Tequila Sunset

by Sam Hawken

“I won’t.”

  Flip went down to the street and got into the car. It felt strange to have a steering wheel under his hands. For a seemingly endless moment he just sat, afraid to turn the key, afraid to go. He started the car.

  José’s Lexus was in the parking lot when he got there. He saw no one in the pool, but a floating lounge kicked around at the edge, abandoned and caught in the circulating current. He held the keys to the apartment in his hand, the sharp edges digging into his skin. Every step to the second floor was an effort. At the door time expanded again and it seemed a long while before he put key to lock and let himself in.

  The three of them were in the living room. José was pacing. “It’s about fucking time,” José said. “I thought they got you, too.”

  “I’m here,” Flip said.

  “Angel, Fernando, wait outside,” José commanded the two big men. “If you see anything, you holler out. Go.”

  Flip stood aside to let them out and shut the door behind them. José was pacing again.

  “That motherfucker Alfredo must have told them everything,” José said. “Now they’re all over the family. Nobody’s answering their phones. It’s just you and me now, Flip.”

  “If the cops know everything, then they know about this place,” Flip said.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, but maybe not. I didn’t see anybody when we came.”

  José threw himself down into a chair and ran a hand through his hair. He was sweating badly and it showed through his shirt. A vein stood out prominently in his forehead.

  “What do you want me to do?” Flip asked.

  “You’re gonna help me deal with the situation,” José said. “We’re gonna start with your boss. They might come to get us, but we’re gonna let them know what happens when they fuck with the Indians.”

  Flip came closer to José. Already he was breathing shallowly and too fast and he worried that he might faint if he kept on. He wished he was wearing his wire, but there had been no time for that. The only ones who would know what was said were him and José, and maybe it was better that way.

  “I’m putting a green light out on Alfredo,” José said. “You understand? And you’re gonna do it.”

  Slowly, Flip told himself. He forced himself to keep from hyperventilating. Now he was within an arm’s length of José in the chair. “I don’t have a gun,” Flip said.

  “I have one. Or you can borrow Fernando’s. Yeah, you can borrow Fernando’s. Just walk up to that motherfucker and pop!”

  “Alfredo’s my mother’s fiancé,” Flip said.

  “Fuck that!” José exclaimed. “I don’t care who he is! He’s dead.”

  “I can’t do it,” Flip said. He put his hand in his pocket.

  “What do you mean, you can’t do it? I just told you to do it. And when I tell you to do something, it gets done. You understand?”

  “I won’t go against my family.”

  “Flip, you stupid bastard, I made you!” José rose from the chair and speared the air with his hands. “You have a family right here and I’m telling you to do a green light!”

  “I can’t,” Flip said.

  “I gave you everything! This place? Mine! Graciela? Mine! Opportunities? All mine! You belong to me!”

  Flip had the knife out and open before José could see. Flip stabbed him twice quickly, low in the body, beneath the ribs. José made a sharp exhaling sound and then Flip stabbed him again in the side of the neck.

  José fell back in the chair and Flip was on him, stabbing over and over. He did not stop when José scrabbled at him with weakening hands, or when a shower of misting blood sprayed in his face. José was masked in it, drenched in blood, and Flip’s right hand was covered to the wrist. A gurgling sound came from José’s throat.

  Now Flip stepped away, his shoulders heaving with great, sucking breaths. He was filthy with José’s blood, his jeans soaked and the front of his shirt smeared where José tried to fight him off. Flip looked at the knife and saw that crimson had sunk into the deep lines of the carved handle. The blade was spotted. He wiped it on his leg and put it away.

  Angel and Fernando were still outside. Flip lifted the edge of the blinds and peeked out at them. They were watching the courtyard. He went to the front door and turned the deadbolt.

  Immediately there was a knock. “José? José, what’s going on? José!”

  Flip retreated to one of the bedrooms. One of them, either Angel or Fernando, was kicking the front door now. Flip went to the window. Iron bars crossed the pane.

