by Alex Segura
The drive went quickly, and before too long a few hours had passed and Pete had managed to find a few other discs in Mike’s glove compartment. The Kinks’ “David Watts” faded into New Order’s “Ceremony,” and Pete began to feel himself getting sleepy. He was worn out, bruised and exhausted, despite being asleep for almost an entire day. Then his phone rang. Mike. Pete braced himself for the lecture he was going to get.
“Hey,” Pete said.
Mike ignored the greeting and started talking.
“It took me a little while to figure out what you did,” Mike said. “If it wasn’t my car, I’d find it almost comical.”
“I’m sorry,” Pete said.
“Emily was pretty pissed, so you know,” Mike said.
“She wasn’t happy, that’s for sure,” Pete said. “She thinks this whole thing is stupid.”
“It is,” Mike said.
“She seems upset about more than just this,” Pete said.
“Yeah,” Mike said. “I think she’s having trouble with Rick. But she doesn’t talk about it, so who knows.” He trailed off for a second, and then changed topics. “So, say you do find this Contreras dude. What then? You call the cops?”
“Well, the cops aren’t even looking for him,” Pete said, stifling another yawn and straightening himself in his seat. His left leg was falling asleep. He was surprised and confused by Mike’s reaction to having his car stolen. He chalked it up to Mike’s Zen resignation during stressful times. “I have to hope he can somehow lead us to Kathy. She’s the one in immediate danger.”
“That’s a stretch,” Mike said. “You’re hoping that by finding the person that did the crime, he’ll lead you to the girl?”
“Well, when you put it that way,” Pete stammered.
“I’m serious,” Mike said, his voice growing slightly more agitated.
“Look, I’m sorry, but—”
“Shut up,” Mike said. “I’m tired of the constant apologies. You did what you did because you wanted to do it. If you didn’t want to do it, you’d still be in the hospital, man. Don’t bullshit me anymore.”
Pete remained silent. He hadn’t thought his plan out in detail. His gut told him to follow the lead to the Keys, and then take it from there. But explaining that out loud to Mike made it sound more like a whim and less like a plan. He didn’t feel like arguing, either.
“I’m going to find Contreras and Kathy, and we’ll see what happens next,” Pete said finally.
Mike hung up. It took Pete a few seconds to realize the line was not dead because of a bad connection but because his friend had gotten fed up with his antics. They rarely argued, and when they did have disagreements, it never happened this way.
The skies had darkened and a light rain was falling, slowing his progress slightly. Pete let those thoughts hang in the air as he turned the car off at the exit. Key West was a series of hotels, seafood restaurants and bars, sprinkled over a chunk of lovely Florida landscape. Even in the rain, the area looked peaceful and welcoming. Pete wished he was visiting under better, more relaxed circumstances. It was dusk. The combination of the rain and disappearing sun gave the island a desolate, eerie vibe. Most people were coming home from the beach or resting up before going out for dinner or drinks. It almost felt like he was sneaking in between shifts. Pete drove to the center of the nightlife district, looking for a parking space.
Pete fumbled through his pockets for the scrap of paper with the name of the bar Maribel had mentioned. He found it. Willie T’s.
He snagged a parking space on the corner of Fleming and Duval and walked toward the bar. Despite the early hour, it wasn’t hard to pinpoint Willie T’s—the crowd and noise beckoned like a lighthouse on a dark night.
Walking in, Pete quickly determined that Willie T’s was a run-of-the-mill beach bum dive. It was wallpapered with dollar bills and photos, and crowded with tan tourists and regulars sipping Corona and Presidente beers. He thought he heard Bob Seger’s “Night Moves” on the jukebox, but wasn’t certain. Pete grabbed a stool near the end of the bar and ordered an Amstel Light. He couldn’t afford to get wasted tonight. A light buzz maybe. The bartender, a rough-looking older man with salt-and-pepper hair and a closely cropped moustache, looked like he’d been born behind a bar.
