by Sam Hawken
“You’re not on the list,” the bouncer said.
“I know José,” Flip said. “I just want to see if my girlfriend’s back there.”
“I can’t let you go in.”
“Come on, man, I don’t want to stay. I just want to get my girlfriend.”
“You’re not getting through. Sorry.”
Flip thought about trying to rush around the man, but it was useless. He found a table near the VIP entrance and waited until a waitress came by to take his order. His shoulders felt tense and they would not relax. Graciela did not come out until three beers later and his mind was working. “Hey, Flip,” she said. “What are you doing out here alone?”
“I was waiting for you.”
“I wish I knew. I was just talking to my girls.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Flip said.
“What? Sure.”
Flip herded her toward the exit, his hand on her elbow. They rushed through the front doors and Graciela almost tripped. “Hey, slow down,” she said.
There was a wait while the valet went to fetch her car. Flip looked back into the club. No one followed them out. “You were just talking to your girls?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“What about José?”
“I said hi to him. Why? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t tell me ‘nothing.’ What’s wrong?”
“It’s something Emilio said.”
A dark look passed over Graciela’s face. “What did that idiota say?”
The doorman and the valets weren’t paying attention to them. Flip felt the muscle in his jaw working. “He just said some things about how you like to party.”
“Sure, I like to party. Everybody knows I like to party.”
“He said you liked to party.”
“What? Did he call me a whore?”
The doorman looked their way. Flip put himself between the man and Graciela. “He said you weren’t in no hurry to settle down.”
“That’s what he said?”
“Yeah,” Flip said and he began to feel stupid for saying anything at all.
“I’m twenty-one years old, Flip! Of course I’m not looking to settle down!”
“I just thought—”
“You thought that means I like to fuck around? I don’t believe this! Is that why you asked me about José? You think I fucked José in front of everybody, or what?”
Flip put his hands up, but he wanted to beat his own head in. “Forget I said anything. I’m being crazy.”
“There’s crazy and then there’s being a pendejo, Flip. How much did you drink tonight?”
“I’m not drunk. I’m just an asshole.”
“You got that right.”
Graciela’s car came. Everyone was staring now. Flip took the passenger seat, though he expected her to drive away without him.
She spent the drive muttering to herself and striking the steering wheel with the palm of her hand. Flip heard her say Emilio’s name more than once.
“I want to say—” Flip started.
“Don’t say nothing! You’re not talking.”
“Okay.”
“I should dump your dumb ass at your mamá’s house and say good-bye for good, you know that? After I treated you right, you listen to Emilio? Emilio is a dumbass. His girl had more boyfriends than anybody. Calling me a whore? I’m going to tear his balls off.”
“Hey—”
Graciela put up a hand. “You’re still not talking. You don’t talk ’til I say so. No, wait: you answer me something. If I’m some kind of puta, what does that make you?”
“I don’t know. Listen, I’m sorry.”
“I introduce you around, I tell you it’s okay that you were in prison and the first time someone says something bad about me, you believe it?”
“I said I was sorry.”
“I don’t know if sorry’s going to cut it, Flip.”
Flip didn’t say anything. He let her drive and from time to time she took her eyes off the road to glare at him.
“I like you, Flip. I like you a lot,” she said finally.
“I like you, too.”
“Then why did you listen to Emilio? Don’t you know he’s a fool?”
“He was just saying and you weren’t around and I…” Flip didn’t know how to continue.
“It’s because I slept with you too soon,” Graciela said. “That’s the problem. Guys always think it’s because a girl’s easy. I’m not easy, Flip. I could have been with plenty of guys and I wasn’t.”
“I believe you.”
They were on Flip’s street and Graciela slowed. Flip did not want to get out of the car.
“Here’s your house,” Graciela said. They came to a stop.
“Graciela, I’m sorry,” Flip said. “I don’t want you to go away angry.”
“It’s a little late for that, Flip,” Graciela said and he heard her sadness.
“Can I kiss you at least?”
“Yeah, okay.”
He leaned over and kissed her, but didn’t pull away. Her breath feathered across his face and he thought he could see her trembling. He kissed her again, softly. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to her.
Graciela put her hand on his cheek. Her eyes shimmered and then Flip knew for certain how much he’d hurt her. “I’m not a whore, Flip,” she said. “Don’t ever call me that again. Don’t even think it.”
“I won’t. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t say ‘I’m sorry’ again. I know you’re sorry.” Her eyes over-filled and tears trickled down. She blinked hard to make them go away, but they came on anyway and her mascara started to streak.
“What can I do?” Flip asked.
“Wait a few days. Call me. Take me out somewhere. Treat me good.”
“I can do that.”
“You don’t know how much I like you, Flip.”
“Graciela—”
“Go. Get out. Go home.” Graciela took up her purse and looked in it for a tissue. She used it to dab at her eyes, but the damage was done. “I said go. Remember what I told you.”
“I’ll call you.”
“Okay. Go.”
