by Joe Gazzam
It was possible Castillo and his men hadn’t got a good look at us. Maybe we still had some portion of the element of surprise. If Andy’s offer was serious, and we could narrow down Castillo’s location, maybe we could try grabbing him again. Be smarter about it. Or, maybe I’d allowed my emotion to get the best of me, spooked them all and set off an unthinkable conclusion.
I ducked my head under the weak stream and allowed the lukewarm water to run down my body. It was a poor excuse for a shower, but at least the tepid water woke me up and helped me think.
I turned and wet my midsection, my lower back throbbing with tension. I hadn’t realized my muscles were so tight. Grabbing a washcloth, I went to work on the thick layer of mascara still caked to my eyelashes.
Once my face was makeup-free, I stared down at my chest. A diagonal bruise ran from my left shoulder to my right hip, compliments of the seat belt. I stared at it for a second, marveling at the different shades of bright green, deep blue and brown. It made me think of Dad, and I couldn’t help wonder what sort of torture he’d endured.
I rinsed and dried off quickly, slipping into the new jean shorts and T-shirt I’d bought when I purchased the dress. Taking a deep breath, I prepared myself mentally to face Mitch. I shuffled down the hallway, my feet padding across the cheap, worn apartment carpet, ready to apologize again. Only, as I stepped into the living room, Mitch was gone. The knot in my stomach tightened. Where was he?
As I turned to the kitchen, I saw a note on the counter:
Went for a run. Need to get my head around what happened last night. Don’t do anything until I get back. We’ll discuss a game plan.
Immediately I pulled out my phone to call him, but it rang ten feet away from me in the corner of the couch where he’d slept.
I crumpled up the note and sat on one of the bar stools, annoyed he felt so overly confident here. What if they’d seen our faces? They were probably looking for us. He couldn’t just take off on a run in the middle of all this without his phone. He didn’t even have the basic training needed to defend himself if attacked.
My dream resurfaced, and the image of Dad in some tiny cell, beaten and bloodied ran through my head. Then my mind put Mitch in the same horrifying scenes. I pressed my lips together as guilt dug its claws deep into my chest. My eyes threatened tears, but I cut them off quickly.
I shook my arms. Focus. I needed to make some progress, fast. Step one was finding Mitch. I had no idea how long he’d been gone. Maybe he’d run to Andy’s hut. It was the only familiar thing in the area.
I uncrumpled his note and used the pen on the counter to write a message back to him.
“Went looking for you. Call me if you get back before me.”
I put his cell phone next to it and grabbed mine, shoving it in the back pocket of my jean shorts along with a small wad of cash.
Hoping Mitch would be back soon, I left the door unlocked and closed it behind me. Outside, the air hung thick with tempting morning smells floating out of the short string of cafés around the corner. I eyed the plates of patrons salivating over their torrejas, the Cuban version of French toast, a pork and plantain breakfast hash followed by stuffed arepas and of course Cuban espresso.
I couldn’t help myself. Mitch and I had been eating junk from the convenience store below our safehouse. I stopped at one of the restaurants, doing my best to point and order a breakfast that Mitch and I could share when I found him. Then, remembering Andy, I ordered him some random thing off the menu and a coffee. He was the one source of possible intel I had at this point, and I was praying he had something else for me to go on.
As I made for the beach, my thoughts chased themselves like birds trapped in an attic. I stopped at the curb and checked my phone, struggling to hold the food with one hand.
Nothing.
I sighed and kept walking.
When the ocean came into view I caught sight of a family of four slogging through the sand to find a spot. The two children, a brother and sister, carried buckets and shovels, and their parents held armfuls of towels and folding chairs. Everywhere I looked I was reminded of Dad.
I had spent so much time trying to be independent, and now I’d give anything for one more day, one more moment with him. He’d been my anchor, from the minute I was born. Before things fell apart for us as a family, Mom used to tell me a story. I could still hear the sound of her voice, alto-deep, like a hummed lullaby.
