by Angel Colon
Back at my apartment, the dog sniffed around Emmanuel as I went upstairs and packed. Five minutes later, he came up licking his chops.
"Sorry dog, I don't want to know what you've been eating."
Along one bedroom wall, I had a world map with colored darts to show where my software had been sold. At one point, I had darts from Djibouti to Krakow to Trinidad and Tobago. I pulled a dart from a vacant corner, took five steps back, closed my eyes and tossed it at the world.
"Let's see where we're going, dog."
Guayaquil, Ecuador.
The dog panted. It seemed like a smile to me.
Twenty four hours removed from Virginia and there I was.
The heat seemed to emanate from a convection oven as the taxi headed downtown. My flight had been uneventful—Norfolk to Miami to here. Getting through customs was routine. Apparently, no one yet missed Emmanuel or Randy.
"I need a hotel that takes pets," I told the cab driver. "El Pets? Chihuahua?"
"Si."
He goosed the old Chevy past rattletrap buses and kids on bikes. After a few minutes of stop and go, we passed a line of people that stretched an entire block. A few waved tiny American flags, and it gave me a twinge to see the colors of home. When would I see them again?
"Stop right here."
"Not downtown."
"Doesn't matter. Let me off."
He left me with two suitcases, my backpack and a stolen Chihuahua. I found the closest person in line with an American flag. He was about my age, dressed in shapeless pants and a T-shirt that had once been white.
He smiled with bad teeth.
"What's with the Stars and Stripes?"
He shrugged and held up his arm, or what passed for it. The forearm was bent at an odd angle, either through deformity or accident. The rest of the line was filed with people on crutches, women holding babies with cleft palates and men walking with odd limps. The line ended at the gate of an institutional building.
"You're in line for a hospital?"
The man nodded and pointed at me.
"Periodista?"
"Huh?"
A fresh-faced woman came up behind me, pushing an older man in a wheelchair.
"He wants to know if you are a journalist," she said.
"Me? No. I'm an…engineer."
The woman's dark hair was pulled into a knot at the nape of her neck. The sun had burned her cheeks a dark brown. Her eyes, tired and red, held a great strength. She leaned on the wheelchair and raised one foot.
"Everyone is here to see the American doctors. They are here for two weeks. I waited in line since four o'clock this morning." The man in the wheelchair was unshaven and groggy. His hand strayed to his right leg, which was heavily wrapped.
The woman lowered her voice.
"The skin is black. The doctors wanted to amputate—to save his life, they said."
She began to cry.
"But he does not want to lose his leg."
As she limped away, the dog barked and I took it as a sign. I said goodbye to the man with deformed arm, caressed his flag and took off after the woman.
Her name was Gabriele. Her father was Carlos. I got us a cab and we drove to their house, which took forty-five minutes through traffic. I could not imagine her walking this distance through the night, pushing that wheelchair and wearing new shoes to impress the doctors. All this for a man who refused to save his own life.
"This ride was a bad idea," she said, holding her nose.
Her father's rotting leg stunk up the cab, a combination of rot and sewage and shit rolled into one. I passed the driver more money to keep going. When we finally stopped, he unloaded the wheelchair from his trunk and drove away, shaking his head.
Their place was a small one-story house on a side street, sparsely furnished but clean. It had tiled floors and a few old pictures and a crucifix above the door. The father glared at me and wheeled himself through the kitchen and down the hallway.
"Your dog," Gabriele said. "He can run if he likes."
I opened the door to the carrier and the dog skittered around. Gabriele asked his name.
"Buddy," I said. "He's my Buddy."
She nodded approvingly. "A good, simple name."
We talked some more. She had studied English after befriending an American exchange student who had lived in Guayaquil for a semester. Gabrielle worked at a preschool and sometimes wished for children of her own. Other times, she wanted to be alone. The simplicity of her speech felt like a tonic running through me.
