SPOILERS/Timeline: Takes place during season 6 between 'A Bullet Runs Through It' and 'Daddy's Little Girl'
UNDYING GRATITUDE: To Cristina who supplies all our Spanish translation with amazing insight and skill.
CHAPTER 9 - Sonrisas
"Alex Arrué?"
Alex knows they're police officers, knew the second he saw them. You never see two suits that ugly next to each other unless they're being worn by two cops. He slips on a non-threatening smile. "That's right. How can I help you gentlemen?"
Brass unpockets his shield, holds it up for Alex to see. "LVPD. I'm Detective Brass, this is Detective Vega," he says with a nod in Sam's direction.
Sam pulls out his badge, flashes it, tips his head back over his shoulder. "Was that a friend of yours?"
The corners of Alex's smile pull down. "No, actually. We just met a few minutes ago."
Jim motions to the two coffees the bartender had placed on the table before slinking back into the bar proper. "Sure we didn't interrupt anything?"
"No," says Alex. "Only making nice. Salesmen drop in on establishments like this – cold calling I think is the term – offering a service, looking for revenue; cleaning, bar supplies, condom machines for the bathroom."
"Yeah. He looked like a salesman," says Sam with a dry smile.
"He happen to leave a business card?" asks Jim.
"You know, he didn't have one to offer," says Alex, arms crossing over his chest.
"Not a very good salesman," says Jim with a raise of his brows.
"Which is why I won't be doing business with him."
Oh, this kid's good. Quick and clever. And though Jim clearly doesn't need Sam for translation - Arrué's English is clean and clear; Spanish accented, of course, with just the slightest hint of Castillian lisp - he's glad to have his buddy with him. Help keep him on his toes with this guy. It's been a long, LONG day.
Alex's smile returns and he spreads his arms wide. "So, detectives. What is it I can do for you?"
"A friend of a friend told us you might be able to help in an investigation," says Brass.
"Really? That's very interesting," says Alex, arms back to hugging his chest. "And who was this friend?"
Jim smiles impishly. "You know, he didn't leave a business card. Anyway, I couldn't tell you even if he had. Not without compromising an ongoing investigation."
"All right."
Jim continues on, because he's going to have to steer this ship. Nothing's leaving Alex Arrué's lips that isn't coaxed. "We were hoping you might have a little time to come down to the station. Have a chat?"
The young man's lips purse, then his smile reloads. He shifts his weight casually from foot to foot. "I have some time right now. I could get Miguel to bring some fresh coffee."
"'S a tempting offer. But, you know," Jim lifts his shoulders in coy apology. "A bar's not the best place to conduct a police interview. Doesn't look good in context."
"We could give you a lift," offers Sam. "Have a squad car bring you back here afterward," he finishes with a smile, folding his arms across his chest.
Alex's artificiality carries a veneer of sincerity. "It's a tempting offer," he mocks, "But I have my own car. I could meet you there in…"
The young man checks a watch on his wrist, one Jim knows if it ISN'T faux bling, would probably cost more than half of one of his own paychecks.
"In one hour? I have some business calls I need to make."
"Sure, sure. No problem. An hour would be great." Jim nods. "You need directions?"
Alex smiles and blinks. "I'm sure I can probably find it."
Jim o's his lips like he's just come up with an idea, shows Alex his index finger, begging just a moment. He shoves his hand into his inside jacket pocket and comes out with a business card, copy of the one he'd given Ginny at the hospital. He hands it over to Alex like it's the new thing, all the rage. "My business card. In case you get lost." He gives Alex a wink.
Alex takes the card, lips once more pursed, as if the snide remarks he's holding back are trying to come out. "Thank you, detective," says the young man evenly, sliding Brass's card into his shirt pocket without looking at it. "I'll see you in an hour."
Both detectives nod, head back toward the front of the bar and the door there. Alex watches them go, hears the door close with a whoosh, and then pulls out his cell phone. "Freddy. It's Alex. Have you heard from Cohete, yet? ...Then send out some feelers. I want my cousin found. Bring him back to the shop and keep him there. And do something else for me. Make sure Jeff sticks around, too."
The realization of what Jeff's words mean--
"Graciela, though…We sliced that puta open good."
