by TJ Martinell
“We put them here in case they were needed.”
“And no one found it?”
“The property has never been redeveloped. Nobody wants to buy. Luck break for us, ain’t it?”
“Ain’t?”
“Whatever.”
I put our clothes in the wooden crate, dropped it back into the hole. I then shoved the stump back over the hole and locked the lever again to secure it. smothered my face with a handful of dirt and then handed him the rest of the dirt to Ronnie.
We certainly looked the part of street bums. The briefcase wouldn’t make us seem out of place. It was common to see transients and the homeless move about with suitcase and briefcases and other luggage.
“I feel filthy,” he said.
“You should.”
We crossed the road and came up to the ramp leading to the interstate highway and the bridge. The highway bridge leading to Mercer Island sat in the water like a decrepit drawbridge, the barren castle open to any invader or intruder who dared to enter it. Further down the far right lane, vagabonds and beggars were migrating towards Seattle. Some rested at the broken tanker sharing wino beverages.
“Are they dangerous?” Ronnie asked.
“Not if you have the right connections. And you have them with me.”
“Do they know who you are?”
“My face has been on too many newspapers not to be recognized.”
I grabbed his shirt and pulled him close. I had to say what was on my mind.
“Understand once you go from here there’s no going back no matter what anyone tells you. My father tried it. He was maybe the only one to do it, for a while. But sooner or later you can’t leave it once you know what freedom tastes like. So, are you in?”
No deliberation in the young man’s face. He beamed like a child on Christmas morning despite the smell and the clothes and the beggars and the dilapidated skyline and the smoke pouring out from the other side of the lake.
“I’m ready,” he said.
I clapped him on the shoulder and laughed before resuming our walk.
A loud snap echoed across the water. Curious, I glanced over at the winos. They had leaped from their seats and fled. There was a metallic taste in my mouth as I turned.
Ronnie was on the ground. A dark red spot was on leg. He was curled up in a fetal position, trying to stop the bleeding. He wasn’t crying. He didn’t even utter a sound.
Casey emerged from the bushes. He brushed leaves off his clothes with the sort of casualness of someone who had simply taken a short cut during an evening stroll. His handgun was pointed at us with a stiff arm. I wanted to admire him for the presumed cleverness with which he had escaped.
Casey acted like Ronnie wasn’t there. Just the two of us.
If he was going to shoot, nothing I did mattered. I went over to Ronnie and tore off my right shirt sleeve and placed it over the wound and pushed down hard.
“He’s fine,” Casey said tonelessly. “It’s just a flesh wound.”
“So?”
“What is he to you? A friend? A friend like I was?”
I had Ronnie put his hand over the makeshift bandage and ordered him to keep the pressure there.
“Get up,” Casey ordered me.
I complied, only to throw my hat at him. He took the gentle blow from like it was a stone slung from a slingshot.
“Why are you so angry?” he asked. “I could have shot you instead.”
“He’s a better man than either one of us. A better man than you’ll ever be!”
“He’s a traitor!”
“Traitors are liars. What did he lie about?”
“I’ve been watching him for weeks, hoping he would do the right thing. I did it myself. I told no one. Had he passed the test, I would have rewarded him. He would have received a promotion.”
Ronnie looked at him but said nothing.
“I didn’t notify anyone in the office because I don’t want them involved,” Casey said to him. He then eyed me. “I don’t want them to get their hands on you. I don’t want them to try to take the credit and gloat about how they brought down an infamous gangster.”
“You already took credit for killing my father. I suppose it was all the credit you needed, wasn’t it? Or do you need more blood?”
Casey aimed the gun at me and screamed at the top of his lungs as though appealing to Heaven as his witness.
“It wasn’t meant to be like this! You were supposed to see this through with me to the end!”
“I’m supposed to pity you?”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
The tears had formed in Casey’s eyes. His body convulsed as he grabbed his chest as though in terrible pain.
“You were supposed to wait!” he said. “I would have gotten it all to you. You would have had it. When I was ready, things would have changed.”
“You would never allow the truth to come out about your father. He was a murderer. He was everything you claim to despise! I have the proof right here!”
For some reason, my patience wore out. I approached him and held out my hands wide.
“If you want to kill, then shoot! Isn’t that what you want? You want to take credit for killing me. Like father, like son. Do it!”
“Why didn’t you kill me that night?”
“Maybe because I’m a fool. Be a wiser man than that Don’t make the same mistake.”
He seemed torn inside, as if waiting for his conscience to grant him permission. I could nearly envision his father’s ghost right beside him, coaxing him to pull the trigger. Rationalizing why it was necessary. Another human sacrifice needed on the altar of the state religion.
I wasn’t going to wait for him to make up his mind. I picked up the briefcase and brought it over to Casey. Opening it up I held the documents out for him to see.
“You see these? These are what we were going to publish. You know what they say?”