From the bedroom, her father yelled something in Spanish. She dismissed it with a wave of her hand.
"He hurt his leg at the shipyard and refused to get it treated because my mother was sick and he needed to provide. She died three months ago." She petted the dog and her eyes turned toward the floor. "When one goes, the other is not far behind."
"What happens then?"
She shrugged as someone accustomed to shrugs. "The sun will rise the next day and I will grieve. Then it will rise again and life will move on."
"What was he yelling about just now?"
She smiled.
"He doesn't like you. He feels you are here to steal me away."
One month has passed and they've pieced together the case back home. Emmanuel turned out to be Jean Daniel Polynice, a suspected human trafficker with ties to low-level employees at several defense firms, hence his presence at the conference. Police discovered Randy's body when he didn't report for work, and marks on his body linked him to the death of Miranda Dalembert, 32. Thanks to the knife, he's also suspected in the death of Polynice.
I am officially a person of interest, which happens when a dead body shows up in your apartment and you fly to Ecuador the same day.
On the bright side, I have a new job.
The computers at Gabrielle's preschool were a mess, and once I got past the language barrier—she helped me learn basic Spanish late into the night—I went through the school's admissions files, inventory and accounts receivable and got things into shape. The U.S. has no extradition arrangement with Ecuador, so although the police know I flew here, nothing is being done about it.
Just the same, I don't go out much or flash my ID.
We have finished our Spanish lesson for the night, and now Gabriele looks over my shoulder at the computer screen.
"How is the new blog coming along?"
The air is cool and she has made patacones, fried plantains with cheese. She leans in, squinting at the screen. Gabrielle refuses to wear reading glasses because they make her look old.
"Miranda's Corner," she says, reading the title. "A resource and forum to combat human trafficking."
"Yes."
"Your new mission?"
"Yes."
I have told Gabriele the truth of what happened to me, and she understood how a life spirals downward, how people get trapped and make bad decisions. Incredibly, she understood. I am close to telling her the whole truth, because her father died two weeks ago after one of his cruel tirades, and she seems to be over it.
He slept with many pillows in his bed.
Wake Up, Little Susie
by Patrick Cooper
When the two guys in ski masks rushed into the bar, I was polishing off my second ginger ale.
"You know what this is!" the taller one screamed waving his pistol in the air. "Wallets and jewelry out!"
This wasn't the type of bar that heroes hung out at, so everyone complied and started putting their goods on the tables and on the bar. The shorter crook walked around with a black pillowcase, stuffing the booty inside. Behind the bar, Maggie stood there with her hands up, a bar towel in one hand. This wasn't her first rodeo.
I took a final sip of the ginger ale and sat there.
The taller one noticed I wasn't going along with the program, so he strode up and jabbed the pistol into my ribs. His eyes went wide for a second as he looked me over. "Let's see that wallet, slick."
"Don't carry one." It's true,
I don't.
"Give up the green then, c'mon."
"Don't carry cash either. Christ man, it's 2014."
He dug the barrel deeper into my gut. "Don't get tough, slick. Don't make me forget my manners now."
I looked down at his gun and saw a tattoo peeking out from the sleeve of his black hoodie. Looked like a snake on his wrist, looked familiar. It threw me and I said, "My card's behind the bar. I started a tab, like a normal person."
"Funny guy." He pistol-whipped me in the temple and I fell backwards off my barstool into unconsciousness. I was definitely going to be late for work.
When I came to, Maggie was holding a cold towel on my throbbing forehead. I touched my temple and winced. The son of a bitch hadn't broken skin, but he'd given me one mother of a goose egg. I sat up.
"Thanks, Mags," I said.
"How ya feeling?"
"Like I went a couple rounds with Tyson. You okay?"
"Third hold-up in two years. This one was cake. They took your debit card from behind the bar though."
"Shit."
"The tall bastard went through your pockets while you were out too."
