Trust Me

by Richard Z. Santos

  SUNDAY

  TWENTY-SIX

  Olivia ignored the sadness pulling at her skin. She kept her eyes shut and felt Charles’ body behind her. Their arms and legs were tangled and knotted without them actually holding each other. She knew they were holding everything they had lost in the past ten years.

  Olivia tried to relax but it was no use. She could not stand the thought of opening her eyes and seeing her ex-husband, older and sadder and in over his head.

  A phone started to ring. Charles pulled back, as if his wife had kicked down the door. Olivia rolled onto her back and looked out the bedroom’s plate glass window. It took up nearly the whole wall and showed the view up the mountain: nothing but dense trees. Andrea told her they had seen deer outside the windows. She and the kids had piled onto the bed and watched the animals peck through the blankets of pine needles. Andrea was never happy here. No matter how many times Olivia pointed out the heated floors or the recessed speakers, or any of the pathetic little flourishes Olivia loved.

  Charles moved back towards her, trying to put his arms around her waist, but Olivia slipped out of bed and grabbed a thick cotton robe out of the closet.

  Charles attempted a sexy voice. “Well, that was amazing. Was I always that good?”

  Olivia smiled. “You’re awful. Some things never change.” Charles rolled his eyes. “Please. I’m faking it all. Every day I’m not working at my mother’s bank is a day above ground.”

  “Hey, a job’s a job.” Olivia sat down in a leather armchair near the window.

  “Oh, you’re one to talk about jobs,” Charles said. “What was the last one you had?”

  She pulled the robe around her. “I work hard. I’m not bartending or anything, but I work hard.”

  “You look comfortable in that robe. Almost like you picked it out.”

  “What’s the point of decorating a sex den if you can’t have the things you like?”

  Charles smiled, and his face went soft. “Come back over here.”

  “Stop it. You’re trying too hard. We’re almost forty. Let’s not pretend to be something we’re not.”

  He rocked his head back as if she had slapped him. “Wow, you’re not as good at pillow talk as you used to be.”

  “You don’t actually like me. You know that, right?”

  “I liked you more about five minutes ago. We had a good time. A great time.”

  “You’re trying to fall for me again. Don’t. Let’s have fun, let’s help each other out and let’s not go crazy.”

  Charles hopped out of bed and fished around for some clothes. “Too late.”

  He found a shirt but nothing else. “I’m not a fool. Our lives are terrible, and it was nice to forget all that for a night. I get it. But something that won’t suck is the bottle of champagne I’m about to get out of your kitchen.”

  “You look ridiculous in just a T-shirt,” Olivia hollered after him.

  She pulled her hair back and looped it into a loose knot. Olivia had planned on sleeping with him from the start. It would pull him closer and carve out a blind spot for her to slip into. Charles was a romantic. He always pictured himself the star of a great narrative: scrappy underdog, crusader for justice, victim of circumstance and conspiracy, the great lover. He came back into the bedroom with a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

  Charles climbed back in bed. “Neither of us should be here. How do we keep your husband from finding out?”

  “That’s up to me. Don’t worry about that. You just be normal.”

  “Things haven’t been normal for me since I got here. I can’t tell if I’m positioning myself for a million-dollar raise or ten years in prison.”

  Olivia climbed back into bed, but turned her back to him and burrowed into his chest.

  “I should have guessed casino,” she said. “He’s been obsessed with them for years.”

  “Well, he is also building the airport. The poker room might be bigger than the runway, but he’ll build what he promised.”

  “I need your help. We have to talk about this.”

  “Is it too early in the morning for champagne?” Charles sat up and poured another glass.

  “I’m not asking too much of you. Stay in New Mexico, if you want. Try to get rich, but get me something too.”

  “Are we really that scared of being poor?” he asked.

  “I can remember being poor,” she said. “I’m not going back there. And I have other obligations, other people to help.”

  “Is this when you tell me I have a lost child I never knew about?”