“Welcome to Willie T’s, bud. I’m Ash. I run the place,” he said, his hand outstretched. Pete shook it quickly. “Never seen you around here before. You visiting? Looks like you’ve had a rough go of it.”
“Just stopping in,” Pete said, trying to act casual. “I’m actually looking for a friend of mine.”
Ash’s eyes narrowed slightly as he put a beer in front of Pete.
“OK, well, here’s hopin’ you find them. Not much of a friend if he’s making himself hard to find and all,” Ash said, slapping the bar gingerly. “Lemme know when you need another.”
“Maybe you’ve seen him around? Jose Contreras?” Pete said. “Comes down here from time to time. He owns a place around here, I just don’t know the address.”
Ash snorted and walked over to another cluster of customers at the opposite side of the bar.
Pete felt his face reddening. He downed his beer quickly. He felt a rush to his head. He motioned for Ash. The place was crowded. Some people were seated at the tables enjoying dinner while a large group converged at the bar, some already knocking back shots and ordering their second or third pitchers of beer. Pete’s eyes drifted over to the jukebox, where a waitress, who was—like a lot of people at the bar—way too tan and looked older than she probably was, stood, chewing gum and talking to a shorter man. Pete focused on the man. He couldn’t get a good look at him in the dim bar, and the constant movements of the crowd made getting a clear line of sight difficult. But Pete didn’t need much time to figure out who it was. The stocky build and glaring scar down the left side of his face gave it away: Contreras.
Pete fought the urge to get up and bolt to the car. He turned around and saw Ash looking at the bar, as if he expected something to be there.
“You really ain’t much of an investigator, kid,” Ash said, as he put another Amstel in front of Pete and walked off.
Pete sighed to himself and slapped three twenties onto the bar, near his drink. After making his rounds, Ash returned to Pete’s spot. He nonchalantly picked up the cash as if Pete were closing out a massive tab. He leaned in slightly. Pete could smell the tobacco on his breath. He tried not to cough.
“Your buddy’s been comin’ down here for years,” Ash said, his voice low. “He’s a friend of mine. He’s got a place near the Comfort Inn, couple miles from here. Complex called Waterford.”
Ash grabbed a napkin and pulled a pen from behind his ear. He jotted down the address.
“How do you know him?” Pete asked. He looked back quickly. Contreras was gone; the waitress he’d been chatting with was now talking to a table of frat guys intent on getting obliterated before dinner. He felt a wave of relief.
“He comes in here a lot,” Ash said, lighting himself a cigarette. “I visit him sometimes. He has business interests here. He’s a good guy. Comes down here for fun or if things get too sticky up north.”
Pete nodded and stuck his hand out to Ash, who didn’t shake it.
“Just get going,” Ash said. “I don’t want any problems here. I know Contreras ain’t a friend of yours, but I also know he’s not an innocent, either. I mean, look at you. I’ll take a few extra bills for doing some of your legwork.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
He was lost.
Pete cursed under his breath. Ash’s notes said Contreras’ bungalow was off Center Street, but finding the street was another matter. Pete drove around the block in silence. The radio was off. Pete ran his fingers over the napkin as he looked out his window. He noticed a smallish street and turned.
Pete found himself in a cul-de-sac, surrounded by four tiny, standalone apartments, each with variations of the same lawn furniture set. The Waterford sign confirmed he was in the right s
pot. Pete noticed the lights were off in all but one. He gripped the wheel tightly for a second and let out a long breath. He opened the glove compartment and rummaged around before pulling out his father’s gun and looking it over. He kept the safety on.
Pete got out of the car. He began to walk the short distance between the car and the bungalow’s front door. The ground was wet from the rain, and the parking lot lights had yet to pop on. The air smelled smoky, Pete thought. He pulled the gun from behind his back and held it close to his left leg.
He wondered what Mike or Emily would say if they saw him now, toting a gun into an apartment with who knows what waiting for him.
