by Alex Segura
He walked toward the double doors that led into the Gables Pub. Blondie’s “Dreaming” was playing low on the jukebox as he walked in, looking around for Emily and Mike. The Pub was dark and empty. Aside from Blondie, the only noise came from the middle-aged, longhaired bartender whistling to himself as he wiped down the bar. He stopped abruptly as Pete entered, recognition flickering in his eyes. It’d been a few years, but Pete remembered him, too. Pete slid onto a stool near the end of the bar.
“Hey Jimmy,” Pete said, realizing the bartender couldn’t place his name. He leaned over the bar and extended his hand. “It’s Pete. Pete Fernandez. I used to basically live here a couple years back.”
Jimmy the bartender smiled and nodded, shaking Pete’s hand drowsily and speaking in a hippie/surfer drawl that took Pete back to simpler times, when his biggest concern was being able to roll out of bed at noon to get to class.
“What can I get you, dude?”
Pete hesitated for a second. It’d been a shit day. Normally, that’d call for a serious drunk. But he needed to think. “Just gimme a Bass,” he said.
Jimmy’s eyes widened slightly at the request.
“Damn, dude. No shot this time?” Jimmy said, puzzled. “Shit, I remember you closing this place down more than I did, and I fuckin’ worked here, man.”
Pete looked around. Emily and Mike probably stopped to get a bite to eat or decided to go somewhere else. He stood up quickly and scanned the patio area. Nothing. He took his seat at the bar. That was fine. He wasn’t in a hurry to see her. Not yet.
Jimmy walked over to the other end of the bar and began pouring Pete’s beer. Jimmy pointed at the Jägermeister machine next to the tiny Red Bull cooler and nodded toward it. Pete groaned to himself as he gave Jimmy the thumb’s up. Fuck it, he thought. The reminder that he’d be seeing Emily soon made the decision that much easier.
Jimmy returned with a full pint and a shot of Jäger—a healthy shot, too, not a plastic, sissy shot. As Jimmy walked away, Pete downed the purple liquor in one swift motion. He winced as it slid down. He coughed, gagging a bit on the drink as it coated his stomach. Pete gripped the bar.
He took a small sip from his beer and pulled out the small notebook he carried in his back pocket, a remnant of his reporting days. He started jotting down notes. Kathy. Javier. Jose Contreras. Kathy was missing, Pete decided. He wasn’t sure if it was the Jåger giving him clarity, but she didn’t seem like the type to leave her cat unattended or her TV on for days. Her apartment did not seem like its owner had left on vacation, either. And if she was missing, she was most certainly in trouble.
He was certain he’d missed something at Kathy’s apartment. Had he planned better, he’d be able to figure out where Kathy went, and if she’d left with Javier. Pretty unremarkable work, Pete thought, as he took another sip from his pint glass. Yet, for some reason, he felt energized.
He was fuzzy on why he was helping Chaz, beyond his inherent need to be liked and to be helpful. Something still bothered him about Chaz’s request. He could have done many of the things Pete did today—basic info hunting, visiting Kathy’s apartment—but he’d passed the buck to Pete instead. Odd.
His thoughts drifted back to Kathy. They worked opposite schedules. She was a day-sider, which was standard for most local reporters. He worked nights and weekends. They’d only exchanged workplace pleasantries before she came out with Emily to meet him and Mike for a drink a few months back. Pete was smitten, but also drunk. More drunk than usual, because Emily was around. Kathy seemed accepting, and their conversation was breezy and funny. He didn’t have to work hard to make her laugh or keep her interested. The random bar outings didn’t translate into much else. The times they’d see each other were few and far between. She hadn’t crept into his thoughts until Chaz interrupted him at work the night before. He also didn’t know much about her. What was she like? What were her hobbies? Was she a happy person? What were her goals in life? Pete shrugged. He made a short list of things he needed to accomplish the next morning. Well, maybe afternoon. He motioned to Jimmy for another beer. No shot.
