Powder Burn

by Blake Banner

  “Why?”

  “I think he might be in trouble. I’m a friend of his sister’s.”

  He frowned as he did up his satchel, then paused to look at me. “He’s not here. What kind of trouble and how do I know that you are telling the truth?”

  “I know he’s not. I’m not sure what kind of trouble. He seems to have disappeared. He hasn’t been at his apartment or at his job for about a week.”

  He sighed and scratched an eyebrow. “A week is about when I last saw him, Mr.…”

  “Walker. Lacklan Walker.” I could sense he wanted to get away. I echoed his sigh. “Mr. Chang, I have driven down from Boston because I received a rather worrying text message from Charles. I have never met him, but I was able to help his sister out of serious trouble a while back, and she gave him my number. The message suggests that he could be at risk.”

  “Have you contacted the police?”

  I spread my hands. “I’m not sure I need to yet. Everyone I talk to either gives me the run around or the brush off.” I gestured at him. “You’re his tutor, I am hoping you will take a bit more of an interest.”

  He closed his eyes and managed a reluctant smile. “OK, Mr. Walker, you made your point. What can I tell you? The last time I saw Charlie was the Friday before last. He hasn’t been in all week. The office has called him on a couple of occasions and received no response. We have over six thousand students at Columbia, Mr. Walker. We have to assume that they are adults and that they are responsible. We are educators, not surrogate parents.”

  “I appreciate that. Did he confide in you at all?”

  He shook his head. “No, he’s a bit of a loner, to be honest. Not antisocial, just a bit…” He thought about the word. “…private. He has a few friends he talks to, but they don’t really hang out. Nice kid, though, polite, exceptionally bright. His grades are outstandingly good and improving. And a hard worker, tireless. He has a very bright future, if he stays the course.” He shrugged. “There’s not much more I can tell you. If you want to leave me a card, I can contact you when he shows up.”

  I fished out a card and handed it to him. As he took it, he looked past me and pointed. “That’s who you need to talk to, Sally-Anne.”

  I turned and looked. There was a small knot of students standing outside the door, talking to each other. The center of the group seemed to be a lively, noisy girl with frizzy blond hair who kept laughing and stamping her foot. She was talking to a very thin guy with long, black hair and heavy horn-rimmed glasses. There were also two blond guys in attendance, one sporting a vast red beard.

  I thanked Chang and made my way toward the group. The girl saw me approaching and gave me a look that said she didn’t know if she liked me. I smiled, which made her feel better.

  “Sally-Anne?”

  They all looked. She grinned, bent her knees in a funny little crouch and said, “What did I do?”

  “Plenty, I’m sure, but nothing that I’m aware of.” She laughed and I smiled. “I’m a friend of Carmen Vazquez, Charlie’s sister…”

  She made a face of curiosity and the lanky guy with the black hair said, “Oh, dude, yeah. We haven’t seen him since like…” He turned to Sally-Anne, then the other two, and they all looked at each other and shook their heads together, doing a kind of funny dance on bended knees.

  Then they all said at once, “A week?”

  “Yeah, I know. That’s why she’s worried. Do you guys hang out with him much?”

  It was Red Beard who answered. “Naah… He doesn’t hang with us. He’s a nice guy. I like him. And smart, real smart. But he has his own friends, not from Columbia, you know? And he usually hangs out with them.”

  I frowned and shook my head. “Is this a kind of Latino thing…?”

  “No, man! No! Nothing like that. No, I mean, they hang out at a Latino bar? The Mezcal!” They all laughed and did their bent knee dance. “It’s a cool bar, but his crowd weren’t Latino.” He looked at Sally-Anne. “Right?”

  She shook her head. “No. Can you remember Peter?” She looked at the guy with black hair but didn’t wait for an answer. “Uh, Zak, he was Chinese…”

  “Taiwanese.”

  “Taiwanese. Whatever!” She laughed. “Then there was Bran, I think he was Australian…?”

  Peter continued, “And the German guy, what was his name? They were both ‘H’ names - Hans and Hattie. He was German, or Austrian, and she was British. We kind of went to the Mezcal with them couple of times. They were cool, kind of geeky, but, you know, not really our scene.”

  They looked at each other for confirmation and all nodded. I asked, “The Mezcal?”