  Olivia laughed and smacked the back of his head. “No, trust me, that’s not it. I’m helping people. I’m going to buy a house for me and someone who’s going through cancer. She’s depending on me. I’m not going to only invest in bonbons and champagne.”

  “Who is this family?”

  Olivia sat up. “It’s my sister, diagnosed with lung cancer six months ago. She’s got two kids, seven and eight years old. I’ve given them as much as I can, but it’s not enough. I don’t want to talk about them.”

  “Branch won’t help?”

  “He doesn’t give money to charity unless the press is there. That’s an actual quote. I’ve been looking for a way out ever since.”

  “That’s when I fell into your lap.”

  “Oh, get over yourself.” She got up and threw the robe on the bed. “You’ve got an opportunity out here, but it’s not the one you think. My husband will burn you. Get off the bed.”

  Charles did not move, so she started tugging the sheets and pillows out from under him.

  He stood up and grinned, convinced this was transitioning into some new game.

  “You’ve spent your life not thinking about anything or anyone else,” she said. “Now’s the time to change that.”

  Olivia grabbed her purse and pulled out running clothes and a large black trash bag. She changed and then stuffed her dress from last night, the sheets, pillowcases, robe and her wine glass into the bag. “What are you doing?” Charles asked.

  “Leaving,” she said, as she hooked her purse over one shoulder and flung the trash bag over the other.

  “Are you coming back? And why are you taking the sheets?”

  Olivia moved towards the bedroom door but stopped. She came back to Charles and kissed him hard. “I want to come back. Make it worthwhile.”

  She walked out of the house and threw the bag of evidence into her back seat. She would find a dumpster on the way home.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  GABE WAS GOING to tell Rose the truth. He stood outside her front door with a bag of breakfast burritos and coffee. He had yet to decide if he would tell her before they ate or after. Wait, he thought and stopped himself from knocking, is having cancer the kind of thing you tell someone over breakfast?

  Then Rose opened the door and waved him in. “Hey,” she said. “Good timing. I think I found the site we should use.”

  She turned back towards the living room. A computer sat on an old hutch in the corner. Gabe set the food and coffee next to the screen and dragged a chair over from the dining room. She had called him the night before, convinced there was a way for him to make some cash from this airport video.

  Narrow, red reading glasses hung from a loop around her neck. She squinted at the screen. Gabe tried putting them on her, but she made a pffft sound and waved his hands away.

  “Such a weirdo sometimes, Gabe.” She put on the glasses herself. “So, this site will give you 50% of the sale price of each mug or T-shirt and 75% of smaller stuff, like key chains and buttons. It’s the best deal I’ve been able to find.”

  Gabe leaned forward as if being closer would help him understand better. “I don’t really do this web stuff. They’re going to sell what I make?”

  “Not quite. I start an account. Then we upload a design, probably just a phrase from the video, because I don’t know how to draw or anything. Then, people buy it.”

  “Why?”

  Rose
looked at the screen, then back at Gabe. “What do you mean ‘why’? Because people buy dumb shit,” Rose said. “That one video I showed you has half a million views, and there are other versions. If a hundred of those people buy a mug that says ‘This shit ain’t funny no more,’ then you get some serious cash.”

  “No way!”

  Rose nodded and started unwrapping her burrito. Gabe could smell the eggs and potatoes, but it made him nauseous. He couldn’t even remember his last full meal.

  “Aren’t they making fun of me?”

  Rose bobbed her head. “Well . . . let’s say they’re having fun with you. And don’t read every comment below the video. Some of those people are crazy and racist, but . . .”

  “Racist?”

  Rose smiled at him like he was a dog doing something cute. She cupped his face with both hands, a maternal gesture that Gabe would have swatted away from anyone else. “What matters is that people are watching this and you should be able to get something from it. So, what do you want the T-shirt to say?”

  He decided to trust her.

