INFORMANT
By
Ava Archer Payne
Copyright © 2015 by Ava Archer Payne
All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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PART ONE
* * *
Dear Judge Ellis,
As a condition of my forthcoming trial and sentencing, you have required me to put down in writing my involvement in the events of the last six months. What a perfect punishment—to have me relive it all when I’d rather forget everything. Just close my eyes and have it go away. But obviously that can’t happen. And maybe you’re right. Maybe my story should serve as a warning to other young women.
Maybe.
It never happens the way you think it will. That’s the first thing they should know. There’s no conscious choice, no point where you can pause, breathe for a minute, say stop or go. Yes or no. You don’t choose. You’re simply swept away. Taken.
The second thing they should know is this: by the time you fully understand what’s going on, it’s too late. Once you’re in, you’re in. There’s no getting out.
Let me give an example. It’s after midnight. Raining. The last Muni bus rumbles to a stop in front of you and you climb in, relieved that your shift at the diner is finally over and you’re heading home. The bus is crowded, so you do a quick scan of the available seats. There’s one in the middle of a group of rowdy young guys, who are already checking out the length of your skirt and hollering nasty invitations to sit on their laps. Nope. Another seat between two Chinese women holding damp paper sacks of something that reeks of heavy foreign spices. Not there either. Finally—an old guy in a tweed coat sitting all by himself. Yup. That’ll do.
You slip into the seat beside him and give him a polite smile. He ignores you and focuses on his crossword puzzle. Perfect. Thoroughly exhausted, you breathe a sigh of relief and settle into your seat as the bus lumbers across the city. The old guy gets out at the stop before yours and leaves his newspaper behind. It’s the entertainment section, so you impulsively pick it up. Tomorrow’s your day off. Maybe you’ll grab a friend and go see a movie. You shove the paper into your backpack and jump off at the next stop.
You just made a life-altering mistake.
Here’s what you didn’t know: the old guy wasn’t working a crossword puzzle at all. In all those neat little boxes he was filling in the time, date, and place of a major drug drop. Four kilos of premium grade heroin, packaged in dime bags and ready to hit the streets. In this day of fly-over drones, wireless eavesdropping, and hidden cameras on every corner, the bad guys have gone old school. Information is passed hand to hand, and you have just broken that chain.
You didn’t mean to. You didn’t know. Nobody gives a shit. All that matters now is this: the old guy has skipped town and you’ve got the information the buyers need. You were seen putting it in your backpack and it’s ridiculously easy to find out where you live.
This brings me to my third and final point.
Riptides don’t just happen in the ocean. One minute you’re splashing in the waves, having fun. The next minute the current is dragging you out to sea, and no matter how hard you swim against it, you know it’s stronger than you. You’re in way over your head and you’re going to lose. But let me give you some advice, Your Honor. Don’t be an easy mark. Go down fighting.
That’s what I did.
You want my story? Here it is. You’re a judge, so go ahead, judge me. In my defense, all I can say is this: My name is Kylie Porter, and every single word that follows is true. This is my testimony.
Day One
Morning
The couple in the apartment next door is having make-up sex. As embarrassing as that is, it definitely beats waking up to the sound of them fighting—an event which occurs about a thousand times more often. Oh, they never have domestic abuse kind of fights. No hitting, shoving, or slapping. Their fights are far more tortured. Verbal jabs and shrill accusations. An endless cycle of too many bills and not enough money. Fights that serve the same function as an air valve on an engine: blowing off steam before the pressure builds and the whole thing explodes.
But this morning they’re happy and I’m happy for them. I’m also out of bed and in the shower before they reach their climax. There’s only so much I can stand to hear. I have to face these people in the lobby, after all.
By the time I’m dressed and in the kitchen, my mom is already there. She’s sipping her coffee and smoking a cigarette, her back to me as she watches the traffic whiz by on Lawton Street. I pour myself an orange juice and wait for her to acknowledge me.