  “Yeah, on 7th and West 121st. It’s a late night bar, Mexican theme, but it’s cool. It’s a nice vibe in there. That’s probably where you’ll find him. You know? We were talking and we thought, some people are just too smart to study? Charlie was like that. He was like, on fire.”

  I nodded. “Thanks.” I was about to go, but stopped. “Was there anybody else, here, at college, that he used to talk to? Anyone he might have confided in if he had problems? A tutor maybe…?”

  They all looked at each other again and Red Beard spoke to them instead of me. “Yuh? Maybe? He talks a lot to that Nano-Tek lecturer. You know? She’s really hot? She has long, black hair.”

  Sally-Anne laughed. “Dr. Salcedo! She is hot! Even I think she’s hot and I’m straight!”

  I smiled like I thought she was a scream and said, “Where can I find her, do you know?”

  Peter looked at his watch. “Right now you’ll probably catch her at Brownie’s Café. You can’t miss her. She’s like, really hot, and she has black hair in a bun, and a kind of feminine light dress, and she carries her stuff around in a kind of cute straw basket. You’ll know her when you see her. Dr. Olga Lucia Salcedo.”

  They all laughed in unison at his description. I thanked them again and made my way out of the building and along the path toward Avery Hall. It was lunchtime and there were a lot of people going that way, but as I approached the entrance to the Hall I noticed a young woman coming out. She was exactly as Peter had described her: perhaps five four, with blue-black hair in a bun, olive skin and a body that was perfect in its proportions, curvaceous, generous and graceful. She wore a light, cotton dress and carried a straw basket over her shoulder. In her hand she had a paper bag. Her face was exquisite and she used it to frown at me as I approached.

  “Olga Lucia Salcedo?”

  “Doctor Salcedo.” There was no arrogance in the way she said it. She just wanted to define boundaries. I smiled and nodded.

  “I was wondering if I could talk to you about Charlie Vazquez.”

  Her frown deepened. “Why?”

  “Why was I wondering, or why do I want to ask you?”

  “Both, and why me? I don’t understand. I am not his tutor.”

  “I was told he confided in you, that you were an unofficial mentor…”

  “Who told you that?”

  I paused and gave her a frown as deep as her own, then counted slowly to three. “Doctor, why is this an issue? I am not from the IRS, the FBI, the CIA or any other sinister acronym you can think of. I am simply a friend of the family who is concerned for Charlie’s safety. Why the hostile reception?”

  She sighed and seemed to sag a little. “Forgive me. New York. It puts you on the defensive after a while.”

  I smiled understanding and said, “You’re not a New Yorker? Neithr am I, and I have to say we do things a little differently in New England. I don’t want to take up your lunch hour, Doctor, I just want to ask you about Charlie. Nobody’s heard from him in over a week…”

  I trailed off, inviting her to answer. She hesitated a moment, then said, “You’d better come to my room, though there isn’t much I can really tell you.”

  I followed her back into the biology building and up a couple of floors to her office. It wasn’t huge, but it was big enough, and it was comfortable. She had a window with a view of he Davis Audi
torium and some gardens beyond, and a wooden desk that was overloaded with papers. She put her paper bag on the desk and sat, then gestured to a chair opposite. I sat and watched her open the bag.

  “Do you mind if I eat while we talk? I haven’t got much time.”

  “Please do.” I leaned back. “Dr. Salcedo, Charlie has been missing for about a week. His landlady hasn’t seen him, he hasn’t been to work and he hasn’t shown up for class. Did he say anything to you recently that might suggest he was worried, stressed, unhappy…”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Are you a cop? You talk like a cop.”

  “I already told you I’m not.”

  “You said you weren’t IRS, CIA or FBI. You omitted NYPD. What did you say your name was?”

  “Walker, Lacklan Walker. Would it make a difference if I was a cop?”

  “None at all.” She reached in her brown paper bag and pulled out a tuna sandwich. “Charlie had been talking for a while about how he was unhappy in New York. He was struggling to make enough money to live; New York, as I am sure you know, is a very expensive city. He didn’t want to worry his family…” She trailed off, bit into her sandwich and studied me a moment while she chewed. “You said you’re a friend of the family?”

  I nodded. “I know his sister.”

  “What about the rest of the family?”

  I shook my head, curious about where she was going. She shrugged.

