The Starving Years

by Jordan Castillo Price

  “I’m in,” Randy said. “What do you want to know?”

  “That’s the thing,” Tim explained. “You tell us. Something we could…” again, he was ashamed to voice their plan.

  “Use for leverage,” Javier said. “Not that we’d want it to come to that.”

  Randy hesitated. His gaze flicked to Nelson—who, of everyone there, he’d bonded with the most. Nelson gave him a very small nod, as if to say, You won’t regret it, bro. It’s totally worth it.

  He took a deep breath, and said, “Okay. So the first company I worked for, right when I was fresh out of school? Turned out the head of accounting was cooking his books, big time. I should’ve turned him in to the IRS, but I didn’t.”

  That didn’t sound so bad…however, judging by the set of his shoulders, and the way his eyes went shifty, Javier suspected that it must have been worse than he was making it out to be. Without realizing it, he channeled the tone of his father’s voice, and said, “What else?”

  Randy flinched. “I didn’t report it…because I made him pay me off to keep quiet instead.” He looked down at the tabletop. “Dude, my student loan payments were coming due, eight hundred bucks a month and I could barely cover rent.”

  Just as Javier had suspected—if money were involved it was useless to count on Randy’s loyalty. He tried to capture Tim’s gaze and convey as much, but Tim was dead-set on adding the others to his team. He looked at Marianne and said apologetically, “Okay…your turn. What’s your big secret?”

  Marianne went white.

  I knew it. I knew there was something up with her. Javier watched her dash into the bathroom yet again. While part of him felt vindicated for pegging her as being a Canaan loyalist, mostly, he was disappointed. He’d wanted an ally for Tim who was as dedicated as she’d been pretending to be. As vehement. To know that the whole time she’d been merely acting in order to gain his trust…some actor, willing to go to such lengths to convince them. Especially considering the state of her swollen, blistered feet.

  Her swollen feet.

  And her frequent trips to the bathroom.

  Dismay had Javier out of his chair before he’d even realized he was pursuing her. She’d locked the bathroom door behind her, of course, but a lock on a trailer door was hardly better than no lock at all. He pulled a prepaid debit card from his pocket, wiggled it past the strike plate, and popped the lock open.

  Marianne was huddled on the floor in the corner. Her face was pressed against her crossed arms, which rested on her drawn-up knees. Maybe it was better, Javier thought, to not need to see the look on her face. He closed the door gently behind him and locked it again. “How far along are you?” he said—and now he didn’t sound like Alejandro at all.

  “Great. Even the gay guys can tell I’m knocked up.”

  Javier approached, and knelt down beside her. He ran his hand up her arm and squeezed her shoulder, then caressed her copper-colored hair. “No. I would never have let Nelson go on with that ridiculous game of his….”

  She turned her head and regarded him analytically. “You mean that.”

  He lifted the hem of her pants and checked her ankle’s swelling. “Four months?”

  “Five. My feet have never done this before—but after we ran from Tim’s house to Nelson’s, they just blew up.” As she spoke, the words tumbled out faster and faster, because now that she had someone to confide in, the flow of words simply couldn’t be staunched. “I’m not showing yet, I know I’m not. I bought that suit specifically so you couldn’t tell—and now that I’m wearing Nelson’s cargo pants, I could be as big as a house and you’d never—” tears started again and interrupted her, but after a few moments, she snuffled them back and pulled herself together.

  “The father didn’t give the child his mark,” Javier observed.

  Marianne nodded miserably.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You would think that’s the worst part. To destroy my life, to destroy my parents’ life, to destroy the baby’s life, all over his stupid mark. But it’s not like I’m the first girl that this has ever happened to. Whenever things seem like they’re too hard to do, I always tell myself, You can figure this out. Whatever it is. You’ll figure it out. But this mess?” She ground her tears away with the heel of her hand. “What’s sickening about it was everything I didn’t figure out. With the sperm donor—I refuse to call him a father—everything he told me about himself was a lie. Where he worked. Where he grew up. I moved to New York for him and it turns out I didn’t even know his real name.”

