“Michael Doyle.” A man wearing a green beret and ill-fitting khakis smiled at me. At least three teeth were missing. He was the shorter guy from the wharf.
Clenching my jaw, I prepared to launch myself into the man's gut. I took in a breath, then I heard gravel shifting behind me. I jerked my head around just in time to see a pipe the size of a baseball bat swinging right at my head. I flipped up my arm, and it just caught the edge of the hurling pole before connecting with my head. I heard the crack from the inside out, like a microphone had been embedded in my skull. I cringed, knowing agonizing pain was a millisecond away.
I dropped face first to the pavement, my eyes delirious. I could hear my weak voice groaning, calling out for help, a pathetic attempt to save myself from sure death. I clung to a conscious state of mind, realizing if I fell under, I'd never wake up.
“My fuckin' head,” I said out loud. I rolled left and right, writhing in unworldly pain.
A man stuck his face inches from mine—the taller guy from the wharf. I remember his red sweater, fashionable, zipped all the way up his long neck. Stylish stubble covered his face, his chiseled jaw. But he was angry, yelling at me, some in English, some in another language. I couldn't understand anything he said.
“Leave me alone,” I thought I called out. I wondered where all the people were.
The brown suede boot kicked me once, then again, both times in the gut—enough to take my breath away. I tried like hell to get past the pain, to think of a way out. I just couldn't do it. I was completely at the mercy of these two assholes.
Suddenly, my arms were pulled back. I was being dragged along the pavement, assorted rocks and lids to metal cans digging into my back. A few made their way down the back of my pants. Seemed like they dragged me for two miles, but it could have been twenty yards. Over a million people in this city, and no one sees what's going on? Had I just lived through an Apocalypse, lucky enough to survive, barely, with two guys who wanted me dead? That's how it felt, like I was the last person on earth.
I was dropped like a sack of potatoes, my head bouncing off the concrete. Wherever I'd landed, it was darker. My eyes appreciated the respite from the direct light of day, although I wondered if they'd moved me to a more remote location to finally end it all, right here and now. I drifted off for a few seconds, then I heard the two men arguing. The taller guy poked the shorter man in the chest at least three times. How much time had passed? A couple of minutes, a couple of hours...who knew?
I rolled left, looking for relief, maybe a way out. I thought I saw a metal door, painted yellow, chipped paint all around me. A busted spotlight above the door, which had a number on it. Three digits. I squeezed my eyes but couldn't make it out. I heard steps, then a fist grabbed my shirt and lifted me off the ground.
“Don't you ever get near Camila again. Do you hear me?” He shook me, and my brain felt like pebbles in a tin can.
I tried to speak, but no words came out.
“Do you fucking hear me? Don't talk to her, don't even think about her. She doesn't exist to you. Who she is, what she does, what you think you saw is none of your fucking business. Stay away, or we'll come find you and kill you.”
The smell of coffee spewed from his face, and my vision suddenly came into focus—on his right eye. It was moving like it had a mind of its own. A glass eye apparently. And it freaked the shit out of me. He barked more words then giggled like a high school girl. The eye bobbed every which way, to the point where it made my stomach queasy.
I wanted to spit in his face and tell him to fuck himself. But nothing came out, at least nothing discernible. I couldn't speak, although I did moan. I was falling, drifting off. I felt my body shake side to side, then up and back down. He was slamming my head on the concrete. Each time I came up, the only thing I saw was the crazy eye. Maybe that would be my last memory in this world, a lunatic's glass eye that seemed like a separate living organism.
Suddenly the beating stopped, and everything went blank. No vision of anything.
“Michael, Michael!”
A familiar voice. My head didn't hurt, at least not like it had just a moment earlier. Everything was still dark, and I couldn't answer. I smelled vanilla, then a gentle hand touched my left shoulder. A woman's grip.
“Do you hear me? Wake up, please, Michael.”
I tried to pull myself out of it. I could feel myself move, then I just yelled out, throwing my arms up in the air. “Ahh!”