“He would try to talk to you before you were even born,” she would say. “He would open my mouth and say, ‘Hello, how’s it going down there?’” We’d laugh at her impression of Dad. “And he’d tell you stories, too. Late at night, he’d lay his head against my belly and talk to you.”
Apparently, I’d heard him inside Mom’s stomach, because minutes after I was born, Dad asked the doctor if I was okay. And, as the story went, my eyes started scanning the room, looking for him, like I already knew him.
Now here I was in some strange land, searching for him again.
I trudged through the thick, hot sand with my armful of food. Thankfully, Andy was there, sitting in the depths of his excursion shack. But Mitch was nowhere in sight. I shuffled over and set the bagged breakfast and coffee onto the shelf next to his head. He looked up from a book and his face brightened.
“Hola,” he said, standing.
“Hola.” I glanced around, slightly unnerved at the idea of Castillo’s men out looking for us. “Are you sure you should be out here?” I asked, slipping into a shadowed corner of his hut. “Chances are one of his guys got a look at our faces.”
“Yes, but if not, disappearing looks more suspicious. I have...obligations. I can’t just abandon my life.”
“I get that.” I nodded, trying to keep hidden. “So, about the whole ‘me almost getting you killed thing...’” I slid over his breakfast and flashed him a please-forgive-me smile. “I’m really sorry. I brought you something called pabellon criollo and coffee.”
“Sí.” His eyes widened in mock amusement. “Almost dying was...fun.” Although his voice was heavy with sarcasm, he grabbed the coffee and took a sip. “Gracias.” The coffee wet his upper lip and he wiped it with his thumb. “Maybe we should do it again sometime. Do you have plans tonight?”
I laughed, taking his lightheartedness as an accepted apology. “That depends. I may be out searching for my lost little brother.” I scanned the beach but didn’t see him. “Did Mitch come by here? He left a note saying he went for a run.”
“No.” Andy’s brow furrowed with concern. “But he’s fine. I am sure—”
My ringing phone interrupted him.
I reached for it with anxious fingers and let out a sigh of relief. “It’s him,” I said before answering. “Mitch, you can’t just take off like that. They could have seen your face. It’s not safe—”
He cut me off, giving me some spiel about a panic attack and letting off steam.
“Well...just stay there,” I snapped, unable to keep my frustration from slipping out. “I’m coming back.” I tapped the end call button and rolled my eyes. “He’s at the apartment.”
“Good,” Andy said, but his focus was on something else. He took my hand, and turned it palm up. There was a bruise on my forearm from all the banging around in the car last night. Andy brushed it lightly with his thumb, sending chills up to my shoulder. I swallowed and pulled my hand away.
“It’s nothing.” My mind scrambled for traction, distracted by his touch. “Listen,” I said, trying to regain my focus. “If my father has any chance, I’ve got to find him soon. Did you hear anything?”
Andy shook his head. “I’ve reached out to a few trusted friends, but nothing.”
The ocean seemed to grow louder in the distance, its crashing waves beating the shore with steady persistence as I processed the disappointment.
Before I could respond, Andy turned at the sight of Jorge, the man with the Mohawk who had been shaking him down the day before.
“Who is this guy?” I
asked.
Andy’s eyes turned serious. “You should go—”
“Do you have it?” Jorge asked, leaning against the front of the shack.
Andy took a step back. “Jorge. Por favor. Maybe we could do this another time, yes?”
“You don’t tell me when we do this. When I come, that’s when we do this. Now where’s my money?”
“I told you, this stand doesn’t make enough. I am barely getting by—”
“Bullshit,” Jorge yelled, then calmed himself.
He grabbed Andy’s coffee and took a big sip. As he lowered it, he paused catching sight of me in the shadowed corner of the shack. He cocked his head sideways and sucked his teeth. “Who’s this fine young thing?”
“Just a customer.”
Jorge smiled at me exposing a dead tooth. His left front incisor was completely, repulsively—gray.
I stared back at him, apparently making it a little too obvious that he made me want to vomit.
“I don’t like the way she’s looking at me,” Jorge hissed.
