by Alex Segura
He wiped at his face, then looked at her. She saw the wetness in his eyes, the defeat in his expression, and whatever victory dance she was doing in her head shriveled and died like a plant left on the side of the road.
Her husband didn’t respond. Didn’t say anything. He turned around and walked out. She thought she saw his head shake—a small move, a small sign of displeasure—but she couldn’t be sure. The drinks and drugs flowed back to her brain, like a dam breaking inside her skull, and she felt light-headed and awash in disgust and fear.
“I guess this is how things are now,” she said to herself. She saw Stan or whatever his name was walk out of the bar, waiting just long enough to ensure her husband wouldn’t catch him on the way out.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said, first softly, then louder, trying to push down the tears and keep herself together. Then she realized she was curled into herself, her head on her knees, her body balanced precariously on the rickety stool in this shitty bar in Kendall with nowhere to go that even resembled a home. “You have to understand, you have to forgive me, Pete.”
She would fix this. She would make it right. She just needed a minute. A chance to breathe. Maybe another drink.
IT WAS TOO late to pay Devon Owens a visit, and Kathy didn’t seem interested in discussing the status of their affairs beyond a quick peck on the cheek and a promise to check in tomorrow. Pete looked at his watch: 7:00 p.m. He had enough time to make it back to Westchester.
The drive was quick and uneventful, Miami’s streets sedate in the sky’s fading sunlight. He pulled into the St. Brendan’s parking lot, which was mostly empty, and stepped out of the car. He noticed the cluster of people right away—the cloud of cigarette smoke wafting above them as they paced and chatted outside the entrance to the church’s basement. Pete nodded at a few familiar faces and made his way inside.
The chairs had been set up and the coffee was brewing. The signs—familiar slogans Pete had been reading for years—were hanging on the walls, and the room’s spastic fan was sputtering. “One Week Away Makes One Weak.” “One Day At A Time.” “Easy Does It.” “Let Go And Let God.”
The slogans felt comfortable, even if they bordered on the cheesy. They worked, he thought.
Pete felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Hey, Pete, good to see you.”
It was Jack. Pete’s old sponsor and an ex–Miami cop. They’d lost touch when Pete moved to New York briefly, but reconnected over the last few months. He was a good man, and had basically saved Pete’s life in one way or another a few times.
“Jack,” Pete said. “How’s it going?”
“Not bad,” he said, smiling. “Your timing is impeccable.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, Duane can’t make it tonight, so I’m looking for a speaker,” Jack said. “You game to share?”
Pete winced. He loved Alcoholics Anonymous. The program and its 12 steps had helped him survive not only sobriety, but the tragedies and pitfalls life had thrown at him over the last five years. But he hadn’t been as connected as he usually was over the last few months. Part of it was because he was recovering—physically and mentally—from his brush with death. The bullets Salerno sent into his chest missed his heart by an inch and did plenty of damage. As Kathy liked to bring up routinely, Pete had died. It was a miracle he was still standing, much less working on another case. When he thought about it that way, it made him feel more guilty about not being more diligent with the program. But he wasn’t in the mood to share. Not tonight.
“Ah, I’d love to, but I don’t think I can,” Pete said. “Just not ready.”
Jack frowned.
“No one’s ever ready,” he said. “You know that. Plus, what happened to what I taught you? Never say no if you can say yes to someone in the program. You don’t get anything if you’re not giving back.”
Pete knew he was right, but he also knew he couldn’t hack it. Not tonight.
“Maybe next time,” Pete said. “I’m not up for it.”
Jack was a mellow man—laid back, quick with a joke, low key—but Pete could tell he’d hit a nerve.
“You gotta start living, son,” Jack said, moving over to the central table that was covered by flyers and AA literature. “You didn’t just get a second chance to do the same things you were doing. Don’t think I don’t know how you were up in New York. Hiding from your life down here, going through the motions. Don’t fall back into that routine.”
“I’m not that person anymore,” Pete said, trying to keep his tone neutral.