My eyes finally opened. Andi sat on the edge of a queen bed in a hotel room, a concerned crease between her brown eyes. A window sat to my right, with striped curtains flowing to the carpet. There was a crack in the curtains. I think it was the middle of the day. I touched my head and felt the turban, partially unraveled.
“Where am I? How did I get here?”
“I think you just had a dream. Make it a nightmare,” Andi said. She left the room then reappeared seconds later.
“Here, have some water.”
My shaking hand reached for the glass. She took my hand, cupped it around the glass, and helped bring it to my mouth. I shook, but I downed every last drop then used my sleeve to wipe my face.
I lifted a piece of bandage that dangled off my head. “I think I recall how this happened.”
Andi's lips drew a straight line.
“What? No quick comeback or one-liner?” I asked, still getting my breath. I realized I was sweating profusely. Andi handed me a wet rag. I dabbed my face, trying not to poke my new stitches, but darn happy I was still among the living after what I'd relived during my dreams, the first confrontation of the previous night.
“I'm guessing we came back to your hotel. I took a nap after my brains were bashed in, twice in one night, and then I saw my life nearly end.”
“Something like that,” she said with no sarcasm.
“I recall earlier you telling me there was more to Camila that I either didn't know or had forgotten.”
“I'm ready if you are,” she said, sitting on the bed opposite mine.
“First, can we order some food? I'm starving.”
She reached for the in-room menu.
“Call Chao Town instead,” I said. “Tell Mr. Chao who I am. He'll have one of his guys deliver it to our room, I'm certain.“
“I'm on it.”
I stood up and stretched, a surge of pain shooting through my head, my face, and my gut. I recalled the brown boot connecting with my ribs.
She put down the phone and crossed her legs, her lips ready to spill the rest of the Camila story.
I said, “Let's wait until we've eaten. Given everything else I've experienced in the last twenty-four hours, I'm not sure I want to hear this on an empty stomach.”
Chapter Ten
Two Weeks Ago
It wasn't the greatest excuse ever, but I told everyone at the Playa offices in downtown San Francisco that my next-door neighbor had called and asked me to rush over and tend to her hamsters, since her flight from Chicago had been delayed due to an early-season, freakish snow storm. Later, I fully expected to "lose" one of the little rascals and spend hours searching for him before the owner returned home.
I shrugged off the perplexed looks, feeling my mission to seek the truth about Camila, and what she knew about her brother Gustavo's grisly murder, was of far more importance than discussing umpteen make-believe use-case scenarios for our latest Playa software release.
With overcast skies, a blustery wind felt like sharp tacks prickling my face as I leaned against a BART bus stop tent. I pretended to study the countless emails popping up on my iPhone screen with my head down, but my eyes were locked in on the activities at Massage Therapy, just across Willow Street. Camila had reappeared through the back curtain after a ten-minute absence, but her facial expression was, the best I could tell, still the same—mostly void of emotion. She seemed far less passionate and carefree than when I first saw her at the Fairmont a couple of weeks back. It seemed like her vitality of life had been extricated from her.
I thought back to the night I first laid eyes on her, and my heart skipped a beat. Then I recalled the anguish that washed over her face in a nanosecond when she approached the large man who was face down on the carpet in front of me. Her mouth agape, it appeared she had forgotten to breathe when she saw her brother lying in a pool of blood, an ax—check that, a meat cleaver—wedged in his back. I briefly squeezed my eyelids shut, recalling the sucking sound when the paramedics pulled the horizontal blade out of his fleshy back.
A female customer who looked to be in her fifties approached the front counter, and I could see Camila's eyes narrow, her heard turn, a smile approaching her lips. A smile that never happened. Instead, she nodded and responded with a strained thank you—I could read her full lips.
