by Danny Lopez
Late that same afternoon I got an e-mail from Smithsonian Magazine. They were interested in the axolotl story. Could I get started right away. They offered a decent day-rate plus expenses. I was going to Mexico. I was going to see Flor.
Hope was not extinct.
On a wet Sunday afternoon, I went to West Marine to buy snorkeling gear. A mask and snorkel and a pair of flippers. I wanted to be able to dive into the canals with Flor. I wanted to know what she had been seeing, what she had been living all these months.
On my way to the checkout, I saw a young woman I vaguely recognized. She was with an older man and they were looking at a bin of discount watches near the checkout. She picked one up and showed it to the man. “How about this one?” she asked.
I advanced to the register and saw the side of her face. Tiffany.
My heart stopped. I wanted to reach out, ask her if she was okay, if she was aware of what had happened with Boseman and Holly. If she knew who had killed Zavala. But I was paralyzed with fear. It was like seeing a ghost. And I guess it would be like opening another chapter that shouldn’t be opened.
“Forty-seven fifty.” The cashier’s voice brought me out of my trance. I slid my credit card into the machine. But I couldn’t take my eyes off Tiffany.
“Come on, Dad,” she said and pulled the man by the arm. At the end of the bin she picked up another watch and looked at it. Then her eyes met mine and they locked into place like a target. It was only a second, but it felt like hours. Then she looked down and dropped the watch and picked up another.
“Sir?” Once again the cashier brought me back to the store. She pointed to the little credit card machine in front of me. “Credit or debit?”
I punched the credit button, then the green one, accepting the total. I looked back up. Tiffany had put on a watch and was holding it up for her father to see. I thought she looked good. Certainly better than when I had seen her outside Zavala’s house.
“Please, Dad?” Her voice was sweet, full of innocence.
I took my receipt and walked to the door. But before I left, I turned. Tiffany had her back to me now. The man, her father, was smiling and holding up a different watch. Then he turned slightly and dropped his smile. He was the man who had been beating Zavala outside Memories Lounge. He didn’t look as ragged as he had that night. But his eyes were the same color as Tiffany’s—they had the same spark, the same attitude.
Just before I turned away, I noticed the pendant hanging from his neck. It was an oval medallion. It had a man on a horse killing a dragon. St. George. Gold surrounded by tiny little red rubies. But the side had lost a piece, as if someone had taken a bite out of it. Or a bullet had nicked it on the side.
When I looked at him again, he was staring at me. Smiling.
I walked away, across the electronic doors and into the parking lot. I got in my old Subaru and drove north on the Trail. When I got to a red light, I dialed my ex-wife on my cell phone and asked her to put Zoe on. “I have a lot to tell her,” I said.