Silent City (18 page)

She slid her hand back into his and smiled at him. A sweet but forced smile. Her mind was elsewhere. Pete wasn’t sure where.

“I’m going to be fine,” Pete said, his voice drowsy.

She tightened her grip on his hand briefly.

“I know.”

“Thanks for coming here.”

She let out a dismissive tsk. “Of course. Where else would I be?”

Pete smiles and felt his eyes close. In a few moments he was asleep. He didn’t dream.

• • •

“I need to go to the Keys.”

Pete’s statement hung in the air of the hospital room. It was early the next day. Pete had slept through most of the previous 24 hours. The only other sound was the television remote control as Mike clicked through the four channels on the room’s TV. He took a few seconds to respond as he watched a scene unfold on a random episode of Judge Judy.

“Sure,” he said, not bothering to look at Pete, who’d just awoken. “Once you get out of here, we’ll hit it up. We both need a vacation. We can go to that bar you like. The Green Parrot?”

“No, now,” Pete said, swinging his legs over the side of his bed, ignoring the throbbing in his head that increased the more he moved. “We need to find Kathy, or she’s dead.”

Mike put the remote on the nightstand and finally looked at Pete, as if confirming he was actually there, and saying what he’d just said.

“What’s in the Keys?”

“Contreras has a place there,” Pete said. Maribel’s information and Kathy’s notes both pointed him there.

“Who?”

“The guy who attacked me.”

“Are you insane?” he said. “Did you forget the part where you got your ass beat and almost murdered because of this bullshit?”

Pete grabbed his shirt and jeans from a nearby table and began to get dressed, tossing his hospital gown on the bed.

“I have to do this,” Pete said, sliding his feet into his worn pair of Chuck Taylors. “As crazy as it sounds, I need to see this to the end. No one else is going to find her.”

Mike stood up, his hand hovering over the button that would summon a nurse.

“No, you don’t,” he said. “The end could have been a few nights ago, if that guy really wanted to put a bullet in your head.”

Pete, now fully dressed, checked his pockets. He was relieved to find his car keys and wallet in their right place. It was all about the little victories lately, he thought to himself. He turned to Mike.

“The nurse won’t get here in time to stop me from walking out,” Pete said, leaning on the bed to keep himself from getting too dizzy. “Someone is going to get killed if I don’t do something. I know it.”

“Fuckin’ A, man,” Mike said. “I am tired of this conversation. You’ve lost your job over this. Are you ready to die, too?”

Pete shrugged.

Mike waited for more of a response but got nothing. Pete saw him push the nurse alert button.

“I’m not going to be able stop you, but don’t expect me to make it easy,” Mike said.

“Great, good,” Pete said. He backed up, his face to Mike, his back to the nightstand where he’d noticed Mike had left not only his wallet, but his car keys as well. “I understand what you’re saying. This is dumb. I feel like shit, too.”

Pete leaned on the nightstand slowly, allowing the keys to slide into his hands.

“Just lie down,” Mike said, concern spreading over his face. “You shouldn’t be moving around.”

“You’re right,” Pete said, lying on the bed, careful to keep the keys hidden, hoping Mike wasn’t awake himself enough to notice they were gone. “Can you get me some water? Might want to tell the nurse the alarm was an accident, too.”

Mike nodded and headed out. Emily stood in the doorway, two Styrofoam cups of coffee in her hand. Pete had to stop himself from cursing aloud. She had heard everything. And she had a look on her face that told Pete she had seen what he did with the keys.

Mike closed the door behind him. Emily calmly placed the two coffee cups on the nightstand and returned to her place between Pete and the door.

“You’re leaving,” she said, not as a question.

“I have to,” Pete said.

“That’s debatable.” She sounded tired, Pete thought. “But I’m not surprised. What’s in the Keys?”

“Contreras has a place there,” Pete said. “I think that’s where he went to hide out. I think that’s where he has Kathy.”

“So, you’re going to find Contreras? Is that the guy that beat you up?” Emily asked, her eyes drilling into Pete’s. “Then what? Make a citizen’s arrest?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“Sounds like a winner, I’ll say,” she said.

“If I don’t find her, Kathy’s as good as dead,” Pete said.

“I think that could be said of any moment during the last few days,” she said. “She’s missing. No one has seen or spoken to her in days. She probably is dead, Pete. Bad people don’t drag out stuff like this. They get what they want or people get hurt.”

