normally she would’ve sparred with him gently about the importance of women working, but tonight every word of normal conversation felt forced. She couldn’t do it. She stood there numbly, unable to muster any chat, choking on the humid air. Beneath her shirt, rivulets of perspiration slid down her back. The silence lengthened.

  “I have keys,” she blurted suddenly, her tone uncharacteristically sharp. Hector looked at her curiously.

  “Sure, honey, it’s late. You must be tired. Go on up.”

  At Melanie’s floor Sophie stepped off the elevator onto the small landing and worked the keys in the lock easily. She should—she’d chosen the door hardware herself. She struggled into the brightly lit foyer, heaving the stroller over the threshold with one hand while holding the door open with her shoulder. Once inside, she couldn’t help smiling despite her unhappiness. Melanie had left all the lights on, something Sophie herself was much too compulsive to do. She felt a great surge of affection for her friend, this baby, this apartment she’d renovated and then spent happy hours hanging out in.

  Melanie’s apartment had been one of Sophie’s first architecture jobs after going out on her own, a vote of confidence, an early bankroll that set her on her way. She looked around the foyer now, eyes smarting with unshed tears, remembering how happily the three of them had worked together, how proud they’d been of the results. With a little taste, you could make your money go far. Elegant but not showy, still nice and homey. Sophie looked up at the ceiling, praying that nothing would have to change, that Melanie would never need to know what she’d done, that she’d still be welcomed here with open arms. But she was fooling herself. Things had changed already. Hadn’t they, after what she’d seen tonight?

  A sigh caught in her throat, threatening to become a sob. She dropped the keys on a small wooden table, next to a tall stack of unopened mail addressed to Steve, and picked up a silver-framed photograph of Melanie, Steve, and Maya. The picture had been taken about six months ago, shortly after Maya came home from the hospital. In it she had the red, scrunchy face of an infant, so unlike her yummy plumpness now. Sophie lifted the stroller hood and gazed down at that sweet face, crescents of dark lashes resting against fat cheeks. She could almost be a Korean baby with all that black hair. She could almost be Sophie’s own.

  This child, this and no other, not even her own many nieces and nephews, had awakened the baby hunger she’d only read about in magazines. Now, when it seemed less and less likely she’d ever have one of her own. She’d been raised in a schizoid way, an American girl at school, a proper Korean girl at home, expected to steer clear of any entanglement with boys until an appropriate marriage was arranged with some son of her parents’ friends. When the time came, she was in architecture school, having succeeded beyond her own wildest dreams, but poised to shatter her parents’. The few young Korean men who would look at a girl with her résumé dutifully paraded through, took tea, and went on their way, immediately seeing her lack of interest in them, in bearing their sons, in working at their grocery stores and manicure salons. By now they’d found other, more suitable wives, and Sophie had aged well beyond marriageability. As for Anglo men…well, she’d never connected with them. Besides, they didn’t chase her the way they did some Korean girls of her acquaintance. She was too round, her short stature suggesting not the petite exoticism she privately accused them of seeking but rather a tendency to fat in later life.

  Maya shifted in her stroller and gurgled breathily, sending a rush of pure love through Sophie’s heart. She wheeled the stroller carefully down the hall to the smaller of the two bedrooms, glowing with golden light from the night-light, and stood reverently in the center of the room, breathing deep. It smelled of baby—the powdery smell from the changing table, the faint whiff of ammonia from the Diaper Genie. A happy nursery for a special little girl, with white furniture and a parade of pink wallpaper bunny rabbits marching around the top of the room.

  Maya looked so comfortable that Sophie decided to let her sleep in the stroller until Melanie got home, rather than risk waking her by transferring her to the crib. She picked up a fluffy pink blanket that was folded neatly over the back of a white glider rocker. But as she bent to tuck it around Maya, a great wave of despair washed over her. She sat down heavily in the rocker, clutching the soft fabric to her chest, stifling her sobs as best she could to preserve Maya’s tranquil sleep. Her vision blurring, she saw not Maya but Jed Benson’s handsome face. What must it look like now?

  5

  THE MORNING SUN BOTHERING HIS EYES. HE SITTING in a diner across from where he follow that Chinese bitch with the baby to last night, smoking a cigarette and watching. Watching and waiting, long as it took. With the look he give the waitress when she refill his coffee cup, she ain’t hassling him about no cigarette. She know he hurt people, he hurt her if she give him an excuse. She look in his eyes and see that. He love the second when they figure it out.

  But it piss him off when they think he stupid. Muscle and no brains. Now, how you gonna think that, with how small he was? How somebody his size get to be the most fearsome killer in five boroughs? Brains, that’s how. Brains and planning. But people never see the work he put in, never give him credit. They think he just show up and do the drama, shooting and cutting. Killing is a tough game, takes mad planning. You need to scope your marks. You got to know when they come and when they go. Who else live in the house. What kind of firepower they got. When they sleeping and when they awake listening, waiting on you. You need the careful work first—then you do the drama.

