The Lost

by Vicki Pettersson

  Chapter Nine

  That was all he needed to say. Kit instantly snapped into her reporter mode, glancing back once at Luis, then at the small commercial building, the men—the attack dog—in front of them. She had an ability to put two and two together faster than anyone Grif knew, and she also understood this era better than he did. Sure, men who loomed over neighborhoods like dark clouds had always been around, but she might be able to see something in the situation that he didn’t. Besides, try to leave her behind, Grif thought, and tough little Luis would really have something to laugh about. They’d be safe enough with the heat poking around a few doors down.

  He watched the six men straighten from their bored slouches as Kit and he approached. “Lost, macho?” said the man in front, sliding along the fence’s perimeter as if pacing it.

  “I’m not Lost, no,” Grif answered, earning an elbow in the ribs from Kit. He glanced over at the sign out front that’d previously been obscured by construction on the side of the building. LITTLE HAVANA. A restaurant.

  The man—skinny as wire and tobacco-dark—squinted as he leaned against the front gate, trying to ferret out disrespect in Grif’s words as they came to a stop before him. Then he turned an equally calculating gaze on Kit. He held it there so long, licking his lips, watching her with eyes like burned-out bulbs, that she squirmed and folded her hands in front of her. A smile lifted one corner of the man’s mouth before he turned back to Grif.

  “Don’t want no trouble with the po-po.”

  Grif didn’t correct him. The assumption that he was a cop might help. Grif glanced behind him as if to call Dennis over, but he was, in fact, checking to see if the real detective was watching. Dennis was occupied with the dead, though, so Grif shoved his hands into his pockets, and turned back to the living. “No trouble. Just some questions.”

  “What makes you think I got answers?”

  “You look like a man with answers.”

  He looked like a man who’d dust them if he didn’t like the way they blinked. Tattoos coiled his body from neck to wrist, with four dots forming a box cradled in the webbing of his right hand. These were different from the tattoos worn by Kit’s friends. Those were ornamental, expressive, joyful, and kitschy. These looked like blue veins that’d been pulled to the surface from within the man.

  Grif lifted his gaze. The man’s nose had been broken, probably more than once, and never reset. His hair was short and thickly gelled. He cared, Grif saw, deeply about appearance. At least in his own way.

  “Got nothing for you, macho.” The man jerked his head. “ ’Sides, I got customers to worry about.”

  Grif let his gaze canvass the empty lot. The restaurant was undergoing an extensive renovation; Little Havana wouldn’t see customers for months.

  “Maybe I got answers for you, then,” Grif said.

  The man’s eyes steeled over at that.

  Kit fiddled with her phone, as if uninterested. The man looked her over, and smiled. “We can talk. My house is just there.”

  So they left Little Havana for the single-story home, followed by the other men. Kit was nearly vibrating with nerves, and Grif would have reached out to calm her, but he didn’t want the men following them to know she needed it. She wouldn’t want it, either.

  The home was as down-at-the-heels as the rest of the neighborhood, and stuccoed like the rest of the city. A dog run stretched along its north side where, after a brief exchange of staccato Spanish, one of the men deposited the heavily leashed pit bull. Good. Animals sensed Grif’s otherness in a way people didn’t. More mutts had attacked him in the months he’d been back on the Surface than all of the thirty-three years of his “first” life.

  There was no sidewalk, as the entire front of the lot had been paved over, as if concrete was the only thing keeping the thing upright. Errant weeds sprouted among the cracks like escaped convicts, yet the yard was swanky compared to the home’s interior.

  Ducking in behind the man, Grif emerged in a living area with a popcorned ceiling, dingy gray walls, and a corner altar. The furnishings were sparse; just a sagging sofa and a dark recliner huddled around an empty coffee table, but he sensed an air of care to the place. Grif and Kit ventured farther inside, and the door snicked shut behind them.

  The other five men remained outside.

  Grif glanced over to gauge Kit’s comfort level. The hairs on the back of his neck had risen as soon as the door shut and the gloom closed around him, and he could see Kit struggling to find something nice to say, like, “It’s a lovely home you have here.”

