Silent City

by Alex Segura

Pete started, then turned to look at Mike, whose eyelids were at half shut as he leaned on the bar. He looked at Jimmy and shrugged.

  “I think we’re good for the night.”

  • • •

  Pete fumbled with Mike’s keys as he tried to open Mike’s apartment door. Mike, relatively useless, was leaning on the opposite wall. Pete smiled. He considered how bad Mike—and he—would be had they let themselves do a few more rounds at the Pub. It was dangerous enough that Pete drove up to Mike’s house, a good 45 minutes away, after the half-dozen drinks he had in his system. He managed to get the door open and they walked in.

  Mike’s apartment was decorated sparsely. Lots of white space, little clutter. Pete marveled at the OCD of it all. He motioned Mike to the couch, where they both plopped down with a thud.

  “I am fucked up,” Mike said, as if by vocalizing the situation, he could remedy it.

  “Nah, you’re alright,” Pete said, grabbing the remote, looking at it in an attempt to figure out how to get to ESPN. “We were just there too long, you know?”

  “Yeah, bro,” Mike said. “I hadn’t seen Emily in a while. Always nice to check out that rack.” He laughed.

  Pete stayed quiet. He wasn’t sure if he should sleep over and avoid another risky drive late at night or leave Mike alone and head to the comforts of home. He was leaning toward the latter.

  “What, you’re offended now?” Mike said, turning to Pete.

  “No, man,” Pete said. “I’m just tired. It’s been a long few days.”

  Mike leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “That’s for sure. I’m not feeling work at all.”

  “Emily seemed to be in a rush at the end there,” Pete said. He would only make such a comment when Mike was drunk and prone to ramble.

  “Hm, yeah,” Mike said, looking at the TV before taking the remote from Pete’s hands and turning it on. “I don’t think she’s that happy with her life. You really derailed her, you know?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You went off—and you took her with you,” Mike said, his voice clearer. “The only way she could get her shit straight was to leave you behind. But you guys keep dancing around each other. It’s sad.”

  Pete stayed quiet.

  “And yeah, she seems out of it,” Mike said. “She barely talked about Rick or her new job. She just kept asking about you and the paper. She sounded almost nostalgic.”

  “Who’d be nostalgic for the Times?”

  “You might be, if you get fired,” Mike said, no trace of humor in his voice.

  Pete bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing, bro,” Mike said. “You know what I mean. As for Emily, I don’t know. Something’s going on there. She’s not acting like herself. All nervous and jittery. It’s weird.”

  “She seemed OK,” Pete said.

  “Yeah, sort of,” Mike said. “But she seemed off. Everyone seems a little off lately.”

  Pete wasn’t sure how to respond. They both watched ESPN highlights silently until Pete could hear Mike snoring softly. He eased off the couch and wandered into Mike’s room, returning with a comforter. He draped it over Mike and shut off the TV. He hit the main apartment light and walked out, locking the door behind him.

  Chapter Eleven

  Pete turned off his noisy Celica’s engine. He looked around his car. It was a mess. Papers everywhere, fast food containers and CD cases strewn all over the backseat. After realizing his car was on its last legs a few months back, Pete had given up on upkeep. Now he felt a pang of guilt as he got out of the car. Then something caught his eye in the back seat. A large cardboard box peeked out from under one of his winter jackets—now pointless since he wasn’t planning on returning to New Jersey anytime soon. Pete slid the driver’s side seat up and moved his coat. He remembered what the box was instantly, and regretted finding it. It was a box of his father’s old paperwork. Probably receipts and expense reports. He hadn’t thought of the box since he tossed it in the backseat the day Emily left. He groaned as he picked up the box—heavier than he’d remembered—and closed the car door with his hip. He walked up the stairs to his second-floor apartment slowly, trying to shift the box’s weight after every four or five steps. His arms hurt from the strain.

  “Come on, Pete,” he said under his breath. “Don’t embarrass yourself.”