  “How about, ‘This shit ain’t funny no more’?”

  “Let’s do two. We don’t want kids getting busted at school if they wear your shirt. How about ‘Not much you can do’?”

  Gabe shrugged and reached for a burrito. “Whatever you think.”

  Rose straightened her glasses. “This will work.”

  “Don’t get ripped off,” Gabe said between bites. “Everyone online is trying to rip you off. I know that much.”

  Rose nodded as she squinted at the screen. She was already designing a T-shirt and matching coffee mug. “Send the first one to Micah. I’ll write down the address.”

  “You know, I think we might be the ones doing the ripping off,” Rose said. “If you make a single dollar off this, it’ll be the easiest dollar you ever made.”

  “I doubt that.”

  Rose rolled her eyes. “My sister pays her rent from old cowboy stuff she finds in barns. It’s our turn.”

  “Our turn? You think I’m giving you a cut, huh?”

  “Damn right, you’re giving me a cut,” Rose said. “I’m breaking a sweat here. You’ll pay me, somehow.”

  A steady stream of bass from the back of the house was the only sign of Johnny’s existence. Gabe put the burrito down. He reached for the coffee but pulled back because his hand was shaking. This was the moment. Gabe tried to bite it back but then it was out, lying between them like a dead dog.

  “I’m sick,” he said. “Bad.”

  Rose kept clicking on the screen. She turned to Gabe. “You have to put in your address.”

  Gabe gave her a blank stare. She pointed at the screen and back to him. He started to peck out his address on her keyboard. Rose put her palm on his forehead, and Gabe wanted to melt down until he was so small she could cradle him in her palm.

  “You feel fine. Trying to get the afternoon off?”

  Gabe sat back, and Rose’s face tightened as she really looked at him.

  “My old man. It’s him. Bone cancer tore him up. Fast. It was bad. Not that I was there at the end, which is the problem. Lou . . .” Gabe placed his fingertips on his chest as if he could pull the words out through his skin. “When I was with Jefe I saw something, and he told me it’s because I’m sick.”

  Rose hooked her hand around the back of his neck. “Take a deep breath. Don’t worry about your father or anything right now.”

  “That’s why I’m doing all this.” Gabe pointed at the computer, accidentally knocking her hand away. “Micah needs money to go on this trip, and I need to come clean to him. It’s cancer.”

  Gabe stopped breathing. His breath tried to crawl out of his chest but got stuck behind his breastbone. Rose looked worried. She looked scared. Why did he do this to her? To him? Why start spending time with her as he was about to waste away?

  Better not to have told anyone. Gabe got to his feet.

  Rose reached up and hit him, more of a push than a strike, but it knocked Gabe back a foot.

  “Why now?” she asked. “You cannot be playing these games anymore. You cannot be lying, to me, right now.”

  “Rose, I’m not lying.”

  “Of course, you’re lying. Did you go to a doctor? Did you get blood tests and x-rays?”

  “My buddy Jefe . . .”

  “That guy is a conman and a drug dealer.” She stood up and grabbed a slip of paper off a shelf near the front door. “You think you needed to lie to get me to help you? You think I didn’t want to take you and Micah out to dinner this weekend? I was going to help you without you trying to trick me into feeling something.”

  She pressed the paper into his hand. It was a check for four hundred dollars.

  “Let’s skip it,” she said. “Let’s skip to the end, where I say I thought you had changed and that you were about to let yourself be happy. You’re a grown man, you’re an old man.”

  Rose shook her head. She leaned towards the computer and started closing windows.

  “It’s not a story.”

  Rose walked to the door and opened it. She stood with one hand on the doorknob, ready to slam it shut after him.

  MONDAY

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHARLES GOT TO WORK EARLY. If Jordan was going to march over to Salazar with gossip about Olivia, then she would walk past his smiling mug. He had spent the morning practicing his denials, looking for ways to spin this back onto Jordan.

