He squinted at her for a moment. “Where did you get that idea?”
She noticed he didn’t deny it.
“We just need to talk to them as soon as possible. Come on, we’re going to be late.”
Lupe stopped short. “But why the ninth at midnight?” But her tío was already halfway down the block. “Tío! What does that mean?”
He wasn’t having it. “Keep up, sobrina.”
July 7, 4:15 P.M.
Javier
AS JAVIER BOARDED the crowded bus heading back to Isla Verde and his car, the events of the afternoon played over in his head. He’d probably never see Lupe again, and damn, she was a pain in the ass, but she made him smile. The way her nose crinkled when she laughed. How her voice got slightly breathy when she was talking, like she couldn’t get the words out fast enough. Even the way she had a snarky comeback ready and waiting at all times like rows of shark teeth. Then there was the long cut of muscle on the sides of her legs that reached beneath the hem of her skirt.
Yeah, he had to stop that line of thought.
A group of boys tumbled onto the bus at the next stop, like a litter of puppies chasing and teasing one another in the crowded aisle. Javier watched them in their plaid school uniforms, white shirts, and ties and tried to remember what it was like to be that young, when your biggest problem was how to talk your mother into buying you the newest pair of Nikes or getting the attention of Camille Carrion in science class.
Then Javier noticed the little girl trailing behind, watching the boys with a sad type of hunger. One of the boys imitated a monkey, swinging from the metal straps as if they were vines, and the young girl’s laugh was a beat too late, trailing after the others until it was the only sound.
One of the boys glared at her. “Damn, Rosita. What’s the matter with you?” The others kept going toward the back of the bus, while the boy whispered to her. “Don’t think you’re sitting with us, midget. And once we get off the bus you go on home. We got important shit to do and we don’t need no shrimp trailing after us.”
The girl’s chin wobbled but her eyes were fiery. Javier already liked this kid. “Mami doesn’t like it when you use bad words around me.”
“Yeah, well, Mami’s not here, is she?” He resumed his strut toward his friends while the girl slumped into a nearby seat.
Javier’s heart tightened for the girl, and another slice of memory opened up to him about the last birthday party of los cangrejos.
He was back at his mother’s in Amapola, making his way with his four friends around the low cement house, ducking under the lit windows as if all their mothers were parked behind each one, ten eyes like searchlights scanning the dark. He sat with them in a circle beneath the flamboyán tree in the backyard; he could almost smell the moist dirt, see the glow of the moonlight.
They could hear their mothers talking and laughing in the kitchen, the clank of birthday party dishes being cleaned, dried, and stored away in cabinets. Occasionally their voices became low and serious when the boys assumed they were talking about them.
Javier felt better in the shadows beneath the tree, he felt stronger in the dark. “Well, panas, this year we’re teenagers, not little boys, verdad?” The others crowed agreement like roosters, giving one another high fives in the dark. “Los cangrejos are men!”
Izzy started to hoot, but covered his mouth when the rest all shushed him.
“So this year me and Vico decided we should do something a real gang would do, something to make this stupid group birthday party mean something to us instead of just our mothers.”
Memo started rocking back and forth. “Wattya got in mind, Javi?”
Vico pulled out a black switchblade with yellow skulls glowing on its handle. He waited until all the boys were looking at him and pressed the button, everyone but Javier gasping as the shiny silver blade popped out with a clean swish, the edge catching the light from the kitchen window. Even though he knew it was coming, Javier was pleased at just how badass the knife looked, at how the other guys were quiet with respect.
Carlos nervously glanced at the back door. “Vico, man! Where did you get that blade?”
Vico beamed, his head held high. “Keno gave it to us. That’s not all he gave us, ay Javi?”
Javier waved at Vico. “Damn, pana. This is important.”
The back door slammed open and all five boys lurched, Vico shoving the knife beneath his folded leg.
A small person peeked from behind the door, haloed by the light from the kitchen, and they all groaned, their bodies relaxing as they recognized Vico’s little sister.
