Caged: Reclamation
Chapter 9
Beatrice talked Blanco off the proverbial ledge. She coolly walked up to the raging man who was definitely more devil-like and less angel-like and described an incontrovertible truth. She said, "Release Raquel or I will throw you out the window. And I, unlike you, have the physical strength to do it."
Wild light eyes roved the edges of the bed, the bathroom, the wheelchair, the railing at his side, his socked feet. The socks had been patched, blue patches on the heels. He then landed on the unflustered gaze of Raquel, seeing a knowingness he almost hated.
"Blanco," she urged, softening really. Not the reaction he was going for. He then noticed she had drawn her knee up, that her hands were on the mattress on both sides of him. She was supporting herself as she stretched down the bed while in Todd's hard grip.
Jesus CHRIST, he cursed. She was protecting his body from her own-she did not want to hurt him.
He dug in his fingers, scraping skin beneath her shirt, and hissed, "I'm… not… finished with you. Get the fuck away from me." At that, he shoved her away as if it had been her idea to be all up in his face.
"We will answer your questions," Beatrice assured him.
He slammed back on the pillows and glowered at the two women, snorting like a downed bull. Beatrice was right. He hardly had the strength to get off the bed, much less toss any woman from any window. He needed help in getting… everywhere. He had to sit on a stool to shower. He sat to pee. His threat… wasn't even yelled. It was a scratchy, breathy, rasp.
Fucking… patched.
Hunching down even further, he huffed and closed his eyes. The names that had been lost to him flooded his mind now, faces and voices and hundreds of interactions flipping noisily like film strips in a projector. He wished they'd stop but they were out of his control. He remembered the white space of complete absence but he couldn't get there willingly. He never could.
That's what heroin was for.
So he settled for shoving himself into an imagined corner of a far-away room, virtual walls insulating him from the real world, from his history, from everything. All he wanted, needed, was to be where Téa was, where she had not died. His new reality. She was home and taking care of Esperanza, carrying her and rocking her and smiling and laughing at Lucia and Reese and Starr and Jed, home where they were all together, sharing their lives. Thriving. She was fully herself as she was always meant to be. He needed this to be true. He believed it was.
Thank… the gods… thank the fucking GODS.
The relief was so encompassing he couldn't even react in as truthful a way as he felt. He wanted to be on the floor, prostrate like Muslim men he'd seen on television, or like the nuns or priests when they took vows, forehead on the ground, arms out, as prayerful to that higher power as he had ever been in his entire life.
Téa is alive and at home with your children. She did not die in hospital in Havana. God knew this and put Esperanza where she needed to be to save your life.
He heard Beatrice and Raquel say his name, the new one first, Angel, then Blanco, and finally, Todd. One of the sisters caressed his cheek, butterfly-light with folded fingers, a kindness he did not deserve so he made a low rolling sound from deep in his throat, a near-voiceless animal noise, and the touch went away. Had they gotten closer to his mouth he would have bitten them. He could feel the pounds of weight in the tightening of his jaw.
"Okay, we will wait. Speak when ready. We are not leaving."
Beatrice.
When he dug deeper into his memories from within his chosen black, from behind closed eyelids, he saw his Delgado's face swimming and shifting. He was more willing to look at her now, to remember her.
Because she was alive, thank god, thank god… oh my god, yes, yes, yes…
Brown eyes full of sparking electric love, fight, resistance, stared right back at him, matching brown hair he loved to run his fingers through or grab when they made love, her mouth, lips, rose-colored and smart, lips that demanded kisses from him since the moment he met her, a demand he rejected so hard at first, not because he rejected her but because he simply could not engage that way. An engagement he fully took on later, after so much shit...after his insides exploded in drugged up madness for what felt like years…
Holy fuck she's alive, his beautiful Delgado. Still, always, forever. She was never supposed to go first.
He watched her lift the corners of her mouth when she knew she was right, or tighten those lips when she was angry. He thought of her legs, the strength in them, the way she moved them as she stormed down a courthouse hallway, her walk. So many visions of her poured forth at his gentle prodding, like a waterfall. He tightened his fists wishing for her hands on him, hands so ready to touch him. To hold him. To keep him. To push him away. To slap him. To press his cheeks when she needed him to hear her. He could see the spread of her fingers on the back of Reese's head when he was a newborn, his body supported by her forearm, such a strong hold of him, a mother's grasp that took his breath away…
On and on the pictures went, the sounds, the scents… everything.