--washes over Nick like a hot wave. Splashes right up from his toes in his boots, to the crown of his head. And then it heats up - gets REAL hot - and heads south. Settles in his groin. Throws some flying kicks at his stomach.
Because people like Jeff…
I did my best. He had. He'd kept his cool. He'd left clues in that mercado. Evidence in the ally, in the truck. He'd kept it together when all he could hear in his head was: Not again. Not again. No, no, no, no, no, no, NO. Not happening again.
And then the weed and then Gordon and them KNOWING who he was. The look he'd seen flash across Warrick's face when he'd dropped that fact on his partner…how it mirrored, just briefly, that mantra of denial in Nick's head.
He'd done his best and kept his cool and HELD ON through the beating and the taunting and the pain. Through the taste of his own blood laid thick on his tongue like copperbutter.
But people like Jeff…
If he's admitting it, FLAUNTING it. To two CSIs? Nick knows he and Warrick are going to die. Because if their own team hasn't found them by now, maybe they're not GOING to find them. Maybe nobody's coming. And Jeff's not going to let them walk away. Not knowing what they know. Not now.
And - oh, shitshitshit - Nick really doesn't want to die. Not like this. Not like this.
He turns his head as far to the left as he can, tries to scan past the ruby glow off the bridge of his nose with his right eye because he can't see shit from his left. And he can't see Warrick's face. Just Jeff's back and the back of his shaved head; the tattoos that wind across the skin there, the residual white lines and pocks of scars from some past injury.
But Nick knows the knife was in Jeff's hands a second ago – his neck is stinging like a sonuvuhbitch – and that means the knife is probably in his partner's face right now. "Hey, Warrick?"
And it's WEIRD. Because, first off, his voice doesn't sound like his own voice. It's quiet, and too low, and whispery, like dry corn husks. And then a voice responds to his call, and it's not Warrick's at ALL. It's Jeff's. And Nick can't see either of their faces, can't see their lips move. For a dizzy little minute in his head, he's not sure who's really talking.
"Graciela was a little whore. Stepping onto my turf. Selling her drugs and pretending her body was somehow part of the deal. I'm not stupid. Anybody I sell to would rather buy their shit from a slutty little bitch who's flashing her tits and wetting her lips. Making promises she had no intention of keeping. You think I'm gonna let her keep doing that? Stealing my customers?"
"So you slit her throat over money?"
And that's DEFINITELY Warrick's voice. Warrick's anger and disgust.
"She was disrespecting me. My business, my territory. Disrespecting my boundaries."
Nick's kind of confused and thrown off because his brain won't stay on whatever power struggle is happening between Jeff's words and Jeff's knife and Warrick's mouth. Nick's brain gets stuck on territory. BOUNDARIES. Because – oh, fuck, yeah – he understands about boundaries being crossed. He's had a bit of practice with that concept a few times before, and he GETS IT. He gets building walls and bricking up windows and posting signs that say 'Back the Hell AWAY'.
"La Vida gets played with respect. You got to follow the rules. Know your place. Dog stays in its own yard or the leash squeezes off its oxygen."
Motherfucker! Where did this son of a bitch get off talking about BOUNDARIES and RESPECT? Have you seen my goddamned FACE? All because I was lookin' out for a friend? Because I tried to protect a mom and her kid? What's he ever done to bring this kind of curse down on himself?
Nick faces forward, leans his head back until it rests against the wall, pulls up an inch or two, and then lets his skull crash back against the cinderblock. The hot little stars that pop behind his eyes are like sparklers, and serve as just enough distraction from the heat of pain everywhere else. Because here he is again; lines all crossed, barriers ignored. Right here and now. And this time, his goddamned Stokes luck has his best friend wrapped up, too. Aw, man, Warrick. I don't wanna BE here.
We shouldn't BE here.
YOU shouldn't be here…
"Hey, Jeff." And this time his voice sounds a little more like his own. A little louder. A little less like dead corn and more like determination. "Hey, Jeff," Nick grinds out once again, getting the banger to swivel in his direction, "Why don't you shut the fuck up?"
Jim approaches the front desk, and the sergeant on duty points a finger over to the seats.