“And I don’t like...your tooth,” I responded without thinking.
He frowned and tossed the coffee to the ground. “What’d you say, Bitch?”
I stepped outside the shack. With men like Jorge, it was important not to show weakness.
“My Dad told me once that you can take the measure of a man by the way he treats people. Which makes you a real piece of garbage.”
I was hoping to embarrass him enough that he’d walk away, but Jorge went for a backhanded slap instead. Reacting out of instinct, I grabbed his wrist and bent his arm backward, the ligaments in his elbow popping with a sickening crack. Before he could scream, I drove the back of my hand into his throat and sent him down into the sand.
The minute he fell, I stepped back, upset with myself for losing control. I winced, as Andy stood there, completely stunned.
“I’m sorry—”
“You...” Jorge said, still gasping.
I bent down, helping him to a sitting position. “Lean forward. It’ll help get your wind back.”
As Jorge sat up completely, he pulled a gun out of an ankle holster. I cursed myself for not checking and took another step back.
“You messed up big time,” he said, slowly getting to his feet. He fumbled for something tucked into his back pocket and thrust a badge in front of me.
Perfect, I thought. Of course he was a cop.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I THOUGHT ABOUT RUNNING, of punching Jorge right in his dead, ugly-toothed mouth and taking off, and I probably would have if not for the gun. The pompous sneer he wore when shoving me into his rinky-dink police car with its lone, pathetic blue light on top, made me want to head butt him in the nose, but I couldn’t help my Dad if I was dead. I’d have to talk my way out of this, which mostly meant keeping my mouth shut, something I found extremely hard to do when it came to a-holes like Jorge.
After we reached the local precinct, a dirty brick building with the words Policía Nacional Revolucionaria above the door, my prints were taken, and I was escorted to a small interrogation room. Jorge handcuffed me to a metal I-ring bolted to the top of a stainless-steel table and left me there. The room had a low acoustic-tile ceiling, drab green walls, and a single window, which was clearly a two-way mirror.
I stared at myself in the reflection as I waited, not knowing if anyone was on the other side. Not caring. I’d lost. Too much time had passed and there was nothing I could do about any of it now. Defeat coaxed me to the edge. Give up, it whispered. I could already feel the numbness spreading, deadening all the branches of budding hope in my heart.
It was over. Dad was gone. Whatever happened to me didn’t matter.
As I looked into my own deadpan eyes, one thing sparked the last shred of emotion in me. If Dad was really gone, Castillo had gotten away with it. He’d killed one of the two people I loved most in the world, and kept living his scumbag life, taking advantage of girls and acting like the king of Cuba. I ground my teeth, subtly testing the strength of the chain securing my cuffed wrists.
After nearly an hour of waiting I began to feel like a trapped animal, the urge to thrash and scream nearly boiling to the surface. I thought about Mitch. What would he do if anything happened to me? How would he get home? Would Castillo find him?
The panic crept up the back of my neck until my shoulders locked and tensed. My breath quickened. I had to get out of here.
Just as I was about to call out, the door opened and in walked a distinguished-looking man with thick black hair, salted with white along the sides, and overgrown wiry eyebrows. His small nose and weak chin made his teeth seem more prominent. They were barely covered by full lips ringed by a well-manicured goatee.
Jorge walked behind him, his arm in a sling.
“You messed up my arm, Yuma,” Jorge barked, jabbing his finger over the man’s shoulder.
The officer turned to him in annoyance. “Jorge, wait outside.”
“What? Why?”
The man stared at Jorge until he reluctantly backed out of the room and shut the door.
“Name’s Nefasto,” he said, sitting opposite me.
I didn’t respond, but watched as he ripped a rectangle into a pack of cigarettes and shook one out. He tapped the tip on the tabletop and blew on the end of the filter before pumping it into his mouth then caught me staring at him.
“A superstition from my youth. A friend once told me if you blow on the filter, it will get rid of any stray microscopic synthetic fibers. Apparently, that’s what does the most damage to your lungs.”