  “He is a really nice kid, a lot of potential. He could be brilliant. Works really hard and has phenomenal energy. I don’t know how he does it, but he can get by on two or three hours sleep a night, hold down his job and his studies.” She bit into her sandwich again and spoke with her mouth full. “But you can’t keep up that kind rhythm indefinitely. Sooner or later…” She swallowed. “Something’s got to give, right? I think he was getting depressed. He told me he was desperate to go back to Mexico, to chill, to forget about work, about studies, about meeting his parents’ expectations and,” she smiled, “especially his sister’s expectations. Are you a Catholic, Mr. Walker? With a name like Walker, I am guessing you are not.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that stereotyping, Dr. Salcedo?”

  “Yup. I’m not PC, Mr. Walker. Stereotypes are all rooted in truth. The Latino Catholic family, I don’t care if it’s in Italy or Spain or Colombia—or in the Bronx—it can be a wonderful, magical, empowering thing. Or it can be a crucifix: a cross you have to carry all your life along the path to Calvary, to your final place of sacrifice, where you give your body, your blood and your soul for your people, your family.” She shrugged. “New York is a godless place. It is one of the things I like about it. An intelligent guy like Charlie, he came to question a lot of things while he was here. In the end, it was all a little too much for him, and what he wanted, more than anything else, was to go back to Mexico; to reconnect.”

  “And he couldn’t tell anyone? Not even his job and his tutor?”

  “So they could all jump on him and tell him not to throw his career away?” She gestured across the desk at me. “Look at you, a total stranger, not even family! And yet here you are, on behalf of his sister, asking about him, where he is, what he’s doing! Is that normal? No, it is the measure of control that a family from our culture can have over its members sometimes. He’ll be in touch.”

  I studied her face for a long moment. “Do you know where he is?”

  “No. And believe me, it is more than my job is worth to lie about that to a representative of his family. If I knew, I would offer to contact him on your behalf. But I don’t. If he contacts me, I will contact you. Give me your number and tell me where you’re staying.” I gave her my card and she studied it a moment, then put it by her phone. “He’ll be in touch soon, Mr. Walker. I am sure of it.”

  I smiled at her and tried to make it look grateful. “I have taken up enough of your time. Thank you for all your help, and your insights, Dr. Salcedo.”

  I stood and she stood too, shaking her head and licking her fingers. “Not at all. I am sure it will all work out fine.”

  We fumbled over not shaking hands, which she showed me had tuna and mayonnaise on them, and I made my way to the door. There, I stopped and turned back. “One last question, if I may. I have been told to visit the Mezcal, a bar near here. Do you know where that is?”

  She nodded. “Sure, 7th and West 121st.”

  “I’ve been told he frequents that bar.”

  She shrugged, shook her head, smiled. “I have no idea, Mr. Walker. He is a student and I am a lecturer. As you can imagine, we don’t socialize.”

  “Of course. Thanks again.”

  I let myself out and made my way down the stairs at a slow tread with my hands in my pockets and chewing my lip. I was no closer to knowing what had happened to Charlie, or why he had thought that his life was in danger, but I had a clearer idea of who he was, and of the people who were important in his life. Of those people, there were four that I needed to talk to; four whom I was certain would know why he had sent me that text. And I was going to meet them that night at the Mezcal.

  I stepped out onto Amsterdam Avenue and went and leaned on the roof of my car. It was hot enough to warm my arms through my sleeves. I looked up at the blue sky and wondered if Charlie was still alive. I was pretty sure that he was either dead or on the run. And that made me wonder why Dr. Lucia Salcedo had lied to me. Was she hiding something? Or was she hiding him?

  THREE

  The Mezcal was just half a mile from the Columbia campus, on the other side of Morningside Park. I decided to walk because I reasoned that exercising my legs would help my brain to work. I don’t know if the reasoning was sound or flawed, but half a mile of walking and fifteen minutes of staring at grinding traffic did nothing to clear my mind. It just made me very aware of the eight million people milling around me in human streams, surging along thousands of miles of sidewalks, gushing into parks, squares and gardens, spilling over the blacktop between the cars, drawn relentlessly toward their twin goals, to produce and consume, with blind, unthinking obedience to their masters.

  It made me think of that, but it got me no closer to understanding what had happened to Charlie Vazquez.