  The man saw it, too. The dark craters in his eyes sparked. “Seen enough?”

  Not waiting for a reply, he jerked his head and turned toward the open kitchen. A refreshing odor wafted from within, meat stewing, thick and warm, as they made their way down a hallway studded by the gaze of silent saints.

  “We’re not looking to interfere with dinner . . . or your business,” Grif said, trying to make up for Kit’s silence. “We just have a few questions.”

  The man disappeared around the corner. “Like?”

  “Like what’s that smell?” Kit asked suddenly. She almost looked as shocked as he did that she’d found her voice. But her eyes were alive now and she was leaning forward, genuinely interested. Grif almost smiled. “It’s fantastic.”

  “My abuela,” the man said, gesturing to an old woman at the stove. “She’s making ropa vieja con arroz. Our family’s recipe. It has made Little Havana famous.”

  The two exchanged words in Spanish and the old woman looked up at Kit and smiled. There were holes where most of her teeth should have been, and enough wrinkles to fashion a map of the world across her face, but her gray hair was thick and neat, and there was the hint that she’d once been beautiful. “Let me guess, she’s always been the best cook in the neighborhood?”

  “I think so,” the man said proudly; not any more friendly, but not any less.

  Grif nodded thoughtfully, then said, “Maybe you should put the word out.”

  “We’re a family business. We ain’t planning a franchise,” the man retorted, flopping back in a vinyl chair, again suspicious.

  “Someone else is trying to drum up business on your turf, though,” Kit said, crossing her arms. “And I don’t think your abuela would approve of what they’re cooking.”

  This time, when the man stared at Kit, it was with raw hatred, not surprise. Even Grif was taken aback at the hard look, while Kit swallowed audibly beside him. This time her discomfort failed to appease the man. Echoing her body language, he folded his arms over his wife-beater, and continued to use his gaze as a weapon. Kit took a step forward beneath that hot stare. “Mr. Baptista, do you know a young man by the name of J. P. Yang? He goes by Jeap?”

  Grif startled, and immediately tensed. The old woman stopped smiling, the holes in her mouth disappearing as she, too, fell still.

  “How you know my name?” Baptista said lowly.

  Kit flashed her phone, which contained his image, and gave them both a distant, professional smile. “Public record, Marco. Your family has owned Little Havana for a long time.”

  Almost snarling, Baptista tilted his head at Grif. “You let your woman talk out of turn, cabron?”

  The way he said it made Grif want to check the gun at his ankle, and back carefully away. But Grif had only four bullets in his .38 snub-nose, and that was strapped down tight. Baptista’s friends were outside, and so was the dog, while Dennis and company were too far away.

  “She’s her own woman,” he said instead, slowly tucking his hands in his pockets. “And she speaks when she wants to.”

  “I’m also a reporter. Kit Craig.” And she stepped forward and held out a hand. Grif held back a groan. Baptista stared, then slapped her hand away, rising to his feet as she reeled back. Grif slid a hand around her waist, but otherwise didn’t move.

  “You come in here pretending to be with the police, asking me questions, and upsetting my grandmother?” He pounded his ch
est, the sound somehow reverberating, both hollow and loud. Grif cut his eyes sideways. The old woman remained by the stove, as alarmed by the outburst as Kit and Grif, but she didn’t look upset. She looked resigned. Baptista jerked his chin at Grif. “You a reporter, too?”

  “I look like a reporter?” Grif asked calmly.

  The calculation had long disappeared from Baptista’s gaze, and the anger faded now, too. Without blinking, he jerked his chin. It was acknowledgment. Respect. He saw enough of himself in Grif that he managed to settle again. “Come with me.”

  Baptista rose, and crossed the room, too close to Kit. He paused next to her, looking down. “You stay in the kitchen.”

  After a graduated moment, Kit merely nodded, and Grif blew out a relieved sigh. He’d make it up to her later.

  So?”

  “We,” Grif started, letting Baptista know that Kit was still very much a part of this, even if she wasn’t in the room, “need to know about a new drug in this neighborhood. It’s made from things that shouldn’t even be in a landfill. It’s both cheap and highly addictive.”