Thank...GOD.
But with the relief, with this… reality… that other piece popped up again, the infuriating thing: he was here, incapacitated. A king hidden in a tower. While a monster roamed the grounds.
Why? How?
And in a much darker, quieter voice…
Where did his family think he was?
Reluctantly, he pulled away from Téa in the dark. Opened his eyes to Raquel sitting next to him, on the side of the bed with no railing. The light of the room was low and shadows hid the farthest reaches of the room.
"You are...certain... she lives?" he asked quietly, in Spanish. Based on Raquel's expression, she had set aside her compassion. Her features were hard-etched. She was looking at the bastard from Havana, the man she'd been fighting with in those last days who she believed had been hurting Rico. He was comfortable as that man. He would get honesty from her in this skin even as incapacitated as he was.
"Yes," she said, "I was there. I saw her leave the hospital with my own eyes."
"Tell me again… how."
Raquel adjusted herself to sit more securely on the bed which got her closer to him. In Spanish, speaking in shorter sentences so that he did not have much to untangle, she told the story once more.
"It was a common mistake. Téa lost a lot of blood. Esperanza had turned, inside, in a way that her heartbeat could not be detected. Téa's pulse was so low that it also could not be detected, her breathing had reduced to almost nothing."
She paused. Todd was looking at her, his expression unreadable, no longer raging in quite the same way. It was a familiar gaze that reflected millions of unsaid thoughts, a quiet consideration. And this was good. He was listening.
"I entered the room to see for myself because I have witnessed such errors before. And as I suspected, the doctor, the nurses, were wrong. I saw the sheet over her, rising and falling. She was beginning labor."
Todd glanced out the window at the night sky, mist drifting into the room. He tried to guess what was happening with him when Raquel entered Téa's hospital room. He must have run into the darkness of Havana by then. He must have torn out Rico's heart with the blaming and run by then. If he had stayed… for Jed, if he had held on to Rico… if he had thought about Lucía or Reese at home...
If, if, if…
The air felt heavy. His home felt ages away, centuries away. The tower room looked as ancient as it probably was. Modern conveniences were just that… modern, built later. There were stairs to learn to navigate. He ran a hand through his short hair…
Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair...
Raquel carefully lifted his hand and held it in hers. He allowed it and looked at their joined hands. He felt heat there, a thin veil of sweat between them. This was her compassionate side, a mother caressing his fingers delicately, the most tender of touches. Then, with a voice strong and sure, being the bitch who could go toe to toe with a monster, she asked, "Is there anything you want to know?"
He was two people too: the broken child who needed love, who needed her hand on his, and the Mad King who needed obedience.
"I saw…" He licked his lips, swallowing visibly. A slow blink of his eyes. Developing tics to allow time for the words to get found. "Why is...Pedro...here?"
"He is worried about you. He has been waiting for you to wake up."
"He is the…." The word vanished. He closed his eyes and waited, searched. He spat it out once he found it. "He is the real devil, Raquel. You know that."
"We are all devils in some way," the older sister said, pulling the attention of the other two. He eyed Beatrice who was sitting on a chair, hunched over slightly to pet Abram on the floor next to her. They were both watching Todd intently. Evaluating. He could tell.
"She knows what he did," he said. "With...Caro." He rasped the name that had come to him, as close to a growl as he could get.
"He helped build Caro's trafficking business. I know. Raquel has explained it."
"Then… why is he here? How can you let him on the…property?"
Beatrice stood now and approached Todd. "Pedro is in a state of remorse. I believe him. I believe he brought you here out of… love."
"Oh Jesus FUCKING… Christ! Have you lost your... mind?! He does not LOVE!"
Raquel sat back at the explosion of upset, releasing his hand.
"Only God can judge him. I only know what he tells me, and what he tells himself. He believes what he says. He is earnest."
"I want to-"
"Focus on facts, Mr. Manning."
A new name. Mr. Manning. It gave him an unexpected shiver down his spine. He thought of his father at that. Memories he didn't like pecked at him in a way he knew was his usual way of life. Years of getting pecked by them. A pain inside wrenched upwards, right up through the center of him. Sharp and insistent.
Don't forget about meeeee…
"Like what?" He groaned the words in his current raspy voice, mustering all the hate he could show in his current state, shifting on the bed to alleviate the actual physical pain coursing through him.