  Okay, the drama the best part. The look on their face when they beg for mercy. The noises they make when he slice through their flesh with his knife. He saw shit nobody else ever saw, felt like God with life in his hand. Life and death. Death with a capital D. But that the payoff, and you only get paid after hard work. He do the hard work alone. He case and he plan. The only one he ever brang was the dog, No Joke. So when it came to the killing, even if four or five shorties be on the job with him, he do it himself. He do the work, so he deserve the payoff.

  The coffee taste like shit. The diner next to a bus stop. The exhaust fumes coming in the front door hurt his head. The morning after, he always fucked up, though. Crashing from the high. He spend days getting ready for last night’s job, sitting quiet, nerves mad twitching. Watching the mark walk around like he all that, like he different than anybody else. Fucking joke. The only difference is, he overconfident. He stupid as a pig to know what he know and not see it coming. Most marks got the sense to know you coming, but not him. The connect at Queens Auto fix up the van to look like it from a flower shop. He sit on that house three days running, and still this motherfucker ain�
�t catch on. A nigga in a flower truck sitting on your house for three days, you better fucking notice. If you don’t, you see what happen.

  He slam his cup down and laugh. A woman at the next table look up, snap him back to reality. Fuck, he so busy patting himself on the back, he forget to case. The building on a side street, diagonal-like from where he sitting. He pick this diner so he can watch the door, see if he spot that Chinese bitch again. The architect.

  He don’t like sitting here in the open, but he don’t wanna bring the van too close to last night’s job. This diner just a few blocks north from that house. Not that he listen to shit about don’t return to the scene of the crime. Show you what TV know about the street. He always go back. It never give him trouble. He check out the scene the next day, see what the police up to, watch them looking for him. Get right up in their face, they don’t even pay no attention. But they stop him last night, him and No Joke, so today he being careful.

  Okay, shit go bad last night. One motherfucker screw up the whole scenario. First he show up late. That mess with the plan right there. Then, when the time come to do the deed, he lose his nerve. With all the delay, they hear sirens. They got to break out real fast. So they don’t tie shit up neat the way they should. They all split in different directions. He take No Joke and go pick up the van where he parked a few blocks down, drop his mask and gloves in a trash can. He walking down the street, just chilling. But then he notice his shoes all covered with kerosene. His hands, too—that shit went right through the gloves. The sirens was coming, and he got concerned. Not nervous, just a little concerned. The residue and shit, they use that for proof if they catch you. So he take off his shoes and throw ’em under a car. And his hands, the only thing he could do was piss on ’em. A police come up. There he was, barefoot, pissing on his hands, No Joke looking like one nasty motherfuck. So what the cop did? Give him a desk appearance ticket for indecency and send him on his way. Can you believe that? It just make you laugh.

  Now he planning Phase Two. Every job cast a shadow. Maybe somebody see too much or know too much or get in your way. Part of being good at killing is being thorough. You got to clean up afterward, even if you tired and don’t feel like it. It bother him that he didn’t get a chance to do it last night. That motherfucker gonna pay for that, ’cause now he was sitting in this diner casing again when he rather be home, sleeping it off. But you got to do what you got to do, and there was more of ’em to take care of. A few of ’em, matter of fact. Going about their business right now, not knowing they had an appointment with him down the road. He stubbed out his cigarette and threw a dollar down on the table. Fucking bitch waitress deserve to get ditched, but why attract attention with something stupid? Eyes on the prize. Time to check out that building across the street.

  6

  MAYA SAT IN HER BOUNCY SEAT WITH HER FAVORITE stuffed bear tucked in beside her, watching Melanie try on and reject garment after garment. This happened sometimes when Melanie was really exhausted. She just couldn’t figure out what to wear to work, and it was never a good sign for the rest of the day. At least Maya seemed happy. Normally she fussed in that seat, much preferring the freedom of lolling on her back on a blanket, kicking her pudgy legs.

  “Qué chica buena, sitting so nice for Mommy,” Melanie cooed.

  Maya gave a drooly smile, her dark eyes shining like two little coals, and grabbed her bear with her plump hands. She managed to get its ear up to her mouth. Melanie couldn’t help smiling despite her bleak mood.

  “You’re getting awful good at that, nena,” she said. “Teddy’s ears are in big trouble.” She knelt down and hid her face momentarily in her daughter’s neck, drinking in her milky fragrance. If only she could stay here forever and forget everything—her husband, her job. Call in sick and snuggle under the covers with Maya. But how could she? The minutes were ticking away. With her marriage in trouble, she couldn’t afford to screw up at work. She pulled on a skirt and blouse that vaguely matched and quickly applied some lipstick. She’d do her eyes in the taxi. She was late already, and she had to face Bernadette this morning about the Benson case. That, she suspected, was the real reason for her trouble getting dressed.