  He managed to open his front door without much trouble and let the box thud on his faded brown couch. He sank into the couch and let out a disappointed sigh as he realized the remote control was not within reach. He sat, waiting for his breathing to steady and looked around his small apartment at his posters. David Byrne’s “True Stories,” a ratty Marlins inaugural season celebratory poster and an Edward Hopper “Nighthawks” print that Emily had given him on their anniversary summed up the last few years of his life. Costello sauntered into the main room with a yowl, followed by his new gray sidekick. Realizing no food was in the offing, Costello rolled over slowly and went to sleep. The gray cat mewled and walked off.

  He flicked on the light near the door and turned to face the box that rested next to him. Inside were a series of file folders and a brown paper bag, scrunched tightly behind the stack of manila folders and paperwork. Pete skimmed the titles of each. His father, unsurprisingly, was very organized. The folders were in order by year, and most contained your basic police info—reports, crime scene breakdowns, witness comments, and his father’s own notes coming out of interrogations. Pete wasn’t sure his dad was even supposed to have this level of info, retired or not. Carlos Broche, his father’s longtime partner and closest friend, had probably turned a blind eye to the copying.

  “Old man couldn’t put the gun down,” Pete said to himself.

  Most of the cases seemed relatively routine, as far as homicides went. Robberies gone bad, spousal abuse escalating to murder, jealous lovers, vengeful coworkers. The files made for interesting reading and Pete felt himself energized and awake. This was his father’s life, he thought. He dealt with the scum of the earth on a daily basis and still remained a strong and gentle soul. Pete pushed the papers away and leaned back on the sofa. He was staring at the ceiling. He wasn’t sure for how long. It was time for bed, he thought, returning his eyes to the box, now less organized thanks to Pete’s meddling. Beneath the manila folders Pete found another—this one a faded red—with two staples holding it closed. Pete’s father didn’t really want to open this, he figured. The tab, which had featured years and case numbers on the other folders, just read “The SD.” Pete knew what it meant: The Silent Death.

  From the few times his father had mentioned it, Pete knew it haunted him. It was his white whale—the one that got away. Pete popped the staples off and watched them bounce onto the dirty brown carpet.

  The file folder was sparse and mostly contained dated notes in his father’s handwriting. Pedro could point to at least twelve murders that bore the signature of the Silent Death. Mostly noted mob figures and other criminals. They all had little to no evidence to offer a seasoned homicide detective on the scene. As Pete flipped through the notes, he could feel his father’s growing frustration.

  They’re all connected. I know this. Broche thinks it’s a few people—I know it can’t be. Not sure why this case is sticking to me more than the others. It’s not like we don’t have work to do. The early one troubles me. The count is close to eleven now. Probably more. Whoever’s doing this has to be living somewhere in secret—not a hermit, that’s not possible in a city like Miami. Too many people would need to reach him. He has to have a front. But where? Why? I’ll think on it tonight.—PF

  That was the last entry in the folder. Reading his father’s notes felt more reassuring than sad. It was like peering into Pedro’s life and catching a glimpse of him. Pete knew these opportunities would come less and less often as time passed. He retired a few weeks later, Pete thought. He died months later. Pete slid the folder back in the box and organized the folders in his best imitation of his f
ather. The Silent Death was still out there.

  He pulled out the crumpled brown paper bag and knew from the feel what it was without peering inside. He opened it slowly and pulled out his father’s police weapon—a Glock. Fairly standard issue for most police officers in Miami. It was heavy. Black and bulky, the gun felt strange in his hand. He remembered it—or its type, at least. He checked the weapon and noticed it wasn’t loaded. His mind veered back to his youth and the detailed sessions with his father at the shooting range, where Pedro Fernandez taught his only son how to load, reload and sometimes—when he could see the boredom in his son’s eyes and felt a pang of guilt—fire his weapon under his watchful eye. Always careful. He shook the bag and found a few stray bullets. He held one up to the light. His head was throbbing now. He was still drunk. The clock above his entertainment center told him it was well past five in the morning. He had to work later. He should go to sleep. He should move on and hope the rest of the day was going to be—if not better—at least a little more bearable.

  “Fuck it,” he said.

