by Manuel Ramos
I looked out on the street and saw a parked Infiniti luxury sedan. A tall bearded man leaned against the car. He smoked a cigar.
“You’re here now,” I said. I doubted that she’d made a mistake. “It’s good to see you. I’m half asleep, that’s all. Why wouldn’t I be happy to see you? After all we’ve been through together? Would you like coffee? Tea? I don’t have much for breakfast.”
“Coffee would be good. But don’t go to any trouble.”
Good thing she chose coffee. I didn’t have any tea, but I did have a fancy espresso maker that Jerome had given me as a house-warming gift. It was an extra machine delivered to his shop by mistake. I rarely used it, since it was a bear to clean, but I’d make an exception for Marita.
I messed with the coffee machine for about ten minutes. The delay helped me get my thoughts together. When the machine started making noise, I put bread in my toaster, then found peanut butter and grape jelly. I made two cups of the strong coffee, put everything on a tray and carried it to the table. Marita sat quietly, watching me. She’d draped her jacket across the back of her chair. Under the jacket she wore a multicolored western shirt with pearl snaps. We hadn’t said another word.
“Your driver want something, some coffee maybe?”
She shook her head. “No. Antonio’s fine. He waits for me all the time.”
“He’s with you? From Cuba?”
“Of course. I’d never travel in this country on my own, it’s not safe. Too many guns.”
I looked out the window again. Antonio hadn’t moved. He still smoked a cigar.
She tried to drink the coffee but stopped almost immediately. “¿Azúcar, por favor? You wouldn’t have any sugar, would you?”
I hunted down the half-dozen packets of sugar I’d saved from my last trip to Jerome’s shop. She opened each one and emptied them into her cup—that Cuban sweet tooth. She stirred the coffee and sipped. A smile parted her red lips.
“Why are you here?” I asked. “What can I do for you?”
“I told you. I have business with Joaquín and Alberto.”
“That may be, but why are you here, in my house? You don’t have any business with me. Not that I know of.” The words came out harsher than I intended.
“I thought we were friends, Gus. Am I wrong?”
“We know one another, and we went through hard events in Cuba. I’m willing to say that makes us more than strangers. Not sure about friends, though. You and your husband were in conflict with my clients, remember?”
“And now I am friends, true friends, with Lourdes. Whatever animosity we had, it’s gone. We talk every day. If she can forgive me, why can’t you?”
“You want my forgiveness? I don’t think there is anything for me to forgive you for.” I paused.
She pushed away the toast and the coffee.
“But if Lourdes has no resentment against you, then neither do I.”
“Thank you, Gus.”
She would not look at me. I continued to stare at her red lips. At last she raised her eyes.
“That night,” she said, “in Trinidad . . . I was drunk, out of my mind. I’d just lost Miguel. I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“You could have taken advantage. You didn’t. I should thank you for that.”
“As I said, don’t worry about that.”
“Eres un caballero. Thank you.”
My brain tried hard to work its way around what was happening. Had Marita really come all the way from Cuba to tell me that she embarrassed herself and to express gratitude for me not acting like my usual asshole self? Was she just killing time until she could meet with the Machaco brothers?
Her cell phone buzzed. She dug it out of a pocket of the ski jacket and checked the phone’s screen.
“Señor Sardo. Buenos días. What can I do for you?”
She listened for several seconds. She nodded her head and muttered “Sí, sí,” several times. At one point she looked at me and said, “Of course.” She hung up.
“That was Joaquín’s agent. You know him, right? He says that since you also want to talk with Joaquín, we should all meet in the agent’s office. Jueves por la noche.”
“Thursday night? You’ll be there, too, huh?”
“It appears so. That means I’ll have a few days to see your beautiful Denver. I only hope it warms up.”
“It will,” I said. “I promise.” Suddenly I was Stormy Corral, crack weather person.
