Silent City (10 page)

“She is fine,” Javier said quickly. His eyes widened slightly. Pete could tell he was getting annoyed at the entire exchange. Not at Pete, but at the idea that his girlfriend’s father was sending an old friend of his digging around for her. “She does shit like this all the time. She’ll go to visit her mom, or she’ll just stop answering her phone. I’m used to it by now.”

Pete started to respond, but stopped himself. It wouldn’t help things to mention he’d been in Kathy’s apartment. If Javier said she was fine, she probably was. Javier straightened his apron and half-turned toward the door before extending his hand. Pete took it.

“I have to get back to this,” he said, disappointed at having to leave the conversation incomplete. “But let’s keep in touch. We were young before. Now we’re old. We’re supposed to be smarter.”

Pete shook Javier’s hand and smiled. “Yeah, definitely,” he said. “I’ll talk to Chaz and let him know Kathy’s fine.”

“Cool,” Javier said. “Let me know if you hear anything else. Let’s grab a beer one of these days. It’s hard to catch up when one person is covered in rice and beans.”

Pete let out a quick laugh and nodded. Javier waved awkwardly and walked back into the restaurant’s kitchen. Pete stood in the half-empty parking lot after the door closed. He looked at his watch. Denny’s was a few minutes away. Pete turned and walked toward his car, his head still buzzing, but no longer from a hangover.

• • •

The Denny’s on Galloway was your typical chain diner—bright lights trying to mask a coat of grime, mediocre food, bad service, worse coffee. Pete remembered many a late night ending at Denny’s, less than a mile from the house he grew up in. Nights and early mornings spent drinking coffee and eating Grand Slams in a futile effort to sober up, or at least to mask the effects of a night out with friends.

He found Maribel sitting at a booth near the back of the restaurant, sipping a chocolate milkshake and looking around nervously. He nodded at Maribel and slid into the seat across from her, giving her a “Well? Let’s get on with it” look. The menu made an unpleasant sticky sound as Pete opened it up to scan the desserts, giving Maribel a moment to speak.

Before she could, a waitress came by the booth and took Pete’s order—a slice of apple pie and a black coffee. She smiled politely and walked away.

“So, here we are.”

“Javier still works at Casa Pepe’s.”

Pete was surprised at Maribel’s sudden mastery of English, but pressed on.

“Yeah, I figured that,” Pete said. He decided to keep his encounter with Javier to himself for a bit longer.

“He’s an asshole.”

Pete nodded, hoping she would continue talking. After a few moments he spoke again. “Look, I know Javier. He can be a dick. I’m just looking for him.”

“Why do you want to talk to him so bad?”

Before Pete could answer, the waitress was sliding a plate of apple pie in front of him, along with the coffee he’d ordered. He thanked her and waited for her to walk off.

“It’s been a while since I last saw him,” Pete lied. “And I’d heard he was working there, so I thought I’d stop by.”

Maribel took a long sip from her milkshake, her eyes locked on Pete. “He’s not a good person,” she said, looking down at her lap. “He’s a liar. He doesn’t work as hard as the rest of us. Sometimes he doesn’t even show up. I’m not sure why Jose even keeps him around.”

Pete took a moment to digest the information. This was new territory for him. He took a bite of pie. It was dry and not very flavorful—about right for Denny’s.

“Why would Contreras keep him around if he was such a terrible employee?”

“No idea,” Maribel said, becoming more comfortable with the exchange. “Jose always had him running errands outside the restaurant. I’m not even sure what he was doing half the time. He was hard to keep tabs on.”

“Were you guys dating?” Pete surprised himself with his own question. Maribel absentmindedly pushed her milkshake away.

“Javier has a girlfriend,” she said.

“That doesn’t make my question invalid.”

Their eyes met briefly and Maribel sighed. “Javier is a good-looking guy,” she said. “Sometimes we worked late and went out after. Stuff happens in those kinds of situations. But he was smart about it.”

“Smart how?”

“He knew when to pull back,” she said, a wistful tone in her voice. “He gave me enough information and affection so I’d want more. He knows how to read people and situations.”

“That sounds like him,” Pete said. “How did he get along with Contreras?”

“He’s close with Jose,” she said. “So he’s got more security there. I don’t think he’s even on the books as an employee. Whatever work release he was doing finished a long time ago. I’m not sure how he makes enough to live the way he does, though.”