“Oh, really,” I said, testing out a shy smile. Playing innocent was my best bet. If I could pull off the apologetic tourist, maybe he’d let me go.
Nefasto extended the pack toward me. “Cigarette, Ms. Kafee?”
My eyes lifted, and I couldn’t hide the surprise in them. “How’d you know my name?”
“You’re American. I have connections and ran your prints. Wasn’t hard.” He smiled, and tossed his pack of cigarettes on the table. “It’s not like this is your first time in a police precinct. Juvenile records are sealed for some, but not all. As always, it’s who you know.”
Okay, so much for playing the innocent tourist. All the impatience, anger, and frustration I’d been bottling up over the last hour escaped out of my careless lips. “You realize your little friend there has been shakin’ down vendors, right?” I said, nodding toward the door Jorge had exited.
Nefasto lit his cigarette, inhaled, and blew a plume of smoke. The carcinogens wreathed his face. “That’s what you say. Words of a juvenile delinquent.” He examined the paperwork he was carrying. “Actually, it says here you’re what, twenty-three? Which means you can do real time in a real jail now, yes? Speaking of which, Jorge claims you were disturbing the peace and when he tried to talk to you...you attacked him, unprompted.”
I rolled my eyes. “Good story. Got any with elves?”
Nefasto smiled and nodded. “Maybe he was exaggerating.”
“You think?”
“I didn’t say that I completely believed him.” His eyes briefly flickered toward the surveillance camera bolted in the corner of the ceiling. “Whatever your perceptions are of Cuba or our government...our police do not tolerate corruption. We’re not perfect, but—”
“Does that mean I can go?” The chains of my handcuffs clinked against the table.
Nefasto jetted smoke from his nostrils and leaned forward. “You still assaulted an officer. But...I may be able to talk Jorge out of pressing charges. If you are straight with me. Why are you here, in my country?”
I blew a stray piece of dark hair out of my face. “I needed a vacation.” I kept a steady gaze and forced my breath into a calm even pattern that didn’t match my racing pulse. Things could get complicated if this cop started digging around.
“There is no record of your entrance, which means you snuck in here or used false identification. Both suggest something more than a vacatio
n.”
“Oh, come on.” I shrugged. “I didn’t feel like going through the hassle of getting it approved and didn’t have the money to go through Europe.”
Nefasto stared at me through the cigarette smoke with watery, hazel eyes. I stared back. I could vaguely hear the big silver watch on his wrist ticking as he bit a fingernail in concentration. His fingertips were yellowed from smoking and matched his discolored teeth.
He leaned in, eyes moving to different parts of my face, like a human CAT scan. He finally flicked ashes onto the floor and shooed them away with his foot. “I suppose what this comes down to is deciding whether you’re telling the truth or whether you’re a very good liar.”
A tall, bald officer poked his shiny head into the room. “Someone has come for the prisoner.”
Nefasto stood, nodding to the bald man to unhook me from the table. I wasn’t sure if that meant he was done with questioning me or they were letting me go, but I bit my tongue and made a silent plea with my mouth to stay shut.
He led me down a brightly lit hallway and opened a large metal door, which gave a loud creak. The precinct lobby was on the other side. Its egg yolk colored walls were chipped and sparsely lit by fluorescent lights that flickered, trying desperately to stay on. Even the wanted posters on a rotted chalkboard looked like they were twenty years old. Nefasto signaled for me to wait in the doorway, but I craned my neck around the corner and immediately spotted Mitch.
He was sitting on a wooden bench against the wall that should have been replaced years ago. Andy must have told him what happened. Otherwise he’d still be waiting in that empty apartment for me to show.
As soon as he saw me and Nefasto, he jumped to his feet. He pulled a finger from his lips, his worried eyes searching mine for answers.
Nefasto scanned the lobby and took a long, hard drag off his cigarette before heading over. “Are you here for Ms. Kafee?”
“Yes sir,” Mitch answered, wiping his hands nervously on his jeans. “I’m her brother.”
Seeing Mitch must have sold my story because Nefasto seemed to relax a bit.