“God, it’s just Marisol,” Memo exclaimed. “Vico, can’t you control your little sister?”
“Why you buggin’ us, Mari!” Vico made his voice overly breathy like he was really impatient.
Marisol’s voice was small in the quiet yard. “Can I join your club, too?”
Everyone but Javier and Vico started laughing, loud, exaggerated guffaws. Memo and Izzy fell backward in the dirt, holding their bellies.
Javier cringed, remembering how the poor kid’s face fell.
Vico’s eyes looked glossy and angry in the dark. “It’s not a club. We’re a gang and it’s serious.”
The laughing of the others stopped abruptly at Vico’s last words.
“I can be serious,” Marisol said as she ironed her face of expression in an attempt to appear somber.
Vico jumped to his feet and lurched toward his sister, the hand gripping the knife extended out as if to strike her. “Go back inside before I kick your ass!”
Izzy, always the diplomat, stood between them and put his hand on Vico’s arm. “What are you doing?”
“What? I wasn’t going to stick her or nothin’. She’s just always following us around like a shadow. I’m tired of her shit!”
“What’s in your hand?” Marisol asked, staring at the switchblade, the skulls glowing from between Vico’s fingers.
Vico lurched toward her again, but she didn’t even flinch. Javier remembered being surprised by that. Instead she stared back at him, her voice low and steady. “I’m telling Mama.” Only then did she turn around and head back into the house, the door snapping shut behind her.
“Go ahead, snitch!” Vico yelled as Javier pulled him back to the circle, afraid that if Vico’s mother came outside they might get caught with the knife. Or worse.
All five of them stood frozen for a moment, expecting Vico’s mother to burst through the door, yelling. Nothing. One by one they sat back down in their circle in the dirt, but Javier quietly moved a bit farther away from Vico.
Thinking back and watching the sad little sister on the bus, he felt bad for being so mean to Marisol. He’d been the undisputed leader of their little group. He should have told Vico to throw away that knife. Padre Sebastian always reminded him that he wasn’t responsible for other people’s actions, yet he couldn’t help wondering if he had something to do with how Vico turned out, how Marisol turned out.
But there was more about that night he couldn’t remember. It was like he was reaching in the dark for something he couldn’t quite see.
His cell phone buzzed in his pocket and pulled him back to the present. Javier pulled it out and looked at the screen. He didn’t recognize the number, but the text was unmistakable.
Javier smiled.
July 7, 4:28 P.M.
Lupe
AS HER TÍO drove them to the restaurant, Lupe waited for a respectable amount of time before pulling out her phone. She feigned nonchalance as she snuck peeks at the number on her hand and texted Javier.
OK things r getting really weird.
Yeah, so she had said she wasn’t going to contact him, but this whole thing was getting out of control. And the Marisol photo? What in the holy hell was that about? All Lupe was sure of was that it was all somehow connected and Javier was a piece of that puzzle. She still wasn’t sure where he fit, but if she was going to find Izzy and figure out what the entire picture was, she
’d need him. Besides, it wasn’t like she had a vehicle and it would help to have someone who knew the island and all the players in this drama.
Lupe I presume?
The beep was loud in Esteban’s sedan. She switched the phone to silent. No it’s Jennifer Lopez.
JLo I told you it’s not going to work out between us.
Lupe snorted and covered it up with a cough.
Why the hell is my uncle trying 2 find Izzy by the ninth and u the eleventh?
Silence.
Dots indicating typing on the other end.
Nothing.
Lupe was about to text again, when a message came through.
Oh shit
?
Just realized Vico n Memo were killed on their 18th birthdays.
That roiling started in her stomach.
What?? Wait. What does that have 2 do w u & Izzy?
Silence.
Javier?!
The ninth and the eleventh are Izzy n my birthdays.
She put the phone down on her thigh and stared out the window.
Jesus.