This is our routine. The silence is hers for as long as she wants it. Today’s Wednesday, so she’ll be working two full shifts. Seven until four cashiering at the Walmart in Dale City, and then from five until midnight feeding and cleaning the patients at a nursing home in Pacifica. After a few minutes, she turns and looks at me.
I’ve seen photos of my mom when she was my age. She was stunning. The same dark hair and hazel eyes as me, but she was far prettier. She even modeled for a while. She’s still lovely, but now you have to look harder to see it. Look past the cheap polyester uniforms and the tension in her eyes.
“You need a sweater,” she says.
I shake my head. It’s fall, my favorite season in San Francisco. Tourists come in droves to ride the cable cars in the summer and end up shivering in their t-shirts and shorts. But in the fall the clouds and fog burn off enough to let the sun shine through. By late afternoon it’ll be in the low seventies. A perfect day.
“I’ve got a jacket for later,” I say.
“You working at the café tonight?”
“Yeah. I’ll probably be home after you.”
Her gaze narrows and I brace myself for the same old battle. If I didn’t go to San Francisco State, I could work full-time, rather than pick up odd shifts. I also wouldn’t be racking up thousands of dollars in student loans that I’m not entirely certain how I’ll repay. Fortunately for me, she glances at the clock and realizes she’s got to leave now if she wants to catch her bus.
“You going by Jess’s this morning?”
“Yeah, why?” I swing by my sister’s place pretty much every morning.
“Drop off those diapers, will you?” She nods at an enormous, value-pack of diapers sitting near the front door. Then she shoves a coupon at me. “Oh, and give this to Ronnie.”
I glance at it, annoyed. “He can’t afford to buy diapers, but he’s got enough money to buy beer?”
“Don’t start with me, Kylie.”
“Why is that okay?”
“It’s not his fault business slowed up at the garage and money’s tight. At least he stuck around. A lot of young men in his shoes wouldn’t even do that.”
Right. I clench my jaw shut, biting back my words. Ronnie Hoyt. Sure, he’s a low-life mechanic of questionable character who knocked up Jessica after they’d only been dating for three months, but he stuck around. Obviously he qualifies for some kind of sainthood.
My mom leaves before I say something I’ll regret. A few minutes later I’m out the door as well. The elevator’s slow, so I take the stairs three floors down to the street, juggling my purse, backpack, and the diapers. The coupon? No problem. I pause long enough at the corner trash can to crumple it up and throw it away.
That’s when I see him. Blue eyes. A jolt of surprise shoots through me. The surprise is initially unpleasant—the same way it’s uncomfortable when you’re eight years old and you see your homeroom teacher at the grocery store. In my mind, Blue Eyes exists only at San Francisco State. The mysteriou
s, hot guy that all the girls flirt with in chem lab. He doesn’t belong here, not in the Avenues.
But there he is. And it is absolutely, unmistakably him. Unless he’s got a twin brother hidden away somewhere, there’s not another guy in the world with eyes like his, cheekbones like his, lips like his. Even the way he sits—knees slightly apart, his broad shoulders angled against the back of his chair, his head tilted just so—serves to identify him. Not arrogant precisely, just supremely confident. Sexy as hell
In a nod to the fine stretch of weather we’ve been enjoying, the folks at Java Hut, the coffee shop catty-corner from my building, have dragged a few heavy metal tables and chairs onto the sidewalk. Blue Eyes is sitting with a group of four other people, smiling at something somebody said. I immediately relegate him to that elite group of SF State students whose families foot their tuition costs. He’s definitely got money. Nobody with bills to pay looks that relaxed so early in the morning.
When he glances up, our gazes lock. He recognizes me, too. I feel my lips part in surprise, but no words come out. For a long moment I am paralyzed, unable to move. I stare at him stupidly as traffic rushes through the busy intersection that separates us. After a beat, his expression changes. It’s subtle, but I see it. Humor. Something funny. Then I clue in. I’m poised next to a trash can, my arms wrapped around a jumbo sized package of Luvs diapers, extra-absorbent.
I pivot and walk away without a backward glance.
