Alberto had left about an hour before, snuffling and wiping angrily at the tears that had threatened to spill down his cheeks. He'd wanted to offer the boy words of comfort, but was unable to formulate any.
"I'm just so scared for her, T."
He'd smoked three more cigarettes, the last of the pack, and sat on the bed idly playing with the empty package. Crinkle. Crinkle.
Maybe I had no right to offer comfort…
He felt sick and wired and his head pounded from smoking too much, too fast, on top of his injuries. He contemplated the bottle of aspirin that lay on the bed. Knew there was no water left in the bottle. The memory of the acrid metallic taste of the water from the sink lingered on his tongue. Figuring the taste of the pills couldn't be much worse he fumbled the top back off and tossed two more into his mouth, crunching the chalky tablets between his molars, grimacing at the bitterness.
I heard you tell her you were a críminal…you umm…you carry a gun.
Maybe this is a chance to start with a clean slate. A do over. But what would I do? Where would I go? I have no shirt, no shoes, and like eighty-seven cents in my pocket. Barely enough for a phone call…
A phone call…
He sat up and dug hastily through his pockets. Set aside the ring. He had eighty-three cents and the matchbook. With the phone number.
Glancing about the Spartan room he found no phone. He eased up off the bed and hobbled over to the door. Tried the handle. It was unlocked.
Guess Alberto was telling the truth when he said it was only locked while he was out for his protection.
He checked the closet again and found nothing more in the way of clothing. His eyes landed back on the ugly cowboy shirt still crumpled at the end of the bed. Sighed when he realized this was his only option. The shirt was at least a size too small, and he struggled to close the fancy snaps across his broad chest. The arms were too tight and squeezed his wound horribly. And the sleeves were too short, so he rolled them to the elbows.
He searched the closet for shoes and was disappointed to find nothing in the way of footwear. As he turned he caught a glimpse of something sticking out from under the bed. Bracing himself on the bed with his good arm he fished under the bed and came up with a sneaker. Black with white trim. Ominous dark brown splotches marred the white piping. He found its mate further under the bed next to two balled up socks. They were covered in …something...that had left them crusted stiff. He tossed the socks back under the bed out of view.
A wave of dizziness overwhelmed him and he sat back down, fighting at the gray that was closing in at the periphery of his vision. He reeled a bit and attempted several deep calming breaths.
Put the sneakers on the floor and stepped into them with his bare feet. They fit perfectly.
He scratched his fingers through the heavy stubble that was growing on his chin and jaws. Ran a tongue over the sweaters that had formed on his teeth. Lowered his head into his armpit for a brief sniff, recoiling at the strong odor of perspiration there.
Have to remember to ask Alberto for a razor and a toothbrush. And more soap.
His gaze went back to the single window; still showing it was solid dark out. Figured he'd be okay out at night. At first glance he couldn't look too scary. He'd probably fit right in with the rest of the great unwashed masses out on the Vegas streets tonight.
Steeling his resolve he turned the handle and poked his head out to see a short hallway. There appeared to be a dim light emanating from the other end. He passed another closed door and found himself in the main portion of the storefront. There was a small counter with an old-fashioned mechanical cash register. The walls and most of the space were crowded with shelves covered in small appliances; their wiring and tubes spilling out like the entrails of gutted animals. Some of them looked finished, tagged with taped pieces of paper, waiting for their owners to find the money to come and claim them.
The front door was covered in heavy iron grating and had a strong-looking lock. As he began walking towards it he cursed silently at his stupidity. Of course it would be locked.
"…this is a rough neighborhood. My abuelo's store has been broken into tons of times…"
He slowed as he reached the door and the curses turned to blessings as he saw the key sticking out of the lock. Alberto must have had the presence of mind to leave the key, even leaving as upset as he was.
Turning the key in its lock he was gratified to hear the click-clack of the tumblers catching. Pocketing the key, he stepped out onto the sidewalk.
He scanned the neighborhood. No one in view. A single car appeared to have been abandoned, one rim up on a jack, its tire absent. The properties were primarily closed up storefronts. Most of the signs were in Spanish. The store directly across the street was a pawnshop. Next to that was a city-owned building in better shape than its neighbors. A sign over the door read División de los Servicios de las Mujeres y de los Niños. Women and Children's Services. The building on the one corner was a market, also closed. The building on the other corner was boarded up, paper covering the windows. The streetlights were peppered with burnt out bulbs. And in front of the market was a lone payphone.