“I don’t hate you, Roy. I just want to do what is right. It’s easy for you to know what is right. You don’t need other people to tell you!”
“Then I’m going to do the right thing for both of us.”
I dumped the documents out of the briefcase and at Casey’s feet before tossing it at him. He was motionless.
“Why?” he asked.
“What does it matter? We both know the truth. We know what your father was. You can lie to the whole world. You can’t lie to yourself anymore. And you know what else? I don’t need them to write whatever I want. If you want to stop me you’ll have to come after me. Meanwhile, you’ll have to figure out how to live with the truth. Something we all have to do.”
He bent down and retrieved some of the documents. Scanning a few lines, he crumpled them and held them close to his chest like a family heirloom. He then looked up at me. It was just for a second yet enough to see the small part of him that had not been destroyed yet. A remnant of integrity remained, tugging at his heart.
“Ronnie must come back with me,” he said.
His face said it all. In violation of many rules and procedures and policy he was letting me go. But for a price. Someone had to be that human sacrifice.
Ronnie made no protest. He seemed resigned to his fate. Or perhaps he realized there was nothing I could do for him.
“I’ll live,” he said.
“Sorry, kid. We almost made it.”
“Get out!” Casey yelled at me, his voice cracking. “Don’t come back! I never want to see you again!”
I turned so not to see him cry and started my journey back to Seattle. A minute later above the sound of the wind and the city ambiance I heard Casey call out to me as though nothing had come between us.
“Goodbye, Roy.”
I stopped for a second.
“Goodbye, Casey.”
***
I didn’t even get to Mercer Island before I found Jean parked in my Coupe behind a truck’s remains. She had
it started for me when I got there.
“What are you doing here?” I asked Jean.
“The Bellevue safehouse said there was trouble. I thought I’d come as close as I could.”
I looked in the front passenger seat. The rifle I had bought her was lying there. The safety was off.
She pressed her lips together nervously.
“I thought you said you weren’t going to kill anyone anymore,” I said.
Holding back tears, she threw herself into my arms. Her fingertips dug into my skin.
“I’m not losing you like I lost my father.”
“Why didn’t you shoot?”
“Because I didn’t get a clear shot. When I finally did, I didn’t have to take it.”
As I drove us back to Seattle I kept thinking about what would happen to Ronnie. He had never told me if his parents were alive. The fact he hadn’t mentioned them meant it was inconsequential. If they were alive it suggested the degree of separation he had not only with society but with his family.
Jean spoke softly.
“Why did you leave the documents?”
“You’ll see.”
“Roy?”
“Yes?”
“My father is dead. Like yours. I’m sorry it took me so long to accept it.”
The rest of the ride was quiet. I rolled down the window and gazed out at the Emerald City as it came into view. We drove off the interstate and onto the street and passed by the small petty gangs huddled around storefronts but that day they didn’t seem as hostile. Or maybe I was just grateful to see them again.
Griggs was in the newspaper lobby to greet me as I arrived out of the elevator. He had the strained look of a man who had been up since the night before and was subsisting on too many cups of coffee and cigarettes.
“Where’re the documents?” he asked.
“I’ll have the story. Don’t worry.”
“Will I like it?”
“It’ll be something new.”
“What’s that?”
“The truth.”
Griggs smirked. “Where’s your defector?”
“Didn’t make it.”
“What happened?”
“Doesn’t matter. You can read about it. All of it.”
But―”
I put my hand up to silence him. “Let me get this done with. Please.”
My old desk was waiting for me in the middle row of the newsroom. The writers all ceased typing as I entered and sat down. Some of them smiled and murmured a welcome back greeting. Others harboring old animosity. I reacted nonchalantly as I hit the carriage return on my typewriter and stuck a fresh sheet of paper inside. With my arms at my side I gazed at the typewriter and listened to the natural cadence of the resumed typing in the room. The approaching deadline inspired me to punch the first key, and the rhythm of typing led to the next key pressed. Soon I was pounding out the story I had written in my mind as we had driven back.
If my account by itself was not sufficient then no amount of evidence would change anything.
The ISA could deny the assertions. They could lie. As they always did. Nevertheless, in the end we knew the truth because we ourselves were living witnesses to it.
I pressed the last key down and hit the carriage return several times to make the text easier to see. I reread the words before ripping the paper out of the typewriter to read them again. I could have revised it. For once, I let it be. I slowly placed it in the bin at the end of my desk. The young boy who came over to take it stopped and gazed at me with widened eyes. It was the same one who had hung around the door to my office.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“I want to be just like you when I get older.”
I laughed quietly. “And why is that?”
“You’re not afraid of anything. That’s what they say.”
I grinned as I plucked my story out of the bin and gave it to him.
“Would you do me a favor?” I asked.
“Sure! What?”
“Don’t try to be me.”
The boy was taken aback in confusion. “Why?”