Jack started organizing the stacks of books, making the display seem more appealing.
“No, you’re not,” Jack said, nodding to himself. “You tell me you’re fine and I should believe you. But I don’t, really. Answer me this, Pete—do you have a sponsor? Are you sponsoring anyone? How many meetings you hitting a week? It’s about putting the stuff that’s eating us up inside out there, so we’re free of it, and I know you’re dealing with it in your own way ... but that hasn’t worked, has it?”
Pete didn’t make a response. He had none.
“Right, okay,” Jack said, clearing his throat. “Here’s another thought, Pete—one that I’ve hesitated to bring up because, well, it’s a foundational thing. It isn’t just about drinking. But it is about living. You got this second chance. This shot at life, at happiness. Did you ever consider that, I dunno, maybe ... this life you’ve chosen is hurting as much as it’s helping?”
“What?”
Jack raised his hands. “Don’t get defensive, not yet,” he said, his kind eyes focused on Pete. “Hear me out. This thing, this injury you suffered—it taught you something. But you still seem to be processing it. You’ve told me before—it’s like a new lease on life. Like you’re awakened for the first time. But you still have to look back. You have to keep your side of the street clean. Take an inventory of your past. Where have you been harmful? Are the things that worked for you then—do they still work for you now?”
“HI, MY NAME’S Pete and I’m an alcoholic.”
He cleared his throat and pushed his water bottle away slightly. He was at a small table, facing a group of about twelve other alcoholics seated in stiff, uncomfortable folding chairs. The group varied from weekly visitors to the wounded faces of those new to the rooms, still reeling from their own bottom, raw and uncertain. These were the most important people in the rooms—the ones who needed to hear his message most. Jack had been right. He owed it to them to do this. And, who knew? It might end up helping him, too.
His story started in the typical way—with some kind of disclaimer about drinking in his family. Every story was different. Some alcoholics had alcoholic parents. Some didn’t drink until they were adults. Some landed in the middle. Pete’s father had not been a drinker, but every now and again, Pete remembered seeing his dad crack open a beer or have a glass of wine. For him it never became a thing. A scene. A memorable drunk.
“My first drink was in a car, with an older friend, it was a Corona and I chugged it …”
The memories cut through Pete’s mind as he spoke, and he felt each word as if it were happening for the first time. The sip of the golden liquid, the repulsive taste and the sense of pressure, of wanting to fit in with the older kids, to be someone who was ready to drink. Like a man. Like an adult.
“It wasn’t until college, though, that I started drinking for real …”
The dirty, burning taste of the cigarette in his mouth for the first time, the wind slapping his face as he and his friends drove down to the Grove. The spectrum of flavors, each beer tasting so different at first, then blending into a sludgy, neutralizing sameness. The exhilarating dizziness of being drunk for the first time. The best time. The laughter that bubbled to the top with no filter, no hesitation. The jokes that landed perfectly.
“But I never drank to have just one …”
The 12-pack he drank over a few hours, sitting with his friends in the college newspaper office. The bac
k-to-back-to-back White Russians that “tasted like a milkshake” at a party later that night. The hazy drive home. The morning after—a brutal, throbbing pain in his skull that seemed to seep down to his toes. The pool of vomit on the floor beside his bed, and an aching, confusing desire to die.
“I’d cover one eye while driving just so I could see straight …”
Nods of understanding. A few mumbled words of agreement from the small crowd. Pete’s story echoing around the church basement.
“I was waking up in strange places, with people I barely knew. I was behaving badly. Treating people badly, people I was supposed to care about …”
Eyes opening with a jolt, body covered in a cold sweat, looking around, trying to piece together the night before through the haze of morning light. An unfamiliar place, an unfamiliar shape next to him. The dry, coppery taste in his mouth. Cuts. Bruises. Shame.
“I hit my bottom on a dirty bathroom floor in a Miami Beach hotel karaoke club …”
Hands on the cold, dirty tile floor. Saliva dripping from his mouth. Vision blurred as he tried to wipe vomit from his shirt. An aching pain in his face. People walking, looking down, moving on. Bad scenery.