"If Señor Moreno left you at the bombing site, the officer who found you would have let you die from your injuries. Your pulse was very low when I met your plane. The only reason you even had one was because you received emergency treatment before the flight."
She paused to allow him to consider her words. When he seemed interested in hearing more, a mere flicker of hazel eyes towards her, she continued.
"The other possibility is you would have been taken to hospital where you would have been treated. You would then have been arrested the moment you awakened and transported to a Cuban prison where most likely… you would have been killed."
He clearly understood what might have happened. His expression changed to one of… disappointment? It was hard to tell.
"Señor Moreno," she concluded with a sigh, "did not want you to die. That is why you are here. That is an inarguable fact. It does not matter if you believe him to be evil or good or something in between. He saved your life. Pedro Moreno saved you."
Todd shook his head and dug into the sheets, turning to his side, towards the railing so he could not look at Beatrice OR Raquel. That had been a lot of fuckin' words. Basically, he would have died at the site… or later. Pedro stopped that. Saved him. The bird had begun to sing her usual nighttime song. The loneliest sound. He couldn't breathe at the delusion that Pedro saved him out of love. Not possible. He grunted quietly, shaking now with that consuming life-stealing hate that lived inside of him always. Pedro was his captor. The convent sisters were his unwitting goons.
And suddenly that other question again popped up. What did Téa know of him? Where did the family think he was?
"Does she… know…I'm here?"
Raquel's face gave him the answer. She sighed heavily and reached for his hand but he jerked it back. He knew. Of course he knew. They thought he died in the bombing.
They think...he is dead.
He groaned, sickened, a whole new sorrow blossoming. Oh god. Of course. History was doomed to repeat itself. This was Ireland all over again. Blair all over again. Starr was Esperanza. They all thought he was dead.
Oh God!
A joke, yeah? He'd go home and find his family taken by… by whom? R.J.? Rolon? Rico? Pedro maybe. He laughed. A hysterical, breathless, mad-as-fuck laugh. He could hardly breathe with this other thing… this… reality.
Six months?
He'd be a plaque on the Lord Crypt by now, a trust distributed, the family halfway through the first year of grieving. His precious Lucia would think the war finally DID take him, Reese would have already started making up stories about the mythical father he couldn't remember… couldn't go through the rest of the list, the imaginings… the clash with his years-long desire to be dead. This was what he wanted, yeah? King of Hell and all that?
Well… why then did it make him so so sick? Sick enough to vomit all over the sheets. Why? Because he was supposed to actually be DEAD. And he was very much alive. A fucking captive.
He finally spat, "Get… ...OUT! Get the fuck out of my… ROOM!"
The women could not dissuade him or console him, so for now they left him alone. Beatrice went to her room in the residence quarters and Raquel brought up blankets and a pillow so she could rest in the chapel across the hall. He needed help and she was the only one fully prepared for Blanco. She left his door open.
She fingered the blade at her side once again as she burrowed into the linens on the chapel's pew.
Hours later, he tried to get out of bed, the damn bathroom calling, demanding attention. He sat up and swung his legs to the side of the bed. Feet hit the floor. The wheelchair was a couple of feet away. He just needed to get to the chair and he could use it as support. Abram had been on the bed and was now on the floor, waiting. Todd pushed off, standing. He dragged a foot forward.
Okay, okay, not so bad, just takes visualization, gumption—
He fell like a sack of potatoes, chin hitting the ground, splitting open. Blood spread beneath him. All the rage and hate and mortification that he was here, trapped, dead, safe, did him no good. He sobbed like a child once more, laid out like roadkill again, his dog pressed up to him.
Raquel heard the efforts, heard the inevitable fall, because she hadn't been sleeping. She hustled into the room and got down on her knees and held him. "Enough, Blanco… enough chiquito. You have purpose now. Come, come… child."
She said more words like a mother, assuring him that he would be okay, not caring about the blood that was getting on her. She said he would get back to himself in no time at all, that Téa waited for him. That they would be as relieved as he was when they learned the truth. He crawled into her, grabbing her body like the wretch he was, his face buried in the curves of her chest, arms around her neck, her strength undeniable. Like she was a life line. Which she was.
When he stopped the gasping sobs, when the tears got back under control, he looked at her, still within her unfailing hold of him. He faced a whole other reality. It had come to him the moment he'd hit the ground.