“Are you going to let me go or not?”

Emily walked over to Pete. He could see the concern in her eyes. He stood up. He could smell the Chanel.

He took Emily into his arms instinctively, kissing her on the forehead.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, his voice a low whisper. He pushed her chin up.

“I can’t process this,” Emily said, looking away, but pulling him in closer, her head on his chest. “I don’t know what to feel or think about you anymore. I feel like I drove you to this. Which is stupid, but shit, everything is stupid lately.”

“It’ll be fine,” he said, stroking her hair. She pulled back from his touch and looked up at him. He continued. “I’m going to find Kathy and we’ll go from there. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Emily put her hand on Pete’s face for a second and looked into his eyes. He was still holding her close. He had dreamt of this moment. A chance to connect with her again. If he’d had a few drinks in his system, he’d probably lean down and try to kiss her. But it wasn’t the time for that.

She kissed him on the cheek, a friendly, almost sisterly gesture. Then she pulled back.

“Be careful,” she said.

Pete walked past her. She coughed as the morning news sputtered from the television set. Pete closed the door.

A
fter a quick stop at the remains of his apartment—to canvass the destruction and to pick up his father’s gun—Pete began his trek south. Mike’s car, a black Ford Focus, seemed to be driving nicely, and Pete silently hoped it wasn’t in dire need of a tune-up or an oil change. The last thing he needed was to be stranded on the Seven-Mile Bridge for hours. Pete hated driving. Hated it even more without his own music to play. He contented himself by listening to a few Pearl Jam CDs Mike had lying around the backseat.

The drive went quickly, and before too long a few hours had passed and Pete had managed to find a few other discs in Mike’s glove compartment. The Kinks’ “David Watts” faded into New Order’s “Ceremony,” and Pete began to feel himself getting sleepy. He was worn out, bruised and exhausted, despite being asleep for almost an entire day. Then his phone rang. Mike. Pete braced himself for the lecture he was going to get.

“Hey,” Pete said.

Mike ignored the greeting and started talking.

“It took me a little while to figure out what you did,” Mike said. “If it wasn’t my car, I’d find it almost comical.”

“I’m sorry,” Pete said.

“Emily was pretty pissed, so you know,” Mike said.

“She wasn’t happy, that’s for sure,” Pete said. “She thinks this whole thing is stupid.”

“It is,” Mike said.

“She seems upset about more than just this,” Pete said.

“Yeah,” Mike said. “I think she’s having trouble with Rick. But she doesn’t talk about it, so who knows.” He trailed off for a second, and then changed topics. “So, say you do find this Contreras dude. What then? You call the cops?”

“Well, the cops aren’t even looking for him,” Pete said, stifling another yawn and straightening himself in his seat. His left leg was falling asleep. He was surprised and confused by Mike’s reaction to having his car stolen. He chalked it up to Mike’s Zen resignation during stressful times. “I have to hope he can somehow lead us to Kathy. She’s the one in immediate danger.”

“That’s a stretch,” Mike said. “You’re hoping that by finding the person that did the crime, he’ll lead you to the girl?”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Pete stammered.

“I’m serious,” Mike said, his voice growing slightly more agitated.

“Look, I’m sorry, but—”

“Shut up,” Mike said. “I’m tired of the constant apologies. You did what you did because you wanted to do it. If you didn’t want to do it, you’d still be in the hospital, man. Don’t bullshit me anymore.”

Pete remained silent. He hadn’t thought his plan out in detail. His gut told him to follow the lead to the Keys, and then take it from there. But explaining that out loud to Mike made it sound more like a whim and less like a plan. He didn’t feel like arguing, either.

“I’m going to find Contreras and Kathy, and we’ll see what happens next,” Pete said finally.

Mike hung up. It took Pete a few seconds to realize the line was not dead because of a bad connection but because his friend had gotten fed up with his antics. They rarely argued, and when they did have disagreements, it never happened this way.

The skies had darkened and a light rain was falling, slowing his progress slightly. Pete let those thoughts hang in the air as he turned the car off at the exit. Key West was a series of hotels, seafood restaurants and bars, sprinkled over a chunk of lovely Florida landscape. Even in the rain, the area looked peaceful and welcoming. Pete wished he was visiting under better, more relaxed circumstances. It was dusk. The combination of the rain and disappearing sun gave the island a desolate, eerie vibe. Most people were coming home from the beach or resting up before going out for dinner or drinks. It almost felt like he was sneaking in between shifts. Pete drove to the center of the nightlife district, looking for a parking space.

