Lonesome Point (4 page)

Head on the pillow, she kept her gaze on him. “You don’t want to talk about it, do you?”

He shrugged. “Nothing to talk about. He came by, we shot the breeze. He’s still a—I don’t know, a slimeball. We used to be—okay, we used to be good friends but we kind of went separate ways. It happens.”

She smiled and said in hushed voice-over mode, “A figure from his shadowy past.”

He left the door partly open while he brushed his teeth, then showered. Sometimes even the bathroom made him claustrophobic. Tessa never teased him. That’s what he found attractive about her: She never judged, gave you space, didn’t bombard you with questions. She listened. He knew she understood more than she let on. Because she knew that one day he’d tell her everything, in his own time.

She’d already learned a lot about his family, his wild youth, his father’s business. She didn’t know about Lonesome Point, but had heard bits about his other troubles when he and Freddy had first hooked up here in Miami. The failed drug deal.

She knew something about the end of that story. He’d left out the beginning and the middle. Freddy telling him about a big-time deal, selling hydroponic pot to University of Miami students. Leo using tuition money to put down sixty percent to pay their supplier. Meeting the middleman a couple of days later, a guy named Ortega, a Cuban with a flashy fake Rolex, rings and gold bracelets. Ortega saying, “These guys, they Cubans like just off the fuckin’ boat and don’t hardly speak no English, so let me do the talking.”

Then, he’d always remember this, they were knocking on that apartment door. A man’s voice said come in. They opened the door, the apartment was empty, and a Hispanic man, burly and bearded, stood waiting for them in the middle of a dimly lit room.

“Lee?” Tessa was calling to him now. “I’m having a bagel and some fruit, want anything?”

He turned off the shower, stood there dripping wet. “Just some milk, maybe? And a slice of toast, that’d be good.”

He toweled off, seeing that Hispanic man’s bearded face again, that creepy smile that should have warned him:
Turn around. Run.

He came out of the bathroom shirtless and sat at the table. Tessa gave him a certain look and he said, “Oh, right,” and slouched back into the bedroom, returning with a T-shirt on.

Tessa forked chunks of cantaloupe from a bowl into her mouth, reading
The Miami Herald
spread out on the table next to a plate with a bagel and a tub of cream cheese.

Leo buttered his toast, sipped his milk. He set the glass down, glanced at her, and thought of saying something. He took a bite of toast instead. After he swallowed, he said, “What’re you doing today?”

She didn’t look up. “I’m gonna go to Wimauma, to the house. Spend the night, come back early tomorrow. I thought I’d clean up some, see what stuff the house needs, what I need to bring the next time.”

She’d inherited the farmhouse from an aunt who died last year. It wasn’t worth much, but it was hers, theirs, a place they could retreat to.

He said, “I don’t want you to work too hard if you’re going to do any cleaning. You’ve cut back your hours at the bar already, so no need to pick up the slack.”

“I shouldn’t have that much to do. The house was pretty clean last time I saw it.”

“The baby. I’d hate to think—You’re, what, five months now?”

She put the paper down and smiled at him. “Twenty-one weeks. Aunt Bertha kept that old house in tight shape, Lee. It’s just some dusting I might have to do, maybe sweep.”

“Promise me no painting, no touch-ups or anything. I read somewhere it’s not good for the fetus. Something in the fumes, the lead, I think.”

“I promise. And promise me maybe you’ll take an extra day off so we can go there next weekend? It’s so nice and peaceful up there.”

“Oh, yes, so peace—” He dropped his chin and started snoring. She pinched his arm. He enjoyed teasing her about the place, a three-and-a-half-hour drive north, an old two-story wood-frame on two acres in the boonies. Wind ruffling the grass, a sagging wire fence, a dirt road that ran past it.

He looked at her chewing her bagel and said, “That guy that visited me this morning, he’s from Belize, his name is Freddy Robinson, I’ve known him since I was twelve. He was the one I told you about long ago, the one who went to prison.”

Tessa put down her bagel and wiped her lips with a napkin. She took her time folding it. After that, she watched him. Waiting.