"Maybe… it is better… I stay here? Stay dead. There is no…" The word escaped him. But then it peeked out from behind a tree's leaves in a mix of Spanish and English. "There is no forgiving what I did. Prison waits for me. And Téa is not waiting at all. She is trying to ….get over… me? What is the point then? Maybe I am meant... never to see my family again. Maybe I am meant to… die… here... in Cuba."
Overpowering sorrow swelled once more, the sobbing threatening to paralyze him, to tear him to pieces, and on this very point…
"This is why you must see Pedro Moreno. You must get information before you commit yourself to living among these fanatics the rest of your life."
Raquel used the edge of her robe to wipe the blood from his cut chin.
He heard her as she dabbed. It sounded like a joke, like the sarcastic judgment of her and her sister… but she wasn't being funny.
"Information," he whispered, a familiar term, a heavy one.
I'm just the information guy.
He wriggled himself to a sitting position, inches away from her. The bloodied pink robe appeared blackened in the dark. He studied la doctora, silver coiled hair freed from braids, reaching passed her shoulders. He took in her womanly shapely form in that soft robe she wore over clothes relaxed enough to sleep in but not so much she couldn't run down the stairs if needed. As gentle as a lamb she appeared with a sweet face, skin softened with age, touchable like a statue in a museum. Beautiful really.
Until one caught the black-handled silver blade gleaming on a leather belt that cinched the robe at her waist. Until one caught her eyes… glistening like hard black diamonds.
"Yes," she said. "Information. You have much work to do. Stop being a fallen, wounded angel. Be the devil you are. Meet with Pedro. Then you decide what God possibly intends for you."
There was no arguing to be done.
Summer brought warm rain to Havana, stormy clouds drifting across the Cuban morning sky. Jedediah had arrived the afternoon previous, got situated in his hotel, made the requisite calls to Rose and Téa, and was finally getting together with Ian Correa for an early lunch. They had already met in the lobby of Jed's hotel, felt comfortable already, friendly since they first got introduced in Llanview.
Jed's arrival had been as rough as he had expected. The pain of losing his father was reinvigorated thanks to the undeniable feel of him everywhere. A vision of him lurked in the darkened alleys, behind the columns of greco-roman-style buildings, and in the music that often poured out of windows and doorways. He even heard him in the Cuban Spanish being spoken all around him… in the cut-off s's and less precise pronunciations. Todd spoke a very Havana-street kind of Spanish, Jed had since learned through his friendship with ex-MK soldiers who worked with Téa. The coup de gras though was where his hotel was located: right next to the bar where he had first seen Todd… fighting… getting the shit beaten out of him and biting the ear off his opponent. He hadn't exactly planned that. But he wondered if some unconscious part of him knew exactly the location.
It was all too much, really.
So Jed spent his first night in Havana getting righteously drunk in the hotel bar, flirting with the pretty bartender, and staying up late in his room, eyes out the windows onto the noisy boulevard beneath… listening to Havana, and remembering.
Ian and he now walked the wet streets, through the noontime crowd. He wore his blue beanie, a kind of wish that his dad was looking down at him, that he could see the blue and know Jed was in Havana again. "Hat's off to you, Pops," he had whispered as he adjusted the beanie when he got dressed.
Ian grabbed Jed's arm and guided him into a café to grab lunch. Jed was starving, slightly hung over. "I thought you'd never ask," he quipped.
Ian laughed, "Always speak up! I am happy to serve!"
Once seated, Ian quietly shared the whole story about the day of the bombing, the wild pursuit of the green van to the out-of-town airport. Jedediah listened but didn't really understand what Ian was getting at. As they ate, the reporter explained that he had a contact in the licensing agency for vehicles. He learned that the particular van was registered to the nephew of Havana's Chief of Police and rumor said it was a cover for an ambulance.
Ian aimed dark eyes at Jed, a bit of a squint, "Do you understand… ambulance?"
"Yeah…?"
Ian nodded, bit off more of his sandwich, and then, while chewing, asked, "The Chief in America… he gave you a file?"
"He did, I brought it."
To add to Jed's investigative efforts, Bo Buchanan had given him a copy of a redacted file related to the bombing. Top secret shit. The docs and the autopsy photos never referenced Todd directly though so if they got lost, no harm, no foul.
"It included the coroner pictures?"