He walked up to the door. Though the lights were on, Pete didn’t notice any movement or noise coming from inside the bungalow. Feeling awkward with the gun in his hand, he slid it back behind him and reached out to knock. Before Pete could make contact with the door, it wheezed open, slightly ajar. Pete pulled out his gun again and waited.
After a few moments, he pushed the door slightly. There were no signs of life or movement coming from inside.
“Fuck it,” Pete said. He pushed the door fully open and walked in. The bungalow was tiny. There was a lightly furnished living room and a door to another, secondary room that was closed. The living room had a small sofa and two chairs that looked, to Pete, like they once belonged to a dining set. Tied to one of the chairs with rope was a man. He was dead. Pete covered his mouth. There was a gaping, bloody hole where part of his face used to be. Pete fought the urge to vomit. He felt his own hands shaking.
Pete stepped gingerly toward the body. He had no sense of when the man had been murdered, but the kill had been messy. There was blood all over the floor and couch. From what little Pete knew about forensics, he could tell the murder weapon hadn’t been a run-of-the-mill handgun. Probably a shotgun. He looked up at the ceiling and noticed a hole —the result of another, errant shot. Pete looked at the man’s hair and what little remained of his face. He didn’t want to be right.
It was Javier. He was certain. He recognized the watch, too. The clincher.
He tried to look at the mangled face of his former friend from different angles, not to nauseate himself further, but to somehow prove himself wrong. But he couldn’t. It was him.
Then he heard the scream.
• • •
Kathy Bentley was dazed and unresponsive as Pete scrambled to remove the rope tying her to the tiny twin bed in the bungalow’s second room. She was splattered with blood, probably Javier’s, Pete thought as he raised her off the bed and into a sitting position. She was conscious, but barely. He had to hold her up.
“Kathy,” Pete said, shaking her slightly. “We have to get you out of here. Can you try to stand up for me?”
Kathy didn’t respond. Her eyes were at half-mast. Her hair matted with dirt and sweat.
Pete’s mind was whirring. It looked like Kathy had been in the room for a few days—there were small, empty cereal boxes, a few gallons of water, and a rifle resting near the westernmost wall, out of Kathy’s reach. A drawer set had been toppled over and emptied, along with a shoddy black nightstand. The floor was littered with papers and clothes. Contreras hadn’t been concerned with keeping the place tidy while he held Kathy.
“We have to get the fuck out of here,” Pete said, as much to himself as to Kathy. “If Contreras just did this, my guess is he left for only a short time. No way he’d leave it like this. Can you walk?”
“The couch…” Kathy mumbled.
Pete looked at her in surprise.
It was the first thing she’d said since screaming.
“We’re leaving now,” Pete said. “I’m taking you home.”
“Baginthecouchgetit,” she slurred.
Pete tried to carry her out of the room. He managed to drag her into the living room and tried, unsuccessfully, to prevent her from seeing Javier’s mutilated body. Pete heard her sob softly. He glanced back at his former friend as they inched toward the door, and felt a crushing sense of failure. As much as this disaster was about finding Kathy, it was also about reconnecting in some way to the friend he’d left waiting in the police station for the father that never came to pick him up.
“Please,” Kathy said, more clearly this time.
“We’re almost out the door,” he said, trying to distract her.
“No, we have to get the bag in the couch,” she said, her voice hoarse but forceful. She was waking up. “That’s the money.”
“Money?” Pete asked.
“Cut open the cushion on the left,” she said, ignoring Pete’s question. “There should be a gym bag in there.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Pete said, growing anxious. He’d been in the bungalow for almost 20 minutes.
“Fuck, fine,” Kathy said, pulling away from Pete. She moved back to the couch and unzipped the cushion, snaking her arm inside. After a few seconds of searching, she came back with a medium-sized blue gym bag. Pete loomed over her as she unzipped it to reveal stacks of hundreds tied in various bundles. He’d never seen so much money in one place. She looked up at him, as if to say “See?”
“We have to get the fuck out of here,” he said, his eyes still on the cash. He expected Contreras—in full Silent Death garb—to stroll into the tiny apartment at any time.
