“You’re pregnant?” I said.
She ignored me. Just kept staring at Q. Then she looked down at her belly. Or the place where her belly would be if she had one. “Am I showing?”
“Oh, God, no,” Q said. “You look amazing. Better than ever, actually. I can just tell.” He nodded, appearing very proud of himself, while I looked back and forth between the two of them.
“I didn’t know you were trying to get pregnant,” I said. For some reason, I felt hurt that I didn’t know this about my friend. But it did answer the question of why she’d been so distracted and strange.
“I wasn’t trying to get pregnant.”
“Well, then…why?”
She glared. “It wasn’t planned.”
“Then how did it happen?” Maggie was like a prophet for safe sex. She could pick up on a conversation at the next table at a restaurant and soon be leaning in to give them a helpful lecture about condoms.
She shook her head. “We just weren’t… I can’t explain it, except that I felt somewhere that if it happened, it would just be meant to happen, but I did not expect it to happen.”
“Is that why Bernard moved here?”
She nodded. “It was a hard decision. We’re going to try to have a family together.”
The enormity of it hit me. I started tearing up.
“Oh, Iz.” Maggie leaned forward, put her hand on mine.
I let the tears roll. I was crying for so many things—for all that had happened recently, for Q, who was so happy at this job and who didn’t know he might soon lose it, for Maggie, who was going to be a mom! A beautiful, wonderful, smart and fantastic mom. And she was promising her heart to a man who would guard it happily and completely. And I was crying because this was the end of Maggie and me as we knew it. The end of an era.
I sniffled. Stopped.
Maggie sat back and looked at Q. “I can’t believe you knew.”
“Do you want to know what you’re going to have?”
“You mean like boy or girl?”
He nodded. “I have a hundred percent accuracy, except when it comes to family members.”
“Uh…yeah. No. Yeah.” She shook her head again. “No. I have to start making decisions with Bernard about this.”
“Wow,” I said. “Wow.”
49
José Ramon’s mother glanced at her husband, and they had a conversation with their eyes. It’s time for Vincente to come clean. Yes. He must tell us.
An orange-white light of midmorning streamed through his penthouse windows, as they sat at the dining room table. His mother, who hadn’t prepared her own meals since she was a young girl of ten (before her own father made his money, before she married a man who made even more) had been working for hours to prepare an elaborate Mexican breakfast. The table, now laden with dishes—papaya drizzled with lime juice, corn cakes, chorizo, eggs and tortillas—seemed to be sending the message that a civilized meal (and therefore a civilized conversation) was about to be held. The fact that his mother had not relied on any cooks, had not allowed José to call in his help, either, sent the message that things were also very, very serious and very private.
Now that they were all seated, his father nodded and his mother returned her gaze to Vincente. “You have had a night to sleep, Vincente, to collect yourself. Now, tell us,” she said.
She crossed her arms and sat back in her chair. The message was clear—no more crying. Solamente la verdad—only the truth.
His brother began talking. Clearly he had told this story to himself in his head or to the mirror this morning. “You all know how it went at the beginning,” he said. “We were all consulted on this. At first, it was an investment. I was told about software HeadFirst had created.” He glanced at his parents. “You remember, software is something you use on your computer—”
“Yo comprendo!” his father said in a harsh bark. “I know what it is! What I do not understand is why…” His father stopped himself short, halting what was sure to be a rage-filled tirade. He seemed to have caught himself, with the last shred of respect he had for his youngest son. He nodded at Vincente. “Continue.”
Vincente nodded back, spoke faster. “I was told about the genius of the two developers. The boys from Stanford. I was told about the great influx of cash they had received to develop their product, their staff, their sales and their distribution. I did my due diligence. I did comparables, industry-historical validation, valuation analysis, simulation analysis, everything I learned in school, in business, and from you, Papa.”
His father made no response to that. His brother kept talking.
“I made a measured risk. And it was a risk, sure, but that is how things are done in the United States, especially in the technology business. And we all agreed.” He looked at his mother, who nodded in understanding, acknowledging that they had all consented to the risk.
“You all saw the returns,” Vincente said. “They were small at first, as we’d been told to expect, but then they grew. There was never astronomical growth. Six percent, ten percent, maybe twelve or thirteen percent. Occasionally fifteen, maybe eighteen percent once. And then naturally, there were reports of losses, not much, but it all seemed very appropriate for this type of business. There was never anything to lead me to think it was some kind of Ponzi scheme like so many idiot Americans have fallen for. I still don’t believe that was true.”
His father opened his mouth, and as the family was highly attuned to his behavior, they all looked at him. But he caught himself this time before a shout erupted from his throat.
“The returns weren’t thirty percent or some such!” Vincente said defensively. “We weren’t overpromised. Eventually, because it was a good investment, a fourth of our money was in HeadFirst, and I felt good with it there. You all did, too.”
Vincente looked pointedly at him, and José couldn’t help but nod. He had to admit that his brother had consulted him at one point, wanting to increase the amount of the family’s money they were putting into U.S. businesses in order to hide the source of those funds. And he had agreed. But he wasn’t the expert. That’s what Vincente claimed to be. A venture capitalist, he called himself. A manager of wealth.
