Silent City

by Alex Segura

  Pete felt blood dripping from a cut on his forehead. He raised his gun to Contreras. He put his hands up, but let out a laugh.

  “Wow, this old trick?” Contreras said, still walking to Pete, albeit more slowly. Pete took the gun’s safety off. Contreras laughed again.

  “Sure you know how to use that thing?”

  “Fuck you,” Pete said. He was tired. He just wanted a warm bed and a few days to sort out what was going on. He turned to the car and saw Kathy was moving. He wondered if the car could run, or if they would have to explain everything to the cops. He couldn’t hear the sirens anymore. There was a crowd forming, however. A few bar patrons had gathered outside of Willie T’s after the crash. The newly present gun had sent most running.

  “Kid has teeth all of a sudden?” Contreras said, as he inched closer. He slid his hand into his vest and pulled out his own gun, bigger than Pete’s. Pete wagered he knew how to use it better, too. “That makes two of us.”

  Pete thought for a second. He’d had a gun pointed at him twice in his life. He could try and play hero and end up dead in the next four minutes, or he could put his gun down and probably live for a few more hours.

  “Put the gun down, you little shit,” Contreras said, getting agitated. “How hard did you get hit in the head?”

  Then the sirens came back. This time, much louder.

  • • •

  Pete didn’t recall much of what happened next. He remembered crouching down to slide his gun over to Contreras, who was patiently pointing his weapon at Pete. That’s when he heard the screeching. He felt something push him forward and heard another crash followed by a man’s scream. Pete remembered grabbing his gun for some reason. He looked up and saw Contreras, his face contorted. Not in anger, but pain. Was he looking at me? Pete thought. Mike’s car was suddenly closer, and Contreras was pinned between his truck and Mike’s black Focus. Pete glanced back and saw Kathy behind the wheel. He couldn’t hear much. His ears were ringing. Contreras managed to move away from the two cars and collapsed on the street awkwardly. Was he dead? Pete wasn’t sure. He couldn’t tell if the sirens were getting farther away or if he just couldn’t hear them.

  He sat on the street, his hand still on his father’s gun when he felt someone jostle him. He looked up to see Kathy’s face. She was screaming something at him. Pete didn’t understand. He nodded. Kathy took the gun. Kathy tried to pick him up and drag him to the car. As he was partially sliding on the glass-covered Key West street, Pete turned and saw Contreras, crumpled on the ground, as if he were just pausing for a few winks like a drunk local.

  “He’s dead,” Pete said, pointing at Contreras’s immobile form.

  He felt Kathy heaving him into the passenger side.

  She put her hand on his forehead.

  Pete expected it to be cold, but it wasn’t. She took it off for a second and looked at it. It was red—blood? His blood, Pete realized.

  “We have to get out of here,” she yelled as she ran around to the driver’s side seat. Then they were gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Pete couldn’t go home. Even if Contreras was dead, his apartment wasn’t safe. He guided Kathy to the route toward Mike’s apartment in Fort Lauderdale. This way, he could return the car he’d stolen and damaged, rest for a moment, and determine what to do next. He’d found Kathy. He hadn’t thought the next step through. There wasn’t much talking on the way back. Kathy focused on the road; Pete stared out his window and ran the events of the last few hours through his mind. Had they killed someone? What evidence was left behind? Were the cops looking for them? Javier was dead. Kathy was begrudgingly grateful but grating on Pete’s nerves. His shoulder and head ached, a dull, throbbing pain that was getting gradually worse. Pete’s dizziness had lessened, but he still felt off. The rain had subsided, but the air felt heavy and wet.

  Pete looked back and his eyes landed on the bag of money. Wind snuck into the car through the shattered rear window.

  “Thanks,” Pete said, breaking the silence.

  “For what?” Kathy said, her tone flat, eyes on the road.

  “For pulling me out of there,” Pete said. “He was going to kill me.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Pete looked at Kathy. She was shaking slightly. Pete looked away. He let the silence linger.

  “I killed someone.”