A brief snapshot of Marisa lying at an awkward angle in our kitchen flashed through my mind. I couldn't relive or change the past, I'd convinced myself, at least temporarily, so I forced my mind to shift to the woman in front of me, a living, breathing, yet tortured soul. Her pain was all too obvious. I could see her inner strength, her survivor attitude. Something inside kept her moving, going through the motions at work, waiting for the gut-wrenching pain to subside, even just a bit, to allow oxygen to flow more freely, to feel alive.
But it was too early, I knew all too well.
Her hair pulled back in tight ponytail, she wore stylish blue sweats and a pink Dri-FIT T-shirt that outlined her curves. She worked the front counter, occasionally interacting with one of her employees, but as she welcomed customer after customer on a late Tuesday afternoon, she was all business.
Sandwiched around a brief respite at a corner drug store to pick up a piping hot cup of locally brewed coffee and today's copy of the San Francisco Chronicle, I'd been standing at or near the bus stop for about two hours, surveying the petite, blond beauty, The Natural, and her small business operations.
On the surface, a casual observer might assume all was normal, so to speak. I knew there was a difference, however, which is why I was conducting my first-ever stakeout.
I arched my neck, folded the paper under my arm, and looked for a trash can for my coffee cup. The time had finally come for me to introduce myself, to offer my condolences, to extend a hand of friendship. I knew I couldn't leave without reaching out to this woman, who had captivated my thoughts ever since she reached for her earring.
With a head of steam, I hopped off the curb and—
“Look out, asshole!” I heard someone yell, just as a yellow cab flew by inches in front of me. My heart almost leaped out of my chest, then I choked on what saliva remained in my mouth.
“Can't you see? This isn't a corner. You can't just cross the street with yo head up yo ass,” said a man at least twenty years my senior sitting on the city bench, a black knit cap hugging his skull, shaking his head.
Out of breath, I hopped back on the safe side and said, “I just wasn't thinking. Thanks for the heads up.”
He shrugged and turned the page of the newspaper he was riffling through.
I let a minute pass, then after looking both ways, took another step into the street. Halfway across, a Harley roared up to the curb, and within seconds, a man in tight jeans dismounted and took off his red helmet, releasing a mane of golden locks. He jogged up to the door of Swan Massage Therapy. I wasn't sure how to respond, so I changed my angle and aimed for the shop next door—a baby store nonetheless.
I tried to overhear the initial greeting at Swan, but instead only heard an electronic ding dong above the raspy wind. Contemplating my next move, I turned to face the display window at Yo Baby Yo, My eyes were overwhelmed with countless miniature shoes, onesies, bonnets, blankets, stuffed animals, themed bedding and curtains, colors of pink and light blue splashed across the entire store. Babies were a foreign world to me.
Just then, a youngish couple exited the store, the man making silly faces at his baby, who was attached to his chest via some type of contraption. The baby's entire hands could hardly encircle his dad's fingers. A couple of steps behind, the mom looked a little less enthusiastic; circles hovered under recessed eyes, and she wore baggy gray sweats. I glanced down at the sidewalk, thinking about the direction my life could have taken. A quick tug at my heart. Coulda, shoulda, woulda, I could hear my pop say.
I took in a deep breath from the salty air and let the chilly wind clear my senses.
The angle of view into Swan was too severe, and I bit the inside of my cheek. Something inside told me I needed to see, wanted to see what was going down. I pulled out my fallback diversion—my cell phone—and initiated a pedestrian drive-by, trying to remain inconspicuous while I glanced into the store.
Almost immediately, I spotted Camila's face, and my pulse fluttered. I saw immense beauty but also sheer pain. Hard lines crossed her forehead, and her jaw appeared to tremble as she spoke. I could make out an accent, although I couldn't understand specific words through the other side of the glass. She poked a defiant finger across the counter at Harley Man, whose rugged looks made me wonder if he'd ever acted on the big screen, or even the small screen. I slowed to a snail's pace, hoping they wouldn't turn my way, wondering if it was a lover's quarrel, hoping it wasn't.
I studied the man, who was strangely stoic, his eyes unblinking while Camila's emotions spilled out.