Just thinking of Vincente’s arrogance made him wish he could take back the nod. He scowled at his brother now.
“And the growth continued,” Vincente said. “Just like I’d hoped, like I’d expected. Returns of ten percent, twelve percent, fifteen percent and then sure, like any investment, an occasional loss of two percent or three, but then another fifteen percent gain. All in all, it was the best performing investment we had made. And so eventually we had a third of our money in one company. And then soon one half.”
His father spoke for the first time. “Nearly one hundred million, is that right, Vincente? I simply want to make certain I understand completely. I want to make sure that now you are telling me la verdad.” His father’s voice wasn’t raised anymore, but they both knew the tone.
Vincente choked on something, maybe another rising sob. He nodded.
“What happened then?” his mother said.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” his father said in the same tone. It was the tone José recognized as the one that preceded some of the worst things Vincente and José had seen when they visited Mexico. Things his father made them see so that they understood that yes, they were his sons, but they could suffer the same fate.
A shiver, like a slick, silver snake, ran through José’s body, but he didn’t let it show itself. His body always reacted the same way when he thought of the beheadings, of men hung upside down from trees, their necks mere stumps. His father had relished living in sleepy Xalapa and the fact that no one suspected it as part of the drug trade. But the truth was, Xalapa sat right in the middle of drug-smuggling routes that ran north from Guatemala. All his father had to do, decades ago after he married a businessman’s daughter, was intercept the traffic and start a small traveler’s tax. His business had grown, and he quic
kly outgrew the colonial reaches of his father-in-law’s mind frame. He realized that connections in the U.S., whether legal or financial, were prized. It was why he sent his own children to be raised in the U.S. Yet he always reminded them when they returned that he was the boss, and crossing him meant a certain fate. His sons had learned much in the U.S., had brought the family much legit money by funneling it through regular investments and moving their trade into the U.S., but it allowed them to view ruthless violence somewhat differently than their relatives had, especially Vincente. Since he was the businessman, he left the dirty work to José, who didn’t mind it at all. Or who hired someone like Freddie to do it. But demonstrative violence—headless bodies hung out for all to see—wasn’t in José’s playbook. He didn’t have the taste for it the way their father did.
His mother knew that tone of her husband’s well. She feared him also, but not quite as much as her sons did. She shook her head at her husband and nodded for her youngest to continue.
“Once we had half of our money with them, it was the same as when we first invested. But our other investments were not doing as well,” Vincente said. “This was the beginning of the economic crash, although no one saw it coming.”
His father glared and Vincente glared back. “No one!” Vincente said defiantly. “I shifted more money into the company. Those other investments kept losing. Even though our input into those was relatively small—ten million here, eighteen million there, thirty million in another one—when they began to get hit harder and harder, I looked to HeadFirst to withdraw some of our funds. I wanted to cover the other losses, and reclaim some liquidity.”
The room was silent. José knew that despite his father’s rage at the situation, he was just as curious to understand how it had all gone wrong.
“Papa,” Vincente said, looking at their father, “you told me that no matter what I learned in business school, I had to always remember to keep the family’s money—the original money we made on anything—safe.”
His father granted him a solemn nod.
“So I asked to withdraw certain funds from HeadFirst. They started paying me, and all was well. But then they missed payments, or could only pay half of them. There were many excuses. Then they said they actually needed some more funding to help launch a new version of their product that they were going to reveal in a few months. I was scared at that point.”
His father, who hated fear although he expected it from everyone around him, straightened his spine.
“If I am honest with myself,” Vincente continued, his words almost tumbling over one another, “I had an inkling that something was wrong. But I couldn’t know for sure, and I was desperate to stay the course, and—”
José’s disgust for his brother flamed so high then he couldn’t contain himself. “You were desperate to keep your star status as the money manager of the family. You didn’t want us to think badly of you. So instead of bringing us in, you took us all down without asking.”
Vincente looked near tears again, but he collected himself. “Yes. What you say is true. I have been weak. And I have stained the family because of it.”
50
When I left the office to meet Vaughn, it was snowing outside. For some reason, the first snowfall in Chicago tends to freak people out, leave them running for cabs. Later, we will all barely notice the snow, so inured to it we become. But that week, on the Monday after Thanksgiving weekend, with one of the first snows dumping hearty, wet flakes, there were no cabs to be had.
Still, I had time to get to the Billy Goat to meet Vaughn. And it was within walking distance.
Twenty minutes later, I was shaking the snow from my curls and walking down the steps under Michigan Avenue into a cavelike bar called the Billy Goat. The place used to be known for newsmen taking a break from the beat. Now it was a lot of tourists and a lot of regulars. Which made me realize Vaughn was probably a regular.
“What can I get you to drink?” the bartender asked.
“Umm…” I glanced at the wine list in my hand, which might as well have read Wines: White or Red. I flipped the menu over then looked on the back at the beer menu, which listed about forty varieties, draft and bottle.
