Before the Sirens

by K R Hill

  “Buenos días, Mr. Connor. I have been waiting for you because it is your turn to clean the elevator and the stairs. You know that is the new rental agreement.” She smiled and shoved a broom against his chest.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Garcia.” He took the broom and carried it to his front door.

  The woman followed him. “Oh,” she said, moving her head back. “You got a new door.” She tapped the glass and read, “Marin Investigations. So, business must be good. It must have been expensive to buy a glass door and have a sign painter come just to paint your name on it. If you’re making such good money, maybe I should introduce you to my daughter. She is a very nice girl, not like those women your black partner brings here late at night.”

  “Goodbye, Mrs. Garcia.” Connor unlocked the door and squeezed through.

  “Don’t forget the elevator and the stairs,” said the woman as he locked the door.

  “Man, that woman is too much.”

  “Was she wearing that tight black dress?” asked Bartholomew, not looking up as he wrote on a white-board.

  “I think it’s painted on.” Connor removed his blazer and hung it on the rack beside the door.

  “I finished the Mantzberg case.” Bartholomew set down a marker and loosened his tie.

  “Good, I’ll send the insurance company a final invoice.” Connor sat at the old tanker desk and turned on the computer.

  “While I was working, I found that case you’ve been hiding.” Bartholomew walked to the desk and shoved him.

  Connor looked up.

  “I followed you two nights ago when you were surveilling that club, filming some Russians. I’m supposed to be your partner. You don’t go sneaking out and recording the fricking mob without me.”

  Connor raised a hand.

  “Is that why Russian Alex came after us? Did Crazy Dog or Mad Dog or whatever-his-name-is find out about you filming him?”

  Connor shock his head. “No. Alex wants Tia Alma’s money. I filmed the Russians for a case. I didn’t tell you because I was trying to protect you.”

  “In this line of work, we don’t keep secrets from each other or someone will get hurt. You told me that when I started here. And besides, we’re family. We stick together.”

  “I’m sorry. The surveillance is a case for an Army pal.”

  “Filming the fucking Russian mob?” Bartholomew wiped his face.

  Connor nodded, rolled closer to the desk, moved the mouse and typed. “The guy I’m watching is named Ghrazenko.”

  Bartholomew took off his jacket and laid it on the desk, took a shoulder holster from a drawer, and pulled it on. “This mob thing gives me the willies,” he said. “And don’t give me any lip about wearing a gun.”

  “Okay, no more Russian stuff.” Connor pulled a thumb drive from the computer and waved it about.

  “That’s it? You’re done?” asked Bartholomew. “Man, that’s a relief. We should celebrate.”

  “I think I’m finished. I got what the client needs. But I’m not going to celebrate until I get this to a secure location.” He shook the drive in the air.

  “I thought you hired that waiter to be your lookout.”

  “I did, just to give us a heads up,” laughed Connor. “It’s not like he’s high security or something. It’s just a way to give a good kid some extra cash.”

  “It’s your money to throw away.”

  “Hey,” said Connor, “when you’re dealing with mob stuff like this, you can’t be too careful.” He walked to the industrial window and was looking through one of the small panes when his phone rang.

  “Let’s celebrate putting this mob stuff behind us. We should get some ladies and go out on the town—dance and sing.” Bartholomew raised his arms as though to dance, and shuffled around the desk, an imaginary woman in his arms.

  "Bart,” said Connor, shoving the phone into a pocket “I think we’re about to get raided.”

  "By the police? Why? We haven’t done anything.” Bartholomew rushed to the door and looked along the corridor, pulled the door shut, twisted the deadbolt and tugged on the knob a few times.

  “That was the waiter. He says the police are getting ready. It’s this Russian mob case. It has to be. The police must have found out I have film. If they get this drive, word will leak in hours. Do you know what the Russians will do if they find out I filmed them? I gotta get this drive out of here.”

  "What about me?” Bartholomew ran to the window, gripped the sill and stared at the street below.