He knew he was going to tell her more. He always did, in fits and starts, a little here and there. Too much at one time would’ve scared her. He figured this out a while back, so he kept certain personal stories to a minimum, except for times like these when the pressure was too much. And he always felt better afterward.

WHEN LEO saw the burly guy’s bearded face, the slow grin, he knew something was up, and maybe that was just cowardice talking, but he had a bad feeling that night.

They walked into the apartment, Ortega leading the way, Freddy’s pockets bulky with the cash. It was a generic apart
ment, wall-to-wall carpet, white walls, but no furniture. Passing the kitchen, Leo flicked a glance there. No dish rack, pots, pans, nothing on the counters. He told himself, Awright, so nobody lives here, that might be better.

The bearded guy had walked to the center of the empty living room and was just standing there. Like his shoes were nailed to the floor. He nodded at them.

Ortega said,
“Hola.”

Blackbeard smiled his smile and said, “Berry glad to see you!” and a door flew open behind them and the place went dark.

Men started hollering, “Police, police, get on the fucking floor, now, do it now!”

Something smacked Leo on the side of his head and he reeled. It hit him again and he went down. Felt a knee hard in his back. Heard Freddy cussing and fighting with somebody but Leo couldn’t see shit. It felt like three people were on top of him. He could hear grunts, groans, fists smacking flesh.

Five minutes later, Leo, Freddy and Ortega lay there on the prickly carpet, ankles and wrists roped. Leo’s eyes had adjusted to the dark, and he could see window blinds in another room shifting in the breeze, streetlight falling into the apartment. Eventually, Ortega managed to wiggle free and untied them. No one had to say a word. The cash was gone.

About two months later, two months of trying to convince himself that he’d learned a lesson and wasn’t going down that road ever again, Leo met Freddy one night at a club in Coconut Grove. They were sitting at the bar drinking beers, people-watching, when Freddy nudged him.

“Check out the bar across the dance floor. Guy in the flowery shirt, don’t he look like that Cuban with the beard?”

Leo stood up and looked. The lighting was bad. It was hard to tell, but Leo thought this guy seemed slimmer.

Freddy said, “Yeah, I think you’re right.” He lifted his bottle of Harp to his lips, but brought it down fast. “Mothafuck!”

Leo looked again.

Ortega was sitting next to the man, and it was Blackbeard, all right. The two of them yukking it up. Like old buddies.

Freddy sprang up, holding the bottle by the neck like a club, and pushed through the dancers on the floor. Leo shouted after him, “Hold on, now,” but Freddy shook him off. Ortega and the Cuban saw Freddy advancing and jumped up and hustled through a side entrance. Leo followed Freddy, saying, “Yo, Fred, forget this, man, let’s go, forget this.”

He really didn’t want to follow, didn’t want to be pulled into the violence he knew was coming. But after a minute, he said, “Faawk,” and ran after Freddy.

When Leo found him in the parking lot, Freddy had gotten a tire iron from his car and was laying into Ortega and the Cuban. Ortega was no fighter; he cowered against a car, trying to ward off the blows. But the Cuban, face bloodied, was waving a small pistol.

Freddy moved too fast for him. The tire iron was a blur.

For months afterward, everything to Leo was a blur. But he did remember clearly the day in court when the prosecutor asked Freddy why did he pursue Mr. Ortega and Mr. Suarez out of the club. And Freddy saying, “I thought they were old friends I’d recognized.” The prosecutor saying, “And is that how you ordi
narily greet your old friends, with a tire iron?” Somebody in the courtroom laughing out loud then.

Then it was Leo’s turn to testify. He told the truth. That he saw a gun. Patrick was the defense attorney. He worked the self-defense angle hard. He did his best; Leo had to give him that. But the jury was faced with the fact that Ortega, sitting over there at the prosecutor’s table looking mopey, had been in a coma for four days and now had a speech impediment. They showed Freddy little sympathy and sent him down for eight years.