  He remembered something about his keychain and he fumbled with it, his hand blood-slicked and already growing tacky. A small key to go with the door key. Flip threw open the window and fitted the small key to a lock on the bars. They came open.

  The front door crashed open as he snaked through the open window. He fell onto a walkway that traversed the back of the building, linking one apartment to the next. Flip left a bloody smear on the concrete as he scrambled to his feet and ran for the far staircase just as quickly as he could.

  “Stop!” someone shouted from behind. Flip did not stop.

  He flew down the steps two at a time and dashed for the open street at the end of the lot. Then he was around the corner of the building. José’s Lexus waited and, beside it, Graciela’s car.

  Flip had her keys in his hand. He crossed the nose of the Hyundai when a shot rang out. A stinging, burning pain sprang up in the back of his leg and suddenly he could not put weight on that foot. Another shot turned the Hyundai’s windshield into a field of spider webs.

  Fresh blood poured down his leg as he got behind the wheel. Flip could feel it dripping into his sock and the spreading warmth beneath him told him it was soaking into the seat. He turned over the engine, crashed the shift into reverse and laid twin rails of black rubber out of the parking lot and into the street. A passing car clipped the bumper and went skidding out of control.

  Another bullet struck the side of the car and then another. Flip put the Hyundai into drive and stomped the accelerator with his good foot, skirting the other car. In the rear view mirror he saw Fernando in the street with a gun, but no more shots came.

  He knew where he was going and how to get there and he did not let up on the gas. Stop signs and lights streaked past, but he didn’t slow for them. By the time he saw Graciela’s building he felt dizzy. The floor mat was thick with his blood.

  Flip hopped the curb on the right-hand side and brought the car to a stop. He stumbled out of the driver’s seat into the street and then dragged himself to the sidewalk. The entrance to the building seemed a mile away. He levered himself up on the leg that would hold him and half-walked the rest of the way until he could fall against the door. His fingers were going numb as he sorted out the right key and inside there were stairs to navigate. He was leaving a trail behind him, wet and wine-colored.

  When he made it to the second floor he had just enough strength to knock. He collapsed with his forehead against the cool wooden floor. The door opened and Graciela was screaming, pulling him onto his back, touching his face.

  Flip tried to push himself across the threshold, but there was no more left. A ringing started in his ears and blackness played at the edges of his vision. “Graciela,” he whispered.

  Graciela was bawling into the phone. It was too late for that, Flip wanted to tell her. He’d left too much of himself along the way. Just be with me now, he thought.

  “Graciela.”

  “They’re coming, baby. You’re going to be all right.”

  “Graciela, I’m sorry,” Flip murmured. More black now, closing over him. He couldn’t feel his pulse beat in his leg anymore.

  Graciela held his head in her lap. “Don’t talk, Flip.”

  “Take care…” he said.

  “Flip, don’t talk.”

  “Take…”

  “Flip? Flip! Flip!”

  He heard her yelling as from far away. He couldn’t see at all. Her touch faded. Flip tried to form a thought, but i
t wouldn’t happen. He felt his heart beat slower and slower.

  Flip didn’t know why he’d been afraid. Dying was easy after all.

  TWENTY-ONE

  THEY WERE STILL IN PLACE WHEN CRISTINA got home, the FBI agents in their car, watching. More than likely they would stay there a while, at least until things settled down, though the crisis was past. José Martinez was dead. He wasn’t going to be green-lighting anybody.

  It still hurt where the bullet had struck the vest in the middle of her chest. Afterwards, when she took off her shirt in the ladies’ room to check herself, she saw a quarter-sized black bruise between her breasts with livid colors branching out from it. Over time it would probably spread, even as it faded. Hopefully it would stop hurting so much; it pained her just to move her arms or breathe.

  The lights were on in her house. Cristina had asked Ashlee to stay late to cover for her. It was well past Freddie’s bedtime. She took an uncomfortable breath and let it out, repeated that, and then she was ready to get out of the car.