"Yeah… the gold chain." Jed stopped eating, sat back and crossed his arms. "What are you all thinking? Bo pointed this out to me—"
"Your father wore a Catholic pendant of a saint on a silver chain, yes?"
"Yes, I saw it myself. I asked him about it. His… friend… Rico Macias, gave it to him."
"Exactly as I understand. He did not wear gold, the chief said. Your father never had a gold chain. And the picture is very clear. A gold chain on a burned body."
Jedediah pinched the bridge of his nose, the rum-induced headache worsening. "Yeah," he said heavily. "So this body… this picture… isn't my dad."
"Exactly. So where is your father?"
"That's why I'm here."
Ian reached across the table, "He was in the ambulance."
The reporter squeezed Jed's wrist, Jed found himself barely breathing, holding Ian's gaze.
"Taken where?"
Jed's voice had dropped in loudness to hardly there. It was a child's wish, a repeating nightmare that a mistake had been made like with Téa. Only far longer in its stretch. How often Jed dreamed that he walked into Todd's office at the Sun, expecting the current editor, and when the chair turned, it wasn't that guy but Todd. Jed would wake crying, knowing it was fantasy. His heart broke all over again every time.
"A body on a stretcher was put onto a plane," Ian explained. "The plane flew to Baracoa, near Guantanamo Bay, a more … isolated part of Cuba. There are no records of the flight because it was a private flight and I do not have inside contacts to break… to get that information. I do not know the pilot of the plane. I have a picture of the plane but nothing that can be used to determine the pilot or who owns that plane."
Jed heard "body." Oh. Right. They had to hide the body. Separate Todd's body from the bombing. But… someone id'd him already at the site so it got complicated. This is what got "scrubbed." His dad's presence at all. Didn't change things. Still dead. Just a missing body maybe.
Shrugging, Jed asked, "So where'd they bury him? And are the ashes at my moms' house the gold-chain guy? Are we all about to put the ashes of some fuckin' pedophile in the family crypt?"
Ian saw the let-down, saw the young son didn't understand. He scratched his head, chewed his lip. "No ashes," he said. "No burial."
"Well that's just fuckin' great. Did an acid thing, huh? We're not even gonna get a body back?" His voice cracked, god damn it. Tears floated and the world blurred. He looked at the sandwich, suddenly sick, listened to surrounding Spanish, thinking of Cuban sights and smells and the rain, God, that rain…
I love you, Jed. I am so proud of you.
"Jesus Christ, why did I come here? If no body, no point." Jed stood up and rushed away from the table, running like hell because… he didn't care about Cuba, or the government, or—
Ian grabbed the kid by the arm, out on the sidewalk, a hard grab that almost hurt.
"Jedediah! You are not listening!"
"What the fuck do you want from me?! Let me go!"
"The ambulance was driving FAST! Do you understand?! Listen, listen," he insisted. "The driver was in a hurry to get to the airport. I saw a bag of fluid like in a hospital. The body…. was not dead. I believe your father was on the stretcher. I believe he survived the bombing and is alive. Today, now, all this time!"
Clouds crashed above them and typical warm rain started to pour down on them. Jed took off his beanie and wiped his face but it was useless because rain just kept coming. Ian laughed at it and gently pushed the kid backwards, under a covering. And he just moved. Just slid back. Stunned.
"You hear me now, yes? You see why the Chief asked you to come here? It is right?"
Now, now… Jed got it.
Oh my fucking GOD.
"What if you're wrong, man? I'll die all over again. I can't have that kinda hope."
Ian's face crumpled with that truth, "Yes, yes, you are right. I know… it is possible. But if there is the smallest chance? Do you just walk away?"
That was a question wasn't it? Jed chuffed, "No, no, of course not. It'll kill me though? I'll die all over again."
He started to cry at the thought of it, at thinking about his father dying so violently in that explosion, but pulled it back. They began to walk and for real now, he saw his father everywhere. And a strain of relief began to run through him, a feeling he did not want because the letdown would be devastating. They walked in silence.
Finally, they entered the civil service section of Havana. Jed had just been following Ian's path, unthinkingly. Ian said he had a contact in the coroner's office. That's where they were going. They would interview the friend. Get him to spill information on those pictures, on the gold chain. Jed felt more numb than hopeful or worried or even skeptical.
It was in that empty mental space that Jed stopped hard in his tracks and grabbed the arm of Ian to slow him down.