“Because I’ve spent my whole life trying to be just like someone else. Don’t make the same mistake.”
He left with my story in both hands and a confused expression. I waited for the deadline to pass so I could join the rest of the writers flowing toward the library. The aroma of bitter tobacco reminded me of my private vow. Sighing joyfully, I opened one of the desk drawers and found an old pack lying half filled with broken cigarettes. I gently pushed one of them out of the pack and was about to light it when I stopped.
I no longer had the desire for it. The perpetual angst that had long prompted it was gone. I put the cigarettes away and peeked into Griggs office.
“I heard that bastard spared you,” he said.
“Jean’s not as tight-lipped as she used to be.”
“Why?”
“Maybe the same reason you aren’t.”
“Then why isn’t he here?”
“I don’t know.”
***
The library was packed that night. Jamal kept pumping my hand as he thanked me for introducing him to Jean. She had arrived earlier. Her music already filled the library like an entire symphony was playing on the stage.
I took a seat at the front near her and purchased several other newspapers in the state. I read them half-heartedly as I listened to her. She sat on a stool with one bare foot outstretched on the stage, gracefully plucking at the balalaika. Her long pale blue dress, reaching down to her ankles and up to her neck, made her look more beautiful than I had ever seen her. The usual din and banter and carousing was silenced as they heard the notes as though casting a hypnotic spell over them.
As more people poured into the library they remained standing, too preoccupied by the small girl on the stage. Jean strummed the last notes before she stood, waved, and bowed. The room was perfectly noiseless.
With the balalaika held in one arm she left the stage and came over to my small table. I put the newspaper away and took her hand.
“It’s finished.”
She seemed to glow as she looked at me with a pure joy. The waiter came to our booth and asked for our drinks and papers. Neither one of us ordered anything. An electric guitarist got up on the stage and played song that sent rumbles through the floor.
“Want to go?” Jean suggested. Her eyes were big and intense with desire.
“Yes.”
Later that night I came to while lying on the bed inside the train car. Jean’s face was resting on my chest. It was deep into the night and the sense of euphoria had finally washed out from my mind. At some point, she pulled her hair back, and I could see her in the darkness looking at me somberly.
“What are you going to do now?” she asked. “Are you still going to be a stringer?”
“It’s the life I’ve chosen. It’s what I’m going to do until the day I die.”
“Like your father?”
“Yes. But not just like him.”
Chapter Twenty Two
When I entered the garage, Hernandez railed at me with all the invective of his native tongue.
He had dropped his wrench and was throwing his fist out. He was still in control, his emotions curbed behind that dark complexion. I let him rant and curse me and denounce my character. It was his right. I was also in a tolerant mood. I had come expecting indignation. He was a predictable man.
However, I disliked causing him grief.
After he had finished his diatribe he settled into a calmer disposition. Behind his thick moustache his frown straightened into a subtle smile. He clapped me on the shoulder and chuckled as best he could.
“We can try again,” he said. “I will have my boys scour the entire city. There has to be something, somewhere. If not, I will steal it.”
“Try not to steal. You can always buy it. Or I will buy it. Tell the owner I will pay w
hatever price they put to it.”
We walked away from the maintenance area and into his office smelling of fresh ranchos huevos sitting on the small stove. He poured it on two plates and offered one to me. We ate together until the coffee was done. He filled mugs for both of us. We sat and ate like old friends who did not need to speak. Yet I knew little of him.
“What brought you here originally?” I asked.
“The same thing that brought everyone here who likes to work on internal combustion engines.”
“Hard to give everything up?”
“I had a wife who didn’t like me and in-laws who hated me more. She kicked me out and left my things on the front door steps. I gave nothing up, nada. It was not hard.
“She didn’t understand your hobby?”
“I think it was that we did not understand each other.” He shrugged and set his empty plate on the counter and took careful sips of his coffee.
“I’m sorry about the car,” I said.
“Did you get your story?”
“More or less.”
“You publish it today?”
I took a copy of the morning newspaper and slapped it on the table. Hernandez opened it up to the news section and read studiously. His lips mouthed the words I had written. His bushy eyebrows rose as he closed the paper and set it on the table and drank more coffee.
“My grandpa Alfonso knew of these things. He grew up in Tijuana during the days of the narcotráfico and the federales. He said they were both corrupt, but at least the narcotráfico were honest. The traficantes displayed their victims publicly. Others hide them, because they’re ashamed.”
He set down his coffee and rose to answer the wall phone. He turned to me and said I was wanted on it. I took the phone from him as he left the office. Carlos appeared with an excited smile. He took Hernandez aside and began speaking hurriedly.
With the door half-closed, I couldn’t hear him and speak on the phone at the same time.
It was Cybil, one of our Bellevue stringers.
“Can’t talk long. Just wanted to let you know something. You might not believe it, but it’s true.”
“What?”
“You know that guy you wrote about? Novak?”