She helped me to my feet and I checked the pockets of my Dickies. Asshole had taken everything but the keys to my truck. License, the couple bucks I had, even my library card. That jackass really left me in the lurch.
"Lemme use your phone real quick." Maggie handed me her cellphone and I called the 1-800 number for my bank, told them to cancel my card and mail me another.
"Thanks," I said, giving her back the phone. "I gotta take off. If the cops need a statement or whatever, tell them I'm at work."
"Ain't calling the cops," Maggie said. "What the hell's the point?"
"Yeah, I hear that."
I thanked her again for playing nurse and stepped out into the boiling heat of August in Orlando. You could cut the air with a butter knife and the "sea breeze" felt like a blow-dryer set on "sear." The weather lady on the morning news had a heat scale this time of year that topped out at "oppressive." That day was oppressive.
Lucky for me I worked outside.
When I quit the life six years ago, I pulled a few favors and landed a job for an excavation company here in Orlando. An impressive chunk of Florida was still damn near a jungle, so there was always work. I got stuck with second shift, when the sun was at its most offensive. I can't complain though. It was work.
I pulled my truck up to the site and headed to the foreman's trailer. By the time I walked the hundred yards or so, my shirt was sticking to my chest like I had jogged there from my house. This heat man, goddamn.
The boss asked why I was late. I pointed to my goose egg and told him about the hold-up. He asked if I was cool to work. "Of course," I said and put in my eight hours. Throughout the shift, I couldn't shake the snake tattoo from my mind. I knew I'd seen that goddamn thing before.
I came home to Steph around 8:00pm. She's the type of girl you leave the life for. I had other reasons for going straight, but she was one helluva consolation prize. A pal of mine hooked us up five years ago and she's had her heavenly claws in me ever since.
"How was work, angel?" I said.
"Racy and thought provoking." In her sarcastic way, that meant "boring as hell." She worked at a massage parlor. Don't get any ideas though, perverts. It isn't like that. It's a classy joint, not your rub-and-tug type of place. She was an administrative assistant, never even laid her hands on clients.
She caught sight of my goose egg and ran up to me, maternal instincts engaged. "My god, Chris! What happened?"
"Maggie's place got held up this afternoon. It's nothing."
"Jesus Christ, you didn't call me? Are you okay?"
"I'm cool. You would've just worried all day. My pride's a little sore, that's all. They took my license and debit card."
"God dammit."
"Don't sweat it. Let's eat."
When I came home from work the next evening, Steph was balled up on the couch, shaking like a baby bird.
She explained that a man had come by looking for me. He forced his way in and wouldn't leave. Said he sat at the kitchen table, made himself at home and started asking questions about me, about us. Wanted to know about my work, what I'd been doing for the past few years.
Ride-or-Die chick that she is, Steph fed him marginal information. Said I was in excavation, but not which company. Said I was keeping my hands clean. She knew all about my shady past, emphasis on "past."
I had spilled the beans to her a few months into our relationship. The smash and grabs. The burglaries. All that foolish shit I got down with in my twenties. After one job gone horribly wrong, I went straight. Now I was Citizen Chris.
"Past is the past," she said, staring into my eyes with a look that could've turned Genghis Khan's knees into Jell-O. Like I said, a Ride-or-Die chick.
"Then he got up from the table," Steph continued. "I was petrified, Chris. He whispered things in my ear. What he'd like to do to me. How many times I'd cum."
I balled my hands into fists, fingernails digging into calluses I'd earned from years of clean living.
"He said he wants you to meet him. Tomorrow night at Central Station downtown. 10pm. Said he has a job offer."
"Did he say his name?" But I already knew it.
"No. Chris, I'm sorry, I didn't ask. I was so scared."
The quiver in her voice washed away my rage and I held her. "Nothing to apologize for, angel. Listen, can you call outta work for a couple days? Stay at your sister's place?"
"Yeah…yeah I can. Who was he, Chris? What does he want with you?"
