Chapter 3

Rico sat up, confused, unsure of where he was. Darkness had come, thick and violent, and Blanco wanted to die, believing in an inevitable death. They had finally fucked, I love you, yes, yes, lemme see you come, and he wasn't afraid of it anymore, I will say that now, so he used all of himself, forceful, filling, every inch of him the whole of him—

"Mí león?"

As soon as the words rolled off his tongue, he remembered. New York City. Ah, right, right. You killed her, get the fuck away from me. Right. Manning is gone, Macias. So sorry. He looked through the hazy black and saw an empty bed. He guessed it was after seven maybe. He slept all day. Kenneth was probably picking up food. It made sense. It was possible.

He leaned over and pushed buttons but couldn't figure out how to turn on the lamp. He got off the bed and went to the bathroom. Flipped on the light there. Light now leaked into the room. He was definitely alone. He needed to piss and so did. Had a flash of Blanco worried that he'd be pissing blood after the beating by his brothers.

Not his brothers after all. Two strangers who died later in an orgy of revenge, the killers thinking they avenged MK-connected Yanko, but that double killing was in fact an act of love that wouldn't have happened had Blanco not asked…

What are their names?

His duffle bag was on the bed and he unzipped it, pulling out his blue scarf that Blanco had hidden from him. Touched the silk and pressed it to his cheek. He almost left it behind.

When he had gotten to Sylvia's to pack, after the horror of losing Téa, after Blanco had run, after the FBI and Havana PD's interrogations, after, after, he had climbed the stairs and stood looking into the room he and Blanco had shared, the room where he was shot, the room from where Téa was taken. On the bed lay a pile of silk shirts, belts, and his blue scarf. He immediately knew Blanco had gathered everything he thought Rico would use to choke himself the way he liked. Must have put them somewhere… and either Sylvia or Raquel had returned them.

Blanco worked so hard to keep Rico alive. And worked equally as hard to die.

Sitting with knees up, back against the pillows, the way Blanco liked to sit on any bed, he placed the scarf on the back of his neck and crossed the ends over each other. He curled them into each of his fists… and then pulled. Tight, tighter. Kept pulling until the room began to darken further, the edges of his world blackening, closing in, his eyes pressured, feeling like they were pushing out, knowing it he kept it up blood vessels would burst and red would flood the white. And maybe then he'd lose all awareness.

He stopped pulling and held the ends to his face as tears fell.

After...after...

He wrapped the scarf once more around his neck and lay down again. Cuddling the blue. He did not know there could be an after. His whole life had been a now.

He remembered meeting Téa that first time en la paladar. He knew who she was the moment she sat down. He couldn't even say how he knew. Maybe her American-ness. Maybe her guts at sitting with a whore out in the open. Maybe he felt Blanco's soul pouring through her, draping her like paint. When he used the scarf later in her hotel bathroom, when he walked into the room, he'd completely forgotten that the scarf left marks on his skin. She pointed it out.

Does he know you choke yourself… with that scarf?

He'd been stunned. She was so intuitive, so smart. No wonder Blanco loved her. He grew to love her, too. Loved everything about her even though it made him jealous. He could never be her. He could never have Blanco the way she had him.

He heard the door click and jerk open, and he popped up, startled.

"Oh hey, sorry. You're awake though. That's good."

The door hissed then slammed shut, making a calamitous noise that Rico jumped at. Kenneth carried a big paper bag and he passed Rico to dump it on the small table by the window. He unloaded sandwiches, little bags of something, bottles of soda. And beer. He immediately uncapped the beers. Walked to the bed. He stood over the slightly huddled Rico, seeing dark eyes looking back up at him.

Kenneth sighed at the heaviness in them, at that same haunted gaze he'd seen on those horrible films. It took a tremendous effort to not hold him, to resist comforting him in a physical way. He did inspire that. And yet, the idea of touching him in any way seemed like such another taking.

Kenneth stammered instead, "I… uh...know there's not a lot I can say to help right now. You got a hard road ahead."

Rico took the beer after some moments of studying the scarf, sitting back against the pillows again. An American beer, of course. Kenneth lounged on the other bed while Rico sipped who then made an approving face before drinking more. Chugged it a little.

"Gracias," he said softly.

"Hungry?"

A shrug.

"You gotta eat. I sound like my grandmother but… you gotta keep up your strength."

Rico picked at the label, scratching at it. "Is there news on the bomb?"