Arrué is sitting with his legs casually crossed, head leaning back against the wall; the picture of relaxation. He's twirling a key fob around his finger like he's not a possible suspect in the kidnapping of two CSIs. Smug punk. "Mr. Arrué," Jim says as he walks over, hand extended, friendly like.
Alex stands, shakes Jim's hand, and smiles. "Detective Brass."
"It's kinda noisy out here. You'd probably find it more comfortable in my office," he offers, gesturing with a wave of his hand towards the back of the station.
Alex imitates the motion. "After you," he says, and follows the captain into the maze of hallways that comprise the LVPD.
They wind their way past the assorted dregs crowding the halls; the tattooed, the strung out. Some still bleeding, some crying. Jim nods his head at a uni giving him the stink eye and hopes Arrué doesn't notice. As Brass leads them around a corner to the left, they're forced to step aside and let by two deputies flanking a prisoner in an orange jumpsuit. Jim's nose twitches as Cohete is walked past, but he doesn't miss the quick widening eyes The Human Rocket makes at the presence of Alex next to him. Cohete is their closest link to the missing CSIs, and Alex apparently knows him.
They reach Jim's office, dull gold-colored nameplate on the door. Alex glances at the engraving and then reappraises Jim. "You said you were a detective, Captain."
"And you're a businessman, right?" asks Jim with a thick layer of put upon sincerity. He doesn't wait for a reply, just steps into the small boxy space, moves behind his desk, and motions for Alex to sit in one of the cheap chairs opposite. He cranks his chin in the direction of the hallway. "That somebody you know?"
"Excuse me?"
"The guy in the hall... Seemed like you knew him, or he knew you..."
"You seem to think I know a lot of people, Captain."
Jim smiles, eases himself onto his chair. "A successful businessman like yourself, club owner. Ties to the community…" Jim lets it dangle a moment. "You're, uh, Salvadoran, right?
Alex crosses his legs, tugs down his pant leg over his ankle. "I was born in El Salvador. Yes."
"The gentleman in the hall… He's from El Salvador, too." Jim churches his fingers over his desk blotter. "Course, he's not a…successful businessman. In fact, he's not really successful at anything except running out on his friends and flapping his gums."
"You probably run into that a lot, in your line of work. Me?" says Alex, bringing his hand to his chest, "Not so much. I get to choose who I work with."
Jim pauses, smile on the outside frozen into what he hopes doesn't look as stiff as it feels. There's no way Arrué could know about his troubles. It's just a jab. A mindless LUCKY stab in the dark.
Alex drops his hand on his knee, pulling the detective from his thoughts. "What is it, exactly, I can do for you, Captain? I wasn't quite clear about your need to talk to me."
"Like I said, back at the bar. I have some friends ran into some real baddies. Part of the, uh, Salvadoran community. Word is, you're a big cheese. Thought maybe you might have some information. Some connections that could help."
"We are a close community, but… Other than the trouble that I heard about on TV - the shoot out that happened a few blocks from my club - I really couldn't tell you anything else."
"The shoot out. Yeah. That's where it 'went down', as they say. See, my friends and I were nearby, looking into the murder of a teenage girl. Beautiful kid. She'da broken a lotta hearts, believe me. Real tragedy."
Alex shifts, almost imperceptibly in his seat. "I hadn't heard it was a woman killed. That's terrible. But, as I said, I only heard about it on TV. I was at my other place of business this morning. Year end fiscal reports are coming up," he finishes with a tight smile.
"Yeah, paperwork. Same in any job, huh? So there we were, trying to find clues to tell us who killed this poor kid, when we hear gunfire down the block. We showed up, bullets were flyin' every which way - was a real war zone, let me tell you."
"That's a shame, Captain. It really is. I'm still not clear why you think I'd know anything about this."
"Oh, I'm getting to that. So, the guns are goin' off and there's this kid and his mom. Jesus, the boy had to be no more than four. Cute little kid. Sponge Bob t-shirt, Kool-Aid mustache. You have any kids?"
"No."