We talked for several more minutes about Cuba, Lourdes and life after Hoochie. One thing I learned was that she owned the restaurant on her own now, and although it’d been only a few weeks, she complained that the work load was heavy and guessed that she would eventually sell the business.
“As much as any business can be bought or sold in Cuba,” she said.
She kissed me goodbye, on the cheek again, and promised to see me at the agent’s office later in the week. She suggested we have lunch or dinner before the meeting, but she didn’t sound that sincere, so I didn’t follow her lead. We made no additional plans.
She wiggled into her jacket, checked her hair and make-up in a pocket mirror and then she was gone.
Her lilac scent remained. I remembered it mixed with the smell of gunshots and blood in Cuba, the night her husband died at her feet. Until then, I’d never thought of lilacs as flowers of death.
I recovered from the morning surprise as best I could. Tuesday meant working out at the Planet Fitness near my house before I drove into the city. I exercised several muscles, joints and tendons for almost ninety minutes. Then I felt ready for the office and any other unexpected guests the day might bring. Couldn’t have been more wrong if I’d tried.
I decided on my way in that I should deal with Lorraine. Something had happened between us, but I didn’t know what. I had to clear the air if I hoped to have at least a shot with her.
I liked what I’d seen, so far. She had a sense of humor. She was perky, but not in an annoying way. I thought I’d ask about getting together for a drink after work, then play it by ear. I didn’t know why she’d cold-shouldered me yesterday, but I could work through that. There was no rush, no need to hurry. Let’s just see where this goes, I thought.
The door to the collection agency was shut when I walked past it. I hesitated, then I kept on to my office. Maybe later.
Turned out I didn’t have to wait. The office door was unlocked. When I pushed it open completely, Lorraine Winston sat in one of my office chairs. Her legs were crossed, and her fingers tapped the chair’s arm. It was a day full of surprising women, and the morning had barely started.
“What the hell, Lorraine?”
“I have keys to the offices. We’ve been here forever, so Sam sometimes asks us to help with management things, like getting into locked offices.”
She spoke with a forced reserve. She was tight, ready to burst.
“That’s great, but what do you want? That’s really my question.”
I made my way around her, stood a little off to her side.
“I want to know what you’re up to,” she said. “Who do you think you are? You can’t treat me like this.” Her words flew out of her mouth.
I braced myself. “Treat you like what? I have no idea what you are talking about.”
She went limp in the chair. Her legs straightened, and she looked like a plastic doll tossed in a corner.
“I thought you were different,” she said. Her voice gradually rose in volume. “You’re like all the rest. Once you get what you want, you move on like I’m a useless toy.” She stopped for a heartbeat. “I’m nobody’s toy.”
I gave her the benefit of my doubt and assumed she was kidding around, playing an elaborate joke on me, so I laughed.
She jumped to her feet and pounded my chest with her fist. “You son of a bitch!” she shouted. “Don’t you dare laugh at me!” She continued to hit me.
I grabbed her wrists and held them at her sides. �
��Calm down. Lorraine, whatever I did, I’m sorry.”
She squirmed and jerked and twisted as she tried to free herself. I worried that someone would hear her and jump to the wrong conclusion about what was happening between the Chicano ex-con and the petite white secretary.
“Get a hold of yourself. There’s nothing wrong.”
She hollered again, screamed, really. “You bastard! You ugly Mexican! You perverted pig! Get your filthy hands off me!”
Ugly?
I gave serious consideration to slapping her. That wouldn’t help. Instead, I kept her at bay the best I could.
I stared at her face. It twisted into a mask of hate and panic. Spit dribbled from her lips. She continued to make loud noises. No more words, only grunts, growls and an ugly squeaking sound that came from the back of her throat.
I felt, more than saw, that a door in the hallway opened. Then another. I looked over Lorraine’s shoulder into the semi-dark corridor. Three women stared in the direction of my office. A man with bushy hair hurried towards us. He wore a black, corduroy sport coat and a red bow tie. He rushed into my office.