“Yes,” Kathy said, swinging the bag over her shoulder. She seemed much more alert than when Pete first discovered her. “They’re coming back. They should have been back by now.”
“They?” Pete asked, nerves clear in his voice.
“You have no idea what’s going on, do you? This is where everything starts,” Kathy said, motioning around the living room as she opened the front door. “Javier figured it out and came here, and he got killed for it. I knew they were stashing money in the couch between deals because he wouldn’t stop talking about it. I thought I was going to be shot next. I’m not sure why they kept me alive this long.”
They walked outside the bungalow and began the short walk to Mike’s car, Kathy in front. She paused for a second and turned to Pete, who was trailing a half step behind.
“And thank you,” Kathy said. “I don’t know how the hell you, of all people, found me, but thanks.”
Her second thank you was drowned out by the sound of a large black truck pulling into the small parking lot. Pete could make out Conteras’ silhouette. He slid his father’s gun from his waistband and gripped it tightly as they ran for Mike’s car.
• • •
Pete slammed the driver’s side door shut as the Focus’ tires squealed violently in reverse while Kathy slid into the passenger seat. He backed up the car carelessly and slammed his foot on the accelerator, trying to gain a few seconds on the truck, which could easily overtake the slow-moving sedan.
“They’re not going to be behind us for long,” Kathy said, turning around to look out the car’s back window.
“No shit,” Pete responded, as he turned the car onto Duval St. He had to reach the expressway, fast. “We have to get to a busier area, or we’re fucked.”
“Or we’re dead,” Kathy said.
Pete gripped the steering wheel and changed lanes abruptly, hoping to gain a few seconds on the truck. From what Pete could tell by checking the rearview, the diversion did little. The fastest way off the island was by taking Duval Street, the main drag of Key West, littered with bars, restaurants and late-night revelers. Pete focused on the road, trying his best to dart through traffic without being too obvious, as the area was not bereft of police cars. The thought of getting pulled over sounded almost appealing. Pete had counted at least three fender benders in the last few minutes due to Contreras’s driving. And, despite Pete’s best efforts, the truck was still only a car’s length behind them.
“Where are we headed?” Kathy asked.
“Back to Miami,” Pete said, looking at her briefly.
“Where else would we go?”
Kathy seemed confused.
“Well, wonderful. A
re we expecting to lose them in some way?” Kathy said, exasperated. “Because driving down the busiest street toward the busiest one-lane highway in the state isn’t the best way to do that, FYI.”
Pete never got the chance to respond.
The car lurched, sending them hurtling forward. Pete felt himself slam into the dashboard. The car was spinning, Pete realized. He heard the back window shatter and turned to see Kathy crumpled next to him, her body curved in a weird position, her back against the windshield. Pete groaned. His face was plastered on the steering wheel, his eyes felt sluggish and heavy. There was glass all over the backseat. Pete felt a shooting pain in his left arm. He was dazed. Kathy wasn’t moving. The truck had crashed into them from behind.
Pete opened the driver’s side door and toppled out, rolling on the concrete. Cars were now weaving around them. The black truck was still crunched against Mike’s car, which was dented badly, but might still be able to run. He wasn’t sure where Contreras was. He got to his feet and felt wobbly. He noticed some movement from the truck. Nothing from Mike’s car. He’d been wearing a seatbelt, but Kathy might have been seriously injured, Pete thought. He saw his father’s gun near the gas pedal and snatched it up.
“Told you not to fuck with me, son,” It was Contreras. “How many times did you think you’d be able to get away? Once was pure luck. This time it’ll be different.”
Pete’s vision focused and cut through the smoke surrounding the crash. He saw Contreras walking toward him. He wasn’t in Silent Death garb, Pete noticed. The gash down his left cheek seemed sharper in contrast to the dirt on his face from the crash. He seemed relaxed, as if high-traffic car chases were commonplace. They probably were, Pete thought. For him. “That stupid slut wasn’t happy to just get away. She had to take something that belongs to me.”