He stuck his hands in his pockets, playing nervously with the change in them, and set off for the phone, scanning about him constantly as he went.
He picked up the receiver and offered a silent prayer that the phone would work. He was heartened to hear a strong dial tone after he dropped the first of his three quarters into the slot.
He fumbled the matchbook out and re-read the number on its inside cover in the poor light. The numbers were no clearer than the first time he read them, but he chose the numbers that gave him the closest thing to a hint of familiarity. As he dialed the number his fingers seemed to move of their own accord as if they were used to dialing this number.
He waited anxiously through three rings, holding his breath. Four rings…five. On the sixth ring a lilting female voice with a strong Spanish accent answered. The taped greeting was cheery. And the voice was warm and sensual. That voice…
Hola, éste es Mari! No puede conseguir su llamada ahora así que déjeme un mensaje. Adiós!
The voice entered his ears and bounced about inside his head. Visions and memories triggered swept through his brain with hurricane force.
Mari…Mari… Dark ringlets course down over her back and shoulders. Wide bright grin. Generous curves in all the right places. She's smart. Her favorite author is Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and she can talk for hours on the last book she read. She's got a wicked sense of humor and loves to make me try to keep up with her quicksilver Spanish even though she knows my grasp is barely passable. But I'm learning. Fast. She sings off key and at the top of her lungs. She dances like a whirling dervish. She laughs when I tell her she smells of spicy musk over a hint of onions. She says What do you expect knowing where I work? She tastes of tequila and lemons…. Oh, God! Mari! What happened to you ?
A groan escaped his lips, and tears unbidden and unstoppable brimmed over his lids to course down his cheeks, leaving salty trails. He collapsed slowly to sit at the foot of the phone post, and dropped his head into his hands, the receiver left hanging from its cord.
An unexpected sound brought his tears up short and he choked back the sobs that waited in his throat. Whistling. He heard whistling. He hastily cleared his eyes and swiped at his nose to peer down the street.
A man was ambling down the sidewalk in his direction, whistling an unfamiliar tune and weaving slightly.
Sitting up straighter against the post, he watched warily as the man closed the distance between them. The man strolled past him without a glance, continuing his whistling of the same broken refrain.
He realized the man saw him as he would have seen himself. A dreg of society; a fellow sad soul out in the streets looking for liquor or drugs, or sex or money.
I heard you tell her you were a críminal…
I thought you were a cop the first time I saw you…like the policía, like from TV…
Only one way to find out…
He clambered back up to stand back in front of the phone. Grabbed the phonebook that hung from a chain underneath the frame, and thumbed through the first few pages until he found what he was looking for.
He rubbed a hand down his face, cleared his throat, and dropped the second of his quarters into the slot. Dialed the number he had found.
"Las Vegas Police Department. How may I direct your call?"
"Yeah. Yes. This is Dr. Bell over at Our Lady of Sorrows. We have an unidentified male here, dropped off at our ER unconscious. The individual who brought him in said he thought the man was a cop. He's about six feet tall. One hundred seventy pounds. Short dark brown hair and brown eyes. No uh...distinguishing marks. I was calling to find out if you had any missing officers."
"I'm sorry. Who did you say was calling?"
"Dr. Bell. Alex Bell."
"Well, Dr. Bell. If we have a missing officer a BOLO is sent out to all local hospitals and clinics. But you should know that." Her voice was tinged with suspicion.
"Yeah. Yes. I know that. I thought maybe the bulletin hadn't gone out yet. Do you? I mean, was there a …uhh…BOLO out for any missing officers matching that description?"
"We have nothing out on any missing officers, doctor. Maybe you should talk to our Missing Persons department. I can put you right through to a detective if you'd like."
"Yeah. Thanks."
He waited until she transferred the call and hung up the phone dejectedly.
He knew it had been at least twenty-four hours since he'd been brought to the room. God only knows how much time transpired before that. And he was pretty sure that if a police officer was missing for that long that someone would have noticed his absence.
He stuffed his hands into his pockets, picked a direction at random, and headed off down the street to be swallowed by the night.