Flip got out of the car and waited while she pulled away. He watched her all the way to the end of the block until her taillights vanished around the corner. His eyes itched and he rubbed them rather than letting himself cry. He willed the tears away.
He didn’t go inside. He sat down on the front step and watched the house across the street. All the lights were off, but a flickering blue illumination in the front room was the telltale of a television. Inside his house his mother would be fast asleep. He would have to be careful not to wake her.
If he felt anything it was sadness and regret mixed together and a touch of anger. Anger with Emilio for planting the seed and anger with himself for believing it. He hadn’t known a girl like Graciela before and he didn’t know how to treat her or what to expect. It occurred to him to send her flowers. Girls liked flowers.
A car cruised by without slowing and made the same turn as Graciela had. Someone coming home late to a wife or a husband, he imagined. Maybe the kids were sleeping in their beds. He wondered what that would be like. He could not imagine.
“Graciela,” he said out loud. “Graciela, Graciela.”
He should go inside. He should go to sleep. Flip told himself this, but he stayed on the front step, anyway. He brought out his phone and dialed a number he had committed to memory.
SIXTEEN
CRISTINA AND ROBINSON SAT AT THE LEAD OF four vehicles, all parked against the curb: two cars and two SUVs. They’d been in place since noon, counting off the hours as the sun canted westward and grew shadows on the street. The houses nearby were still; no one had so much as moved a curtain in the whole time they were there. From time to time a car approached and there was tension until it passed.
Empty snack bags of chips were between Cristina and Robinson. Neither of them had anything to drin
k because there was nowhere to use the restroom if the urge struck. If it came to that, they had to leave the line or come up with improvised solutions that weren’t great.
Both Cristina and Robinson wore their vests, the word POLICE printed out in block letters front and back. Cristina was sweating under hers, the temperature outside the car climbing into the mid-eighties and inside the car ten degrees hotter. Today she wore her gun in a hip holster and it pressed against the emergency brake handle.
The radio tucked into the door pocket squelched and Matt Guillemette from Narcotics spoke up: “Hey, you said it was a blue Civic?”
Cristina picked up the radio. “Yeah, a blue Civic, tag number BMV1738.”
“I can’t see the plate yet, but it looks like a blue Civic’s coming up from behind.”
“Hang on.” Cristina looked into the side mirror. She saw the car approaching, but the reflection and the sun conspired to make identification difficult. “Okay, I see it. This could be her. Stand by.”
The car drew closer and Cristina could make out the H-logo on the nose of the car. Then it was moving by and she saw it was a Civic. The license plate matched. She hit Robinson on the arm.
“Let her go inside first,” Cristina said over the radio. “Then we move.”
She watched as the car pulled into the short driveway outside one of the still houses. The girl, Alicia Gonzalez, got out with her purse and went to the front door. She dropped her keys, picked them up, went inside.
“Okay,” Cristina said to Robinson.
They got out of the car and behind them more officers stepped out of their vehicles. All were openly armed and wearing light vests. One carried a stubby, handheld battering ram.
Guillemette approached. “I still think we should take the lead on this. A drug bust makes it ours.”
“Our informant,” Cristina said.
“There’s plenty to go around,” added Robinson. “The drug collar is all yours.”
“All right, let’s do this,” Guillemette said.
There were ten of them altogether and they crossed the street in a ragged line. Somewhere nearby a piece of heavy machinery started backing up, making high-pitched beeps.
Cristina opened the gate and entered the yard with everyone behind her. She was first to the house and tested the barred door. It was unlocked. She swung it wide and rapped hard on the front door itself. “Police,” she announced loudly.
To her right Robinson drifted to the front window and tried to see through the drawn curtains. Some of Guillemette’s men watched the sides of the house, and one climbed the fence into the back yard.
“Anything?” Cristina asked Robinson. He shook his head.
Guillemette stepped forward and pounded on the door with his fist. “Police,” he said. “Open the door.”
“Somebody’s moving in the front room,” Robinson said, and then the curtains parted right in front of him. Cristina was able to catch only a glimpse of a face before they were drawn again.
“Police! Open the door!”
“I don’t see her anymore,” Robinson said.
Guillemette spat into the flowers by the front door. “Fuck this,” he said. “Carns, bring the ram.”
Cristina tried one more time: “Open the door or we’re going to break it down!”
Carns hefted the ram and stepped in front of Cristina. “Watch out,” he said.
It took two sharp blows to splinter the frame and knock the door wide open. Carns stepped back and Cristina went through with her weapon out, Guillemette right behind. “Police, executing a search warrant,” Cristina called out.
She was in a modest living room with a couch and a couple wingbacked chairs. The TV wasn’t large. A throw rug on the wooden floor was pink and white and the walls were painted coral.
The girl appeared in the adjoining hallway. Cristina put her weapon on her. “Police! Put your hands in the air!”
The rest of the team spilled into the room. The girl stretched her arms up over her head and Guillemette stepped forward to put her in cuffs. Within a matter of seconds the others were headed through down the hall, deeper into the house.