* * *
“Got anything for me?” Ronnie calls out as I enter the garage.
“That depends. You wearing diapers these days?”
To his credit, Ronnie gives a good-natured grin as the other mechanics use my quip as an excuse to mercilessly ride him. Noriega Street Auto Repair is a small, crowded shop with only two bays. Although it’s technically against zoning, when they get busy the guys jack up cars on the parking pad and work on them there.
I move through the garage to the tiny office in back. This is where Jessica works. She handles accounts receivables, billing, payouts, and inventory. Before she got there, the place was a cluttered, dirty, disorganized disaster. Now it’s neat and tidy. She’s a Virgo and it shows. Files alphabetized, spare auto parts sorted and stacked, Rolodex updated. A scented candle does a fairly good job of masking the odor of grease and grime.
But the biggest change, of course, is the playpen in the corner. That’s where little Dally spends his time. Anyone who’s read The Outsiders will have no trouble recognizing the name. Dallas Winston Hoyt. No Sodapop or Ponyboy Curtis for Jessica. She’s always had a thing for bad boys. The good-looking, heartbreaking, hopeless cases. Lots of ink and attitude. Hence her unfailing attraction to Ronnie. (And yes, I can see the resemblance between Ronnie and the guy who played Dallas in the movie. I still don’t think it’s a good idea to hang a baby with the name of a fictional greaser with anger issues, an arrest record, and a death wish, no matter how tragically beautiful he was. That doesn’t exactly set the kid up for success.)
The door at the back of the office opens to a staircase which takes me directly to their apartment. Or in San Francisco terms, their flat, as the space encompasses the entire second floor. Salvation Army chic. Everything bought secondhand, but somehow Jess pulls it all together and makes it work.
“Thank God you’re here. I’m dying to get in the shower and he’s been a nightmare all morning.”
She shoves little Dally in my arms the second I step inside. The baby looks comically miserable. He’s seven months old, teething, and running a slight fever. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes are glassy, and the front of his shirt is soaked with drool. He arches his back and wails inconsolably as his mother walks away. Perfect. My morning keeps getting better.
By the time Jess returns, I’ve got Dally in a fresh diaper and clean onesie. He’s gumming a frozen waffle, an internet trick I read about that helps with teething pain. It’s working. His tiny body is limp and his eyes are droopy—almost asleep. Jess peeks at him, but doesn’t offer to take him out of my arms. Obviously she needs a break. I consider asking how much Ronnie helped with Dally last night, but one look at the circles beneath her eyes gives me my answer. I just don’t understand why she puts up with it.
Jess moves around the kitchen, tidying up. She’s dressed in work casual: slim black pants and a cotton blouse. Her makeup is on and her dark blond hair is pulled into a loose knot at the nape of her neck. At twenty-one, my sister is two years older than me, but she’s far more naïve. As a result, I’ve always been super protective of her, rather than the other way around.
She makes tea as I buckle a sleeping Dally in his carrier. “Guess what?” She says as she passes me a steaming mug.
“What?”
“They’re selling the garage.”
Christ. I knew Ronnie wasn’t dependable. Now they won’t just lose their jobs, they’ll be kicked out of their flat. I immediately run rescue scenarios in my head. She and Dally can move in with my mom and me, of course. The space will be tight, but we can make it work. And there’s a daycare center at SF State, so I can always take Dally to school with me while she’s interviewing—
“Kylie. Relax,” Jess says, reading me perfectly. “This is good news.”
“Good news? What about your jobs? Your flat? Do you think the new owner will let you stay on?”
“That’s the good part. We’ll be the new owner. Ronnie wants to buy it.”
Ronnie? Buy it? The guy who can’t afford diapers? The guy who needs Walmart coupons for a six pack? Ronnie Hoyt will buy a building, a business? In what universe does this make sense? Aloud I say only, “How’s that gonna work?”
“Easy. I mean, Ronnie’s an awesome mechanic. Everyone knows that. He was promoted to shop manager last summer. You know how close he and Mr. Santiago are, right?”