Ian muttered, "What, what?"
Jed nodded his head in a direction across the street. A man stood right next to an office entrance, smoking and looking at some papers in his hands. He wore the classic guayabera and slacks, looking to be in his 40s. Jed knew him. He was an American. He was a lawyer who worked for Pedro Moreno. It was strange to see him here. Jed couldn't put his finger on why exactly.
"What is it?" Ian asked softly.
Jed said, "That guy...I'm surprised he's here… considering the mess with MK lately. He doesn't usually leave…"
And that was what struck Jed. This guy never set foot in Cuba. Ever. His job was to monitor the home front. It was very strange for him to be here. Jed even wondered if he was wrong about who he was. He looked hard at him. No, no, he wasn't wrong. He was looking at Cornelius Bravo.
Jed explained who he thought the guy might be. Ian whistled a long, low whistle and eased the two of them into the cover of a storefront doorway.
Ian posited, "MK operations were… eh… disrupted since the bombing. That changes behaviors." He paused, eyeing the man across the street with a grave seriousness. "But… you know what is very strange, young son? Moreno and his people do not travel commercial. The office? Is a travel office."
"Yeah, they always fly Pedro's plane. Is this guy doing something behind his back?"
The lawyer tossed the cigarette butt and headed away, towards the downtown area without seeing his observers. Ian then crossed the street, Jed trailing him, entered the travel office, and made a beeline to the worker in charge, a young woman, prettied up, professional.
She smiled, "May I help you?"
"I have money. Tell me… the man in the suit, did he buy an airline ticket? Train? Bus?"
She smiled awkwardly… then realized he was talking about the customer who just left. She grinned more confidently now.
"How much?" she quipped.
Ian laughed and dug out some bills, murmuring in English, "God, I love my people." He tossed the money down in front of her and she shook her head at the generous amount, a wry expression on her face.
"Shameless," she said.
She then tucked the bills into her bra, seductively. She turned to a stack of papers, flipped through them, and pulled a sheet out. She stood and made a copy on an old bulky copier. She folded the copy and handed it to Ian.
"Bon voyage," she said before returning to her desk and shooing the men away.
Outside, back across the street, Ian unfolded the paper. It was a receipt. A plane ticket. Ian scanned the words. He glanced up at Jed.
"The question, my young friend, is not... why is the lawyer in Havana, but why… is he flying a commercial plane to Baracoa? The very place… the other plane went… on the day of the bombing." He waved the paper under Jed's chin.
Jed huffed… "Can't be."
Ian laughed and slapped Jed's shoulder who still wore a look of shock on his face.
"Let's go to the coroner," Ian said, "… then we hire a car. You and I are driving to Baracoa. Tonight. Beautiful long drive. This ticket is for two days from now and I want to be there when the lawyer lands. He is going to take us to where your father is. I am CERTAIN!"
Téa walked with confidence down Llanview Boulevard, Tony a few steps behind her. It was a cool summer night, a relief to Llanview citizens. It had been so very hot lately. R.J.'s worries over her safety irked her, as did his supposition that her draining of MK was a cause for Los Muertos coming to town. Rolon had confirmed their presence with just a few words.
We got a problem.
So what? She grumbled to herself. Gang business wasn't on her. Reminded her of how hot after Todd Bo Buchanan had been for Horenda's murder, claiming the prison kill caused all that trouble with Los Serranos on the streets, all those crossfire deaths. It wasn't right. That hadn't been on Todd and this wasn't on her no matter what R.J. thought.
She could blame Bo for all this...
She stopped walking, breathing hard all of a sudden. Fucking MK. If Bo hadn't gone after Todd—
If, if, if...
If Bo hadn't gone after Todd, would she still be under a rock? Would he have maintained that low-level-under-her-radar heroin use for another ten years? Still be using those whores with all those prick restrictions R.J. mentioned so long ago that he didn't consider fucking? Would she not have shot him? Would Cuba never have happened? Would MK still be living large and in charge?
Would he still be alive had she stayed under a rock? Blind to MK and all his pain?
Rolon wasn't driving her tonight. She forced him to go home. She needed to get out of the damn office and had insisted on the stroll to Angel Square. She wanted to sit at the diner. She hadn't been there since before Havana. The place was too close to Todd, to their little family. They used to go there all the time, Carlotta loving it, loving to see the children. The place had been wrecked in Téa's heart. It was where Bo had tracked Todd down to question him on Horenda and the whole rotten ball got rolling… downhill… speeding straight into her house. Demolishing it.
