Silent City (27 page)

Pete laughed.

“I guess so,” he said. “I’m a sucker for Stones album tracks. You know that.”

Emily pushed her glass away and looked at Pete.

“How are you feeling, aside from the physical?” she asked.

She was talking about the fact that he’d killed Javier. She always came back to it, even if she knew Pete hated discussing it. That he’d led Mike to his eventual death. That he’d failed to save Broche or Amy. All the guilt and pain that surrounded his life for the last few months. He looked into his glass at the golden liquid.

“I feel fine.”

“No you don’t,” she said.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Pete said. “Javier’s dead. The problem is solved.”

“Is it?” she asked. She instantly regretted it. It had come across as mean, when she was genuinely curious.

To her relief, Pete seemed to take it the way she intended. He leaned back into the booth and rubbed at the stubble forming on his chin.

“I have no idea,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll ever know.”

He moved his glass a few inches away and folded his arms. He looked out at the central part of the bar, and then spoke.

“It all seems like a weird dream,” he said. “At first, when I was lying in that hospital room, full of tubes and feeling almost dead—even before then, seeing Mike’s car explode or watching you as I drove off—I wanted it to be a dream. I wanted to wake up in my father’s house, in my old room, covered in sweat, but relieved that all these things had just been an exercise in my subconscious. Not my life. But it is. And I’m fine with that. Not because I don’t have a choice, but because for the first time in a long time, it’s my life because I chose to make it mine. I’m a fuck-up, but the mistakes are mine. I’m not fumbling through it all and hoping someone else can pick me up and point me in the right direction. I’m allowed to start again.”

Emily straightened in her seat and nodded, smiling.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said, nodding, impressed. “I just didn’t think you had that in you. You know, that level of self-awareness and reflection.”

Pete rubbed his eyes and stretched his good arm.

“Me neither,” he said. “So, I guess there’s that.”

Pete’s eyes wandered to the jukebox as Emily finished her glass of wine. They’d be leaving soon. It wasn’t going to be a late night.

The Stones faded, and he heard the jukebox lurch to a stop. No money, no songs. Pete watched as the bright, red numbers on the digital jukebox’s display blinked in the dark, empty bar.

”I had this weird dream,” Pete said. “I was in a boat, but there weren’t any paddles.”

“That is weird,” Mike said, sipping his Heineken. The jukebox was playing Waits. The place was mostly empty. It was barely six in the evening. They were in a booth a few steps away from the main bar area.

“That’s not all of it,” Pete said. He took a sip of his drink—a vodka soda -—before continuing. “But then my dad showed up. He was standing in front of the boat.”

“On the water?”

“Yeah,” Pete said. The thought of his dad put a clench in his throat. It’d been only a few months since they had to put the old man in the ground. “He was just standing there. Looking at me.”

“What’d you do?”

The question hung over them for a moment. The bartender, Lisa, nodded at Pete politely as she walked by. He’d been back in Miami for less than six months, and he already felt unhinged.

Emily had left a few days ago. He was living in his father’s house and he was pretty sure the only reason Mike, his best friend, was tolerating him tonight was because he was worried Pete couldn’t last very long by himself.

“Nothing,” Pete said. He couldn’t bring himself to tell Mike he’d woken up to find his pillow wet from tears.

What a mess, Pete thought.

The two men walked in as if nothing, and it took Pete a second to notice they were wearing masks. The cheap, plastic kind you hated as a kid because the elastic band in back would bury itself in your head, ruining an otherwise fun Halloween experience. The masks covered their faces, but left their necks uncovered. One was Sylvester and the other, shorter one, was Tweety. Halloween was months away, Pete thought. What the fuck was going on?

The handful of people also in the bar seemed to be having the same reaction.

Sylvester pulled out a gun—a sawed-off—and grabbed the bartender by the hair. Lisa was a bit older than Pete. She was a good bartender. Always quick with a refreshed drink or a buyback. Her scream cut through the bar and made the one or two people who were too caught up in their own bullshit turn and take notice.

“Shit,” Mike said, turning toward the two visitors. Tweety and Sylvester were facing the bar, their backs to Pete and Mike.

Sylvester had the shaft of the gun resting on Lisa’s face. She was sobbing. Tweety had thrown a black garbage bag on the bar in front of him.

He did the talking.

“Put the money in the bag and this’ll be over quick,” Tweety said. His mask bobbed up and down along with his words.

Pete clenched the side of their table.

Mike shot him a glance, as if to say, “Stay where you are.”

Sylvester pushed Lisa back, letting go of her hair. The gun was trained on her. He pointed it at the bag and nodded. She took a few steps to the register and opened it. Even from his seat, Pete could tell there wasn’t much in there.

Lisa grabbed the bills and walked over to the bag. She could hold all of the register’s contents in one trip.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Tweety said, his mask’s eyes following the bills into the bag. “That can’t be more than a hundred bucks.”