  “I know, I——”

  “I killed someone today,” Kathy repeated, still staring at the road, accelerating slightly. “And I don’t feel a thing. That scares me. I’ve been tied up for almost a week, dirty, eating cornflakes and shitting and pissing in a bucket, threatened and prodded. I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t even know if this is real—you, this car, the people.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I wasn’t thinking clearly,” Kathy said. “I just knew we had to get out of there. Away from that man. Away from everything.”

  An awkward silence followed. For a few minutes, Pete kept himself occupied by staring out toward the repetitive scenery that would take up most of the four-hour drive. The partially opened window allowed for a slight breeze, which he let slap his face.

  “I know they killed my father, too,” Kathy said. “Contreras told me. I’m not surprised. He was a washed-up deadbeat and a piece of shit. But he’s still my father, you know?”

  Pete looked over at her quickly and could see the tears streaming down her face, her eyes barely open. She tried to stifle the sobs, but she couldn’t. Pete wasn’t sure what to do.

  “I can’t believe they killed Javier,” she said, mid-sob. “They killed him. For what? I don’t even know what he was doing there. But now he’s dead and I’m barely alive. I have nowhere to go. What am I going to do? Go to the Times and write this story? I’ll be dead before it goes to press. I’m dead already.”

  Pete gripped the passenger side door handle, half-expecting Kathy to veer off the road, but she maintained control.

  “I’ll never forget it,” Kathy said. “The way Contreras trotted him out. He dragged me from that tiny room and tossed me on the couch and showed me Javier. Said he’d come to save me. Yeah, right. Who knows why the fuck he was there? Then I knew it was over. He tossed me back into the room and a few minutes later, I heard the shot. No way anyone survives that.”

  “One shot?” Pete asked.

  “Yeah, one,” Kathy said. “Why?”

  “Just curious,” Pete said. Kathy wiped the tears from her eyes roughly, more angry than sad now. The radio remained off. The rain returned, a soft sprinkle falling as the black car sped into the darkness.

  • • •

  Mike lived in a small one-bedroom apartment off Las Olas, the main thruway in downtown Fort Lauderdale. The complex, named Sole and decorated with tropical pictures and imagery, was faux-luxurious, but comfortable enough. They parked across the street, Pete not sure how to actually get into the apartment complex’s parking garage. They got out hastily and walked to the main entrance, where Pete tapped Mike’s apartment number from memory. They waited for a response.

  “Hello?”

  “Mike,” Pete said. “It’s me. I’ve got your car. I’m back.”

  Static filled the seconds before they heard the ringing sound that meant Mike had cleared them to enter. Kathy swung the door open and walked in, not waiting for Pete to lead the way. They met at the elevator, where Pete tapped the button for the fifth floor. They rode up in silence.

  They reached the door and Pete knocked tentatively. A few seconds passed and he looked at Kathy. She seemed exhausted. Her hair caked with dirt, her face streaked with tears and her clothes torn and sullied, she caught him looking and turned her face away.

  The door opened and Mike stood in the doorway in a pair of khaki boxers and a black T-shirt with some kind of animal on it. He didn’t step aside to let them in.

  “Nice of you to visit,” he said.

  “I brought the car back,” Pete said, almost phrased like a question.


  Mike ignored him and looked at Kathy. “Hello.”

  “I’m Kathy,” she said, waving her hand in mock greeting. “Your friend here decided to save my life.”

  Mike nodded and stepped back, signaling that it was OK to enter. Pete walked in first and gave him a hug. Mike slapped him on the back and laughed quickly. Pete knew Mike wouldn’t stay mad forever. But he was mad now.

  “Your car’s parked across the street,” Pete said, stifling a yawn. Now that the insanity seemed over, his body was shutting down. “I didn’t know how to get into the garage.”

  Mike shrugged and closed the door behind Kathy.

  “No big deal,” he said. “I have work in the morning anyway.”

  Kathy dropped the bag on the floor by the front door. It hit the ground with a thud. Mike looked at it curiously.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “A bag full of money,” Kathy said dryly.