Leo drove up to the prison in Starke to visit him a few times. On one visit, Freddy said that Patrick owed him an apology. Leo wanted to know why. Freddy said, “He screwed me good. I put my faith in somebody more concerned about their political career than a black man like me. Tell him this for me. He’s an egotistical, incompetent fuck. And I don’t want you coming back here, Leo. Better I don’t see your face to remind me.”

Leo never returned to visit him.

TESSA REACHED across the table to hold his hand. He was glad she knew the full story now so he wouldn’t have to feel sneaky about it anymore.

“So that’s who Freddy Robinson is.” Meaning she had pieced together this version with the condensed version from months back. “You must’ve been terrified going through all that.”

“Scared shitless. Over the period of a few months? I lost like fifteen pounds.”

“How long was Freddy in there?”

“Six years. He had two priors, marijuana possession and grand theft. He’s damned lucky, he could’ve been dealt worse, but he
doesn’t see things that way.” Leo shook his head. “Freddy. With him, it’s always somebody else’s fault, somebody keeping him down.”

Tessa said, “What did he want, last night?”

Leo twisted in his seat, released her hand. This was where he had to hold back. A part of the truth was fine but some matters were best contained. “Just came to shout me up. Be a pain in my ass. Show me what a great success he is, wearing this expensive suit, you know? Probably—no, in fact most certainly still keeping up his criminal ways.”

Tessa nodded, watching him.

He had to avert his eyes. He didn’t care too much whether she believed everything right now; he just wasn’t ready to talk anymore.

While she cleaned the apartment, he brushed his teeth again and closed the bedroom blinds and crawled under the sheets.

Dozing off, he could hear her loading the dishwasher, opening and closing closets, the air-conditioning clicking on. He sank into cool slumber, thinking everything was going to be okay, he had to see Patrick today but it was going to be fine, he just needed some sleep.

His eyes snapped open.

He had to see Patrick today. About Lonesome Point.

He stared at the murky ceiling, knowing damn well an already bad day was about to get worse.

S
IX O’CLOCK THAT EVENING, Leo drove over the Ricken-backer Causeway to Key Biscayne, where his brother lived.

He’d called Patrick’s office and left two messages with his secretary but hadn’t heard back. He had Patrick’s cell number somewhere but couldn’t find it. Finally, after four, Patrick called back and said he’d been tied up all day in a commission meeting about the airport renewal project, and what could he do for him?

That’s how Patrick was, businesslike, no warmth even with his only brother. Leo said he needed to speak to him, in private. When Patrick kept asking about what, Leo said the two words: Lonesome Point.

Patrick fell silent. After a while he said why didn’t Leo come to the house this evening, it would be better to speak there, and the kids were asking about him, they hadn’t seen him in a long time. Leo wanted to go anywhere but there, but he agreed. After all, Patrick’s two kids were sweet, despite their father.

Before Leo left, he realized Tessa had thrown his pants with the roach from last night in the wash. He pulled his stash from the shoe box under the bed and rolled a pinner in his Tessa-free apartment. He fired it standing on the toilet, blowing the smoke into the air vent. Wordsworth the dog came in and observed him. Leo glimpsed himself in the mirror and thought, Christ,
he’d been doing this since he was, what, fifteen? Sneaking tokes, having to hide the smell from one person or the other, it was getting pathetic. He’d have to quit.

Eventually.

He was less stressed sitting on the living room sofa, gazing through the window as he put on his shoes and socks, thinking about Freddy. The man who knew too much. Leo had long thought about him that way.

He drove slowly over the Rickenbacker, savoring the rhythm of the buzz, delaying having to see his brother. Either because he was stoned or because he hadn’t visited Patrick’s in so long, he cruised right past the house and had to U-turn.

It was a quiet street, mostly huge homes, towering hedges, and lots of trees in vast green yards, the kinds that called for gardeners. He drove up Patrick’s brick-paved driveway to tall wrought-iron gates, an intercom box on his left. He took a breath and let his head fall back on the headrest.

Six months? Longer? Yeah, longer. He hadn’t visited in almost a year. Shameful. Their mother would’ve never imagined her sons acting this way. But who was responsible for that?