  He slid the bullets into the gun, loading it slowly and meticulously. He remembered the procedure. He had touched this gun before. His father’s gun. His father’s life. In a box next to him on the couch. Pete finished loading the gun and pointed it at his television set. He saw his reflection through the coat of dust on the screen. He could smell his father’s cheap Varadero pharmacy brand cologne on the handle. He put the safety back on the gun and laid it down on the small table between the couch and the television.

  His father had been a hero. Perhaps only to a handful of people, but to more people than most. Pete slumped back in his seat. What did he have to show for himself? Not much of a job, no wife, a half-empty apartment, and a sense of fading opportunity.

  His gaze didn’t move from the gun on the small, cheap IKEA table. It used to have magazines like Cosmo and the New Yorker mingling with his copies of ESPN and MOJO. The gun had spun slowly after Pete placed it on the table, stopping mid-cycle; the barrel of the Glock 34 stared at Pete.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Miami sun beat down on Pete through the booth window at Casa Pepe’s as he sipped a large glass of Diet Coke. The giant plate of picadillo—seasoned ground beef with white rice and black beans—that he’d just devoured had helped somewhat, but didn’t fully eliminate his hangover. Usually around this time he’d be rushing to get to work, not sitting in a restaurant in his old neighborhood savoring Cuban food and staring out at another beautiful Miami afternoon. But he didn’t feel any particularly strong motivation to be at work early today. The encounter with his dad’s files—and his gun—had left Pete more shaken than he’d anticipated. The sight of his father’s things and the memories they brought up left Pete not only nostalgic, but distraught about the present. The last thing he felt like doing was sitting at his desk.

  Then why was he at Casa Pepe’s, of all places? Pete couldn’t come up with an answer. It was an unexpected longing for his friendship with Javier that first motivated him to start looking for Kathy, so it wouldn’t hurt to try and look him up. Or so he told himself.

  A normal person would have gone to sleep long before toying with an old weapon between bouts of feeling bad for himself. Not me, Pete thought. No, his night ended with a long, presumably rambling call to Emily. Pete only knew this because he’d checked his outgoing calls when he woke up this morning. What he’d said to his former fiancée was probably best left undiscovered, he mused to himself. So much for trying to be friends again.

  The waitress, a pudgy, tan girl who was probably a few years younger than Pete, politely asked if he needed anything. He responded slowly, his Spanish rusty from lack of practice. The waitress—Maribel according to her name tag—seemed to notice Pete’s plight and switched to English. Her accent was strong, but she managed.

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  “Sorry,” Pete said. “I haven’t been speaking much Spanish lately.”

  “It’s OK,” she smiled. “How was the picadillo?”

  “Oh, great,” Pete said. “Can I ask you a question?”

  Maribel seemed slightly taken aback and confused.

  “Yes, sure. Do you want dessert?”

  “Ha, no,” Pete said. “I’m looking for a friend of mine, I think he works here. Javier Reyes?”

  Pete noticed Maribel’s bubbly demeanor visibly shift upon the mention of Javier, and she hesitated before saying anything.

  “Javier’s not here today.”

  “I figured as much,” Pete said. “But do you know when he’ll be in? We went to school together, and I wanted to say hi and maybe catch up with him.”

  Maribel looked around the restaurant and turned back to Pete.

  “Did you want any dessert?”

  “No, I’m fine,” Pete said. “But do you know about Javier? Is there a manager I can speak to?”

  Maribel nodded and stepped back quickly.

  “Yes, I’ll have him come by here,” she said. “And I’ll bring the check.”

  “OK, thanks.”

  Pete took a final sip of his Diet Coke and began to take some money out of his wallet when a stocky bearded man approached his table, wearing a beige guayabera and black slacks. He was fairly unremarkable looking, except for the long scar running down the left side of his face. Pete wondered how a restaurant owner got a wound like that. The man reached out to shake Pete’s hand.

  “Hello, I’m Jose Contreras,” he said, clearly not comfortable speaking English. “I own Casa Pepe’s. I hope you enjoyed your food here.”