Pete’s interest was piqued. He wasn’t expecting this. He noticed Maribel’s mood darkening. She seemed more annoyed, despondent. He felt he was on the cusp of learning something, but he wasn’t sure what—or if he wanted to know.

“Money from where, though?”

“I don’t know,” she said, getting defensive. “Maybe his family? He’s a charming guy and he knows how to make friends quickly. I don’t really know much about him, and we’ve worked together for almost three years now.”

“What about Kathy?”

“His girlfriend?”

“Yes,” Pete said. “Did he ever talk about her?”

Pete looked at Maribel. She was worried. She cared for Javier, in her own weird way. Maybe she even loved him.

“Sometimes,” she said, slowly. “Not a lot. It wasn’t exactly something I wanted to hear about.”

“That’s understandable,” Pete said. He wasn’t sure what to say, so he let the conversation breathe a bit.

“They weren’t the best couple,” she said. “He cheats on her, she’s cruel to him. It’s strange. Their dynamic is weird. But he really cares for her. He talks about wanting to move away with her. Whatever.”

“Move? Where?”

“Contreras has a house in the Keys,” she said. “We were supposed to go there a few weeks ago, just to get away from all the bullshit—work, his girlfriend, the city. But then he mentions he wants to move there with her. It’s weird.”

“Key Largo?”

“No, Key West, it was a bungalow near this bar, Willie T’s,” she said. “I’ve never been, though. Why are you asking about his girlfriend? Is she in trouble?”

Pete fought the urge to write the info down immediately, thinking that would look a little odd.

Maribel stood up and looked around, realizing Pete wasn’t going to answer her question, or didn’t have an answer. “I have to go.” She tried to drop some cash on the table but Pete waved it off. His mind was straining to find the next question to ask her before she left. He dropped a twenty on the table.

“You’re not a very good cop,” Maribel said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you know, going undercover and pretending to be friends with Javier from way back. You’re not the first person to ask about him like this.” She was bordering on angry, possibly at herself for revealing too much. “I could tell you were a cop. Why else would I talk? I don’t want any trouble. I just hope Javier isn’t in too much. El pobre. He’s not a bad guy. Not all the time.”

“What do you mean, not the first one?”

She looked away from Pete. The conversation was over.

Pete stood up. “I’m not a cop,” he said, scanning her face for surprise. “But thanks anyway.”

He walked off. He felt Maribel’s eyes boring into the back of his neck. The Denny’s hostess gave him a dry smile as he pushed the front door open.

P
ete glanced at his watch. He was running late for work. But, for a change, he was in the Miami Times building, just not in the fifth floor newsroom. He was on the third floor balcony area, a haven to the smokers forced to find refuge to feed their nicotine habits. Pete wasn’t smoking, but sipping a Diet Coke. He sat on a bench on the far side of the large, open-air, roof-like area, hearing the cars on the expressway speed by to and from Miami Beach. He found his feet tapping anxiously. The smokers’ zone was mostly empty, as people were just getting started with their night shifts or heading out, able to smoke on their way home. Pete took a final swig from the soda and tossed it toward a nearby trash can, making it in. Of course, a swish without anyone around to see, he thought to himself.

He turned at the sound of slow footsteps behind him. Chaz Bentley looked around anxiously as he scanned the balcony, finally stopping as his eyes discovered Pete. His pace quickened and soon he was standing over Pete.

“Aren’t you late for work?” he asked, skipping pleasantries.

“A bit,” Pete said. “Don’t worry about it.”

Chaz sat down to Pete’s left, looking around before settling in. He seemed nervous. Pete chalked it up to the old man having the alcohol jitters. Pete wondered what he himself would do if there was a drink in front of him now, late for work or not.

“So, you called,” Chaz said. “What’s the latest? Did you get in touch?”

“No,” Pete said. “Not directly. But I spoke to Javier, and he says she’s fine.”

Chaz coughed awkwardly and looked away from Pete for a second, his hand rubbing his chin quickly.

“Oh, OK, how did that go?”

“Fine,” Pete said. “I caught him at work. Casa Pepe’s. Cuban joint in Westchester. Ever been?”

Chaz didn’t answer. He stood up abruptly.

“Are you alright?” Pete stood up as well, backing away from Chaz slowly. The older man was running his hands nervously through his thinning gray hair, his other hand buried in his pants pocket.

“Yeah, yeah,” Chaz said. “Don’t sweat it. Keep going. So, you spoke to Javier at Casa Pepe’s? No one else, right?” His eyes told Pete that’s exactly what he wanted to hear.