  She could terminate the pregnancy, of course. But she hadn’t—and Javier would not have even dreamed of questioning that decision. She could buy a mark, too—but what would that cost in the United States? Probably as much as the cornea transplant that would restore much of his sight—the one Alejandro refused to pay for. Not because he disapproved of Javier’s decision to stop living a lie…but because he was too much of a coward to disobey Felicidad—his wife, Javier’s mother, and the queen of the de la Rosa household.

  Gently, Javier slipped his fingers into Marianne’s hand and coaxed it away from where it was clasping her knees. He took it between both of his hands. It was warm, maybe too warm. Then again, her hormones were surging. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, which hardly seemed adequate.

  “I’ll bet he was married.”

  Nelson’s friend at the morgue came to mind, among other things. “That’s likely.”

  “I think about that, him being married…but then the idea creeps in…what if he wasn’t? What if he still had a mark to give me, and he didn’t, because….” Her chin started to quiver. “Because he didn’t think I was good enough.”

  Javier pulled her against him and put both arms around her, holding her close while she wept, saying nothing. It’s not like I’m the first girl…no, and not the last, either. Javier couldn’t help but imagine Nelson in this very same situation—although Nelson had undoubtedly heard it from the child’s father, and probably more in the form of, “Uh oh, what if my wife finds out?” Nonetheless, Javier felt a pang of envy. How good must it feel, in that one crucial moment, to be the hero rather than the villain? To be the one to fix everything—everything—by sacrificing something so valuable, so irreplaceable, as one’s mark?

  The wetness of Marianne’s tears touched Javier’s chest.

  Holding this worn, battered, destitute stranger, Javier realized he would do it. He would dig deep, deep inside, and find that heroism inside himself. Generosity was not in his nature. Maybe he hadn’t always been selfless enough, big enough, to give something so precious to someone in need—but now, after learning that Nelson had done it without even a second thought, Javier would have found it within himself to grow, to rise to the occasion, and to tell Marianne not to worry, that she could take his mark.

  If only he still had a mark to give.

  Chapter 23

  Nelson was jonesing to get back to cracking the code, but he reminded himself that it was a hell of a lot harder to put together a jigsaw puzzle when half the pieces were missing. Having four people hunting for pieces rather than two would make up for whatever time he was pissing away with the ridiculous hoops Javier was making them jump through.

  Especially Marianne. They’d been in the bathroom for at least fifteen minutes.

  “C’mon,” Randy said. “I told you my big, awful secret—and believe me when I say, that little douchebag deserved it. I probably should’ve asked for more. But the tax man finally got him for not paying Social Security for his household help, and then all his secrets blew wide open once the numbers came out, so I can’t dip into that well again.”

  Nelson could care less about Randy shaking a few grand out of some crooked bookkeeper. What was money, anyway, but a unit of barter? Randy’d kept his silence, which was what he’d promised to do, and he wouldn’t have been able to do it to begin with if the books had been clean. Fair enough.

  He was just about to give Randy a little teaser abou
t the Manna-Lean, when Tim’s stomach made a strangled noise so loud it startled everyone in the room.

  “Uh. Sorry. Guess I should probably eat something.”

  “Just make sure,” Nelson said, “it’s not…you-know-what.”

  “You’re enjoying this,” Randy told Nelson.

  “I take my fun where I can get it.”

  “Park Avenue manna,” Tim said. “How’s that?”

  “I don’t remember you having that fancy-schmantzy stuff in your truck.”

  “I didn’t. I don’t. I’d never pay so much for…it was here. In the upper cabinet.”

  “What flavor?” Randy drawled. “Truffles or caviar?”

  “Eggplant tapenade.”

  “Shit. I was just kidding.”