  “Pete Fernandez,” he responded. “Yeah, the food was excellent. I used to come here, years ago. I was actually wondering about a friend of mine. I’d heard he works here. Javier Reyes?”

  Contreras seemed to be straining to keep up his jolly demeanor at the mention of Javier’s name.

  “Ah, yes, Javier,” Contreras said. “He was a smart kid. He doesn’t work here anymore. You know how it is. I get a lot of employees. They come and go.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad.”

  “Yes, yes,” Contreras said. “You know how things are in the restaurant business, my friend. It is very flowing. He was a good employee, but people come and go.”

  Pete placed some money on the table and stood up next to Contreras.

  “That’s a shame,” Pete said. “Did he tell you where he was going? Is he still on work release? I’d imagine he’d have to report where he’s working, no?”

  Contreras forced another smile, this time more visibly annoyed. It was clear that he had hoped Pete would’ve dropped it by now. He tucked his hands behind his back and leaned into Pete slightly.

  “Look, Javier was a good kid, a hard worker, sometimes,” Contreras said, looking around him and smiling at the customers who probably couldn’t hear what he was saying. “But he doesn’t work here anymore, OK? Now, stop asking my employees questions, OK? If you want dessert, it’s free. If not, go.”

  Pete was surprised at the venom in Contreras’ response. Pete dropped an extra dollar on the table. As he did this, he noticed something scrawled on the back of his receipt. He couldn’t make out the message, but he stuffed it into his pocket and turned to Contreras, a forced smile on his face.

  “No, that’s fine,” he said. “Thank you for a lovely lunch.”

  • • •

  Clouds had weakened the sunny day, so Pete walked out of Casa Pepe’s to a gray sky. Once he was clear of the front door and walking toward the small parking lot behind the restaurant, he pulled out the crumpled receipt. Written hastily on the back of the small piece of paper was a quick message: “Dessert at Denny’s in 20 minutes.—Mari.” Pete slid the paper back into his pocket. He didn’t notice that someone was behind him.

  “Looking for me?”

  Pete turned around quickly and saw Javier—or, at least, an older, gruffer version of the kid he used to pal around with—leaning against an employee exit, taking a drag from a cigarette, surrounded by trash bag
s and empty boxes. He was in a cook’s attire—white smock and apron, white pants—each one sporting its own palette of food and work stains. It took Pete a few seconds to process that it was really Javier standing in front of him.

  “You alright, man?” Javier said.

  Pete realized he’d been just staring at his old friend for at least 15 seconds. He coughed awkwardly. “Yeah, yeah,” Pete said. “I’m fine. Your boss said you didn’t work here anymore.”

  “Well, I don’t,” Javier said, scratching around the stubble on his face, letting out a long lungful of smoke. “Not on the books, at least. You probably made him nervous. He has everyone trained not to rat me out.”

  “Why would you need to pretend you’re not working here, though?”

  Javier dropped the cigarette butt on the asphalt and ground it out with his shoe. He took a few seconds to respond. He was scanning Pete.

  “Aren’t you going to say hello? Or ask me how I’ve been?”

  Pete felt a pang of guilt. Javier was part of the reason he’d even started looking for Kathy. He wanted to find his friend more than he wanted to find her. And here Javier was, clearly down on his luck, struggling to make a living, and all Pete could think about was minutiae. He stepped closer to Javier and extended his hand.

  “It’s good to see you, man,” Pete said.

  Javier took his hand and pulled Pete in for a hug. It lasted a few seconds longer than Pete would have expected, but that was fine. Javier smelled like a kitchen. Mixed with nice cologne. Pete stepped back.

  “It’s been a while, huh?” Javier said. “You look good. Lost some weight?”

  Pete didn’t think so, but took the compliment.

  “You too,” Pete said. “We’re all getting old.”

  Javier laughed. Pete recognized it. Javier was being polite. Despite the novelty of seeing each other again, they were not friends. They hadn’t been for some time.

  “So, what’s happening with you? Do you want to get a cup of coffee?” Pete asked, pushing Maribel’s note to the back burner in his mind.