"Oh. Me, I have a daughter. Teenager, hah. Cant tell 'em anything. Anyway, this kid's in the middle of this crossfire. His mom gets shot, she's bleeding, crying. And the kid…" Jim pauses, and the drama in his voice is only partly put-on. "The kid breaks away, wanders into the middle of the frickin' battle. And my friends? They break cover and go rescue the mom and kid both. It was really somethin' to see."
"Sounds very brave. You have heroic friends."
"Yeah. Yeah, only what they get for their heroics is to get grabbed by a couple scumbags. MS-13 scumbags. Salvadoran scumbags."
Alex uncrosses his legs, sets his feet shoulder-width apart. He leans forward, forearms on his thighs. "You know, Captain? One of the hardest things to adjust to when I came to this country was the look. The look you get when you're different - not like everyone else around you. Sometimes, because you're different, people push you into a group you don't necessarily belong to." Alex lifts his hand to his face, taps his index finger against his tear drop tattoo. "You make a foolish mistake as a kid, people think you're that kid forever. I tried to learn a lesson from that. I don't believe all whites are judgmental racists, just like I hope all cops don't think all Salvadorans are scumbags."
Jim quickly raises both hands and shakes his head. "No, no, of course not. But if these…suspects…are part of the community… Perhaps you might have a way of finding out who they are?"
The I'm-your-pal smile that's been plastered onto Arrué's face since he shook Jim's hand falters just a bit. Barely noticeable.
"Again, Captain, I'm a business man. I run a successful club, an upholstery shop. My heart and a lot of my money are in the community. But I don't associate with… Salvadoran scumbags."
Oh, the kid is good. Usually, Jim can hold out a little admiration for this kind of skill. But he's not feeling generous. He sighs, slumps back in his chair, tired of all the banter. "You trying to tell me, you can run a club, own a shop - where I assume you employ Salvadoran labor, have all these ties to your community, but you can't think of a single person who might know someone who knows a scumbag who might have kidnapped two LVPD cops?"
Alex is quiet for a beat, a little longer than makes Jim comfortable, while the younger man's eyes roll over him.
"I came to this country as a young man, after witnessing horrors in my home country. I love my people, I love El Salvador. And I would go back in a heartbeat if the troubles didn't always brew just below the surface. I came here to make a good life for myself. To seize opportunity."
Oh, this kid is REAL good. Jim is this close to believing him. Sincerity oozes out of every pore on the guy's frame.
"I became a citizen, I worked hard, made friends and connections with other of my countrymen living here. Hard-working people. It's possible I could speak to some of them. There's a chance, I suppose, that someone may know...something. I can't promise you anything."
Thirty years on the force has gifted Jim with a grade-A bullshit meter. And it's ringing to beat the band. He pastes a smile on his face, matches Arrué's sincerity, mask for mask. "Well, anything you can do would be appreciated, Sir. The men who were kidnapped, they're good men. I'd hate to think what would happen if they got hurt."
Alex rises and returns Jim's false smile. Mirrors him dimple for dimple. "I'll do what I can. Put my ear to the ground, as they say."
Jim stands and smiles. "Maybe you could put your ear to a phone? Maybe make some calls. I hate to rush you…" his smile broadens. "But time is kinda pressing."
"I'm a busy man, Captain. Las Vegas is a busy city. I mean, you understand that, I understand that… I know my community understands that. Definitely understood it this morning on Puesta del Sol, when it took the police so long to respond." Alex folds his hands, shakes his head. "I'm sorry about your officers. As soon as I can, I'll see what my associates have to say. What they've heard."
This is the second dig at what Jim was certain it couldn't be about, but undoubtedly is. He steps around his desk, eager to get this man - this THUG - out of his office. His sanctuary. Why the hell he didn't use the interrogation room is one of many regrets he's had since a dawn spent staring at a dead teenaged girl. "That's all we ask, Mr. Arrué."
"Are we through, then?"
"Oh, yeah."
Alex smiles. Grins, really. Extends a hand to Jim. "If anything comes my way, I'll be sure to let you know, Captain."
Jim ignores the hand, makes a show of digging out his cell phone. "Calls to make of my own, you understand. And when you put the word out? To the community, I mean? Make sure they realize that the death of an LVPD cop means the needle here in Nevada. Like you said, it's a small tight-knit community. Word gets around. People talk. In fact, there's a program we have. An outreach, if you will. With the Mexican community, their 'social clubs'. They'll probably be of great assistance."