  “You got nerve coming into my home and asking me about drugs, cabron.”

  “We think it’s Russian,” Grif added.

  Baptista’s gaze flickered, then he pursed his lips and sank into the sofa. He didn’t offer Grif a seat. “Yeah, those maricons are dangerous. They’re huevones compared to La Nuestra or Las Emes, of course, but dangerous enough.”

  “So you know them.”

  “Only one. Sergei Kolyadenko.” He paused to see if the name meant anything to Grif, and Grif nodded. It was the same name Marin had given them. Baptista pointed to a tattoo, the number fourteen, which meant nothing to Grif. “We served together in Soledad. Now you give me something.”

  “All right. This him?” Grif asked, pulling out the photo Marin had given him.

  Baptista glanced at the copy. “Maybe.”

  “Know what he was in for?” Grif asked, tucking the picture back in his jacket.

  “Drugs. Weapons. Money laundering. He was too pussy for more than that.”

  “Did he deal while you knew him?”

  “We was all dealing back then . . . as your woman probably saw from my record,” Baptista added, voice hard. He threw an arm over the back of the sofa and sprawled. “But I ain’t in that shit anymore. Didn’t you hear?” His face grew a smile. “Crack is whack.”

  “We’re not looking for crack, Mr. Baptista,” Grif said, his own voice crisp. He might be in Baptista’s home and on his turf, but he wasn’t going to roll, either. “We’re looking for krokodil.”

  Baptista lifted a shoulder. “Never heard of it.”

  “You will. It’s affecting people in this neighborhood, and it’s dangerous.”

  Some softer emotion skittered across Baptista’s gaze, but it was gone too quickly to identify. “Is that what J.P. was on?”

  “So you do know Jeap?” Grif said.

  Baptista scoffed. “Don’t say it like it means something. Everyone knew Jeap. My abuela and his family knew each other on La Isla.” He jerked his head toward the kitchen where the old woman and Kit could be heard murmuring softly.

  “And when was the last time you saw him?” Grif asked.

  “Two, three weeks ago. With some hot chick and the tweekers you just found dead in Crazy Lettie’s place.”

  Grif tilted his head. “How do you know they’re dead?”

  “Because the heat don’t come to this neighborhood for the living.” He cocked his head. “And neither does the press.”

  “And this hot chick?” Grif asked, wishing for Kit’s always-present notebook. “What did she look like?”

  Now Baptista smiled, face almost going handsome. “Stacked. Long legs. Great ass. Crazy damned hair, though. Blue, the first time I saw her. Pink the next.”

  And he shook his head as if to say, Kids these days.

  “So she was here more than once?”

  Baptista stopped shaking his head and sent Grif another piercing look. “I know you might find it hard to believe, but people do come here more than once.”

  “Catch a name?” Grif said, undeterred.

  “Why would I need a woman’s name?” Baptista said coolly.

  Grif sighed, stared, and hoped Kit was having better luck in the kitchen.

  The men,” the old woman began, surprising Kit, because she hadn’t been sure Baptista’s abuela spoke English. “They talk like they play cards, no? Their hands held close to their chest. Tea? I made it myself.”

  Kit nodded once and took the seat that Marco Baptista had vacated. “Thank you, Ms. Baptista.”

  “Josepha,” the woman corrected, eyes crinkling as she smiled. She placed a cup of steaming tea on the table, and Kit realized that she really had made the tea herself. Leaves and stray roots floated on the surface. The color was uneven, but it smelled of lemon and something muskier and unnamed.

  “Don’t worry,” Josepha said, settling across from Kit, palms cupped around her own mug. “The men will argue some and when it’s all settled they will tell us their plans. We can then agree, or change their minds for them.”

  Kit laughed, though she remained on guard. Hospitality usually made her melt into the moment, but the voices from the other room—the way Baptista had looked at her like an object instead of a subject—had her on edge. That, coupled with the foreign language and the corner altar and the exotic smells, made Kit feel as if she were in a foreign country without a map or guide or rudder to steer her back home.