“Lorraine. What’s wrong? What’s the problem?”
She collapsed and fell to the floor. I let go of her wrists, but I made sure her landing was soft.
Sprawled out on the floor, Lorraine sobbed uncontrollably. Her head jerked up and down. Her face turned red. She clenched her fists.
“Jerry,” she said. “He did it again. He did it again.” She repeated the phrase several times.
I assumed Jerry was Gerald Franklin, the attorney who owned the collection agency where Lorraine worked. He frowned at me. I shrugged my shoulders.
“You have to excuse Lorraine,” he said. “She hasn’t been feeling well lately. I hope she didn’t cause you any real trouble, Mr. Corral.”
“What’s wrong with her? She thinks I did something to her. That never happened. I hope you know that.”
Franklin bent over and helped Lorraine get to her feet. He spoke softly to her, urging her to stand up and then to walk to their office. He finally got her moving. She walked ahead of him. He stopped at the doorway and looked back at me.
“I really am sorry, Mr. Corral. And Lorraine will be, too, when she gets herself together. Like I said, she has some health issues. She has an appointment tomorrow with her therapist. Just in time, I’d say. I am sorry. We both are.”
He puttered after Lorraine until they reached their office. He looked back at me, waved and tried to smile. I waved back at him. I wasn’t smiling.
It wasn’t quite ten o’clock.
I finished Tuesday’s work. No more visitors showed up unexpectedly. A few new clients contacted me for appointments, and a few checks showed up in the mail for finished jobs. I drank more coffee than I should have. It looked like I was back to the slow grind, but no complaints from me. I needed a bit of normal, and I wouldn’t look down on boring.
Around four in the afternoon, I heard the attorney, Franklin, walking Lorraine out of their office. He talked in soothing tones and urged her to drink her tea. They shuffled down the hallway to the elevator. When I was sure they were gone, I opened my office door and checked out the hallway. I returned to my desk and decided to call it a day.
My phone rang. Corrine.
“You hear the news?” my sister asked.
“Been in my office all day. What’s up?”
“The guy killed in Colorado Springs? You know about that?”
“Yeah, the I-25 shooter. Upped his game. They catch him?”
“No, nothing like that. The guy who was shot. They’ve been reporting that he was a restaurant owner, that his name was Don Allen. Yeah, you know, the ex-cop Alito—the guy Leo wanted to confront. It had to be Leo. He killed him, Gus. He’s the shooter.”
“I doubt that.”
“It’s too much of a coincidence. Alito is shot? Now?”
“I meant, he killed Alito, no doubt, but he’s not the I-25 shooter.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Think about it. Has he tried to contact you?”
“I haven’t heard from Leo since he stood us up and disappeared. Why would he call me?”
“Just a hunch. I’ll stop by your place. We need to talk.”
“I can’t tonight. I have a meeting. Let’s try tomorrow? After work?”
“See you then.”
“Okay. I gotta go. I’m late, and now someone’s at the door.”
“Don’t . . . ” She hung up before I could finish.
On the way home, I stopped at the big burrito place, the one with the ever-changing mural on the outside of the building, and bought a bean and rice with chicharrones, medium chile. I ate it with a Dos Equis Amber and burped for the rest of the night. I tried watching the Rockies on TV, but their starting pitcher gave up three runs in the first, two more in the second, and then a grand slam in the fourth. Kino came up to bat twice with runners on second and third. He made the last out in each of those innings without driving in any runs. I fell asleep in my recliner with the game on.
A phone call around midnight woke me up. I was a little disoriented, especially when I saw the replay of a college lacrosse match on my TV. I reached for my beer and swallowed the last drink. Kino Machaco greeted me when I answered my buzzing phone.
“Gus. Sorry to call so late. I just got to our hotel here in San Francisco. ¿Cómo estás? You have a minute?”
“Sure, Kino. Tough game tonight.”
“The pinche Giants. I never have a good game in this damn city. Can’t wait to get out of here, back home.”