  It wasn’t only Melanie. Everybody in the office was afraid of Bernadette. She was one of those bosses who gloried in persecuting their unfortunate underlings. She was obviously an unhappy person, but knowing that didn’t make her any easier to deal with. Melanie was pretty unhappy herself these days, but she still treated people decently. Bernadette, on the other hand—one minute she was sweet as candy, but the next she was blasting you till it hurt. You had to respect her, though, because she was good at her job. Every once in a while, Melanie would set herself the challenge of figuring Bernadette out, getting along with her, even winning her friendship. It worked for a while. Bernadette would reward her with praise or a juicy assignment, and Melanie would be thrilled. Bernadette was her mentor, her role model—for a day or a week. It never lasted. Bernadette turned on her, every time. If Melanie’s work was less than perfect, she wasn’t worthy. If it was perfect, she was a threat and needed to be put in her place. Either way Melanie lost.

  Dressed at last. She was about to pick up Maya and head for the door when a glimmer on the dresser top caught her eye. Her wedding and engagement rings. Damn it! She’d been doing okay, but this knocked the wind out of her. Unable to stop herself, she walked over to the dresser and picked them up, feeling their weight, letting them sparkle on her palm. She’d forgotten she wasn’t wearing them. It was three weeks now since she’d told Steve to get out, but last night was the first time she’d taken them off. In her heart she and Steve were still married. Not just in her heart. Legally, they were still married, and Steve was begging her not to do anything to change that.

  It was sometime after 3:00 A.M. when she took the rings off. She’d come home and crawled into bed after the Benson crime scene, positively wrecked, and the visions started pouring into her head. Not what you’d think. Not Jed Benson’s corpse, but her own personal horror show, the one that played constantly now. One scene in particular made her rip the rings off. That cocktail party at Steve’s firm six months ago, right before Maya was born. She hadn’t found out for sure until five months later, but that was when she first suspected something was going on. She remembered the sensation of being so pregnant, her feet swollen, feeling like a cow in her maternity formal. And how that slut in her low-cut dress sashayed up to him. The way she touched his arm and giggled. Melanie knew instantly there was something between them. Maybe not actual sex, maybe not then, but something in the air. She knew, and yet she couldn’t believe it. ¡Puta! Melanie always dressed like a lady, and he goes for somebody so…so trashy, so hoochie-looking, with her boobs popping out. Slut. She still couldn’t believe it.

  The baby-sitter, Elsie Stanton, called from the foyer as she let herself in. So far Melanie had told Elsie that Steve was away on business—which was true, it just wasn’t the whole truth. The tan line on her ring finger stood out against her skin. She swallowed her tears and shoved the rings back on. Not today.

  Yanking open the Velcro strap on the bouncy seat, Melanie lifted Maya out and held her close, drawing comfort from her daughter’s little body. Maya felt fluffy—roly-poly and weightless at the same time. Melanie rested her cheek on Maya’s dark head and immediately felt something cold. She held Maya away, looked down at herself, and laughed despite the awful knot in her stomach. Kids kept you grounded, all right. A large wet circle of drool spread across the shoulder of her blouse.

  “Didn’t like Mommy’s outfit, nena? Just like your Aunt Linda. Fashion police.” She put her nose against Maya’s tiny button of a nose.

  “Good morning, Elsie. This baby just got her mommy’s blouse all wet,” Melanie said, walking into the foyer. Maya smiled and lifted her arms to Elsie.

  “I always say it’s plain foolish to wear fine clothes around little children. Come to Elsie, baby. As if it’s your fault you’re teething!” Elsie said, taki
ng Maya.

  “I wasn’t blaming her.”

  Melanie sighed, resigned to being misunderstood. Good communication was not the hallmark of her relationship with Elsie, but she’d decided to live with that. As usual, Elsie was twenty minutes late, and, as usual, Melanie bit her tongue and didn’t say anything. A large Jamaican woman in her early sixties with five children of her own, Elsie had worked for Steve’s Aunt Frances for seventeen years, helping to raise Steve’s three cousins. So it was taken for granted that, when Steve’s youngest cousin headed to college just as Melanie’s maternity leave ran out, Elsie would come to work for them, to care for Maya. If Elsie didn’t take direction, if she made no secret of her disdain for Melanie’s beginner-level mothering skills, that was nothing compared with her decades-long relationship with Steve’s family. Melanie trusted her. One of her greatest fears was that Elsie would quit the minute she found out about the separation, forcing Melanie to hire some stranger if she wanted to keep her job. Melanie couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Maya with a stranger. Just look at how she loved Elsie! She went to her so easily, her face lighting up, snuggling into Elsie’s big chest. Already late, Melanie beat back her jealousy and headed for the door.

  SHE CAUGHT A CAB IN FRONT OF THE DINER. As they headed for the on-ramp to the FDR, she held a tiny compact in one hand and applied mascara with the other, rehearsing lines to use on Bernadette. She’d marched into that crime scene and taken charge. She already knew more about the investigation than anybody else in the office. She was ready, willing, and able to handle a big case. The speech would sound great—if she ever got the chance to open her mouth. Hell, if she didn’t get fired first.