He snorts out a clipped laugh, happy with where his train of thought is taking him. "Hell, you can probably forget your calls. Thanks anyway for coming down. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?"
Alex's grin drops a fraction. His nostrils flare.
Jim cracks his cell, looks intently at the keypad. "Sorry. Like I said, outreach. Calls to make." He extends his hand almost casually, like an afterthought. "I really appreciate you coming in, especially with your busy schedule."
Alex takes the detective's hand, pumps it once limply and turns to go as Jim speaks into his cell.
"Hey, Vega. Brass. Wanted to know if you were able to get anything out of that punk you pulled in… Yeah, the one fleeing the shoot out this morning."
Alex pauses in the doorway, his back to Jim.
Jim covers the phone and pulls it away from his mouth. "Was there something else, Mr. Arrué?"
"No, Captain. Nothing at all." The young man falls back into step.
Jim takes a little too much pleasure in the momentary confusion as Alex heads first one way, then the other, forgetting which hallway they'd come down. A small chuckle escapes as he swings the door shut and slumps against it, lowering the dead phone to his hip. After a few breaths he pulls up, heads to his desk, and drops heavily into his chair. There's a bottle of Glenfiddich in the bottom drawer calling his name, but alcohol makes Jim a sleepy boy. He ignores the call of the malt, and instead picks up desk phone receiver. Punches in a few numbers and waits. "Hey, Sam? It's Brass. You get anything else off that stoolie punk on your second go-round?"
Oh, Nick, man. PLEASE.
Jeff and the knife swivel toward Nick, but there's no time for Warrick to take a breath of relief. I was tryin' to get you a break, Nicky. What the hell you doin'?
"Jesus Christ, weto! You got to be the stupidest, most stubborn white man I ever met – and I met a lot."
"You don't get it, man," Nick says, eyes closed to the blade in front of his face.
"Nick." Be quiet. Please.
"What don't I get, cop?"
"You didn't have to tell us anything. There probably wasn't enough evidence to lead back to you anyway. You're confessin' to a murder you coulda got away with."
Nick's right, Warrick knows. And it takes him a second to realize why Nick's doing what he's doing. Saying what he's saying. At first Warrick can only curse because he sees the look of indignation on Jeff's face. Sees the anger rise up behind it.
"You fucked up when you took us instead of just leavin' that store. You coulda walked away and--"
Nick's words are cut off by a vicious blow to his gut. He doubles over, pulling in a breath that's twined tightly with a moan.
And then Warrick's anger flares, because it clicks that Nick is making himself the focus again. Trying desperately to pull Jeff's attention to him and take whatever punishment may come before they get rescued. If we get rescued.
"You know what, cop?" says Jeff, pulling up Nick's head by the longer hairs in front. He lays the blade across Nick's neck and leans into his personal space. "I was going to kill you quick. But I think now it would be more fun to go slow. Real slow. You're gonna beg me to kill you."
Oh, fuck. It's not about rationality anymore. Any chance of any semblance of clear thinking – from ANYONE – is obviously gone. Warrick wants to be thankful for the implied extra time, but thinks better of it. Because he can't sit here and watch his best friend bleed. Can't listen to his rough breaths and not go crazy.
"Jeff!"
The voice comes from out in the warehouse; loud and strong and full of ill-intent.
"Oh, mierda," utters Rabbit, and hops down from the material bolts.
Warrick doesn't think the banger's jittery dance is just because he still has to pee. That voice calling Jeff's name belongs to Alex. And the tone of it doesn't bode well for Jeff at all. Which could – maybe, please, PLEASE – bode well for Nick and Warrick.
The door to the store room slams open. Alex fills the frame, fury coming off him in waves. Rabbit makes a small noise in his throat and takes a step closer to Jeff, who stands and turns to face the tall gang leader.
"Maldito imbécil hijo de perra. You greedy little animal. I should have known not to trust you. You need a brain to be trustworthy."
The knife jumps and twists in Jeff's white-knuckled fist, sending off glimmers like laser beams around the small store room.
To be continued...