It was like someone had just chucked another puzzle piece at her, told her the clock was ticking, and she had no idea where it fit. She was right on the edge of figuring out something big about these murders, she knew it. Like all those years of talk with her tío were dress rehearsals. This was the real thing. The stakes were high for her uncle, for Izzy, and yes, even for Javier.
She picked the phone up again.
We need 2 come up with a plan for what we’re going 2 do.
We?
YES! We!
I like we.
Lupe’s face flushed.
“Who are you texting, sobrina?” She jolted at her uncle’s voice, hiding the hand with the number under her leg.
“No one! I mean … Jessica. Uh, a friend. In Vermont.” Shut up, Lupe! She winced. He didn’t seem to notice, just continued to smile as he drove. He probably thought she was chatting with some boy back home. Little did he know. Now that she had committed to finding Izzy and figuring this all out, she had to see if she could pull something out of her uncle about the murders, anything that might help.
“So, tío, what were you saying back there about having to find Izzy by midnight on the ninth?”
Her uncle’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel as he stared forward. “This isn’t a case I can talk to you about, Lupe.”
“But Izzy—”
He hit the steering wheel with his palm.
She jumped and stared at him with her mouth open.
Her uncle seemed to gather himself. “I’m sorry, Lupe. But it’s precisely because this might involve Izzy that I can’t talk to you about the case. You’re too close to this.”
“But what if Memo’s death wasn’t an accident and Izzy and the other two boys are in danger? What if—”
He was glaring at her now. “How did you know there were two other boys?”
Uh-oh. “I kind of … overheard you when you were on the phone.” Yes, that’s it. Overheard. Would he buy it?
He harumphed and kept his eyes on the traffic.
There was no way in hell she was going to tell him she’d met Carlos, in his apartment alone, no less, or even mention Javier. He wouldn’t understand at all and she wouldn’t learn anything about the murders after the top of his head blew off. “Tío, I—”
“Basta.”
They sat in silence, her uncle’s shoulders near his ears with tension. Lupe was getting pissed. It was precisely because Izzy was involved that she needed to help solve this case, to find the real murderer. And her uncle didn’t know about Marisol showing up at Carlos’s right after they were there.
She got back on her phone and typed furiously.
K. We need 2 figure out if the deaths are connected and for that we need Izzy. The police r looking 4 him, he must know something.
She sent him a link to the photo of Marisol at Carlos’s.
And then there’s Marisol.
A pause. Then:
I really don’t think Marisol is involved.
We’ll see.
July 8, 10:00 A.M.
Javier
JAVIER COULDN’T FACE another funeral for yet another friend. Truth be told, he didn’t care if he ever set foot in that church again, but he had to pay his respects to Memo’s family, so he put on his jacket and tie and made his way to Amapola for a gathering at their home. He liked going to Memo’s gated community in Amapola. It was as if the darkness of the island’s financial ruin couldn’t reach over the high-security fences, get past the guards at the entrance gates. The houses were freshly painted and surrounded by beautifully landscaped lawns. Children played in the street and waved as he went by. When he was little, his own block wasn’t all that different. Not as fancy, but it looked like it was loved and cared for.
There were cars parked up and down Memo’s street, well-dressed mourners walking in and out. He really wasn’t up for this, but he figured twenty minutes, tops. He’d pay his respects, say a few hellos, then book. He got out of his car, adjusted his tie, and froze.
Something had brushed the back of his neck.
He whipped around. Nothing was behind him. The sun retreated and he stood in shadow, spinning like a top. Nothing.
“You’re losing it, Utierre,” he mumbled.
He shook himself a bit, closed the car door, and started walking across the street. He looked up and noticed there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Javier shuddered and ran his hand through his hair.
He made his way into the house, nodding at people as they passed. The house was packed: a sea of black clothing, the smell of a dozen proffered food platters heavy in the air. Javier had seen classic American wakes in movies and on television. The attendees spoke in hushed tones, their faces serious and sad, eating small, pale sandwiches with no crust. In other words, pretty much the opposite of a Puerto Rican wake. Loud voices, heavy food, laughing, crying, singing. Whatever you were feeling you expressed it. If he had to go to a wake, Javier preferred the Puerto Rican version. It was just more honest.