He turned to Sylvester.

“What the fuck, man?” Tweety said. “You told me this place was going to be worth something.”

Sylvester shrugged. He still had the gun trained on Lisa.

She was shaking, muffling her sobs with her hands.

Pete cleared his throat. He looked around the bar. No one was moving. It was a good place, Pete thought. Right off Miracle Mile in Coral Gables. It had a name that was easy to remember—The Bar. Pete had made it his second home for the last few months. He had little else to do, so why not drink alone?

He glanced at his drink. It was his third—or fourth?—of the night. He wasn’t even buzzed yet. Now this. He’d have to find another place to hang out. He rubbed his eyes. He had other things to worry about now, besides where to drink. He had life to worry about.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Tweety said. He grabbed the garbage bag and stuffed it in his pocket as best he could.

Which is to say, not well. He looked like a guy in a Tweety mask with a garbage bag stuck in his pants.

Pete and Mike’s eyes met. His friend was scared. He was sitting up straight, his eyes locked on the two thugs, trying to push them out the door with his vision alone. Pete felt muddy.

He couldn’t care less about these guys. About himself. He tried not to think about the tiny voice in his head that wanted something more to happen.

Then it did.

Sylvester started to follow Tweety, but turned around, as if remembering something. He flipped the shotgun in his hands and smashed the handle into Lisa’s jaw, knocking her backwards.

She fell behind the bar. The sound of glasses shattering and her body slamming into the wall of bottles was loud and lasted longer than Pete thought it would. She groaned between sobs, making for a long, drawn-out sound no one should ever hear.

Tweety turned around after a few paces—he noticed Sylvester wasn’t right behind him anymore.

“What—why, man?” Tweety said. “The fuck did you do that for, yo?”

Sylvester shrugged.

Tweety shook his head and started for the door. They were both still by the bar. The exit was down a ways. Tweety was closer to the exit, while Sylvester was still in front of Pete and Mike. He hadn’t turned around yet to follow his partner.

Sylvester turned to face them for a second. Pete met his eyes.

They were green. His skin was tan -—he was probably Cuban, like Pete. Maybe he lived around here. Maybe they’d gone to the same high school or dated the same girl. Where did the road fork off for Sylvester? And were they really that far apart?

“Come on, you stupid shit,” Tweety said. He was at the far end of the bar, motioning for his partner to follow. “We gotta get the fuck out.”

Sylvester nodded and began to back away from the bar. The shotgun in his hands, the handle bloody. Lisa’s blood. Pete couldn’t tell if she was alive. He hadn’t heard a sound from her in -—he wasn’t sure how long.

The taste in his mouth had grown sour and he felt his head beginning to throb. He looked at his right hand and noticed his knuckles had gone white from gripping the side of the table.

He wondered if Mike thought he was scared. He wasn’t. He didn’t really care. If this was the end, it might be better that way.

He turned and moved his legs to the edge of the booth in one smooth motion, as if he were getting ready to get up and head to the bathroom. He unlocked his left knee and slammed his foot into Sylvester’s knee. The cracking sound was pleasant to Pete. He’d hit the right spot.

He followed with another kick before Sylvester tumbled to the ground, his scream a mixture of shock and sudden, shooting pain.

Sylvester fell on his back and Pete stood up. He hovered over him and waited. He could hear Mike cursing in the background. Sylvester swung the shotgun toward Pete, but his grip was weak. Another kick sent the gun back toward another table. The two sorority girls and their frat boy buddies all stood up and backed away from the loaded weapon. They seemed too scared to squeal.

Sylvester clutched his leg. It was bent at an odd angle, Pete thought. He still hadn’t made a sound.

Pete looked toward the exit. Tweety met his eyes then looked at his partner. No way they’d both get out of this.

That’s what he was thinking. Tweety turned and ran out of the bar.

Pete could hear Mike calling the cops from his cell.

Sylvester was rolling around on his back, his hands still clawing at his wounded leg.

Pete sat down. He poured what was left of his vodka soda into his mouth and let the room-temperature liquid coat his teeth and tongue. He looked at Sylvester squirming below. What was he thinking? A few moments earlier, he was standing over a bloodied bartender. Now he was lying on the same floor.

“Are you fucking nuts, bro?” Mike said. That’s when Pete realized Mike had been talking to him for a while.

“Called the cops?”

“Yeah,” Mike said. He got up and walked to the bar. A few of the sorority girls were already tending to Lisa. She was going to be OK. She was alive. Pete rubbed his forehead.

Sylvester wasn’t doing much.

Pete got up. He pulled out some change from his pocket and looked it over. He started toward the exit, taking a big step over Sylvester, as if the would-be criminal was an misplaced kid’s toy for him to avoid.

“Pete,” Mike said. “What the hell, man? Where are you going? Shit is crazy over here and you’re just going to leave?”

“Nah,” Pete said. “I’ll be right back. I just need to put a few quarters in the meter.”