• • •
Pete straightened up in his seat at the bar. It was close to two in the morning, no sign of Emily or Mike. He shook his half-filled pint glass at Jimmy and tried a smile. There were a few people in the bar now, none of them sitting next to Pete. He recognized a girl he’d dated briefly in college sitting close to the jukebox with two dudes that were probably fraternity alums trying to relive their heyday. What was her name? Lisa? Linda? He didn’t know. Had it been a few years earlier, Pete would have felt the need to say hello, or make some small talk. Not tonight. He’d had at least three beers on top of that shot—nothing destructive by his standards, but still enough to have him feeling fuzzy.
He thought about his life in New Jersey. The cramped two-bedroom apartment in Hoboken with Emily and Costello. The miles he’d racked up flying. The myriad hotel rooms, locker rooms, and meeting rooms that came with the job. He loved it, or so he told himself. He had started drinking heavily then. Started ignoring Emily, ignoring their problems. For the first time, they weren’t talking. And yet, even that life sounded appealing. But Pete had no clue how to get back there. If he continued to spin out at the Miami Times, there was no chance he’d catch on anywhere else.
He thought about Emily’s expensive perfume—some kind of Chanel. He’d forgotten the name, but he could pinpoint it if he smelled it on someone else. He thought about how her eyes would squint, almost close when she was focusing her gaze on Pete in mock anger. How her lips would pout. Moments flashed at him like a highlight reel during a sitcom reunion show. Flowers, anniversary dinners, concerts, mix tapes, bars and restaurants. All painted by the brush of his memory. Except she wasn’t gone. He still had to see her. He wasn’t strong enough to shut her out of his life, although she’d given him ample opportunity. He had come to terms with still being in love with her. It’d been just a few months back that he and Mike had sat outside the Pub, Pete cross-legged on the floor, drunkenly explaining to his patient friend why Emily was the only thing he’d ever wanted. How nothing was worth his time anymore. They never spoke of that night again, but Pete saw pity in Mike’s eyes for the first time, and that was heartbreaking. Loving Emily was all Pete had after his father died, and he’d let it slip away without fighting for it.
It was always work, though, Pete realized. Even at their best. Still, the memories flooded his mind constantly. He tried not to think about the bad ones, but those popped into the beer soup of his brain, too. The arguments. Her disappearances. The dozen times or so she’d gotten up and left him sitting alone—at a restaurant, bar, or visiting friends. Those memories, unlike the idyllic ones he’d started with, still stung. He found himself back on his father’s lawn, a few weeks after the funeral. Realizing that he couldn’t return to New Jersey, that the life he’d created and wanted to continue with Emily was close to collapse. He’d been staying at his father’s house—the smallish three-bedroom where he’d grown up—with Emily while they got his father’s affairs in order. It had been surreal, but also strangely comforting.
He remembered pulling into the carport slowly. He had stopped at La Carretta, a chain Cuban restaurant on Bird Road, for a few beers. He moved slowly. They’d been fighting lately. It took him a second to notice the suitcases by the porch. A few more to catch Emily as she brought out another bag. She saw him first and stood at the top of the steps, waiting for him to speak. A cab pulled up. Pete stood there.
“Please, don’t try to call me. This is the decision I’ve made and I need you to respect that.”
At the foot of the steps, Pete shook his head, to clear the cobwebs partially, but also on the off chance that this was just another bad dream in a series of nightmares.
“You’re doing this now, of all times?” The words spilled out of his mouth.
She walked to the cab, dropped the remaining bags in the trunk and got in the car. Pete remembered walking up to her window. She didn’t lower i
t. She was looking straight ahead. He rapped his fingers on the window. Nothing. She looked back at him for a fleeting moment and then the cab was moving. Pete was tempted to chase after her, like in the movies. All that he had left, though, was dust.
The memory disappeared as quickly as it had popped into his head. Pete made himself cough in an effort to explain away his red eyes to anyone that cared. He noticed Paul Westerberg was on the jukebox now. “As Far As I Know.”
“How long have you been here?”
Pete turned around slowly to see Emily, her dark brown hair in a tight ponytail. She was in a T-shirt and jeans, but still looked great—scrubbed and fresh-faced. He felt a pang of guilt for lusting for her so quickly after taking a rollercoaster ride through their failed relationship. Emily looked concerned. She stared at Pete, which made him realize that a few seconds had passed and she was waiting for an answer.