"Pack a bag and I'll drive you over there."
"Chris…"
"You notice if he had a tattoo on his wrist?"
She scowled and said. "I think so. A snake, I think."
"Okay then. Go on and pack that bag, Steph."
"Who is it, Chris? Someone you used to work with?"
"Something like that."
Benny "Bomb Squad" Brocker was someone I had worked with, but only once. The fellas used to call him "Bomb Squad" because he got his rocks off calling in phony bomb threats to distract the cops while he pulled jobs on the other side of town. A real bright boy.
The caper we worked together on was a check-cashing thing in Lake County, this rural joint that handled the payroll for the local migrant workers. We took them off on payday, when they held a ton of cash to handle everyone's wages for the month. I was working with Benny and one other guy, Phil, a good buddy and long time partner of mine. Neither of us knew Benny, which was where we fucked up. A friend of a friend vouched for him. We knew he had done time, but our friend swore he was a stand-up guy. Things were tight in Orlando back then, so this out-of-town prospect sounded worthwhile.
Benny and Phil handled things inside while I waited in the car, my father's black 1970 El Camino. He had named her Susie, a sweet, sweet bitch that hugged the road like it was in love. I'd usually boost a car for a job, but driving an hour out of Orlando and back, I only trusted Susie.
Things seemed to be going cool, then I heard the gunshots. Benny bolted through the doors, firing wildly behind him, a bag of cash in one hand. A guard came out behind him and licked off a couple shots that went wide.
Benny threw himself into the passenger seat and screamed for me to dust. The guard sprinted for his car to follow us. As we drove by him, Benny grabbed the wheel and yanked it to the right, hitting the guard dead-on at about 50mph.
A mess of blood and limbs exploded across Susie's windshield. I hit the brakes and checked the rearview. The guard was as dead as it gets. He looked like a dummy dropped off a skyscraper—completely broken in half.
"The fuck, Benny..?" I said.
"Just go!" he said.
"Where's Phil?"
"Got three in the belly, man. Now fucking go!"
When we got back to Orlando, I dropped Benny off at a parking garage where he'd left his wheels. I didn't take any of the money. I didn't want any. I let Benny have it al
l and told him if I ever saw him again, I'd kill him. He smirked and slammed Susie's door.
Nearly a decade as a thief, no one had ever gotten hurt. Now Phil was dead and some poor bastard's insides were embedded in Susie's grill. I drove out of town, over to Titusville on the coast. My father's old storage space was there in an abandoned warehouse. I paid rent on it to keep it abandoned.
I pulled Susie into the warehouse and covered her with a tarp. Before I kissed her goodbye, I made a quick phone call and reported her stolen. From that point on I've been officially retired, cutting all ties with the underworld.
This clean living thing, it was nice. Steph and I were stupid for each other and my job had security and benefits that put most gigs to shame. The union had my back. Most days I didn't even think about my old life.
Then Benny had to go and jack me, come to my home, threaten Steph. If this prick wanted to drag me back into my old life by the balls, he was going to find out how fucking big mine were.
I dropped Steph off at her sister's house in Winter Park. Her sister was waiting on the porch, grimacing at me with an expression I probably deserved. "Trust me, ladies," I said aloud to myself. "Chris is gonna make everything groovy again."
The next day, I went to Maggie's for a ginger ale like usual. Then I went to work and punched out a couple hours early, telling the boss I had to bring Steph to a late dentist's appointment.
I took off for the coast, my mind doing cartwheels. When I arrived at the warehouse, I pulled my truck into the darkness and saw her there in the headlights, waiting under the tarp with the patience only true love knows.
The tarp seemed to sigh when I pulled it off of her. Like it was saying, "About time, you rotten asshole."
The guard's blood was long dried. Splattered across the hood, it looked like nothing but a bad paint job now. I knelt down and examined the busted grill. Bits of flesh and scraps of fabric from his uniform were still there. That's good.