  Mike’s eyebrows went up, but he didn’t comment further.

  The apartment was small. It wasn’t much of a toss for Pete to get the keys on the kitchen counter.

  “I’m done,” Mike said. It was close to two in the morning. “I need to get some sleep.”

  “Thanks for letting me stay,” Kathy said.

  “Don’t mention it,” Mike said. “There are some towels, shorts and T-shirts in the bathroom if you want to shower and change into something clean. You guys OK sharing the couch?”

  “I don’t care,” Kathy said looking at Pete. “I’ll sleep on the floor if you feel weird.”

  “I’m fine with the couch,” Pete said, sitting down and turning on the television. He flipped through some channels until he got to the local news. A repeat of the 11 o’clock edition. “I’m sure we’ll all sleep pretty well tonight.”

  “Your last night of freedom,” Mike said jokingly, raising his arms to the air. Pete heard the bedroom door close behind his friend.

  Kathy plopped down on the couch next to Pete, absentmindedly rapping her fingertips on the arm of the three-seater. Pete turned up the volume. The newscaster, a bubbly blonde twenty-something subbing for the more recognizable local news celebrity, delivered the report quickly and with little flair, but Pete and Kathy watched in rapt attention.

  “Some odd news coming from Key West this evening, as Duval St. partygoers got a first-hand look at a heated car chase,” she said, stumbling over her words slightly. “Police are still looking for one of the vehicles involved in the chase, along with at least two suspects. Onlookers say the chase ended with a crash on the eastbound lane of Duval Street in front of local watering hole Willie T’s. That’s when, according to witnesses, guns were drawn and one man was injured, the apparent victim of a hit-and-run. Police are asking that anyone with any information related to this please contact Crimestoppers at…”

  Pete flicked off the television, but continued to stare at the blank screen.

  After a minute, Kathy slowly took the remote control from Pete’s hand and set it on the table. Pete leaned back on the couch. He wasn’t sure what had him more worried—the fact that he was probably a wanted man and Kathy potentially a murderer, or that Contreras might still be alive. He wanted to scream. Instead, Pete looked up at Mike’s ceiling.

  “They’re not going to find us,” Kathy said matter-of-factly as she got up from the couch and headed toward the bathroom. “There’s no way to place us there.”

  “That’s not true at all,” Pete said, still staring at the ceiling. “We were in a standoff with Contreras. I had been in the bar across the street a few hours before, looking for Conteras’s place. And they’ll eventually find Javier tied to a chair with his face blown off. Of course they’ll be…”

  Pete stopped talking when he heard Kathy’s whimpering sob. He looked over and saw her, standing just outside the bathroom and watching Pete with bloodshot eyes. He felt like a complete asshole.

  “Shit,” Pete said. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t even thinking.”

  She nodded, Pete wasn’t sure why, then turned on her heels to enter the bathroom. He could hear more muffled sobbing from inside.

  A half hour passed, and Kathy came back out of the bathroom, this time wearing a Miami Heat basketball T-shirt and a pair of shorts. She was showered and scrubbed, but still looked worn out and defeated.

  “Tired?”

  “Not really,” she said, sitting next to him on the couch. “Can I use your phone?”

  “Sure,” Pete said, handing her his cell phone. “What for?”

  “I’m just going to call Amy to let her know I’m OK,” she said as she dialed quickly. Pete tried his best not to listen to the conversation as he got up from the couch. It was brief, from what little he could hear, and emotional. The crying and updating slowly changed to sarcasm and some laughing. Pete felt relieved. He wondered what Amy thought of him now. Maybe he wasn’t such a fuck-up.

  He popped open a beer. Mike thankfully had a 24-pack of Heineken resting in his fridge. After a few gulps, the bottle was mostly empty.

  “Any more in there?”

  Pete walked over with two beers, a new one for him and another for Kathy. He sat down next to her.

  “There’s a case in the fridge,” Pete said. “So we should be good, at least when it comes to getting drunk enough to pass out.”