  The Mezcal stood on the corner. It had a small, fenced terrace outside, with a couple of tables and a friendly, blonde waitress in a long, blue apron standing by the door, holding a tray. She didn’t look Mexican. She looked Swedish. She watched me approach with naught eyes and as I came through the gate to the terrace she said, “You wanna sit outside in the sun, or you wanna sit inside in the dark?”

  She was definitely Scandinavian. I answered without smiling, “Like my ancestors, I am a creature of the dark. I crave the shadows.”

  She laughed like she thought I was silly but she liked silly, and held the door open for me. Inside, it was as though whoever designed it had read Carlos Castaneda and thought a trip to Mexico was an unnecessary extravagance. It was rich in stereotypes disguised as archetypes: murals of shaman who become eagles, cacti that open burning portals to parallel worlds, and deserts inhabited by the walking dead, sponsored by Harley Davidson and Zippo. The walls were mock adobe, with rounded edges and no sharp corners, all painted in yellow and ochre lime wash. There were lots of ‘organic’ alcoves with eclectic sofas and huge armchairs, and at the far end there was a long, highly polished bar. The music was equally generic: panpipes evoking mountains and condors that belonged to a different continent, but who cares? As Janice said, you know you’ve got it, if it makes you feel good. Yes indeed.

  There was a young couple sitting at the bar talking to the barman, but aside from that, the place was empty. As I approached, I could hear from his accent that the bartender was a New Zealander. The couple he was talking to sounded European, but it was hard to pin them down. He left them as I leaned on the bar, and wiped the space in front of me with a cloth. “What’ll it be?”

  “Give me a cold beer.” As he leaned into the fridge, I said, “Say, I’m looking for a friend. We lost
touch, but they told me he hangs out here sometimes.”

  “Yeah? What’s his name?”

  He cracked the bottle and put it in front of me with a glass. I picked up the bottle and took a pull, smacked my lips and said, “Charlie. Charlie Vazquez. He comes here with his friends…”

  He gave a small laugh. “Ah, yis.” He looked over at the couple. “Guys? You seen Charlie lately?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned back to me. “I haven’t seen him, I dunno, maybe a week. I think he was here Saturday? Not last Saturday, the one before. But, you know, Saturday’s pretty crazy. Pretty sure he was here, though.”

  The couple had turned to face me. He had a wispy, blond beard that looked like it could use some fertilizer. It hung in translucent threads around a soft, pink mouth. His eyes said he was kind, and concerned about the human condition. The girl was well-built and had henna-colored hair tied back from a very white face with very blue eyes. She was leaning on the guy. I wondered briefly if that was wise. He spoke first.

  “Yuh, we was hangin’ out in the alcove. It was all the crazies there.” He laughed. “We call them the crazies, because each one of them is, you know…” He made circular motions around his temple with his finger and rolled his eyes. “Zack, Bran, Hans and Hattie. The whole gang.”

  He laughed like he wanted me to join in, so I did. “Ohh…!” I said, in an ‘oh-oh, danger!’ voice. “Those guys!”

  The girl’s eyes went wide. “I know, right? Crazy or what? Like the X-men off Geek Lant!”

  The barman gestured at them. “Marcus and Blanka. They’re from the Czech Republic?”

  I held out my hand. “Lacklan.” We shook and I reached across the bar to the Kiwi. We shook too. “You have a pretty international crowd.”

  “Matt. Yis, we do that. So how come you’re looking for Charlie? What’s the little tike done this time?”

  Before answering, I bought a round, like there was no real urgency to my search. We toasted, I took a pull and sighed. “Yeah, it’s not really me. It’s Carmen, his sister. You know her?” They all shook their heads. “She’s cute, but she’s Latina and thinks she’s everybody’s mom, know what I mean?” We all laughed at the trope we knew and loved. “One minute she’s feeding you, and the next she’s screaming at you because you didn’t wipe your feet on the mat. And beautiful, man!” I spread my hands. “So, she hasn’t heard from Charlie for a week and she calles me.” I did a fair generic Mexican accent. “Ay! Lacklan, please, you godda fine Chalie, I donno gua happeng to hing! He don’ call me!” We all laughed again and I shrugged. “’Course I am crazy about her and I can’t say no, so I have to do what she asks me.”