Silent City (4 page)

“Early thirties—about your age. Kind of a smartass. Acts like he’s hot shit but still talks like he’d just pulled his raft off the beach. Has the same ‘¿Que Pasa USA?’ accent all those new Mexicans or Cubans have.” Chaz stopped himself, realizing he was drunk and not in control of his tongue. “Aw shit, sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Pete sighed and slid his empty glass toward the bartender. His system could probably handle one more. But his patience was wearing thin. This was going nowhere. He still felt the residual pounding of the morning’s hangover.

The proverbial collision of two worlds—his misspent youth and his misspent present—had taken him by surprise. Of all places to find Javier, he would have never expected it’d be at the Abbey with Chaz Bentley.

“So they were dating?” Pete was surprised at the directness of his own question.

“I guess so,” Chaz muttered. “They’re always together when she comes over, all wide-eyed and chatty, hopped up on who-knows-what.”

Pete scratched his chin, rubbing against his four-day stubble. The bartender poured him another. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift back to a decade before, when he couldn’t think of anyone closer to him than Javier. Best friends that never acknowledged it. Strumming guitars in Pete’s bedroom, hustling students with a few weed sales here and there. They weren’t bad kids. Sure, they cut class, drank and smoked, listened to loud music, snuck out late at night to see the few punk acts with enough cash to make the trek down to Miami—but there were always other kids doing worse. Pete often found himself getting nostalgic for when the biggest problem was how to get to the mailbox before your dad did, to prevent him from finding that form letter from the school informing them his kid hadn’t bothered to show for class in a few weeks. Before Mike and Emily, there was Javier—his literal partner in crime.

Those years, his first few at Southwest Miami High, were glorious times, fueled by cheap beer, weed and great music. He could almost feel the summer breeze whipping at his face as he and Javier sped down Bird Road in his dad’s battered red Mustang, well after midnight, listening to the title track from Let It Bleed on loop. Mick’s put-on drawl reminding the listener that we all need someone we can lean on. The words meant so much then. Pete hadn’t played that record in years.

It had ended abruptly, like those things do. A few beers too many one night and they’d decided they were invincible. Strutting into a desolate 7-Eleven on Coral Way with nothing to lose. Both of them wearing big coats that screamed “We’re shoplifting!” on a humid Miami evening. They thought they were the shit as they slid a few forties of Olde English into their pockets, trying with little success not to giggle. They stopped laughing when the old man behind the counter pulled out a shotgun and ordered them to put their hands up. Extreme? Sure. Javier gave Pete a look that said “Let’s go, he won’t shoot.” But for Pete it was over. This was farther than he ever thought he’d get, and he wanted no part of being an actual criminal. Pete would never forget the look of betrayal in Javier’s eyes. He didn’t know it at the time, but that’s when their friendship died. Later that night, Pete’s father—looking more shamed than he’d ever seen him—walked into the police station, hat in hand, and dragged Pete back home. Pete remembered the cloud of guilt that hovered over him for weeks. Knowing that his father was already working himself to death chasing after a pile of unsolved cases, only to find his biggest problem was his own son. Pete resigned himself to his new life, more out of sheer embarrassment and shame at disappointing his father. By their junior year their friendship was nonexistent. Pete ran into Javier outside a party and Javier brushed off his half-baked attempts at reconciliation before driving off in the same Mustang that had been basically his, too, just a few months before. One of the last times Pete remembered seeing Javier was during freshman year in college, when he found Javier leaning against a fence for support outside Pete’s newly discovered hangout, the Gables Pub. He looked older, gruffer, his shirt wet with vomit. It had taken him a few moments to even recognize Pete. His words only cemented what Pete should have known years ago: “What, Pete? Come back to slum with the losers you left behind?” He remembered a shove and Javier was gone.

Chaz’s words snapped him back to reality. “He’s not a bad guy, I guess. He seems to treat Kathy OK, from what I can tell.”

“I have a few questions before this conversation goes any further,” Pete said, lifting his glass. Chaz nodded.

“First, what is it exactly you want me to do that the police can’t do?”

“Well, the police aren’t doing anything.”

“Be specific.” Pete was growing weary of the conversation.