“My relapse proved to me that you pick up right where you left off when you go back. It was like nothing had changed. Except it got worse, much worse.”
The first sip, lukewarm vodka in the back room of The Book Bin. The familiar burning in his throat. The sad, empty release as he fell forward into the familiar abyss.
“It was hard to even get drunk anymore. I holed myself up in a motel room with every intention to die there.”
Pete moved to look at his watch but felt his hands shaking. He looked into the eyes of the crowd, trained on him, waiting for the rest of his story. He hadn’t wanted this to turn into a drunkalogue, where he just listed every bad thing he did while drinking—but it had, and that was fine. That was what he needed to share.
Pete tapped the brakes on his story a bit, easing into his life now. His job. His friendships. His routines and habits to help avoid another relapse. It wasn’t perfect. He could go to more meetings. He could work the program better. He could be better. But the process was ongoing, and, as the book said—it was progress, not perfection. He had to keep reminding himself.
“That’s all I’ve got. Thanks for letting me share.”
The applause came, and it felt right—genuine and heartfelt. Pete was grateful for that. He took a long sip from his water bottle and then asked if anyone else wanted to share. A few hands popped up.
“HOW DO YOU feel?”
Jack’s question caught Pete off guard, as he folded one of the chairs and stacked it near the basement’s far wall. The meeting had cleared out and a handful of group members were tidying up. He hadn’t stopped to consider how he felt.
“Good, good, I think.”
“You tapped the vein there. Felt like I was hearing you for the first time.”
“Yeah, it felt ... different,” Pete said. “Cathartic, I guess. I don’t want to get all emotional about it, but it was good to clear out that headspace.”
“You working a case now?” Jack asked.
“Sort of. Trying to locate a woman tied to a murder,” Pete said. “And wondering about another dead body.”
“Oh yeah?”
“So much for retiring to run a bookstore,” Pete said with a dry laugh.
“Sounds nice, huh?” Jack said. “Hope you enjoy the good feeling from the meeting for a bit.”
Pete nodded. He did feel lighter. Like he’d just run a few miles and was still riding an adrenaline high, minus the sweat and ache that came with exercise. But he needed time to himself. As much as he liked Jack, he didn’t want to do a postgame analysis of his deepest, darkest secrets yet.
“Gotta run,” Pete said. “But if you’re open to it, I know a PI who could use a sponsor.”
“Thought you’d never ask,” Jack said with a smile as they shook hands.
“Catch you later,” Pete said as he walked toward the door. He felt the soft vibration of his phone in his pocket as he stepped out of the basement and back into an area where he got reception. He checked his iPhone display: “Call me. ASAP.”
Harras.
Pete jogged up to the first floor and stepped out into the muggy Miami night, the cloud of humidity slapping him in the face as he made his way to his car. He pushed the phone icon by Harras’s name.
“Hey.”
“Was trying to call you,” Harras said, his voice sounding more hoarse and tired than usual. Something was wrong. “Kept going straight to voicemail. You in hiding?”
“Was at a meeting. What’s up?”
“Got a call from one of my contacts on the PD,” Harras said. “Like you asked, I’d been sending feelers out about Salerno.”
Salerno. Pete had done everything he could—once he was able—to try and figure out what the man had wanted. But since then, nothing. He’d disappeared, despite Pete’s best efforts.
“Yeah, and?”
“He’s dead,” Harras said. “They found him last night with two bullets in his skull.”
“YOU DIDN’T SEE these,” Harras said as he slid the folder across the table.
They were seated at Pete’s dining room table. Harras had already been on his way to Pete’s when he called him.
Pete opened the folder and winced at the first photo on the stack. From what was left of the large man’s face, Pete could tell it was Salerno, but it was not a pretty sight. The bullet holes made a gaping cavern on his forehead, above his still-open eyes. His mouth was curled into a confused, disappointed grimace.
“Where’d they find him?”