I ambled one more step then saw the man's arm jerk forward with the quickness of a lizard's tongue snatching its prey. Harley Man had grabbed Camila's wrist. His teeth were exposed as his mouth moved, but at a much lower volume. Instinctively, I turned and palmed the glass, a blast of heat shooting into my neck.
They both turned my way, and my eyes connected with Camila. It took a few seconds, but I thought she recognized me. Harley Man let go of her wrist and took two steps backward, glancing at me, apparently agitated at my appearance. His baritone voice barked, and it wasn't about meeting up for coffee later. The words were direct, even threatening, punctuated with a hand slap to his helmet and a finger pointed at Camila.
Did he just move his thumb like his hand was a toy gun?
I didn't know how to react. I wasn't sure what I was witnessing. For all I knew, Harley Man could have been a ruthless landlord demanding his rent payment and not giving a shit about Camila's anguish. I'd been around a few folks whose minds were fed by their lust for more money. In mere seconds, Harley Man flung open the door, snapped on his helmet, and straddled his bike. The casualness of his movements caught me off guard. He acted like I didn't exist. He most likely thought I was a common passerby, with no connection to Camila, no insight about their confrontation—which I guess was mostly true.
I could feel my anger swell, and I contemplated running right at him, leaping over the long handlebars and clipping him off his mighty chariot. My hand curling into a tight fist, I subconsciously measured the number of leaps it would take until impact—my body slamming against his, then his body hitting the unforgiving concrete. But it wasn't his treatment of Camila that created this enormous a surge of resentment. I felt like I represented all women who were exposed to abusive bullies, regardless of the reason.
Who am I kidding? The situation was reason to fight back against the man who killed my Marisa, my supposed wife for life.
The motorcycle roared to life as he snapped the throttle, the growl of the engine echoing off the surrounding buildings. The bike exploded from curbside, briefly popping the front tire from the pavement.
I realized all my thinking and growing rage had led to no action. I looked down and saw an empty beer bottle resting against a light pole. I picked it up and flung it with all my might. It veered right from the wind, but it sailed about fifty yards then burst into a million pieces about five feet to the left of Harley Man. He swerved slightly but appeared unfazed. Then I saw brake lights, and the back end of the bike fishtailed a bit as he skidded to a stop. He curled back and, ignoring the traffic around him, completed two slow loops, his masked face looking in my direction.
I stood there, defiantly, my chest
bowed, adrenaline pumping through my veins.
“Come on...come get me, bitch!”
Just as quickly as he'd stopped, Harley Man zoomed off into the distance, the sound still smacking the buildings long after his bike disappeared over a hill.
Chapter Eleven
Today
Andi's glaring stare might as well have been accompanied by a percussionist clanging symbols. While it piqued my curiosity, it wasn't enough for me to stop shoveling Mr. Chao's mouth-watering Kung Pao chicken into my mouth.
“Has your species actually regressed?” The edge of her lip moved upward, a repulsed look blanketing her face.
“What?” I garbled between mounds of chicken, snow peas, carrots, broccoli, and steamed rice. “A man's gotta—“
Suddenly, a double shot of brown sauce and carrot fired out of my mouth. Andi's reflexes were cat-quick, and she dodged the food bullets. But for every action, there was an opposite and equal reaction, or so I had learned many moons ago. She saved herself, but the carton of sweet and sour pork, which she balanced on her knees, flipped over and fell onto the carpet. This wasn't the two-star Como Motel back in Texas, where bed covers hadn't been washed since the LBJ era. This was a finely woven, turquoise and beige Persian rug in a tower room at the Fairmount.
“Shit!” she exclaimed then ran to the bathroom to gather an assortment of rags and soap products.
“I'm right there with you.” I stabbed a piece of broccoli and chicken and ate them.
Andi jogged back in with a pained expression. “Are you now? It looks like I'm on the floor trying to figure out how to remove a stain from a rug that is worth more than you and I put together, and you're chowing down like it's your last meal.”
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