  "Smash the lap top. Destroy the hard drive. Get ready, just like I taught you." Connor flipped the dead bolt.

  “And then what?” Bartholomew raised his hands above his head.

  “Wait for the police.” He stepped into the corridor.

  “Wait? For the LAPD? A black man with a gun?”

  Connor laughed. “Relax, it’ll be Long Beach PD.”

  “I hate you.”

  “You have a license to carry a gun.”

  “They don’t know that.” Bartholomew swung a fist through the air.

  Connor was half way out the door, but stepped back into the office and raised his arms as though holding a woman. “Well, if you’re not around tonight, I’ll have to take Ashley and your date out by myself. I’ll feel bad dancing and chatting up two women.” He laughed.

  “Oh, hell no,” said Bartholomew. “I’m going to tell the police. I’m going to be shouting so loud the whole damn building is going to know that I have a license to carry this gun.”

  ***

  Connor ran down the stairs in leaps, and bumped several people as he burst out the back door. The smell of roasting meat drifted from a taco cart. Bars and cafés lined the promenade. White sun shades stood here and there, and shoppers moved slowly about as they picked through pyramids of nectarines and persimmons. It was the evening Farmer’s Market, and shoppers were ambling about.

  He walked on tiptoes, peering over the heads of people around him, searching for movement in shadowy doorways, among groups of loitering students, between parked cars, but saw nothing unusual. As he exhaled a sigh of relief, he noticed a man standing in a doorway across the street.

  "You see him?” Jon bumped his arm.

  “I thought you were working.”

  Jon shrugged. “The owner is gone so I took a break. I thought I could make some cash helping you.”

  Connor looked at the stranger once more, the dirty, torn overcoat, bits of leaves in his hair, and the hat held out to pedestrians. "Look at his shoes."

  "You always go for the easy stuff first.” Jon laughed.

  "Easy stuff? Okay Mister Street Smarts, let me hear your deductions."

  Jon cleared his throat, shook his hands about like a circus magician about to reveal something amazing.

  "Oh brother."

  "Listen to a master at work: First of all, his hands and nails are clean."

  "How the heck can you see his nails?” Connor leaned forward and squinted.

  “Because I’m not like a hundred years old.”

  “I’m thirty-two.”

  “Exactly. Second, not taking into account the black leather shoes that every cop wears, how many winos have a gold chain around their neck?” Jon nodded and held out his hand. "Ten bucks."

  "Ten bucks? For what?"

  "The lesson."

  "But you missed something.” Connor held up a finger and glanced across the street. Instead of holding the hat before him, as he had a moment earlier, the man stood shouting into a cell phone.

  "Here’s two hundred bucks. Take this thumb drive and keep it safe until you hear from me. Just take it and walk away.”

  Jon took the drive. “Is this what the police want?”

  “Yes, they think I have it so they’ll follow me.”

  Jon started to run, then stopped. “Make sure you get a good distance from here before they grab you, or they’ll retrace your steps and come looking for me.”

  “I know.”

  “Listen, here they
come.” Sirens screamed in the distance.

  Connor hurried along the sidewalk to Long Beach Blvd. where people were waiting for the next tram. As he ambled along the platform, something bumped him from behind. He spun around.

  "I'm sorry," said a woman, tapping the foot of the child in her arms. "You're just kicking everyone today.”

  He waited among shoppers and students as the streetcar creaked and glided forward. People shuffled into the carriage and moved to seats. He dropped into a hard bench, but jumped up when a police car sped through the intersection and skidded to a stop.

  A passenger car swerved to avoid the squad car, hopped up the curb and went through a laundromat window. The police car doors burst open and four patrolmen jumped out. Two men ran toward Connor and pounded on the streetcar door as the carriage groaned and rolled forward.

  Several stops down the line, at the Willowbrook station, he left the streetcar with most of the commuters.

  Whistles and shouts filled the station as Connor ran up the stairs.

  "Stop!" A policeman ran and jumped over the center railing of the staircase, and hit Connor across the thigh with a nightstick.