"Um… nothing concrete… it's chaotic. It's all over the American news. No mention of Manning."

Manning.

The unintentional casual drop of his name stabbed Rico in the gut. He closed his eyes and tilted the beer, drinking the rest of it. He wanted to ask about Téa. He couldn't bear another casual drop though. He knew enough. That she survived, that the little one might not. Too soon a delivery.

No, he couldn't ask.

He got up and went to the pile of food. He wasn't hungry at all but he picked a sandwich anyway to keep moving, like a shark.

"Roast beef," he read. "A deli? For delicious?"

Kenneth laughed, "No, no… that's funny. It's short for 'delicatessen,' a restaurant of sorts specializing in meats and cheeses. New York is famous for their delis. I thought you'd like to try it."

Rico hadn't laughed and Kenneth felt stupid and helpless. He watched Rico carefully unwrap the sandwich and take a bite, chewing slowly. He swallowed and raised his eyes. Nodded.

"Very nice," he said. "I like deli."

Kenneth smiled and got up, picking the turkey sandwich. They both sat at the table and ate. Kenneth was starving so finished his but Rico only managed a quarter of the whole thing. He took another beer. Made short work of it.

"You are… kind… to help me. I feel…" He closed his eyes as if searching for words, then seemed to give up. Took another route. "I meet my mother tomorrow?"

"Only if you want. You'll have an interview with an FBI agent. They'll want a statement. As much as you can offer. Everything is up to you. You can say no to anything. Understand?"

"Yes."

"What are you thinking?"

Rico fiddled with the beer bottle, the condensation, spreading the moisture on the green glass. He didn't look at Kenneth. After a minute, he said, "I do not know what to say to her." He spoke the words with barely a voice.

Kenneth took a swig, and put the bottle down. "Just go with whatever comes out. There are no rules here. I've been at other reunions before. Parents and children separated for a long time. The ones that went well were those where nobody had any expectations."

He sort of nodded and smiled, once again feeling generally useless. Rico didn't respond.

"Want to go out? Take a walk?"

For the first time, Rico looked up and there was the smallest bit of life in his eyes.


One block and Rico clung to Kenneth like a drowning sailor. The crowds overwhelmed him, the looming buildings and endless streets and speeding cars and the city noise. They walked three or four blocks in downtown Manhattan and finally had to duck into a Starbucks, an actual oasis in the madness.

They drank coffee at a corner table, just a couple of Americano-style, grande size, true blue "welcome to the U.S." coffees. Rico eyed the customers, their laughing together, one couple bickering, the purchases, the line, the clothing, the shoes of everyone who walked past.

Then the faces. He watched like a proverbial hawk. Brows knitted, eyes intense and full of intensity. He was so rapt that Kenneth just knew there would be no talking. On occasion he sipped the coffee, even after it grew cold.

When they returned to the hotel, Rico silent the entire way, walking only inches from Kenneth, he immediately went to his duffle and pulled out a journal of some sort and pencils. He plopped himself on the bed and, to the surprise of Kenneth, began drawing.

He was quiet and focused and Kenneth could only sit at the table and watch. He drank more beer and soon became engaged in a book he'd brought along for just these quiet times.

When two in the morning arrived, Kenneth readied himself for sleep, brushing teeth, shedding clothes, and climbing onto his bed to scroll through whatnot on his phone. Rico soon seemed to finish his work, stretched with a soft delicate grunt, and left to shower. When the bathroom door shut, Kenneth tiredly got up to look at the drawing.

It was of a woman they'd seen, homeless probably. She'd been sitting at a table with a small cup of coffee, stuffed plastic bags at her feet, face gaunt, and eyes red with exhaustion. Rico captured her perfectly, beautifully. The details made a viewer feel her undefined but very real struggles. You knew by the look on her face she had history, and felt, well, hopeless.

Except he didn't end the portrait with her. He continued outwards to show the irony of her sitting in a Starbucks cafe, one of the most powerful and wealthiest companies worldwide. Glittering Starbucks trade dress framed her, surrounded her and her emptiness, while the "Starbucks" name at the top dripped coffee that could have been blood.

In a few hours, Rico caught an American truth. An ugly fact of life all its citizens take for granted and hardly question. The slap of wealth right up against the husk of poverty. Like the sun and moon, like sand and sea.

Rico Macias was an artist. And a goddamn social commentator, too. Kenneth smiled.

Okay… game on, America.

To be continued...