by Kyra Davis
“You a Mets fan?”
He’s talking to me. That was my intent, to give him an opening to start a conversation, but to hear his voice, to know that he’s looking at me . . .
I gather my courage and turn on my stool so that I’m angled toward him. Again I manage a smile. “Always have been. You?”
“I’m a Yankees man,” White says as my beer is placed in front of me. “Hope you’ll forgive me for it.” He puts down some money for my beer, which the bartender quickly takes and makes himself scarce.
“There are greater sins than being a Yankees fan,” I say sweetly.
White smiles and offers me his hand. “I’m Sean.”
“Bell.” I press my palm against his. This is the hand that handcuffed my mother. This is the hand that dragged her away.
“Belle, I like that.” Not so much as a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. He lifts his glass, gulping his beer while he tastes the name. “That’s French, right?” he asks. “Means beauty?”
“It’s Latin, short for Bellona. It means war.”
“War? Who names their kid after war?”
“I’m oversimplifying,” I admit as I sip the froth off my Guinness. “It actually means goddess of war, which is essentially the same thing.” I shrug, smile. “If you don’t like it, blame my mother.”
White chuckles, and lifts his drink in tribute. “I won’t be too hard on her, seeing that she gave us all something pretty to look at when she made you.”
“You’re sweet.” I lean in a little more, my hatred warming me, giving me strength, making me reckless. “You look kind of familiar. Have we met?”
“I would’ve remembered.”
“Are you sure?” I cock my head to the side. “I would have sworn.”
“Maybe from here?”
I shake my head no. “This is my first time here.”
“Just as well,” he says, leaning over conspiratorially. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but they used to have a rat problem.”
“Ew, you’re kidding!” In the background the music changes from pop to something a little harder, a little darker.
“Yeah,” he chuckles. “The owner is a pal of mine and he has a real phobia about rodents too. I mean the guy is always imagining little sounds or evidence of evil rats and mice hiding inside the walls or around the corner, so when he actually saw a live rat right here in the men’s room after closing time he actually pissed his pants! I’m serious, I was sitting right at this bar waiting for him. He ran out of the bathroom, smelling like piss, and he was crying and shaking like a little girl!” Sean says, barely getting the words out through his laughter.
I manage a quiet laugh as well and shake my head. White may have aged since I last saw him, but he still has the emotional maturity of a frat boy. “I assume he took care of the problem.”
“Oh yeah, there’s not a live rat anywhere near here. He closed the place down for a week for personal reasons,” he says, placing air quotation marks around the last two words. “He scattered those rat bait chunks everywhere then had the place completely scrubbed down. He still has a bunch of bait around the Dumpster out back. He probably killed a few stray cats and dogs while he was at it, maybe a Dumpster-diving bum or two.” Again, White laughs. “He’s a good guy, but nuts. Still, if you have a fear of rats you’re at the right place at the right time. I doubt there’s a live rat within five miles of this bar now.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” I toy with the edges of my cocktail napkin. “Rats are pretty resilient. They find ways to live in the shadows, avoiding traps. Just when you think you’ve gotten rid of them”—I throw my hands up, smile—“they surprise you.”
“Trust me.” He pats my shoulder, letting his fingers linger on the place where my shirt exposes my skin. “There are no rats here.”
“Mmm.” I lift my glass to my lips. “How did we get onto this subject anyway? Oh yes, I was saying you look familiar . . . quite a detour there. Tell me, Sean.” I take a moment to enjoy the taste of burned barley on my tongue. “What do you do?”
“A little this, a little that,” he says, glancing down at his phone.
“Come now, what kind of this?” I replace my glass, rest my arm on the bar, and let my hair fall over my shoulder. “And what kind of that?”
“I work for a bank.”
“Oh! Well, maybe that’s how I know you! Maybe you work for my bank!”
“It’s possible.” White drinks more; his beer’s almost gone. “But it wouldn’t really matter. I work behind the scenes.” He lowers his voice and raises his eyebrows. “High-level security stuff.”
“Oh,” I say, immediately putting on a disinterested face. “You mean you’re an armed guard or something? In charge of getting the money on the trucks? Well, I guess we all have to make a living.”
“No, no, I don’t deal with any of that shit,” White says quickly. “I’m up there with the big boys. Helping the law crack down on fraud, catching money launderers, the works.”
“Wow, money laundering? Does that come up a lot at a bank?”
“You got no idea. But I’m good at my job. I got it under control.”
“I bet you do.” I tap my finger against his empty pint. “I think you need another drink. And this one’s on me.”
“I can’t let a chick pay for the drinks,” he says, shaking his head. “Not how I was raised.”
“But I want to pay.” I put my hand on his knee. “Every once in a while I like to indulge in a little role reversal. Just to mix things up.”
He smiles, clearly encouraged by my audacity. “I do like a girl who can mix things up.”
As he waves over the bartender I gently remove my hand and wipe it off on my jeans.
It goes on like that for a little while, with me peppering him with light questions, distracting him with the occasional batting of the eyelashes. He orders a plate of buffalo wings and I make sure his glass is never, ever empty. Every few minutes or so he checks his phone.