Blowing her life up to Kingdom Come.
"Ms. Delgado? You okay?"
She turned and studied Tony Valencia. She leaned back against the wall next to a closed shop. Dug into her purse for a cigarette. A new habit. She didn't inhale and Todd would have laughed at her. You can still get tongue cancer, beautiful woman. It was a menthol. Mint to cover up the poison.
Tony was her personal bodyguard for all intents and purposes. He lit her cigarette and took a step back, giving her space. She knew a little about him. He was former MK, Cuban, did security for them too. He had a record, did time at Statesville for low level dealing of MK product. He was never an addict. He had to show her his arms, had to take a drug test. She knew none of that meant anything but demanded it anyway. She made him take classes on law enforcement before he began working for her. He was smart, handsome, wore the same kind of tattoos that most MK men had: snakes and letters. His sharp rugged features matched his strong body, his height. He was six foot two. He had lovely tight black curls that showed an Afro heritage. He couldn't be more than 30. She trusted him because Rolon vouched for him and he proved his dedication to her every day.
"Why did you leave MK, for… me?"
He pulled up short, surprised. He glanced around, up and down the streets. Making sure things were clear. The traffic was typical going-home traffic. He patted his side, checking for his gun that lay like a scorpion under the fabric of his summer tan-colored jacket. Thanks to Téa, he got a full pardon for his criminal acts as a teenager, regained his gun rights, voting rights. And now he had full legitimacy working for Method Makers, Inc. and... La Reina... as all the former MK men called her. And the women, too. Though Gloria always added a little sarcasm when she said it, or admiration. Téa was never quite sure what was behind Gloria's natural Mona Lisa gaze when she murmured, La Reina.
Tony smiled, a charming smile that revealed a dimple, and said, "You are… special." He had a heavy New York accent. "You offered my friends a way outta darkness. I wanna protect that. You."
"Drugs are still here, weapons, money laundering for other gangs, the new business of identification theft-that's a popular one these days-won't MK always be a temptation? More money, more power?"
"More possibility of prison. I was tired, Ms. Delgado. You were… like an oasis." There was something sad in his eyes when he said that, the smile gone.
Téa found herself sighing. Admittedly, her breakdown with R.J. had shifted things for her. She realized that she had been cursing Todd less today. A bloom of hurt washed upwards at the thought of him. Even the ghost had changed form. Since her tears he lurked less in the real world and more in her mind. He was in an old black tee-shirt, worn to silken softness, black bike shorts, as comfortable as he'd ever be in the safest place he would ever be, in bed, with her. She could see a smile on his face, a gentleness that he showed only to his children, to her. Her...Todd. She missed him…that man...
Terribly. In an inconsolable way.
God damn you, you fucking bastard.
She tossed the cigarette, orange light flickering, and before much thinking could take place, a screeching of tires got Tony to grab her and push her against the wall. Sure enough, shots were fired, seeming to be right above her head, thunder-like sounds echoing throughout the street, against the buildings, screams following.
Téa was panting, tucked tightly under the protective weight of Tony… the screams continuing. "Oh my god," she snapped. She knew there'd been a drive-by shooting but didn't think she was the target. She didn't think she'd been shot either. A flash of her babies at home stirred but she cut it off because she could not think of the possibility that they could be truly orphaned.
All good, all okay. Not dying today.
When the sirens started from a distance, Tony released her.
"Are you okay? Were you hit?" He sounded urgent, checking her all over, hard hands on her waist, checking beneath her jacket, her hips. He thoughtlessly pressed the center of her chest. Checking. She couldn't miss the intense concern on his face.
"Yes, fine, yes—" She shook him by the shoulders. "Tony… I'm okay. They weren't after me."
Immediately, they turned to look at a small crowd forming, two young men on the ground, yards away. He looked at her and said hurriedly.
"Let's get outta here... now."
"Who do you think they are? Are they kids? Jesus CHRIST."
"Hard to tell from here," he said, pulling her along towards her office, away from the victims. Away from cops. "Shit," he cursed quietly.
"Stop, please, I need to see them," she said. "I can find out who they are—the cops will talk to me."
He didn't want to, his whole body resisting. And she knew why. "You're not in a gang anymore, Tony. You're a security guard for a lawyer. Completely legitimate. No one will harass you. It's okay."