“Somewhere on Ocean Drive,” Harras said. “My contact said there was some kind of verbal altercation, according to a few wits. Salerno got into it, other guy drew a gun, dropped him, and then hopped into a dark sedan. No prints, no leads.”
“Mob hit?”
“Seems sloppy for a hit,” Harras said. “Almost like whoever took Salerno out knew the guy personally—and knew he was here, in Miami.”
“Why the hell was he here?” Pete said, letting the folder drop back onto the table. “After me?”
“Doubt it,” Harras said, running a hand over his tired face. “When he came to you in New York, he wanted to find out if you had any info on a deal Doug Ferris had scored. He killed the guy’s daughter, right? What’s her name …?”
“Jen,” Pete said.
Saying it out loud took him back to those cold months in New York and the time he’d spent with her. He’d been a chore—an older guy who had no sense of what he wanted out of life, sleeping with a twentysomething stripper who was more together than he’d ever hope to be. Vinnie Salerno had tortured her for info and then put two in her chest, leaving her to bleed out on her kitchen floor. Her only mistake was taking the day off to work on her thesis.
“Right, he couldn’t get any leads, and he thought you were gone, so he moved on. Ended up here.”
“We don’t know what happened in between,” Pete said. “Maybe the deal went down.”
“From what I could dig up, Ferris got a line on a big drug score—a connect with a group of Colombians looking to offload a lot of cocaine somewhere—regularly,” Harras said. “It was a life-changing find, which is the only reason why a made guy like Salerno would risk his mob life to get in on it.”
“So, let’s assume Salerno digs up the intel on the score,” Pete said. “Then what?”
“Odds are, the drugs are coming from here, or—” Harras said. “Or, better put—through here.”
Pete leaned back. He felt himself getting tugged at. Something reaching for him and trying to yank him into a familiar problem. His life was rarely simple, but after a few months of calm, the problems seemed to be sprouting problems of their own: Kathy, Osvaldo Valdez, the Mujica case, and now the return—although he was dead—of Salerno. Pete had just kicked over a hornet’s nest, and he couldn’t find a path that led him to saf
ety.
“Any drugs that come through Miami used to go through Los Enfermos,” Pete said. “But they’re gone, basically.”
“That we know of.”
“Right, right. But assuming they’re still, at best, fragmented,who was playing hall monitor and getting a slice before the drugs went to Salerno?” Pete asked. “And then who was Salerno selling the drugs to? He didn’t have the manpower to distribute—he was on the run.”
“No clue,” Harras said. “But I do know one thing. If Salerno, via Ferris, got his mitts on a ton of drugs, you can guarantee they were meant to go to someone else.”
“And whoever that may be,” Pete said, looking at his old friend, “they’re probably very, very upset.”
“You have a gift for understatement.”
Pete stood up and started pacing from the dining area to his small living room.
“I’m getting too old for this shit,” Pete said, staring out the living room’s main windows, which overlooked the empty residential street that intersected with 87th Avenue.
Harras turned in his chair to respond. “We all are,” he said. “Believe me.”
“Get anything else on Valdez?” Pete asked, changing the subject, trying to clear his mind.
“A few more crime scene photos,” he said. “I sent them over email. Nothing really out of the ordinary.”
The doorbell rang.
Pete looked at his watch. It was close to eleven. He wasn’t expecting anyone.
“I’ll get it,” Harras said, standing up and moving toward the door.
“Wait,” Pete said, stepping toward the door.
Before he could say anything else, the door swung back, a kick sending it almost off its hinges. They saw the barrel of the silencer before they caught a glimpse of the man wielding it, but once Pete did, he knew they were in trouble.
The black mask, the flowing coat and hat were like something out of a pulp novel—but they were also a memory ripped out of Pete’s most haunted moments: The Silent Death. An urban legend responsible for the deaths of many gangland figures, dating back from before Pete was even toying with the idea of being a detective. A mask Pete had removed to uncover his own, long-lost friend—Javier Reyes. Most important, a man Pete had seen die years ago.