“I dunno, couple of hours?” He tried to not sound as buzzed as he felt. “Where were you guys?”
“Don’t get me started,” Emily let out with a dry laugh. She was a little annoyed, Pete could tell, but it wasn’t worth getting angry over. “Mike wanted to go all the way to his neighborhood to eat, so it took forever to get here. Then we walked in and went straight to the patio. I just came to the bar because our dumbass waiter went home and closed his bill with us.”
“Ah, shit,” Pete mumbled. “I checked outside and couldn’t see you.”
“Don’t you check your phone, Pete?” Emily said.
Pete could smell the Chanel. “It’s gonna rain in a bit. Lemme go out and get Mike and we’ll meet you here.”
She darted out, shaking her head. Emily was, like Pete, usually in a state of annoyance. She rarely got enraged or very angry, but it took very little to get under her skin. Pete pulled two stools closer to his. He was glad she was here, though. And that Mike was here. Whatever he’d been through, with or without them, made more sense when they were near him. Whenever he found himself alone for too long, things got dark very quickly.
Chapter Ten
“Do I need to use the bridge example?” Emily said, staring right at Pete, more frustration than humor in her voice. “Kathy’s a fuck-up. She’s a great writer, I consider her a friend, but she’s totally unreliable and a mess. I’m surprised it took this long for her to go AWOL.”
“Bridge example?” Pete asked, knowing where she was going.
“Yes.”
“What are you talking about?” Mike asked. Emily turned to look at him with the same annoyed surprise she’d already served up to Pete.
“Maybe it’s time to cut you both off.” She slid her glass an inch away from her grasp. “I was just saying that just because someone asks you to do something, it doesn’t mean you need to do it. What if Kathy’s dad asked you to jump off a bridge?”
Pete laughed. Mike joined. Emily smiled as she took another sip of wine. The three of them had been friends for over a decade, so ribbing and sarcastic exchanges were par for the course. Pete wondered, as he took a quick sip of his beer, if they’d ever make it back to being real friends, or if they were forever cursed to this weird purgatory. When Emily was a Features designer at the Times, she had plenty of contact with Kathy. The two of them would hang out from time to time, before Emily got married and Kathy found Javier. Pete wondered why Emily was even out at this hour.
“I just think it’s stupid,” Emily said, pulling out her cell phone and checking it quickly. “And as someone who actually knows Kathy—which you don’t—I think she’s more trouble than she’s worth. Smart girl, very pretty and cool to hang out with, that’s it. If it was me or Mike, then yeah, of course you should come find us.”
“I’m not risking anything,” Pete said, annoyed. “This’ll be over in less than a day. I’m calling Chaz tomorrow, once I check out a few more things.”
“What are you going to check out?” Emily asked.
“Well, I need to check with her friends and neighbors…stuff like that,” Pete stammered. “And I checked out her boyfriend Javier’s record.”
“How’d you check his record?”
Pete scratched his head. He’d painted himself into a corner. Luckily, this was Emily, and awkwardness aside, she wasn’t going to get him in trouble. She would rib him about it, though.
“You used the Times database? Right?”
“Yeah,” Pete said.
Emily took a long sip from her glass. Mike nodded absentmindedly.
“Well, whatever, everyone does it,” Emily said. “Chaz is going to pay you, right?”
Pete put up his arms defensively. “I just said I’d make a few inquiries. This is a one-off thing. I may not even accept any money from him if I don’t find his daughter.”
“She probably went on some trip with this dude,” Emily said. “Anyway, what did you find?”
“Not a lot, really,” Pete admitted. “Javier’s got a rap sheet. I was going to swing by this restaurant where he works and talk to him, see if he’s there.”
“Where does he work?” Emily asked.
“Casa Pepe’s, a Cuban joint near my dad’s house,” Pete said. He noticed Emily’s eyes softening slightly at the mention of his father. She’d loved his dad. Emily would sit with Pedro for hours, talking and drinking, when she and Pete visited from Jersey. She was shattered when they got the news. Pete had come home haggard and drunk. It didn’t click for her immediately—that sad, empty look in his eyes. He’d often come home wasted after covering a late Nets game. But he looked different that night, or so she’d told him. “You looked like you’d died,” she had whispered to him, a few nights later, as they shuddered outside the Caballero Funeral Home in Miami, drenched in a rainstorm and not caring.