“What’s up? You need me for something else?”
He mumbled something that was incoherent. He caught himself and raised his voice. “Mira, Gus. I know we’re talking on Thursday, at Sardo’s office. You want to talk with me, no problem. But can we meet, you and me, maybe before or after? I want to talk to you. Only you.”
“This got anything to do with Cuba and Hoochie?”
“Maybe. I don’t know yet, not for sure. If we talk it out, you can set me straight. It’s bugging me, hombre. Got to get it together. Can you do that?”
He sounded tired, drained of all energy. I put most of that on the fact that he’d just finished nine losing innings of major league baseball, but there was something else going on with him.
“Sure. Tell me where and when.”
I hadn’t wanted Sardo and Marita in the meeting when I set it up with the agent. One-on-one with Kino was perfect.
We made plans to meet at my office at seven-thirty, Thursday night. Kino thought our talk would take only a few minutes. Afterwards, he would drive me to Sardo’s office. I agreed, and we finished the call. Then I tried to get back to sleep.
— Chapter 26 —
WEDNESDAY’S CHILD
Mid-morning Wednesday, my eyes and brain were focused on an affidavit for a lawsuit against a sham online financial adviser. Gerald Franklin, debt collection attorney, strolled into my office. He surprised me, and I jumped a bit when I realized someone else was in the office.
I couldn’t help but think that even I had better taste in clothes, and my preferred outfit consisted of sweat pants and a T-shirt, so that was saying something. He had given up on the bow tie and replaced it with a bulky turtleneck sweater that he wore under yet another corduroy sport coat, this one gray. The coat was too small for him and the sweater, and he looked like he might pop open around the temples.
“I want to apologize again . . .” he began.
“No need. I get it. Lorraine has some issues. No harm done. I can take name-calling. Sticks and stones.”
“You’re handling it well, Mr. Corral. Thank you.”
“My sisters have dealt with bullshit from men their entire lives. I try to remember how they were hurt, and I hope I don’t come off as stupid as those men.”
The first time I acted like a gorilla around a girl, when I was thirteen, Corrine spent about an hour with me. When she finished talking, and that’s all
she did, I was in tears, but I’d learned a lesson.
“She okay?” I asked.
Franklin tilted his head like he wasn’t sure. “I should explain.” He didn’t have to, but I didn’t stop him. “Lorraine’s been under the care of a doctor for several years. I was a friend of her father’s. I worked for him right after law school. He taught me all that I never learned at the university about the real practice of law. He even helped me set up my business. He was a magnanimous soul, charitable and intelligent and willing to assist a kid who had no clue. He was a good father. The least I could do was give her a job when she needed it. She had been doing quite well. But now . . .”
“She at home?”
“No. Her doctor has a facility, in Boulder, near the foothills. It’s peaceful and the care is top notch. She’s there now. She may be there for a while, or she might snap out of it soon. It’s hard to say.”
“Did I do anything to cause her to, uh, to relapse?”
His eyes moved over me and then over my grubby office. “I’m sure you didn’t, Mr. Corral. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
He shook his head. “None of this is your fault.”
That was an arrangement with which I was very familiar. Almost the story of my entire life.
“The way you’re talking . . .” I said. “Her father’s dead?”
He nodded. He patted the pockets of his coat until he found his imitation leather pocket calendar.
“I have to leave.” He looked up. “But to answer your question, yes, Lorraine’s father, Carl Winston, is dead, and so are her mother and brother. They were killed by a drunk driver on their way home from a restaurant where they’d celebrated Lorraine’s twelfth birthday. It happened near County Line Road, when there were still empty stretches of land out there. Lorraine’s leg was broken, and she couldn’t walk, couldn’t move. She was in considerable pain, spent the night in a ditch on the side of the road with her dead mother and brother, and her dying father. He suffered all night long until he died, at sunrise, just before someone saw the wreck and called the police. She wasn’t the same after that.”