“Search warrant,” Cristina told the girl. She presented the paperwork, but the girl’s hands were behind her back. “We have permission to search the house for illegal drugs and drug paraphernalia.”
“This is my mother’s house,” the girl said. Her face was taut with panic. “There’s nothing here.”
“That’s not what we heard,” Guillemette said. “Come on and sit on the couch where you’re out of everyone’s way.”
Guillemette sat the girl down. He turned to Cristina: “I’m going to knock some things over, see what I find. You can babysit.”
“Thanks,” Cristina said.
When Cristina looked at the girl, she saw the girl was crying. She had a round face and wore too much makeup. Tears cut grooves on her cheeks. “I didn’t do anything,” the girl said.
“You’re Alicia Gonzalez, right?” Cristina asked.
“Yes, but—”
“We have reason to believe there are narcotics on the premises. You can save us all a lot of time and trouble if you tell us where they are right now. We don’t even have to mess the place up.”
“There aren’t any drugs here!”
“Okay,” Cristina said. “If that’s how you want to be, we’ll turn the house upside down.”
A voice came from farther back in the house: “Here!”
Cristina looked to Robinson. “Watch her a minute?”
“Sure.”
She went down the hallway and followed Guillemette to a small bedroom at the rear of the house. It was a girly room, complete with a frilled bedspread. The furniture was all white and there was an open jewelry box on the top of a chest of drawers, a tiny ballerina balanced inside.
“Here,” said one Guillemette’s men. He knelt by the bed.
They dragged out a half of a cardboard box, cut down so it could slide easily beneath the bed. Inside was a bag of weed and a bag of white powder and a collection of smaller bags, each loaded with a small amount. A few dozen empty baggies were tossed on top of an electronic scale.
“Under the bed?” Guillemette said. “That’s original.”
“Looks like meth here.”
“There could be more,” Cristina said.
“Right. Keep looking. But this is distribution weight right here. Looks like your informant has good ears, Salas.”
“I want to talk to the girl when we bring her in.”
“Be my guest. She doesn’t have to say a word for me to make my case.”
Cristina left them and went back to the front room. The girl was still crying. Robinson stood over her impassively. Cristina nodded to him.
“We found the dope,” Robinson told the girl. “You have anything to say?”
“It’s not mine!” the girl exclaimed.
“We’ll talk about that later,” Cristina said. “Just think about this right now: there’s enough weed and meth back there to send you away for years.”
The girl collapsed into tears as Guillemette’s men took the house apart.
SEVENTEEN
THEY HAD ONE INTERVIEW ROOM AND IT WAS not large, just big enough for two people. A camera high on one wall recorded everything and transmitted to any computer with access, so there could be many eyes watching. Cristina had the interview room in a window on her desktop and kept her eye on the girl’s body language as she sat alone, waiting.
“When are you going in there?” Robinson asked.
“Give it a minute.”
“She’s been waiting an hour.”
“I don’t think she’s ready.”
Cristina let another fifteen minutes slide by. The girl put her head down on the interview table. Cristina got up from her desk and put on a light jacket; it was always cold in the little room.
“Now?” Robinson asked.
“Now. Be ready in case we need to switch off.”
“We won’t
need to after you sweet-talk her.”
Cristina went down the hall and around the corner to the interview room. It wasn’t locked, but there was no way out of the area without passing a cop. She let herself in.
The girl straightened up sharply when Cristina entered. Her tears were dried and now there were just the tracks they left behind. She wiped at her cheeks trying to fix the damage.
Cristina took the only other chair. “Hello again,” she said.
“Hello.”
“I’m Detective Cristina Salas. I’m going to be talking with you today.”
“I’d like to call my mother.”
“In a little while. First let’s chat. Can I call you Alicia? You can call me Cristina if you want.”
“Cristina,” the girl said.
“That’s right. I don’t mind.”
Cristina took a small notebook from her jacket pocket and opened it on the table. She had a mechanical pencil and on a fresh page she wrote the girl’s name and the date.
“Am I going to jail?”
“Probably. We found a lot of drugs in your room, Alicia.”
“I told you they aren’t mine.”
“You know what? I believe you.”
“You do?”
“Yes,” Cristina said. “And what I’d like to talk to you about first is who they do belong to and how they got under your bed.”
Cristina saw the girl’s eyes dart to the side. The girl was no longer handcuffed, but she kept her hands together underneath the table. She shifted in her seat.
“I’m not asking for much,” Cristina said.
“I don’t know if I should talk to you.”
“Well, you don’t have to, but I think you’d rather tell me the truth now than have me find it out on my own. And I will find out on my own. If that happens, there’s no chance for any deals or special consideration.”
The girl did not look up.
“Okay, let’s start with some easy questions and work our way up to the hard stuff. Who owns the house where you live?”
“My mother.”
“You live there alone together?”
“Yes. My brother moved away last year.”
“Is it lonely without him?”
