The Damaged

by Brett Battles

  “See you then.”

  Ortega answered on the third ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Angel Ortega? This is Jonathan Quinn. I got your number from Durrie.”

  A brief pause. “Right. He did say a few days ago he might mention me to you. What can I do for you?”

  “I know this is kind of last minute, but are you available for the next four to five days?”

  “Just finished up something on Friday and my next job’s not for another two weeks so, yeah, I’m free.”

  “Great. To be clear, this isn’t an official booking yet. I’d like to put you on hold, and should be able to give you the final word in three hours or so. If I do hire you, I’ll need you in Costa Rica tomorrow by ten a.m. Where are you located?”

  “Las Vegas.”

  “Perfect. If you can get to LAX this evening, I can book you on the flight leaving not long after midnight.”

  “Plenty of flights between here and there. You give me the okay, and I’ll be on one of them.”

  “Thanks, I’ll let you know.”

  Given that Ortega had been Durrie’s recommendation, Quinn had been concerned the man would be a little off. But the operative had come across as normal, at least in their short conversation. If the report on him came back clean, maybe everything would work out after all.

  He headed back into the restaurant.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Markoff asked after Quinn sat down.

  “Sorry. Needed to make a call.”

  Markoff studied him for a moment. “You sure you don’t need my help with anything?”

  “Nope. I’ve got it all handled.”

  “All right. If you say so.” Markoff raised one of the two glasses of beer that had been brought out. “Here’s to no more business.”

  Ortega’s report arrived in Quinn’s inbox twenty minutes before he and Markoff returned to the house. After reading it, whatever remaining concerns he’d had about Ortega disappeared. By all accounts, the man was a competent, albeit relatively new, operative. He should do just fine.

  Quinn called Ortega and finalized the details, then sent Durrie a text letting him know his friend had been hired and would be flying out on the same Costa Rica-bound jet that night.

  Work finally dealt with, Quinn joined Markoff for a walk into town for dinner, this time to a restaurant with a deck overlooking the water. They ate red snapper and drank Pilsen beer, while taking turns telling stories of crazy things that had happened to them in the field.

  From the restaurant it was a short walk down the beach to a bar called Pasco Azul, where a real-life scene from the old TV show Cheers played out as soon as they walked in.

  The bartender, an attractive thirtysomething woman in a T-shirt that read MY PLACE MY RULES, called out, “Hola, Mickey.”

  As a card-carrying member of the CIA, Markoff never traveled anywhere under his real name. He was using the alias Mickey Carter on this trip.

  Most of the customers sitting at the bar offered similar greetings. Markoff and Quinn took two stools among them, and the bartender plopped down a Pilsen and a glass in front of Markoff.

  “You the same?” she asked Quinn, in thickly accented English.

  “Por favor.”

  She smiled and placed the same in front of him.

  “Who’s your friend?” she asked Markoff.

  “This asshole? This is…” Though he and Quinn had not discussed an alias for Quinn, he hesitated no more than half a second before saying, “Thomas Wright. You can call him Tommy.” He turned to Quinn. “Tommy, this is Marta. She owns the place.”

  When Marta held out her hand, Quinn wasn’t sure if he should kiss it or shake it. Fortunately, Marta took charge of the situation and shook his hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Tomás,” she said, a twinkle in her eye.

  “You, too,” Quinn said.

  When she left to help another customer, Quinn leaned over and whispered to Markoff, “Tommy Wright? You couldn’t have come up with something a little better?”

  The choice of Tommy Wright had not been random. They both knew an operative by that name, a guy who, though well meaning, always seemed to say something that rubbed someone else the wrong way. Each of them had told a story about him at dinner.

  “It’s a fine name.” Markoff raised his glass and held it toward Quinn. “To Tommy Wright, wherever the hell he may be.”

  Quinn rolled his eyes and touched his glass to Markoff’s. “To Tommy.”

  It turned out Markoff was passing himself off to the locals as an extreme adventure guide, who would, for a price, take clients anywhere in the world they wanted to go, whether or not they were legally allowed to be there. This gave him the opportunity to regale them with made-up tales, loosely based on some of his real-world exploits, a few of which he told that night at the bar.

  It was an approach that made Quinn uncomfortable. He was a strict what-happens-on-the-job-stays-on-the-job kind of person. Markoff taking things right up to the edge of reality made Quinn want to look around every few minutes to make sure a CIA internal investigation unit wasn’t busting into the bar, ready to hustle everyone off to Guantanamo Bay.

  But Marta kept serving up the beers, and soon Quinn forgot about a potential prison sentence. He even joined in now and then with the laughter at Markoff’s faux adventures.

  At some point, he told himself he should stop drinking. The mission was starting tomorrow, and he would be meeting Durrie and Ortega in San José at ten. But Marta was persistent, always setting a new bottle in front of him before he emptied his glass.

  While Markoff carried on entertaining the masses, at one point Marta and Quinn began their own side conversation. The bartender moved her stool directly across from him on the other side of the bar. With Markoff’s booming narration, the laughter of his audience, and the music that had been playing all evening, it was only natural that Quinn and Marta leaned closer and closer together to be heard.

