Where’s the filthy whore?
‘It was Thompson, he did all the talking—and everything else. He kicked my mother. I’ll never forget the way she cried out. Then he saw me. I can still feel the way my bowels turned to water as he looked at me. I was sixteen years old, skinny, like you’d expect when you’re always hungry. He must have been almost as old as I am now, but he was big and grizzled, his hair tied back in a greasy ponytail. He looked like you couldn’t do anything to him that hadn’t been done a hundred times before.
‘He grabbed me by the neck and lifted me until my toes were almost off the floor, slammed me into the wall. He pushed his face into mine, the smell of cigarettes and whisky making me retch.’
Looks like somebody fucked your sister before you got to her, eh?
‘He banged my head into the wall again, then saw the closed door to Margarita’s room. He threw me aside like I was a rag doll. My mother was still on the floor, crying, the other man standing over her. Thompson went into Margarita’s room and dragged her out. I’ll always remember the dignity in her face, the way she didn’t cry or scream, allowed herself to be pulled into the kitchen.
‘He bent her backwards over the kitchen table, raised his massive fist over her stomach, still she didn’t make a sound. My mother was going crazy, I don’t know why her screams didn’t bring the neighbors running. I couldn’t move. Margarita was looking straight at me. I knew what she was thinking: please Jesús, don’t do anything stupid. I couldn’t have moved if I wanted to. Then Thompson was talking to her, his voice low, the voice of evil.’
I could do it now. One punch and your bastard’s dead. Then where’s your clever little plan?
‘He reached into his pocket. I didn’t know if he was going for a knife or a gun. Margarita was crying. Then he came out with a handful of money.’
But I’m not going to dirty my hands. You take this money and go back to the slum you came from, and you get your fucking witch doctor to get rid of it.
‘He pulled up her dress. I saw her white cotton panties and I knew then what he was going to do. He was going to stick the roll of money inside her. I looked around and saw a bottle of olive oil on the counter. Thompson had his back to me now, he was struggling with Margarita, she also knew what he wanted to do. My mother was on her knees and the other man had turned to knock her down again. I picked up the bottle and hit Thompson on the back of the head with every ounce of strength I had ...’
Narvaez stopped and downed his drink, picked up the bottle. Evan breathed again, his heart pumping as if he was back in Narvaez’s kitchen in 1965. Narvaez smiled.
‘Real life’s not like the movies you know. Thompson didn’t even yelp, just stood up straight and let go of Margarita. He turned towards me, touched the back of his head and smiled. I still see that smile sometimes. I stood there, not knowing what to do, knowing I’d had my chance and I wouldn’t get another one.’
If you’re going to hit somebody, sonny, you better make sure you hit ‘em good and proper, so they don’t get up again.
‘He snatched the bottle out of my hand, grabbed it by the neck and smashed it against the edge of the kitchen counter. Then he clamped his massive fingers around my neck again, held my head against the wall ...’
Evan closed his eyes, wishing he could stop the images that flooded his mind.
‘Now you know why I answer the door wearing a pair of dark glasses.’
***
‘WHAT DO YOU THINK of the people you’re working for now?’
It wasn’t a valid question, a fair question. Narvaez was waiting for an answer.
‘It had nothing to do with Frank Hanna—’
‘Like father, like son.’
Evan shook his head, aware that he had no idea what kind of man Frank Hanna really was, whether he had simply been a young man terrified of the prospect of Vietnam, or whether he had some idea of what his father had put in motion. One thing was for sure, he needed to find an answer to that question before he could continue working for him.
That didn’t mean he had to agree with Narvaez.
‘He didn’t know what his father did.’
Narvaez gave him a disbelieving look.
‘You know that do you? You know what happened twenty years before you were born.’
‘You must know what it was like to have the threat of Vietnam hanging over you every minute.’
Narvaez shook his head.
‘No. We were illegals back then’—he put seventy years’ worth of bitterness into the word—‘and not even the U.S. Government, not even LBJ himself, could send people who didn’t exist to Vietnam.’
There was no point arguing the past. The only chance Evan had of getting Narvaez to help him was to concentrate on the present, the future.
‘He wants to put things right.’
It was a poor choice of words. Too late, Narvaez was on it in a flash.
‘Put things right?’ He pointed at his eye. ‘How will he put this right? Put right how I felt as a young man when I saw pretty girls turn away from me, a look of horror on their faces. Or worse, pity. Can you imagine what that feels like?’
Evan held up his hands.
‘I meant he wants to make amends.’
Narvaez’ lip curled, his nose twisted, his whole face a picture of disgust.
‘Make amends? You mean a rich old man with more money than he knows what to do with wants to spend some of it easing his conscience. What is he, terminally ill? Hopes to buy absolution, to wash his soul clean before he meets his maker?’
‘I have no idea—’
‘I know, I know, you’re just the messenger boy. Well, you can give him this message ...’
Something passed behind his eyes, put a sparkle in the good one.
‘Wait there.’
The old man left the room and went upstairs. Evan heard him rooting around in the bedroom above his head, drawers being pulled out, the contents dumped on the floor. Whatever it was he was looking for, he hadn’t had it any time recently.