Pete fumbled through his pockets for the scrap of paper with the name of the bar Maribel had mentioned. He found it. Willie T’s.

He snagged a parking space on the corner of Fleming and Duval and walked toward the bar. Despite the early hour, it wasn’t hard to pinpoint Willie T’s—the crowd and noise beckoned like a lighthouse on a dark night.

Walking in, Pete quickly determined that Willie T’s was a run-of-the-mill beach bum dive. It was wallpapered with dollar bills and photos, and crowded with tan tourists and regulars sipping Corona and Presidente beers. He thought he heard Bob Seger’s “Night Moves” on the jukebox, but wasn’t certain. Pete grabbed a stool near the end of the bar and ordered an Amstel Light. He couldn’t afford to get wasted tonight. A light buzz maybe. The bartender, a rough-looking older man with salt-and-pepper hair and a closely cropped moustache, looked like he’d been born behind a bar.

“Welcome to Willie T’s, bud. I’m Ash. I run the place,” he said, his hand outstretched. Pete shook it quickly. “Never seen you around here before. You visiting? Looks like you’ve had a rough go of it.”

“Just stopping in,” Pete said, trying to act casual. “I’m actually looking for a friend of mine.”

Ash’s eyes narrowed slightly as he put a beer in front of Pete.

“OK, well, here’s hopin’ you find them. Not much of a friend if he’s making himself hard to find and all,” Ash said, slapping the bar gingerly. “Lemme know when you need another.”

“Maybe you’ve seen him around? Jose Contreras?” Pete said. “Comes down here from time to time. He owns a place around here, I just don’t know the address.”

Ash snorted and walked over to another cluster of customers at the opposite side of the bar.

Pete felt his face reddening. He downed his beer quickly. He felt a rush to his head. He motioned for Ash. The place was crowded. Some people were seated at the tables enjoying dinner while a large group converged at the bar, some already knocking back shots and ordering their second or third pitchers of beer. Pete’s eyes drifted over to the jukebox, where a waitress, who was—like a lot of people at the bar—way too tan and looked older than she probably was, stood, chewing gum and talking to a shorter man. Pete focused on the man. He couldn’t get a good look at him in the dim bar, and the constant movements of the crowd made getting a clear line of sight difficult. But Pete didn’t need much time to figure out who it was. The stocky build and glaring scar down the left side of his face gave it away: Contreras.

Pete fought the urge to get up and bolt to the car. He turned around and saw Ash looking at the bar, as if he expected something to be there.

“You really ain’t much of an investigator, kid,” Ash said, as he put another Amstel in front of Pete and walked off.

Pete sighed to himself and slapped three twenties onto the bar, near his drink. After making his rounds, Ash returned to Pete’s spot. He nonchalantly picked up the cash as if Pete were closing out a massive tab. He leaned in slightly. Pete could smell the tobacco on his breath. He tried not to cough.

“Your buddy’s been comin’ down here for years,” Ash said, his voice low. “He’s a friend of mine. He’s got a place near the Comfort Inn, couple miles from here. Complex called Waterford.”

Ash grabbed a napkin and pulled a pen from behind his ear. He jotted down the address.

“How do you know him?” Pete asked. He looked back quickly. Contreras was gone; the waitress he’d been chatting with was now talking to a table of frat guys intent on getting obliterated before dinner. He felt a wave of relief.

“He comes in here a lot,” Ash said, lighting himself a cigarette. “I visit him sometimes. He has business interests here. He’s a good guy. Comes down here for fun or if things get too sticky up north.”

Pete nodded and stuck his hand out to Ash, who didn’t shake it.

“Just get going,” Ash said. “I don’t want any problems here. I know Contreras ain’t a friend of yours, but I also know he’s not an innocent, either. I mean, look at you. I’ll take a few extra bills for doing some of your legwork.”

H
e was lost.

Pete cursed under his breath. Ash’s notes said Contreras’ bungalow was off Center Street, but finding the street was another matter. Pete drove around the block in silence. The radio was off. Pete ran his fingers over the napkin as he looked out his window. He noticed a smallish street and turned.