  “I see Los Angeles on TV,” she said, scrunching up her face. “Very big. I do not like it.”

  He probably shouldn’t have told her he lived in L.A. but what the hell, it wasn’t the same as giving her a blow-by-blow of his latest job, a la Markoff.

  “I don’t mind it,” he said. “Great weather. Good food.”

  “Here is great weather and great food. Why I want to share these with a million others?”

  “It’s a bit more than a million.”

  “More reason to stay here, yes?”

  He smiled and took another drink.

  “Your family there?” she asked.

  “Los Angeles? No.”

  “Your job, then. This is why you live there.”

  “Um, not really.”

  “Then why you not live someplace like here?”

  Quinn opened his mouth to give her some lame answer about how he liked L.A. and was happy there, but she cut him off.

  “I know. You have wife there.”

  Quinn held up his left hand and wiggled his ringless fingers. “No wife.”

  She snorted. “Men do not always wear the ring.”

  “No wife,” he repeated.

  “Girlfriend, then. Yes. Maybe more than one?”

  Quinn laughed. “No girlfriend, either.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Boyfriend?”

  “Not my thing.”

  “You are alone? Why? You a nice man. Handsome.”

  “Thank you.” He picked up his glass again and downed what was left.

  Marta reached under the bar and pulled up a full bottle she had waiting there.

  As she started to open it, Quinn said, “I think I’ve had enough.” He didn’t have to get out of his chair to know he hadn’t been this drunk in a long time.

  But Marta popped the top and refilled his glass.

  “Okay, but this is my last one,” he said.

  “We’ll see.”

  Their eyes locked for a few moments before Quinn forced himself to look away.

&
nbsp; “You’re a strange man, Tomás.”

  He laughed and took a sip of his beer, not sure how to respond.

  “Tell me, do you like my bar?”

  He glanced around. “Yeah. It’s great. Who doesn’t love a bar on the beach?”

  “And me?”

  “I’m sorry?” he said, not understanding what she meant.

  She reached across the short distance between them and pulled his head toward hers, her lips finding his. Quinn held still for a moment, not quite realizing what was going on. When he figured it out, he knew he should pull back, but instead he found his lips opening and felt her tongue slip into his mouth.

  It had been a long, long time since he last kissed someone, and he could feel his body surging with hunger, a need, a desire for more. He couldn’t have pulled away if he tried.

  “Oh, my.” It was Markoff’s voice, but Quinn barely heard it at first. “You two need some help? You appear to have gotten stuck together.”

  Quinn froze, his lips still on Marta’s. Sensing his discomfort, Marta pulled away. She smiled sheepishly as Quinn smiled back, tentative and a bit embarrassed.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean to stop anything,” Markoff said.

  Quinn turned and saw that Markoff and the others were all looking at him and Marta. The room wavered around them, and Quinn had to press his hand against the bar to keep from falling off his chair.

  A million thoughts flooded his mind.

  The kiss.

  The job.

  Orlando.

  The drive back to San José.

  Durrie and Ortega.

  Marta.

  Orlando.

  The beer.

  Markoff.

  Orlando.

  “I think I should probably get to bed,” he said.

  Markoff grinned. “Don’t let me stop you.”

  “At your place.” Quinn stared at Markoff, silently reminding his friend they had arrived together.

  Markoff sighed. “Right. Okay. Marta, what do we owe you?”

  She held out her hand. “Give me your key.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You want my house as payment? How much did we drink? And you know I don’t own that place, right?”

  “You are very funny,” she said, not laughing. “I will help your friend go home. You can enjoy your evening a little longer.”

  Markoff sighed. “I should really do it.”

  “It is no problem.” She looked at one of the others sitting at the counter. “Diego, you bartend until I get back.”

  A young man who couldn’t have been much over twenty jumped off his stool and headed around the bar.

  Marta looked back at Markoff, her hand still extended. “Well?”

  He looked at her for a moment, and then pulled a key ring with a single key on it out of his pocket and set it in her hand. “Be gentle with him.”

  Quinn didn’t quite remember leaving the bar. One moment he was sitting on a stool, and the next he was walking on the beach, leaning against Marta. He could hear the waves breaking several meters to their left, but the moon had yet to rise, so all he could see was an undulating sheet of black where the ocean was.

  The water did seem to be getting closer, though.

  “Whoa,” Marta said, gently pushing him away from the waves. “Better to keep your eyes ahead.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” She smiled at him. “You do not drink much, do you?”

  “I drink,” he said. “I just don’t drink that much.”

  “So, you’re saying it is my fault.”

  He looked at her, which caused him to lurch toward the water again. He turned back forward before they could deviate too much from their path.

  “As a matter of fact, I guess it would be your fault.” This is what he intended to say. His words, however, came out a bit more slurred. But apparently he got his meaning across.

  “You’re right. Lo siento.”

  “You’re forgiven.”

  “That is very kind of you.”

  “I can be…kind now and then,” he said.