“I spoke to the owner and a waitress,” Pete said. “That’s it. I didn’t really get much information, but you said you wanted me to keep you updated, so…”

Pete felt himself being pulled and slammed into the bench. The motion and shock at hitting it startled him. Chaz hovered over him, his hands on Pete’s shirt as Pete was splayed awkwardly, half-standing, half-sitting.

“The fuck?” Pete said, surprised at the old man’s speed.

“What did you tell the owner? Tell me. Don’t skip a beat, son.”

Pete pushed Chaz away and backed up. He kept his eyes on Chaz, who was shifting his weight from one foot to the next, probably expecting Pete to take a swing at him. Pete supposed that’s what most men would do in this situation.

“What the hell was that for?” Pete said.

“Look, forget it, I’m just curious. I want to know what’s going on with my daughter.”

“I told you—she’s fine. I heard it from her boyfriend,” Pete said, his brow furrowed in anger, his hands slowly balling into fists. “Why are you so bent out of shape about this?”

“What did you tell Contreras?”

“How’d you know his name?”

“Whose name?”

“All I said was I’d spoken to the restaurant owner,” Pete said, taking a step closer to Chaz. “I never said his name.”

“I’ve been there a few times, is all,” Chaz said, his voice cracking slightly. “What did you say? Just tell me.”

And in that moment, Pete felt very sorry for Chaz Bentley. He was a beaten man. Pete wasn’t sure if he really did care for his daughter, but whatever it was that he was involved in that also involved Contreras, the angry man with the strange scar, was much more frightening to Chaz than any cruel possible endgame for his only child.

“What the fuck is going on?” Pete said.

Chaz began to back away from Pete, his gaze still with him.

“Look, don’t worry about it,” Chaz said, his voice a low, frightened hiss. “This is not your problem. You said Kathy’s fine? Great. Thanks for checking.”

“What? That’s it?”

“Yeah, I don’t need your help anymore,” Chaz said. “I’ll give Kathy a call and take it from here.”

Before Pete could say anything else, Chaz had turned around toward the entrance to the building. For a moment he considered following, but by then it was too late. The seconds he’d sacrificed to surprise and shock had cost him a chance. Why had Contreras’s name sent Chaz into a frenzy? He wasn’t sure. He looked at his watch. What he was sure of, though, was that he was late. He straightened his shirt and headed for the door, a humid wave of Miami heat slapping his face as he opened the door.

P
ete instinctively looked at the time on his computer after its seemingly endless boot-up, but he didn’t need to check to know he was close to an hour late. He groaned audibly. The encounter with Chaz had left him confused and curious. He wanted to keep digging for information. What did Contreras have to do with anything? Was Kathy really OK? Why did Chaz seem more concerned about who Pete spoke to than with news of his own daughter?

He cracked his knuckles. The last thing he wanted to do was show up for another mindless shift at work. A bottle of wine and a dark room sounded ideal. This worried him in its own way, too. He needed to think. Something was happening, and he wasn’t happy about it. He looked around the newsroom. People were focused on their assigned tasks, as he would be, had he shown up at the appropriate time. Steve Vance was gone for the day, but Pete would be mistaken if he thought he wasn’t going to hear about it. Pete was usually supposed to be here before Vance’s exit on a Monday, and he hadn’t been. Not ideal on any day, but right after a terse warning from the head of Sports? Doubly bad. Pete wondered whether he should be momentarily relieved or more worried. He opted for quick relief, sure that he’d regret it later.

As he logged into the paper’s design and editing system, Pete wondered what his father would think of him. His father, a man who’d never been drunk a day in his life, who worked nights, weekends, and holidays to make ends meet and never complained. What would he expect Pete to do in a situation like this? The question hung over him as he looked across the newsroom. The day-side local news editors were milling about, rushing to relay information to the night-side editors and reporters before they could amble home to their DVRs and empty apartments. How novel, Pete thought. For Sports, it was a good night if he was out of the office before one in the morning. An early evening exit seemed like a luxury. As his mind wandered, he noticed a fifty-something redheaded editor hastily shoving copies of the Miami Times and papers into an oversized handbag. Amy Matheson. Kathy’s best friend, according to Emily. If Kathy hasn’t talked to Amy, Emily had said, then Kathy’s in trouble. Pete felt himself getting up and walking across the newsroom. Before his mind fully registered what he was doing, he was softly tapping Amy on her shoulder. She turned around abruptly, her hand still in her bag.