He got the feeling it wasn’t going to be anything that would help. There was something else nagging at the back of his mind. Everything Narvaez said had been to do with himself, with his disfigurement.
His thoughts were interrupted as Narvaez came back down, his breath ragged, looking triumphant, his good eye shining. He tossed something into Evan’s lap.
‘Tell Hanna we didn’t want his money back then, we don’t want it now.’
Evan looked down at the roll of banknotes and felt a small surge of hope at Narvaez’ words. Was the way he said we don’t want it significant? Or was he attaching too much significance to the emphasis on the word we, spoken by a man whose first language was not English.
‘Why did you keep it?’
Narvaez snorted.
‘My father wanted to burn it, my mother said it was cursed. Back then, I had other plans for it.’
He was back in 1965 again, a young man with his face ruined, a roll of toxic banknotes in his hand.
‘My plan was to find Thompson and choke him with it, stuff it down his throat and watch him die.’ He shrugged. ‘It didn’t turn out that way. I ... I had to go away for a time. When I came back, I learned that Thompson was already dead. Somebody had beaten me to it. An occupational hazard in his line of work, I suppose.’
Evan picked up the roll of notes. The rubber band holding them together crumbled almost to dust after fifty years hidden amongst the socks and underwear in Narvaez’ drawer.
‘I’m not giving this to Hanna.’
‘Do what you like with it.’
Evan thought about simply putting it on the table and leaving it there. But Narvaez wanted to make a gesture, feel good about himself in some small, far-too-late-to-matter way. He would take the money. He wouldn’t give it to Hanna, he’d find a church and put it in the poor box. Was it even legal after fifty years?
Apart from that, he got the impression Narvaez would bounce it off the back of his head as he walked
down the path if he didn’t take it.
He put it in his pocket, got up to go. He saw from Narvaez’ expression that he knew exactly what he was going to do.
‘I know you won’t give it to him. But you make sure you tell him my story. It doesn’t matter if he knew at the time or not, I want him to know now the sort of man his father was.’
Hanna’s words came back to Evan then.
May he rot in hell.
Did it mean he knew exactly the sort of man his father had been? It wasn’t a thought he wanted to share with Narvaez. He took a business card out and put it on the table.
‘He’s trying to do the right thing here. I’ll leave a card in case you have a change of heart.’
‘It’s not going to happen.’
‘You’re a Catholic, aren’t you?’
‘So what.’
‘I thought you believed in forgiveness.’
Narvaez laughed.
‘I’ll leave that for the priests. I’ll be going downstairs when I go’—he jabbed his finger at the floor as he said it—‘so it won’t make any difference anyway. Now get the hell out of my house.’
***
EVAN GOT THE HELL out of his house. He needed to get some air, to breathe. He wanted to shout, to scream, laugh like a maniac off his meds, anything to take his mind off Narvaez’ story—the story he’d take with him to his grave, because it wouldn’t achieve a single thing telling Hanna.
Narvaez felt better for it, Hanna would stay oblivious, and Evan would take the weight. He called Guillory. The phone rang and he cut the call. He couldn’t put that shit on her. He had to find some way of learning the truth about whether Frank Hanna knew or not without actually telling him.
He couldn’t make up his mind what he’d achieved. Narvaez had continually referred to we. At the same time, all mention of making amends had been directed at himself, never once about Margarita.
He closed his eyes and thought back to his conversation with Hanna about what his father had done.
‘He sent some people to see her.’
‘Some people?’
‘You don’t need to know.’
Wouldn’t a person who knew nothing say exactly that, rather than You don’t need to know. He got out his phone and called Hanna, told him he needed to see him immediately.
Hanna met him in a small park a few blocks down from his office. They sat side by side on a bench and watched a man throw a ball for his dog. Evan wouldn’t have minded changing places with the dog, run off some of the nervous energy buzzing through him.
‘Did you know Margarita’s got a twin brother?’
‘Yes, although I never met him.’
‘Why was that?’
Hanna turned sideways towards Evan, rested his arm on the back of the bench.
‘I told you, I never met any of her family.’
He paused and Evan got the same feeling he had with Narvaez—he was back in 1965, a lifetime ago.
‘Margarita told me her brother had a problem with me. Not me personally, but in principle, with the idea of his sister dating an Anglo. And that was before she got pregnant.’
‘Do you know anything about him?’
‘No. Why?’ He was suddenly alert. ‘Have you spoken to him?’
‘I’ve just left him—’
‘Did he tell you where Margarita is?’
Evan couldn’t hold back the strangled laugh that slipped out.
‘What?’
‘He wouldn’t give you the time of day. Even if I find an heir, you’re never going to make it onto Uncle Jesús’ Christmas card list.’
Hanna was silent a moment.
‘It’s understandable. I got his sister pregnant and left her to it.’
Yes, but do you know the rest of it?
‘Tell me again what your father’s men did.’
Evan hoped the abrupt, direct nature of the question would be a shock, catch him unawares. He wasn’t disappointed. Hanna tried to get his words out, failed.
‘You told me I don’t need to know. That sort of implies you do know.’