  Since the last time Nelson had found an opportunity to sample French Cuisine was in grad school (Advanced Palate #506), and since he hadn’t had anything at all to eat since Tim had offered him a bland slab of uncooked rice-flavored manna in the truck, he was struck by a sudden and profound desire to find out exactly what tapenade-flavored manna tasted like. Even if it really was nothing at all like olives, just some food chemist’s weird approximation, as so many flavors of manna were. “I’m game. Slice it up, Tim.”

  Not only did Tim plate the Park Avenue eggplant tapenade, he interspersed it with slices of Park Avenue gruyere, and gave it a zap in the microwave while he whipped up some instant coffee to wash it all down. Nelson treated himself to an extended scrutiny of Tim’s ass while he worked. A decent ass—almost enough to distract him from the nagging urge to get back to sorting out the mechanics of Phase 1. Though the formula had tickled such a special place in Nelson’s imagination, he doubted anyone’s ass could hope to distract him.

  They ate the manna with plastic forks this time, instead of their fingers. Nelson ate quickly, eager to get back to work, and then checked his email on his phone—nothing new from Bobby or Kevin, but no news was good news. More or less.

  “I think I’d rather have more of that rice,” Randy said, once they’d eaten their fill. He’d left several bites untouched, poking them around with his plastic fork. “This tastes weird. Maybe it’s starting to turn.”

  Nelson speared a cube of tapenade manna from Randy’s plate. He rolled it over his tongue and inhaled through his nose. “Nope. It’s supposed to taste that way. Fermented and brined.”

  Randy made an if-you-say-so face. “The cheese is kinda funky, too.”

  “Yeah, that earthy undertone. It’s supposed to taste like it’s been aged.”

  “In the back of the cabinet, maybe. Where no one but Tim could reach it.”

  “Umami’s the hardest taste to get right.”

  “Manna fail. This stuff’s nasty—they can keep their umami.”

  Nelson considered informing Randy that the hint of umami was the only thing that made mushroom-flavored Canaan, his favorite, taste like something more than the packaging and a hint of alfalfa. But the bathroom door opened, and Nelson was far more interested in what had gone down in there.

  Javier and Marianne stepped out, took the plates Tim gave them, and sat down at the table. They were both so quiet and subdued, Nelson almost thought Javier had decided to throw her out on the street once the sun came up—and then Nelson would really need to have it out with him, for sure. But, no. Their body language as they cleaned their plates seemed weary, but easy, like two people who’d shared a burden.

  Whatever “big secret” she’d told him must’ve been a doozy. Nelson almost expected Randy to demand that she air her dirty laundry in front of everyone else, just like he’d been forced to do. He wasn’t the one with zero instinct when it came to women, though, and while he could have made a big stink, he chose to keep his mouth shut.

  Once Javier had eaten, he went into the boss’ office and came out with Tim’s netbook. “Since we’re all in accord,” he said, “the easiest way for me to explain the situation would be to let you hear what I heard. It speaks for itself.”

  He navigated to a file, and sat back with his arms crossed as the netbook’s small speakers hissed to life.

  “Frank Logan? This is Javier de la Rosa from The Daily Gazette calling to verify some information on your charity dinner on Saturday. This phone call is being recorded for reference. May I continue?”

  “All right,” a nasally man’s voice replied. “But the information on Canaan’s website is all up to date. Can’t you just—?”

  “I’ll only take a moment of your time. Is it confirmed that the Mayor will be in attendance?”

  “Well, he…look, let me switch you to my secretary. She’ll have the latest information.”

  “Fine. Thank you.”

  A series of tones sounded before Javier finished unenthusiastically thanking the man. The line rang twice, and then a man picked up and said, “Arthur—shipping.”

  “Is this Mr. Logan’s secretary?”

  “Aw, shit, did he…? Uh, sorry. The last two numbers of her extension are the same as mine, but switched. He transfers a call to me at least every other day—and then half the time the call drops when I send it back over.”

  “Can you give me her direct number? I’m calling from The Daily Gazette and I’d hate to bother Mr. Logan again.”

  A pause. “You’re from The Daily? For real?”