  “I think more often than that.”

  They walked on in silence, the warm night breeze feeling good against his skin. The wind, however, wasn’t the only thing touching him. Marta was pressed against his left side, her arm stretched across his back, while his arm lay across her shoulders. He could feel her hand hugging his ribs. It was then that he realized her left hand was spread against his chest to keep him from falling forward, her fingers moving in a slow circle, as if she was massaging him.

  Or caressing.

  “It’s, uh, very nice of you to do this. I mean it.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing.”

  She pressed her head against his shoulder.

  He liked it, and yet he didn’t. He frowned. That wasn’t true. He liked it, but didn’t want to. It troubled him because he had a feeling the reason he liked it had more to do with the physical contact than the person giving it to him. Marta seemed nice—really nice, actually—but who he wished was holding him up was nearly three thousand miles away.

  “Careful,” Marta said.

  Quinn blinked and looked down. They were at the edge of a stone walkway that looked exactly like the walkway behind Markoff’s house. He tilted his head up.

  Oh.

  It was the walkway behind Markoff’s house. They had arrived a lot faster than he’d expected. Or had he blacked out again?

  Marta guided him along the stones onto the deck, and to the sliding doors at the back of the house, where she leaned him against the wall. “Don’t fall.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  She unlocked the door, slid it open, and helped Quinn inside.

  “You are using the guest room, yes?” she asked.

  “Yes. It’s back over—”

  “I know where it is.”

  He raised an eyebrow, a move considerably more exaggerated than it would have been if he was sober.

  “Don’t look at me like this,” she said. “I have been in many of the houses here. When people throw a party, they need a bartender. Many times, this is me.”

  “Right. I guess that makes sense.”

  “You want me to drop you here or take you to your bed?”

  “Uh…uh…” Quinn had no idea how to respond without it coming out wrong.

  She laughed and took him into his bedroom. After helping him sit on the bed, she started taking off his shirt.

  “I can do it,” he said, but by that time she already had it over his head and off.

  “Stand up,” she told him.

  He rose unsteadily to his feet, and she started unbuckling his belt. He reached down to do it himself, but again was too late. When the zipper was down, she yanked his pants toward the ground while mercifully leaving his underwear in place.

  She pulled the sheet back from the bed. “In, please.”

  He hesitated. “I-I can’t do this.”

  “You can’t get in bed?”

  “I can’t do this.” He motioned back and forth between them. “I’m sorry. I…shouldn’t have led you on.”

  “You think I’m getting in bed with you?” Another laugh. “No, I am not.”

  “Oh.”

  She nodded at the bed expectantly.

  “Right.”

  After he climbed in, she pulled the sheet over him and knelt down next to the mattress.

  “And you did not lead me on. I kissed you, remember?”

  “I seem to recall something about that.”

  “Who is Orlando?”

  He tensed. “Excuse me?”

  “When we were walking, I could hear you saying the name to yourself.”

  “Oh.”

  “Is Orlando a man or a woman?”

  “She-she’s a woman.”

  “But not your girlfriend.”

  “No.”

  “Do you want her to be?”

  This time, Quinn mustered enough energy to resist an
swering.

  Marta smiled again, then ran a finger along the bridge of his nose. “You are very…desirable.”

  He remained quiet.

  She studied his face for several more seconds, and stood back up. “I should get back. I hope I see you at the bar again.”

  “Me, too.”

  She walked to the door, stopped, and looked back. “Does she know that you are in love with her?”

  He took a breath. “No.”

  “You should tell her.”

  And with that, she left.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “You have everything?” Orlando asked, eyeing the small bag Durrie was carrying.

  “This is it,” he said. “Should be done by Friday, so don’t need that much.”

  She nodded. “I’m sure it’s going to go great.”

  “Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it?”

  “I’m just saying, that’s all.” She brushed a piece of lint off his shirt. “Don’t give Quinn a hard time.”

  Durrie snorted. “He’s the boss. I’m contractually obligated not to give him a hard time.”

  She threw her arms around him. “Be careful.”

  “You shouldn’t worry so much.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.” She kissed his cheek. “I’m…proud of you.”

  His instinct was to stiffen and say, “Proud of what? That I’m doing my job?” But he caught himself before she could sense his reaction and stayed silent.

  She kissed him again, this time on the mouth. He made his lips soft, letting her take the lead. It was important that she thought everything was fine.

  When she pulled away, she said, “Let me know how you’re doing, if you get a chance.”

  “I will.”

  “And remember, if you guys need anything, I’m just a phone call away.”

  “Thanks, hon. I’ll let Quinn know.” He wouldn’t.

  She looked him over, sizing him up. “I feel like I’m sending you off to school.”

  He had the same feeling, but not in the pleasant way she meant.

  “I’ll see you Friday, Saturday latest,” he said.

  “I’ll be here.”

  He entered the garage and climbed into his car. As he backed down the driveway and pulled onto the street, he could sense her watching him from the living room window. He didn’t check, though. Orlando, their house, and everything both represented was in his past now. This evening marked the start of a new era.