He spotted Memo’s mother near the kitchen. She was surrounded by a group of older women, clucking and fussing over her like hens. There was no way he was throwing himself in the center of that. He’d wait until the group moved on, say a few words to Memo’s mom, then sneak out. He noticed Padre Sebastian at the buffet and was about to make his way over when Memo’s mother, Señora Lopez, looked up and caught his eye. Her lip quivered and she parted the group of ladies to meet Javier in the middle of the room.
“Oh Javier, I’m so glad to see you!” She grabbed him in that crushing hug only Puerto Rican mothers can give. He held on tight as her thin body shook. He wished he could tell her that he’d tried with Memo, tried to get him to clean up. But she didn’t want to hear that now.
She pulled back and put her hand on his face, the other over her heart. “You were always such a good friend to Guillermo. He was such a sensitive boy, you know.”
Javier forced some words through his tightening throat. “Señora Lopez, I’m so sorry about Memo. He was a good friend.”
She nodded and closed her eyes for a second.
There was a commotion by the entrance. Voices raised, a crowd gathering. A small group of people made their way in, the mourners parting to allow passage. Javier saw Señora Lopez’s eyes go wide as she saw who was in front: Keno.
She pulled herself up and pointed.
“You have some nerve coming to my house! Dirtying my son’s wake with your filthy presence!”
Keno stopped short and just looked at her for a moment, then he bowed at the waist. “Memo was my friend and I just wanted to pay my respects, Señora—”
“Respects? Respects? What do you know about respect? You’re the reason my sweet Guillermo is dead! You and your sinvergüenza friends!”
Javier noticed a girl pushing her way from behind Keno. Marisol. Lord, did that loca stalk funerals or something?
“Don�
��t yell at him! It’s not his fault! It’s him”—she pointed at Javier—“and those damn cangrejos!” She spit the last word at Javier’s feet, and anger flamed behind his face. She was crazy as a bedbug, and she was pointing fingers at him? He was the one who’d gotten clean, who’d pulled himself out of that vortex. But the priority now was protecting Señora Lopez. He owed Memo that much. He put his arm around her thin shoulders.
“Don’t listen to them, Señora. Why don’t you sit down over—”
“Oh right, Javier the good boy, Javier the angel.” Keno took on the same tone as Marisol. “Well I remember when you weren’t so good, pendejo!”
Javier pushed Señora Lopez behind him and faced Keno for the second time that week. “Watch your—”
He didn’t get another word out before Padre Sebastian pushed his way into the center and put a palm in the center of Keno’s chest.
“That’s enough.” His voice was calm, low, but commanding. “Don’t you think Señora Lopez has been through enough losing her son? Starting a fight in the middle of this poor woman’s living room is no way to pay respects on any planet.” To his credit, Keno looked at the floor, appearing appropriately ashamed. “Now, I think it’s best that you and your friends pay your respects and leave.”
Keno looked at the priest, and Javier could see him weighing his next response. But besides being a man of the cloth, the Padre had enough of a rep for not taking shit that it was clear to everyone present that it would not end well. Finally the gang leader nodded, turned to Señora Lopez, bowed his head, and said, “Lo siento, Señora. I only wished to offer my condolences. Memo was a like a brother to me.”
Señora Lopez clearly didn’t buy it. “Ha!”
Javier had to admit, Keno did look regretful. “We’ll leave now.”
But Marisol wasn’t going to let him off that easy. “No, Keno! We’re not talking about who is behind all this! It’s the rich gringos moving into the neighborhood, driving up the prices, pushing out the people who have a right to be here! Pushing Puerto Rico’s men like you and Memo toward drugs! Pushing us out of our island, like Vico and me! And him!” She pointed at Javier. “He’s teaming up with that gringa and her uncle!”
Five Midnights Page 10