All of this is true, but, c’mon.
Jess keeps talking. What follows is relatively straightforward. Mr. Santiago, owner of Noriega Street Auto Repair, is ready to retire. Now that Ronnie now has a wife and baby to support, Santiago wants to give him an opportunity to make something of himself. Ronnie and Jess have six months to come up with a down payment of fifty thousand, and the balance of the purchase price will be paid as a percentage of the shop’s income over ten years.
“Fifty thousand?”
“I know that sounds like a lot,” Jess says with a nervous laugh. “I mean, it is a lot. But Ronnie’s doing oil changes and brake jobs at night, and I’ve been doing some online transcription work. It doesn’t pay much, but it’s starting to add up. We’re not spending any money and we’re saving like crazy. I think we can make this happen.”
The look on her face right now—so bubbly and bright, despite her obvious fatigue. Despite the odds against them… She wants this. She really, really wants this.
“Wow,” I say. “Just…wow.”
“I know, right?”
Silence settles between us. I should leave it alone, but I can’t. “What happens if you can’t come up with the 50k?”
Her smile falters. Her eyebrows knit as she looks away and worries her bottom lip. “I’m not sure. We’d probably have to find new jobs, I guess. A new place to live.”
In other words, a Hoyt family apocalypse. Goddamn Ronnie. If he really loved Jessica, he wouldn’t put her through this.
“Listen,” I say, “the semester just started two weeks ago. If I drop out now and work full-time—”
“No.”
“But—”
“Kylie, no.” Jess is adamant. “Ronnie and I need to do this ourselves. You have no idea how hard he’s been working. How important this is to him. Besides, I’m not going to have you give up school for me. You’re too smart.”
Well, that’s debatable. But that’s been the Porter family mantra for as long as I can remember. Jess is the pretty one, I’m the smart one. She cuts me off before I can argue the point. “So tell me what’s going on. What’s happening with that super hot guy in your class?”
Blue ey
es. I sip my tea. “Actually, it’s funny you would mention him.”
“Oh, my god. Did he ask you out?” Her eyes light up and she leans across the counter. For some reason, Jess is convinced guys are as magnetically attracted to me as they are to her. So not true.
“No. I just saw him, that’s all.”
“Just now? Where?”
“Java Hut, hanging out with some friends.”
“Did he see you?”
“Yeah, he saw me.”
“That’s good! So he must live somewhere around here, right?”
Actually, I don’t think so. He drives a dark green, BMW wagon. I’ve seen him roar off after class toward 101 South. Not a city guy. A fact which made his presence outside my building this morning all the more surprising. And there’s something else… “Jess, it was weird. I got the feeling he was there deliberately. Like he was looking for me.”
Her smile widens. “Let me get this straight. You’re being stalked by a gorgeous, sexy guy who goes to San Francisco State and drives a BMW. I am so jealous.”
I start to correct her (obviously he wasn’t stalking), but something stops me. If you’ve ever watched a nature show, picture for a second the kind of look a cheetah gets before it pounces on some helpless rabbit. Pure predatory pleasure. That’s the look I read in his gorgeous blue eyes the instant our gazes met. There’s no other way to describe it. That’s what froze me where I stood, and what continues to rile me up as I recall it. It wasn’t a coincidence—he wanted to find me. A chill that’s part apprehension and part excitement races down my spine.
“Whatever,” I say, deliberately pushing the thought away. Clearly I need to get more sleep. I am being ridiculous.
“All right. Next. What about that Cuban hottie?”
“Ricco?” I lower my voice and say his name the way he does. Ree-ko, all curly and rough around the edges. Confession: I am not physically attracted to Ricco, but I love his accent. The way he talks—that hot Latino pronunciation—his deep voice wrapping around words, pronouncing even simple things in a way that makes them sound exotic and mysterious. Muy caliente. He moves well, too. He’s got a lean, jaguar-like sleekness to his body. Black hair, tight ass, and deep brown eyes.
INFORMANT Page 1