“Are you waiting for a call?” I finally ask.
“Yeah, I’m meeting someone here . . . not a chick,” he says quickly, in case I was worried. “Just a guy who I referred to the bank.”
“A guy who you referred to the bank?” I repeat, not understanding.
“Yeah, it’s not really in my job description, but if I know someone who has some serious money to invest, sometimes I’ll nudge them over to my bank. You know, explain why the bank I work for is the best choice. The money guys at the bank love me for it. But this guy, he’s still a bit on the fence, so I was gonna nudge him some more.” He looks me over again, his eyes becoming increasingly daring. “You know,” he says, his words only slightly slurred, “I’m not usually into Latinas. But you’re different.”
“I am,” I agree.
“I have learned to speak a little Spanish over the last few years. You speak Spanish, right?”
“I do.”
“Tell you what, after we get out of here why don’t we practice our Spanish, because I’m thinking”—he leans over, the beer heavy on his breath—“I’m in the mood for Mexican tonight.”
“Mmm.” I chew gently on my lip. “You know, you really do seem familiar to me. Our paths must have crossed somewhere. Tell me, how did you end up in money laundering—”
“Anti–money laundering.” He reaches for a buffalo wing, his fingers already stained red . . .
Red blood on my mother’s pink shirt, on her knees crying as Detective White stands over her, jeering, insulting her with sexually suggestive taunts in front of her ten-year-old daughter.
“Yes, yes, of course,” I say, tucking the memory away. “How did you end up doing that? What did you do before?”
“I was a cop. Bullshit job. Doesn’t pay shit. But, turns out I closed the right case. I put away some bitch who offed a bank executive and people noticed. The bank was impressed and grateful, one thing led to another, and”—he spreads open his hands—“here I am.”
“Lucky you! And of course
, you’re sure you got the right person?”
Again he shrugs. “She got convicted by a jury.”
“And juries . . . well, they usually get it right, don’t they?”
“Sometimes they do,” he says, grabbing the last buffalo wing with one hand, his beer in the other. “Sometimes they don’t. But it’s not a cop’s job to worry about that. A smart cop knows that his one and only job is to bring cases to a close as quickly and efficiently as possible and to give the DA what he needs to make a conviction.”
“But you do worry about a suspect’s actual guilt or innocence, right?”
“Yeah, course,” he says, suddenly looking bored with the conversation.
“Tell me.” This time I let my hand run up and down his inner thigh. “Tell me about this career-making case! It sounds like something out of a movie with you as the hero, solving the mystery, catching the bad guy and everything!”
“Not much of a mystery.” White laughs, and it’s an ugly, drunken sound. “The shooter was a real piece of work. She was one of those anchor babies, you know? Born here, raised in Mexico? And then she comes back here, bad English, no skills, just making her living scrubbing brown floors and sucking white dick . . .” He flushes suddenly and shakes his head. “Look, I’m sorry. I’ve had a lot to drink and like I said, this woman was a killer, so I don’t mind telling you she was also slutty, you know? Still, I know better than to talk like that in mixed company.”
“Hey, no worries, I get it.” I clink my glass against his. “You’re the hero, she’s the criminal. She’s nothing.”
“That’s right, baby!” he says, perking up. “Anyway, one of the guys she was fucking was married. So she goes over to his house, her bastard kid in the car and everything, and then she just blows the poor bastard away! But she does have some brains, so she calls the cops and tries to tell us that she just happened to find the body.”
“But you didn’t buy it.”
“Like I said, convicted by a jury.”
“Wow.” I shake my head, looking out into the bar as if contemplating it all. “So she expected people to believe that she just happened to find the body right after the guy had been shot? She must have been desperate to make up a story like that.”
“You better believe it! I could have done anything I wanted to her and she wouldn’t have said boo if she thought there was a sliver of a chance that I’d get her off . . . no pun intended. But of course I did it all by the book. I’ve always played it straight arrow.”
As he lifts his glass again, I see his mouth twitch in amusement . . . perhaps remembering things that I don’t want to know.
“You ever been with a cop, Bell?”
“No,” I say. “I can’t say I have. But then, you’re not a cop. You work for a bank.”
“Yeah, but I know how to play the part.” He chuckles. “Look, this guy I’m waiting for, he’s seriously late. He must have gotten hung up or somethin’. Normally I’d be pissed, but in this case I think his screwup is our opportunity. Why don’t we get out of here?”
I shift slightly in my seat, bring my lips right up to his ear. “Stay right here. I’m going to go to the restroom, you’re going to order us one more round, not beer this time, something stronger. And once we’ve finished our drinks . . . you can show this little Latina what an all-American boy can do.”
His eyes widen and then, for the first time tonight I see a spark of wariness. “You’re not . . . okay, sorry.” White laughs and flushes. “But I gotta ask you this, are you going to be needing payment for this? It’s just . . . I don’t usually get this lucky, not with someone who looks like you. So if I gotta pay, that’s cool, I’d just rather do the negotiating now.”
“Oh, Sean, I’m almost flattered by that! But I don’t want your money.” I stroke his cheek sweetly. “I’m just one of those people who gets turned on by the razor’s edge of life. A good girl probably wouldn’t want to do what I want to do to you. But”—I get up from my seat, let my breasts brush his arm—“I’m not a good girl.”