‘It’s ... it’s just a manner of speaking, you’re reading too much into it. I—’
The dog that had been chasing the ball had become bored with the game and bounded towards them to investigate. It jumped up and put its muddy front paws on the pants’ leg of Hanna’s three-thousand-dollar suit. Hanna jumped up and tried to brush the mud off, just made it worse. The dog thought he wanted to play, tried jumping up again. Evan grabbed hold of its collar as the owner jogged across. He took the collar from Evan, made his apologies. Hanna waved it off, said it was no problem. He even ruffled the dog’s ears, no hard feelings.
He was making too much of a meal of it, trying to buy some time while he recovered from the surprise of Evan’s question.
‘I honestly don’t know what happened.’
‘Did you know a man called Thompson?’
Hanna nodded, his face expressionless.
‘I know he was one of the men my father sent.’
‘What do you know about him?’
‘Nothing. Other than he worked for my father. Why, what has Margarita’s brother been saying?’
A picture of Narvaez’ glass eye and the network of scars surrounding it flashed across Evan’s mind and his stomach turned over as he imagined the scene in that kitchen fifty years ago. Narvaez’ words echoed in his mind:
I want him to know the sort of man his father was.
What good would it do?
‘He mentioned the name, that’s all.’
Now Hanna was looking at him like he didn’t believe him. Maybe he saw something in Evan’s face, an involuntary twist of the mouth perhaps. They were both still standing, even after the dog’s owner had clipped on the leash and led it away, still barking excitedly. Hanna sat down first, wiped at the mud on his pants leg again. Evan sat next to him, thinking he’d have to throw them away or use them for polishing the Bentley.
It was no good. He hadn’t learned a thing. He would never be able to tell how much Hanna knew.
Did it really matter after all?
‘I don’t know what the brother told you,’ Hanna said, resting his hand on Evan’s arm, ‘and I don’t want to know. I hope it wasn’t too awful. Whatever it was, please don’t give up on this. The whole reason I asked you to do this is because I’m hoping it wasn’t anything too bad, hoping Margarita had the baby.’
How the hell could he say no after that?
Evan dug around in his pocket and found the note that had been left tucked under his wiper blade, careful not to pull Narvaez’ wad of cash out with it. He smoothed it out and handed it to Hanna.
‘Do you know if that’s McIntyre’s handwriting?’
Hanna took a pair of reading glasses out of his top pocket and studied it, shook his head slowly.
‘I’d say not. I’m not sure about the handwriting, but whoever wrote that isn’t an educated man. You was so lucky. It wont last. McIntyre’s an intelligent man, he’d never write that.’
Evan took it back and read it again. He hadn’t noticed the poor grammar or the spelling mistake. No doubt due to the shock of finding it there in the first place.
‘He’d say you were so lucky, and he’d put the apostrophe in won’t. What’s it mean?’
Evan shook his head, glad that he didn’t have to tell Hanna any more lies, however well-intentioned.
‘I have no idea. I found it tucked under my windshield wiper.’
He didn’t need to tell Hanna that just because he didn’t know what it meant, it didn’t mean he didn’t know who it was from. If it wasn’t McIntyre that only left one person. Hendricks’ army buddy, Floyd Gray. A man who spent an extra three years in prison because he liked to hold a grudge—and follow through on it.
And he didn’t tell him the words and their meaning were irrelevant. It was the medium that was important, that was the harbinger of worse things to come. The game had changed. No more emails and texts, sent from who k
nows where. This was a hand-written note, delivered in person.
Floyd Gray was somewhere close, watching him.
Chapter 11
EVAN HAD LEARNED ONE thing at least from Narvaez. Margarita hadn’t been born in the U.S. because Narvaez had said: We were illegals back then. Most likely they were born in Mexico. The implication in his words was that at some point after 1965 they had acquired U.S. Citizenship, most likely through one of the immigration amnesties.
That at least meant that he could eliminate the births avenue of investigation when he visited the BDM section of the Register-Recorder’s Office. Before he did that he needed to change cars. The Corvette was far too conspicuous in general, and Floyd Gray in particular knew he was driving it. He was also making things easier for Hugh McIntyre if it turned out Hanna wasn’t being paranoid.
When he got to his sister’s, he was pleased to see his brother-in-law’s car wasn’t in the driveway. Even though Mitch had moved out for a trial separation, he still came back to the house occasionally to collect something or the other. They hadn’t seen each other since Evan reluctantly investigated his infidelity on his sister’s behalf. If and when they did meet again, it wouldn’t take much for things to get out of hand.
‘I thought you were joking,’ Charlotte said when she opened the door and saw the Corvette on the driveway. ‘Why didn’t you buy yourself a nice sensible little car? You’ll kill yourself in that.’
Anyone would think she was his mother, not his younger sister. Despite her words, she couldn’t stop herself putting on her shoes and coming out to take a better look. Max, her two-year-old Border Collie, came bounding from somewhere behind her and jumped up excitedly at Evan, as he always did. Evan had that effect on dogs. He rubbed Max’s ears and grabbed hold of his collar to stop him from raising his leg at one of the Corvette’s wheels.
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