Pete shook his head and looked at his watch. It was late.
“So Javier works there?” Emily asked, pulling Pete out of his thoughts.
“Yeah,” Pete said. “Seems like it. I have to check to be sure.”
“That place is odd,” Emily said, looking at her hands as she fiddled with a matchbook. “Hardly ever see anyone in there. Pretty nice looking for a Westchester Cuban place, though.”
“The food sucks, too,” Mike chimed in, after finishing his beer and sliding the glass over to Jimmy.
“Yeah, it’s not amazing; but you don’t like much food,” Emily said, looking at Mike. “The servers are totally rude, too. But people seem to go there.”
Pete nodded. It was almost three in the morning. He was more tired than hammered. Talking to Emily and Mike had leveled him out. He could drive home, he thought. He snapped to attention as Emily quickly stood up.
“Shit, I have to go,” she said, putting her cell phone back into her purse. She leaned in and gave Pete a quick peck on the cheek and an automated hug. “Rick isn’t a big fan of me being out late and he’s home with the dogs.”
Pete wondered how married life was treating her. He wondered how married life would have treated them.
“Come on, you can’t do one more? Rick’ll watch the dogs,” Mike said.
Emily ignored the belligerent Mike and stood by Pete, still seated in his stool. She put a hand on his shoulder. “Be careful, OK? This whole situation sounds odd.”
Pete’s heart jumped at her concern. He fought an urge to grab her hand. “I’ll be fine, but thanks.”
“OK,” she said, her hand lingering on Pete’s shoulder. She was a little drunk, too, Pete realized. Her hands felt familiar still. Her eyes focused on his for a second and she snapped her fingers, shattering whatever drunken connection Pete felt. “Shit, you know who you should talk to? Do you know Amy Matheson?”
“The news editor? She handles cops, no?” Pete responded.
“Yeah, her,” Emily said. “She’s Kathy’s best friend—well, her only friend at work. They talk all the time. If Kathy’s not talking to her, then something is shady.”
“Yeah, definitely,” Pete said. “I’ll check with her tomorrow when I get in.” He felt himself leaning in to Emily more than
he normally would. He was drunk. She was drunk. She looked at him.
“Stephanie says she saw you a few nights ago,” Emily said, letting the statement hang out without any context.
Pete cleared his throat. “Yeah, we chatted for a bit,” he said, refusing to fully engage. “She seemed OK.”
“That’s good,” Emily said, her eyes meeting Pete’s. In the past, she would have pressed the issue—asked why he’d been so wasted, why he’d embarrassed himself in front of someone they both knew. She didn’t do that anymore. They were quiet for a few moments before she spoke again. “How’s your new place?” Emily asked. The question came out of left field and didn’t at the same time.
“That was random,” Mike commented. Emily didn’t turn to respond.
“Uh, it’s fine,” Pete said. “Not really that new anymore.” He stopped himself. He could have continued—noted how long it’d been since she’d left in that cab. He could mention the piles of unreturned e-mails, phone calls, and letters that further confirmed for him that Emily wanted nothing to do with him. That it was over.
“Yeah, sorry,” Emily said.
Pete could see pity in her eyes, and that made him feel worse. He moved back slightly. She moved her hand from his shoulder. An awkward silence lingered. He thought it’d gone so well, but now his mind was spinning. He hated to think about her like this. He hated how his heart—in a second—could show him that nothing had changed. He coughed quickly and offered up a humorless smile to Emily.
“OK, I really have to go.” She kissed him quickly on the cheek again before turning to Mike and shoving him. “You idiots get home safe. Have some water before you leave.”
Mike giggled. Pete laughed in response. He was rarely more sober than Mike. Jimmy hovered over them, looking a little worn out after a long night of serving underage college students and depressed thirtysomethings.
“Hey guys, last call,” he said, wiping around their respective glasses. “Can I get you something else?”