I slip away as Sean desperately waves the bartender over again to order our last round. In the meantime I walk into the ladies’ room, and then, a moment later, sneak out. In fact I slink right out the back entrance, where the Dumpster is.
Rats have some of the best survival instincts in the animal kingdom. They don’t just devour any ol’ thing. No, before they eat something they sniff it, then take a teeny-tiny bite, and then they pause before continuing, waiting to see if their delicate palate and superior nose can detect even the slightest hint of poison.
The rats’ survival instinct just shows their intelligence.
And, I think as I look at the many rat poison pellets that are all around the Dumpster, man-made rat poison that is both odorless and tasteless just shows what clever killers humans can be.
When I reenter the bar I have crushed rat poison in the very bag that I had used to store Travis’s keys. Before going out to meet White I go back into the ladies’ room, check to make sure all the stalls are empty, and then practice smiling into the mirror.
I study my reflection. My smile doesn’t look forced; it looks relaxed, peaceful.
I’m really very calm. I don’t even fully feel like I’m in my own body; it’s as if I’m in some sort of meditative state. Of course the rat poison might not be enough to kill him, but once he’s sick, incapacitated, anything could happen. With a little assistance he might “accidentally” bang his head into the edge of the bathtub or counter. He might choke on his own vomit.
Don’t do this!
The voice in my head isn’t my own. It’s Lander’s. But I can’t listen to him. Not now. Because in the end, this has nothing to do with him.
“I dedicate this death to you, Mamá,” I whisper.
And the woman in the mirror just keeps smiling.
I adjust the bag in my purse and step back out into the hall, my eyes trained on Sean, who is still sitting at the bar, waiting patiently. I’m about to go to him when the door to the bar opens and a new patron walks in.
The guy’s wearing nice jeans, a black T-shirt, and an expensive jacket. Tattoos crawl all the way up his neck. He looks dangerous as hell.
And I know him. It’s Javier. The man who Travis met with in the Bronx. The man who was with Micah the first time I was forced to take a joyride in Micah’s limo. The man I’m trying to make Micah suspicious of.
He walks right up to Sean, gesturing toward his phone and then the door as he talks. I see White gesture behind him toward the bathroom. In a moment he’ll come looking for me, either to introduce me to Javier or to ask if we can meet later tonight.
But he won’t find me because once again I’ve exited through the back door and this time I just keep walking, away from the bar, away from White . . .
. . . away from my first murder.
It’s only then that I check my phone and see that Lander has sent me a few text messages. He’s still with his father, I shouldn’t wait for him before eating, but he’ll be back by ten. A perfectly mundane text, simple, friendly, and completely out of sync with my current emotional state.
It’s not until I’m back in Lander’s empty penthouse, standing in his living room, that my legs begin to shake uncontrollably. I sink down into the sofa, my breathing shallow and ragged, my eyes on the window, looking out at the city but seeing nothing, my mind consumed with what might have been.
chapter fourteen
* * *
When Lander comes home I’m sitting in the same place. I haven’t moved in an hour. But he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know that the world has changed.
He leans down and places an innocent kiss on the top of my head. “I could get used to this,” he muses, “coming home to find you here.” He starts to sort through the mail he grabbed on the way up. “I had a very interesting evening with my father. It seems that Sean White just came back from Delaware, where he assisted in staffing the AML compliance department. Remember, AML is anti-money-laundering.
They’re boosting the staff because of a—how did my father phrase it?—a request from the FDIC that HGVB be more vigilant in its compliance.” He starts to drop certain envelopes on the coffee table, separating the bills from the solicitations from the account statements. “Sean White is not qualified for that job. But he’s definitely someone my father and Travis would trust with the execution of their dirty work. The fact that he’s been moved into this position suggests that my father thinks Sean can find a way to game the system. Which means my father’s complicit, and that means that once I can prove HGVB’s love and actual solicitation of money launderers, I’ll also be able to tie my father to the crimes. Now my father tried to explain . . .” Lander’s voice trails off as he finally realizes that I’m not talking, not looking at him, not moving. “Doncia?” When I don’t answer he sits by my side, now clearly a little alarmed. “What’s going on?”
“I almost killed someone tonight,” I say quietly.
“Ah, well, I almost strangled my father, so I guess we’re even. Wait.” He places his fingers under my chin and guides my face toward his. “You’re serious.”
Again I don’t answer.
“Adoncia, what the hell happened?”
“What happened,” I say slowly, “is I had drinks with the man who arrested my mother.”
Lander pauses and then slowly leans back against the armrest of the sofa, away from me.
“I followed him to a bar,” I continue. “I spoke with him. I flirted with him. I was going to go home with him.”
A flash of anger, but still he stays silent.
“I was going to pour him a drink, just like I poured you a drink the first time you took me home.”
“The first time I took you home you drugged me,” Lander notes. “You slipped me a sedative, and that was after you had sex with me.”
“Yes, but this time I was going to give him the drink before he had the chance to touch me. And I wasn’t going to use a sedative. I was going to use this.”