  He dropped like a bag of cement and hit a step with his forehead. His vision turned black. A jolt of electricity shot through his brain and tingled in every nerve. Warm blood ran down his face. He struggled to open his eyes, felt his arms twisted behind him, and cold handcuffs clamped on his wrists. Someone patted him down. His feet struck each step as policemen dragged him along. When the movement stopped, something warm and smooth caressed his cheek, and Connor managed to open one eye.

  "The same damn shoes," he whispered.

  Chapter 8

  Yucatán, Mexico:

  The old limousine creaked and swayed over rotting coconut husks and muddy ruts buzzing with mosquitoes. Clouds of parrots flew away from the car with alarming cries and disappeared into the tall green wall of jungle. On the backseat, Roberto swayed from side to side, bumping his shoulder against the door every time the car hit a rut.

  Once more he read the paper in his hand: Zakai: Traitor in LA. Man killed. Come at once. Payment made. Teddy Ghrazenko.

  "Ah, finally home," he said as the car drove up the long, curved driveway, and parked in the shade of a mango tree.

  A parrot in a hanging cage beat its wings and ran about, squawking, "Hola, Roberto."

  When the chauffeur opened his door, Roberto climbed out, stuffed the summons into a pocket and brushed his guayabera shirt. Damp jungle heat pressed against his face.

  "Paco, how are you?” Roberto crossed the driveway to the birdcage, opened the door and lifted the parrot into the air on a finger. "I’ll bet you would like some tamarind.” He pulled a long seed pod from a pocket. The bird seized it, squawked, and flew to the cage.

  "I will be staying the weekend," he said to the chauffeur. "Find yourself a place in Chetumal and be sober enough to cross the border on Monday morning."

  "Si Senor."

  As the car pulled away, Roberto sat on the limestone border around the tree and looked at the old house covered with vines, the grape arbor with dangling, purple clusters, and the babbling fountain.

  A headache pounded at the base of his skull as he thought about the summons. How could a small piece of paper change his life? After a few minutes, the bird squawked and he slapped the cage.

  He had been gone two weeks this time, and since there was no telephone signal this far from Chetumal, he always lingered in the yard long enough for his young wife to get rid of any guests he should not see.

  For about ten minutes he sat beside the cage, but got bored and walked out of the shade to the porch. With his trouser leg touching his old leather suitcase the chauffeur had left, Roberto felt the sun warm on his head as he lifted the iron ring and pounded on the door.

  Cool air brushed his face as the door opened.

  "Roberto. At last you are home.” Dinorah wrapped her arms around him as they kissed. "Knocking on your own door? Come, get out of the heat.” She pulled him inside.

  His gaze swept over her face. "Your lover is gone?"

  "Roberto!” She gasped and pounded his shoulder with both fists.

  He laughed and pushed her away, looked at her heaving breasts, visible above a bikini top. He knew the white sundress that covered her shapely legs became transparent in sunlight.

  "You are a young, beautiful woman, Dinorah. I am not a fool. Old yes, but not a fool.” He caressed her cheek and pulled her close. "Sometimes I leave you alone too long. I know."

  "Your business trips make me lonely, that is true."

  "And Martina, where is she?"

  "Sleeping. I nursed her a short while ago."

  "It would hurt me if she grew up knowing your other man better than me."

  "Oh, Roberto.” She lowered her eyes.

  "Don’t play games. I will not throw you out. I will always care for you and Martina. But I demand the truth.” Staring at her, he realized it was more than her soft young body he needed. She had a natural shadowing around the eyes that some Latin women are blessed with. It was, he knew, the shadowing that made her eyes seem full of love and understanding. Looking into those eyes melted his fears.

  "We have nowhere to go, Roberto. Please, don’t throw us out,” she cried.

  "I made everything legal with my lawyer. You will always be taken care of.” He placed his hand on her shoulder and quickly moved his stare from it, for the wrinkled and spotted hand contrasted so with her smooth brown skin.