  “You’re very pretty, Ms. Craig. You look like the girls did when I was young.” Josepha smiled slightly, eyes far off as she remembered, nodding at Kit’s red-trimmed kimono dress. “I used to wear things like that, back on the island.”

  And she’d probably been beautiful, Kit thought, because despite her humble home—and the wrinkles and the missing teeth—there was something regal about Josepha Baptista. Something her grandson, and life, hadn’t yet knocked out of her. Kit recognized it, and liked it.

  “I wish I could have seen it all back then,” Kit said. “The fifties is the era I love the most.”

  “An era you never lived?” Josepha asked, then laughed at Kit’s responding nod. “I suppose that’s why it holds sway over you. Illusion is often stronger than reality.”

  Kit didn’t correct the woman. She had long stopped trying to defend her rockabilly lifestyle. She loved things because she loved them, and that was reason enough.

  Instead, she glanced over at the carved statues spaced along the top of a multilevel platform. The altar had been behind her when she walked in, so this was the first opportunity to study it openly. If she’d known she’d be visiting the Baptista family, she’d have brushed up on her knowledge of Afro-Cuban religions.

  “Ever see a Santerian shrine before?” Josepha asked, catching Kit’s look.

  Kit shook her head, studying the lit black candle, the bell and bowls surrounding it, the incense smoking into the statue’s unblinking gaze. “I know that’s your saint, though.”

  “Orisha, yes. That’s Chango.”

  Chango additionally had bowls of seeds and beads and mirrors scattered at his feet. Kit wanted to ask Josepha about that, but the woman was lighting another candle between them, this one white. Kit would’ve assumed she was just setting the mood, but it was broad daylight in the middle of summer.

  Eyeing the silky flame, Kit said, “The Christian religion ascribes meaning and ritual to almost everything, though this seems different somehow. It’s more . . .”

  “What?” The word was clipped, defensive. Like Kit’s lifestyle, Josepha had likely been forced to defend her religion more than once. Santeria, after all, was synonymous with voodoo.

  “It seems more vibrant. Dense. Almost pregnant with meaning.” The shrine was different from any altar Kit had ever seen. It looked the same as a full belly felt, engorged with flavor, tipping into too much.

  Josepha laughed. “Of course! The original priests in Santeria were
all women, you know. We founded almost all branches of the religion, led all the major ceremonies, carried out all rituals.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I, for example, was named after one of the most famous and most powerful Cuban priestesses. Of course, once there was power to be had, the men took over.” Josepha shrugged, and gazed at the smooth flame between them as she sipped from her mug. “But we originally started out as a matriarchy. Oh . . . hear that?”

  Kit turned to the doorway. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Exactly. They’ll be done soon.” Josepha smiled, yet as they turned back to the table, her smile fell. “Why did you do that?”

  Kit stiffened at Josepha’s alarmed tone. “What?”

  “Why did you blow it out?”

  Kit frowned at the white candle, now curling with black smoke. “I didn’t.”

  Josepha’s face drained of color, gaze flicking quickly between Kit and the candle, drawing meaning out of something Kit had never—and probably would never—understand. “Marco!”

  Baptista appeared so quickly it was like he’d been waiting outside the doorway. Grif appeared, too, alarm scrambling his features. Josepha and Marco exchanged rapid-fire Spanish and suddenly Kit was being lifted by the arm and dragged to the front door.

  “Mr. Baptista,” Kit tried, feeling bruises already forming beneath his grip. “I didn’t mean to offend . . . I don’t know—”

  “Hands off her, Baptista.” Grif was suddenly between them, and Kit thought that if she could see his wings, each blade would be drawn sharp. Marco did release Kit, then, but only because they’d reached the end of the hallway. Behind him, Josepha was still ranting in Spanish.

  “Sorry, cabron,” Baptista said, holding the door wide. “But you can’t stay for ropa vieja.”

  “That’s okay,” Grif countered. “We’ll visit Little Havana once it reopens. Like you said, people do come back more than once.”

  Baptista just held open the door, hard gaze fixed on Grif. He didn’t even acknowledge Kit as she passed. Yet she felt better as soon as she stepped outside. Back, she thought, where she knew the meaning of things. Back in her own country.