  Tonight she didn’t wave to the FBI men. She was just too tired. Fatigue wore heavily around her shoulders and weight of a different kind, as well. Cristina thought of Flip.

  Ashlee was on the couch watching television. “Oh, you’re here,” she said.

  “All done,” Cristina said. “Sorry you had to wait so long.”

  “It’s no problem.”

  “Did you get Freddie to bed all right?”

  “Yeah, he was great.”

  “Good. I guess I’ll take over from here.”

  She waited while Ashlee gathered up her things and then they said good-bye at the front door. Cristina watched from the window until Ashlee got into her car, though she needn’t have bothered. There were others watching, after all.

  On another night she might have gone for the refrigerator and a cold beer, but tonight she went straight down the hall to Freddie’s room. The door stood ajar, the room dark inside. Cristina listened and heard Freddie’s sonorous breathing.

  She slipped in. Freddie seemed so small in his bed, covered by a blanket, his head canted to one side, his mouth open. Cristina sat on the edge of the mattress and lay her hand on his belly. In with breath, out with breath, slow and steady.

  Her first thought was to wake him, but she did not. Then, unbidden, he stirred under her hand and she saw his eyes open, the lids heavy with sleep. “Mom?” he asked.

  “I’m here, peanut.”

  “I was dreaming.”

  “What were you dreaming about?”

  Freddie stretched, his skinny arms over his head, and he yawned. “I was dreaming about elevators. Glass elevators.”

  “Was it a good dream?”

  “Yeah.” He closed his eyes and didn’t speak for a while. Cristina thought he might have fallen asleep again. She was about to lift her hand from his body when he said, “Are you home?”

  “I’m home.”

  “You weren’t here for bedtime.”

  “I’m sorry. Mom had to work.”

  “Were there bad people?”

  “Yes.”

  Freddie turned on his side and nuzzled his pillow. “Will you stay with me?”

  “I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep,” Cristina said.

  “Okay.”

  “I love you, peanut.”

  “I love you, too.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  HE WAS AWARE OF PRESSURE ON HIS LEG, LIKE a thick rubber band wrapped too tightly around his thigh. Beneath the pressure was pain, lurking and subdued. The room was dim.

  “There he is,” said someone.

  The light came up slowly against Flip’s eyelids and then it was bright. It hurt for him to open his eyes. They felt gummed shut.

  First he saw the nurse and then he saw the detectives. They stood near the door to the room, watching him. He could see out into the hallway beyond and there was a uniformed cop there, sitting in a straight-backed chair.

  “Give him a minute,” the nurse said. “The drip has to wear off.”

  “Thanks,” said Detective Salas.

  The nurse left. Flip become aware of the tubes running from the backs of his hands, the gentle clamp on the tip of his index finger and the machines that monitored him, all lights and numbers.

  “Welcome back, Flip,” Detective Salas said.

  Flip’s throat was terribly dry and when he tried to speak he failed. He licked his lips and swallowed and tried again. “I thought I was dead,” he said.

  “You were.”

  “Clinically dead,” Detective Robinson added.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Not good.”

  “It’s the drugs. It’ll pass.”

  “Graciela…”

  “Your girlfriend? She’s here,” Detective Salas said.

  “Can I see her?”

  “Sure. Your mother’s here, too.”

  “Good,” Flip said and he closed his eyes again.

  The detectives didn’t leave. “Flip, there are going to be lots of questions. José…”

  Flip opened his eyes. “I killed him.”

  “You have to answer for that.”

  “I will.”

  “I’ll get your people,” Cristina said. “Rest up.”

  They slipped out the door and left Flip alone. He waited for Graciela and his mother. He wondered what he would tell them, what they had already been told. He tried to imagine what the police would do to him, the prison he would go to.

  Flip found he didn’t care much for any of the answers. They would come and he would deal with them. He had already died. There was nothing left to do.