  “That’s right.” Nelson wouldn’t have read anything into the inflection of Javier’s voice if they didn’t know each other. But now, having spent some time together, he could totally picture a look of excruciating caution on his face, a kind of “why on earth are you asking?” expression.

  “Listen,” Arthur said, “you didn’t hear this from me…what is it they say?” The sound quality changed, as if the speaker had ducked into a small, enclosed space. “Oh yeah, off the record.”

  “Sir….”

  “There’s a job fair next week on Eighth Street. Something interesting might happen there. Real interesting.”

  A long pause in which Nelson could imagine Javier hanging up, since Arthur in shipping sounded suspiciously like a paranoid crackpot. Instead, he responded with subdued encouragement. “Go on.”

  “You really wanna know?”

  Nelson quelled a smirk at the thought of Javier being strung along by a guy who was obviously bursting to brag about some dirt he was privy to. “If you think it’s relevant,” Javier said, affecting a tone of boredom rather than frustration. “Otherwise, just give me the number for Logan’s secretary and—”

  “Oh, it’s relevant all right.”

  “Well? What is it, then?”

  “You heard anything about the recall?”

  Keys clattered as if one of them was typing on a computer. “I don’t show anything on a recall.”

  “Right. That’s right. Because no one’s talking about a recall.”

  “But you have knowledge of a recall that’s taken place.”

  “My whole third shift worked overtime last week on orders that came down from corporate—screwed up my whole schedule for the next two weeks, but what do they care? Went out and rotated the stock at twenty, thirty different stores. And not just the short-dated manna.” A dramatic pause. “All of it.”

  “And this is unusual?”

  “Look, pal, would I give two shits if it wasn’t?”

  Javier went on, dry as you please. “So the stock was removed and replaced in a number of stores…did these vendors have anything in common?”

  “You bet your ass they did. All the boroughs are part of my territory. But every single place that got cleaned out and re-stocked was in Manhattan. Only Manhattan.”

  “What does this have to do with the job fair?”

  “You don’t think I been sittin’ here waiting for a reporter to call me out of the blue, do you? I took things into my own hands. Told some people who might do something about it.”

  “Who did you tell, the police?”

  “Police? Ha! What’re they gonna do? Rotating stock ain’t against the law.”


  “Then who—?”

  “Whistle Blower Brigade. That’s who.”

  Spectacular, Nelson thought. The first person who seems to actually know something, and who does he take that information to? A bunch of slime-flinging knuckleheads.

  “In your experience,” Javier asked calmly, “why would an entire batch get recalled? Wouldn’t the product be tested for contaminants before it shipped?”

  “How would I know what they test for?”

  “Mr. Arthur, is it? Would you be willing to meet me at—”

  “Are you kidding? You know how fast they could fire my ass if they knew I was telling anyone about this? I’m set to retire in three more years.”

  “But the stock—wouldn’t it have accumulated in the shops over a period of time? Why arouse suspicion by replacing it all? Why not focus on the particular batch that had an issue? Mr. Arthur? Hello?”

  Javier tapped the netbook’s trackpad and turned off the player. “He’d already hung up.”

  Nelson hardly heard him. The notion of this covert switcheroo taking place had dug its hooks in his brain—and the possible reasons seemed endless. Maybe a competitor had gotten wind of Phase 1, the precursor to Manna-Lean. Maybe they needed to tweak the formula. Maybe, maybe, maybe. He would have loved to make a list just for the sake of seeing how many crazy scenarios he could come up with…but a little voice inside him was insisting that if he could understand how the mechanism worked, he’d have a much better chance of figuring out why they would recall it.

  Randy stared at the netbook, uncharacteristically silent. Marianne just shook her head, and muttered, “Corporate assholes.”

  They drained their coffees and stood up from the table, and Tim ushered them into the big office, where the printer was blinking again, hungry for a fresh ream of paper.

  “You dopes should’ve said something this morning,” Randy said, as they all stared at the hastily arranged stacks of printouts. “Think of how much of this we would’ve already gone through.”