  And then, nothing. Salazar slipped straight into her office. Jordan said “Good morning” and handed over a white card with “Thank You” embossed in silver letters. Both she and Lou signed the card, but it was otherwise blank.

  The quiet was worse than a fight.

  Even the cubicles seemed subdued. Charles poured a cup of coffee and walked into the bullpen. There was a heaviness in the air. People typed away, phones quietly trilled, yet something was different.

  Then, Charles noticed two or three empty cubicles that had been occupied on Friday. There wasn’t even a phone in some of those stations.

  Salazar left her office. Charles sipped his coffee because his mouth had gone dry. She pointed over his shoulder. “Let’s go into your office.”

  He turned and followed, bracing for the worst.

  “The San Miguel Tribal Council is meeting today,” she said. “We’re going down there to address the council, keep everyone on board. A few members are getting worked up.”

  Charles took a seat in front of his desk. “We’ve got to smooth some ruffled feathers.” She arched an eyebrow.

  “No, I didn’t mean feathers like that . . . like Native. . . . I meant the saying, you know?”

  Salazar nodded and handed over a document. “Our statement. I’ll read it, but you’ll be there to help clarify and answer questions.”

  He scanned it and said, “This sounds good. I’ve wanted to get more involved. I feel like I’m part of this, like I can help.”

  “Most of San Miguel’s anxiety stems from two possible outcomes. One, we’re going to abandon the project and demand our money back. Or, we’re going to turn everything over to the Apaches—the idea you floated the other day.” She tapped the document in his hand. “There may be some concession offered to the Apaches, but we need to assure San Miguel we’re still with them.”

  “How many people on the council are aware of the larger gaming plan.”

  “That’s not something we’re talking about today. Not in this public forum. In fact, you will never bring it up again. Cody made you feel special when he told you, but you better be focused on what’s in front of you.”

  Charles nodded. Every part of him wanted to clarify what he meant, to talk his way into Salazar trusting him, but he knew it would be better if he held his tongue.

  She continued, “We include our standard ‘respect all tribal lands and privileges’ line in the statement. They know that’s a nod towards gaming.”

  Salazar looked at her watch and then over her shoulder. Mallon
walked into the building.

  “You think you can handle this?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Me too. In fact, I think you can handle this on your own. Mallon will drive you. I’ve got to reach out to the Apaches’ lawyer.”

  “Wait, I’ve never been to this council meeting.”

  “You’ll be fine. It’s a meeting. They’re all the same. Stick to what’s on the sheet, read it, memorize it, speak it. Answer questions with generalities and references back to the statement. You’re going to be late if you don’t get moving.”

  Mallon stood in the doorway. Charles grabbed his blazer and the talking points, but it felt like someone else was controlling his feet.

  In the car, Charles tried to study the statement, but Mallon was too intimidating. The man even breathed angrily. He kept looking over at Charles, almost daring him to say something. His knuckles were white around the wheel and he was passing cars going ninety. For ten, then fifteen minutes, neither of them spoke.

  Charles broke the silence. “What is wrong? Why do you keep staring at me like that?”

  “I’m wondering how a rat like you could . . .”

  Charles’ phone rang. He had not been this happy to get a call from Addie in months.

  “Hey,” Charles said. “I’m heading down to the reservation. How are you?”

  “Fine, but I have news about Jim Hawley. This hasn’t hit the papers, but a friend in State called me. He . . . oh, baby, he’s dead.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They don’t know what happened for sure. But his body is being delivered to the embassy now. Everyone’s expecting the Syrians to claim suicide, but the ambassador’s not going to let this go. It all just happened in the past few days.”

  Charles turned away from Mallon and towards the window. The hills looked less like mountains and more like a loose pile of rocks.

  “Maybe it’s a ruse,” he said. “You know, the CIA or something.”

  “No, honey, it’s not. He . . .”

  Addie’s voice glitched then phased out. Charles looked at his phone.