He finally relented. He'd also be able to tell which gang, if any, the downed kids belonged to—just by looking. When they got there, blood smeared the sidewalk already, two bodies the owners of the red. Across the street, two detective-types, badges around their necks, tore out of their unmarked car. Must have been in the area. Too quick a response. The place was going to be swarming soon with uniforms. Téa took in the screaming girlfriends, the raging friends. The victims did indeed look like kids, and looked very dead.
This felt like Horenda all over again, only this was no crossfire.
Téa didn't have to ask any police officer which gang had been hit. At the same time, Téa and Tony both said to the other, "Reservation." These kids belonged to one of the most well-known Native American gangs, the Blue Mountain Motorcycle Club… they could tell by the jackets. Particular blue striping.
Téa turned on her heels. NOW she wanted out. She did not want pictures with her near these dead kids, had no interest in talking to authority. The two headed back to her office before those cops could stop them. She checked her phone, as she hustled away from the crime scene, texted Rolon.
Who killed Rez kids on the Boulevard?!
Tony was walking protectively, clearly anxious to get into covering. The door to Téa's building lay feet ahead. This killing was serious, and a pit in her stomach demanded she think, think, think, but she didn't want to. She couldn't give weight to what R.J. had told her. This had nothing to do with her!
They were right at the door… the safety of her building….
Except the entranceway was blocked. A stranger stood there. He was thickly built, had longish black hair, and wore unremarkable clothes. He had distinctive tattoos on his face, swirling lines that embraced his cheeks on both sides.
"Hey abogada, looking good tonight."
Tony stepped in front of Téa and said in Spanish, "Get back to your sewer, you rat."
The man chuckled. His accent was Cuban. But he was not MK. Téa cursed under her breath and moved Tony, pushed him aside as much as he'd let her.
"I'm not afraid," she hissed. Tony moved slightly. He saw she had her own weapon at her side, a hand tightly gripping a smallish pistol. He gripped his own gun.
"What do want?" she asked, her head up, chin thrusted. Her voice was hard, seething with accusation. She figured she knew who this fucker was, or at least which gang he was affiliated with, figuring immediately… and she knew he had just taken part in some way on the hit on those kids.
"I'm here to bring you a gift—this basket of fruits." Down at his feet was… a massive basket of tropical fruit and flowers. Colorful, bright with summer. She glared at him.
He laughed. "We heard that if we wanted to make a name for ourselves in the great state of Pennsylvania, we should pay our proper respects to La Reina Puertorriqueña. So here you go. Frutas para tí."
She walked right up to him. Teeth gritted, she said, "Get out of my city, get out of this region. You're invading without permission."
He chuckled, eyes on her pistol for the briefest of seconds. He placed a hand on his own weapon at his waist. Patted it.
"Oh cariña, Los Muertos do not need permission. We own all of you. The reservation. The Posse. MK. The Mennonites. The Irish. Everyone. Have you looked lately at business? Have you asked your men the status of territories?"
He bowed and turned, laughing. He walked away, a cell phone in his hand. He made one last turn to Téa and Tony... and winked.
And the light went on in his hand and Tony grabbed Téa by the wrist. "Oh no, no, no…!"
Just in time, he shoved Téa to the ground, his body covering her completely, as the basket blew sky high, noisy, shocking, mangoes, bananas, guavas, just enough of Havana to remind her of the best of Cuba, fruit pulp raining all over the sidewalk, the scent of a fruit market all over the place.
Yeah, it was all for show.
Tony lifted his head to look at Téa beneath him. "Reina?!"
She pushed him off her in a wild forceful way and stood up. She wiped off bits of mango, banana, guava, in her hair, her chic black and white linens streaked with fruit and blackened ash of the basket itself. She bit down hard on her teeth, her whole body shaking with shock… and fury. With the back of her hand, she swiped her lips, tasting the sugar of the fruits.
Echoing Rolon, she growled, "We have a fucking problem, God damn it."
Sirens began heading towards them. And in a way she couldn't deny, Téa was in it now. It didn't matter that MK had shrunk to nothing, that Method Makers, Inc. wasn't in any gang business… the reality was that MK men had come to her… that she had called them to her… and without any kind of conscious effort, she had become the Queen to the Mambo Kings.
"We really have a problem," she repeated. "Fucking HELL!"
To be continued...