  "Come, I need to touch you and shower.” He led her through the house to the screened-in patio and leaned over a fifty-gallon barrel of water. For a moment he stared into the clear water, tapped it with his fingers and plunged his head beneath the surface. He let out a deep breath when he straightened up and felt the cool water running over his clothes, tingling on his skin.

  "What is bothering you, Roberto? I've never seen you like this."

  "We can talk about that later," he said, running his eyes over her smooth brown legs. "Take off your dress. I want to wash you."

  "Roberto, I should wash you.” Dinorah pulled down her dress, stood still for a moment, and slowly removed her under-clothes.

  The cost of the house, the servants, Dinorah and Martina’s bills, was worth it, he realized, staring at her, feeling the stress and worries about his work in the prison and even the threatening summons, fading away. Nothing existed but pleasure. Roberto sighed, filled a pail with water and poured a thin stream over her shoulder, watching rivulets run down her breasts and belly, muscles tightening with the chill. Slowly he emptied the bucket over her and brushed her aside each time she tried to hold him. After emptying several buckets, he covered her with soap, massaging her neck, back, arms and breasts. When she was covered with white foam, he removed his clothes and pressed his body against hers, rubbing himself across the slippery surface.

  "Put your hands on the window-sill.” He nudged her forward. Very slowly, staring out across the garden to the jungle, wild birds screeching and chirping in the distance, they made love until Dinorah turned.

  "I need to feel you in my arms.” She lifted a leg around his back and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

  After what seemed endless bliss, he stepped away and dried her with a towel, led her upstairs to the bedroom. When they finished making love, they fell asleep with baby Martina between them.

  ***

  Later, Roberto smelled cooking odors. Over the sound of the whirling ceiling fan, he heard pots banging as the Mayan cook prepared dinner in the kitchen below. Soon he was out of bed, showered and dressed, the tempting smells pulling him downstairs.

  “Hello Lupe," he called to the Mayan cook in the kitchen, poking his head through the door, his stomach growling.

  When they had finished eating and the cook was in the next room pacing with Martina in her arms, Roberto took out the telegram and stared at it for a long time. "I haven't been completely honest with you."

  "Tell me what you mean.�
�� Dinorah stopped peeling a mango and set the knife on the glass table. "You said we would be taken care of. You make love to me and tell me you haven’t been honest?” She stood up.

  "No, Dinorah, it is not like that. Please.” He motioned with an open hand for her to sit. "I did terrible things when I was young, beastly things that haunt me."

  "But you've always been so kind to Martina and me.” She tilted her head and sat down.

  "When I’m with you I escape my past. You two are the good in this old man's life.” He reached toward her, wanting to comfort her.

  Dinorah touched her plate, the bowl of salt, the black clay tortilla container. "Your past? Do you mean your work in the prison–the interrogations?"

  He heard the careful, fearful tone of her voice. "Yes, dear. That is part of it."

  "Nothing will change, Roberto. Martina will grow up loving you."

  He pulled the summons from a pocket and silently read it as his hand shook. "I have to go away for some time."

  "Where are you going? Will you be gone longer than usual? And the money will come to our bank account?"

  "The money will arrive each month. I also transferred the house title into your name. I am being summoned to Los Angeles. A business I worked for in Europe has expanded to America. It seems an employee tried to steal something, and they need my expertise.” He turned to the window, following the calls of spider monkeys.

  "Dios mío. You are not coming back.” She pushed away from the table as color drained from her face. “Don’t go, Roberto.”

  "These men are not the kind to refuse. If I do not go, they will hunt me. They use my old name, a name I haven't used in years. It is a signal I cannot ignore."

  "Your old name, Roberto?” Dinorah put a hand on either cheek and walked toward him.

  He handed her the paper and watched her lips move as she read.

  "Zakai, is that your real name? Please, Roberto, tell me what this is about, for Martina’s sake." She stood before him and waited for him to speak. After a minute passed, she knelt and looked into Roberto’s eyes. “Tell me who you really are.”