  “You worry too much,” she said before taking a long pull from her beer. “Think we can put some music on?”

  Pete looked around. Mike was a relatively deep sleeper. He walked over to the entertainment center and scanned Mike’s CD collection before choosing a few discs and plopping them into the CD-changer. The opening chords of the Velvets’ “Here She Comes Again” played from the stereo at a reasonable volume. Pete returned to the couch.

  “Lou Reed? Seriously?”

  “What’s wrong with Lou Reed?”

  “Well, nothing, I guess,” Kathy said. “It just didn’t strike as the right song for now.”

  “What would you suggest?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Something more upbeat?”

  “I don’t think Mike has any Lady Gaga,” Pete said, enjoying the banter.

  “Wow, someone’s sensitive,” Kathy said. “Did I offend your macho music sensibilities?”

  “Not at all,” Pete said. “I just can’t fully respect someone who doesn’t like the Velvet Underground.”

  Kathy let out an exasperated sigh. “I did not say that, and you know it.”

  Pete laughed. It was nice to drink and unwind a bit, even if everything else was falling apart. Kathy joined him in laughing. He got up and brought another round, unprompted. She took the new beer gladly. The Velvets bled into the Supremes “Love Is Like an Itching in My Heart.”

  “This is much better,” Kathy said, closing her eyes as she took a long drag from her beer. “Motown makes anything better.”

  Pete caught himself looking at her before she could notice.

  “I tried to mix it up,” he said quickly.

  “Well, good on you.”

  There was an extended silence as Pete and Kathy listened to the music. The night air flowed into the room through an open window. The song’s thumping bass and Diana Ross’ plaintive vocals danced around the room as Pete and Kathy soaked up more alcohol. Pete got up and turned down the main room lights so they were in a dimmer, more intimate atmosphere. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, he thought. Kathy didn’t comment.

  After a while, Pete realized he was on his fifth beer. His head was spinning slightly. He hadn’t eaten anything all day, and Kathy probably hadn’t eaten properly in days. Their eyes met for a few seconds before she broke off the stare and looked around the room.

  They’d lost track of the music and were sitting closer together. Pete felt himself loosening up. His tired muscles relaxing. He would sleep well tonight. He turned to Kathy and she turned to him.

  “We need to go to the cops tomorrow,” he said.

  “Did you just determine that now?”

  “We don’t
have much choice,” Pete said. “That money, however much there is in the bag, is dirty money.”

  “I didn’t realize drinking made you more of a moral person,” Kathy said, her voice sharper. She readjusted her seat and ended up sliding closer to Pete. She turned her face to match the angle of his. He could smell the soap she’d washed herself with. “It’s usually the opposite.”

  “I know someone,” Pete said, trying to maintain his composure. He broke their connection by leaning over and taking another sip of beer. “With the police. He can help us if we explain the situation to him.”

  “Sure,” Kathy said. “Whatever works.”

  Pete was surprised at the sudden lack of resistance. Then he remembered they were both drunk and tired. He was having trouble keeping his eyes open. The stereo had run out of tracks to play or had jammed up. He didn’t feel inclined to put on more music. It was close to four in the morning. Pete stared at the wall opposite the couch.

  “I just feel empty,” Kathy said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you know what I mean, or are you just saying that?”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” Pete said, looking at her. “I feel like everything has come apart. All the good things people did for me, I managed to erase. And there’s nothing left, nothing I did that was good.”

  He felt Kathy’s head resting on his shoulder.

  “That’s terribly sad,” she sighed.

  He wove his arm under Kathy’s and around her waist, bringing her closer to him. With his free arm, he finished his sixth beer with one long sip. He felt her breath on his neck as put the beer on the floor by the couch. He turned to catch her looking at him. She didn’t turn away. He was tired. He didn’t care. He leaned in and kissed her lips. She responded at first, then pulled back and slid over to the opposite end of the couch.

  “I’m sorry, but no,” she said raising her hands. “That’s not what I should be doing now.”