Vaughn slipped onto a bar stool next to me with a “Hey, how are ya?” said mostly under his breath.
As he shed his jacket, I glanced at his waist. Yep, he was carrying a gun. It occurred to me that I’d never had cocktails with an armed person before.
“What are you having?” I asked Vaughn, not exactly sure how this was supposed to go.
Vaughn looked at the bartender. “I’ll have soda with bitters and two limes.”
I frowned at him. “Does that drink have alcohol in it?”
He shook his head.
“How are we supposed to ‘get over our differences’ without both of us ingesting alcohol?”
I ordered a can of Old Style, just to give him an implied dig—I’m more of a man than you are.
At that, one side of his mouth lifted. And stayed there.
“Do you know,” I said to him, “that you’re smiling with just the left side of your mouth?”
His lips dropped back to midline. “Sorry,” he said. He took a slug of the water already on the bar. “Sorry.”
“What are you sorry about?”
“I’m trying not to drink as much. And I’m trying to smile more.”
We sat in a pocket of silence. I thought of Q saying he had a crush on Vaughn. I’d laughed when he said it, but now, looking at Vaughn without the usual haze of hatred, I could see what Q meant. He looked to be lightly muscled under his button-down shirt and jacket. And although he was almost always wearing a sullen expression, it sat well on his square-jawed face, made his brown eyes appear brooding.
The bartender came back and delivered our drinks. Vaughn grimaced at his, then lifted it and handed it back to her. “Can you dump half of this and add Grey Goose?” He stayed silent until the bartender returned with the drink.
“Did you know she was Hispanic?” Vaughn said then.
“The bartender?”
“The victim.”
“You mean Kim.” My heart tanked again at the reminder. “Kim Parkway,” I said, as if by stating her name aloud I could somehow bring her back.
“Her name wasn’t Parkway. It was Padilla- Rodriguez.”
“Really?” I took a sip. Cold beer on a cold day. Really not a bad thing.
“Yeah, she was kinda fair-skinned, but she was Hispanic all right. Grew up in Pilsen and everything. She was a tough kid. Arrested a bunch of times in high school. Twice for battery—she beat the shit out of her boyfriend. Couple of times for PCS.”
“Possession of a controlled substance.”
“And in her case it was with intent to sell two out of three times.”
For some reason, I wanted to defend Kim, who couldn’t do it for herself anymore. “But people do dumb things during high school.”
“The last PCS was a year and a half ago. She almost landed herself some jail time with that one, but some doctor bailed her out and paid a lot to get her a good lawyer.”
“A year and a half ago?” I was stunned. “What kind of drugs?”
“Coke mostly.”
“Cocaine? Kim? I didn’t see that coming.”
“Yeah, well, believe it. I asked around and apparently that girl had a good business going for a while. Turns out she’s a big seller on the Northside. You know, for the moms and professionals who want to do drugs sometimes but don’t want it to be seedy.” Vaughn laughed. Or something approximating that. “They want to deal with someone like them. So Ms. Padilla-Rodriguez has been selling for years and doing well for herself.”
I thought about the day I met her. “When people came to her place that day, they were really, really happy to see her. But that doesn’t mean anything.”
“Yes, it does. They were probably on a tweak mission.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re on a tweak mission wh
en you’re out and looking to score some coke.” Vaughn took a few long sips of his drink.
I told Vaughn about the party—of the different people pulling Kim into different rooms, everyone happy and talkative, Kim coming out of one of those rooms with her eyes very wide.
“Yeah,” Vaughn said. “She was chalked up.”
“Huh?”
“She was high.”
“If that’s what was going on, I can’t believe I was so clueless.”
“Hey, don’t beat yourself up. If you’re not into drugs, you wouldn’t notice things like that.”
“Still…” Since I’d started working for Maggie and spending much of my time at 26th and Cal, I considered myself somewhat wise in the ways of the world. Apparently, I had a ways to go. “So who was her source?” At least I knew the right questions to ask now.
“We’re trying to figure that out.”
I felt a surge of sadness for Kim, then regret. Because I’d liked her. A lot. And no, I wasn’t a drug kind of girl. I really didn’t get it, to be honest. But clearly a lot of people did get the drug thing.
“The fact that she was a dealer—that figures into her murder, doesn’t it?” I asked.
“Hell yeah,” Vaughn said. “When a regular person is killed, first place you look is at their spouse. But when a dealer dies, we go looking for where they got it. Could be she was behind on payments. Not paying your source is an excellent way to get yourself picked off.”
“But that still doesn’t explain why she was in my apartment. Unless maybe she was looking for money.”
“Could be. You said nothing was gone, though, right?”
“Maybe she’d just started looking.”
“Maybe.”
“Or maybe someone came to kill her and she ran to my apartment to get away from them.”
“Possible.”
I growled with frustration. “Could you say something other than ‘could be,’ ‘maybe’ or ‘possible’?”
“Hey,” he said, his voice irritated, his face snarly. “You defense lawyers are the ones who want me to be this way. You don’t want me to pick a theory and stick to it. Nooooooo.”
Question of Trust Page 18