“I called the cops, but they said they can’t really do much until they get more proof that she’s missing and not just avoiding her dad,” Chaz said, his eyes on his drink. “We don’t have a great relationship. Sometimes it’s close to normal; other times, she acts like she wants me dead. I…I wasn’t much of a father to her when I was with her mom. I feel like it’s too late for me to go back and fix that. I just want to make sure she’s OK. Alive. Somewhere.”

“OK, fair enough,” Pete turned his barstool to face Chaz. “Why me, though? Kathy and I aren’t friends. I mean, we’ve hung out from time to time. She used to be friendly with some friends of mine, but that’s it.”

“Kathy has had some trouble fitting in at the Times,” Chaz said. “It’s hard to come in and not be considered some kind of golden child when your dad’s worked at the paper for years, so that made it hard for her to make friends.”

Chaz took a quick sip from his beer. It was kicking in, Pete thought.

“You know my daughter, and you’re smart,” Chaz said. “Before you came here, you had a pretty solid rep as reporter. A reporter known for finding things out, digging for information. You were good journalism. It’s not like I can afford a private eye. Not on my salary.”

Pete tried to not let the compliment go to his head. He reminded himself that the Chaz Bentley sitting next to him was not the same one he’d read as a kid with his breakfast each morning.

“There isn’t much to it,” Chaz said, looking at him. Pete could see that Chaz’s eyes were already bloodshot. “Everyone in that place resented her. You were nice and chatty a few times. She said you guys had some good conversations when you all went out. Whether you were trying to get her into bed, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. What matters is you didn’t just hate her because she had my last name.”

Pete paused for a second before responding, both of his hands on his pint.

“I don’t know—I don’t buy it.”

“What?”

“Kathy’s a nice girl,” Pete said. “I like her. But I know she has friends, I know some of them myself. Just because I was nice to her at work and over a few drinks in the last year or so doesn’t qualify me to find her—if she’s actually missing, and not just avoiding you.”

“You don’t think you can?”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Pete said. He felt himself beginning to ramble slightly. “I feel bad for you, and I want to help, I just don’t know why you’d come to me.”

Chaz sighed and finished his beer. The bartender had lowered the music slightly and put on CNN.

The usual mix of bad news and puff pieces was creating a buzz of background noise Pete was finding hard to avoid.

“I don’t know anyone else,” Chaz said. “I don’t know who my daughter hangs out with. I barely know her boyfriend. You know both of them, might know some other people in their circles. You’re not a novice. You know how to follow logic and formulate theories—maybe for a newspaper article, but it’s the same ballpark. You could probably check her files—see if she was working on anything that might be worth reading or is alarming. That gives you more of a head start. I’m really just looking for someone to make a few calls and find out she’s fine. If after that, you’ve got nothing, I’ll have more reason to pressure the police. It’s not complicated.”

“Fine,” Pete said.

“What?”

Nick the bartender walked over and refilled Pete’s glass. Chaz declined another beer with a quick nod as he waited for Pete to respond. He was tired of this conversation. Tired of talking to Chaz. Tired of the memories that it dredged up. Of a friend left behind, his father’s disappointment, his youth growing smaller in the rearview mirror. Maybe this was a chance to reconnect with a friend he’d thought lost forever. Or, the very least, a chance to do something, anything again. He thought about Kathy, her flirty smile over a few drinks, when their eyes would meet across a crowded table. What was the harm in helping this sad, old man if it meant he would have something to do aside from drinking himself to oblivion each night before waking up in time to stumble into his car and go to work again? He couldn’t deny he was curious to see what Javier was up to. Not surprisingly, he was more curious to talk to Kathy. He blamed the beer.

“OK, I’ll do it,” Pete said. “I can do some basic research through the paper, but I’m not going to break the rules and get fired over this.”

“That’s fine. I understand. Thank you.”

“Do you have keys to her apartment? I’ll need to look around her place to see what’s up. Get a better idea as to whether she left recently or what.”

“Yeah, sure,” Chaz didn’t hesitate, and rummaged through his front pocket before handing Pete a set of keys. He knew I would say yes, Pete thought. “I can’t guarantee they’ll work, though. She’s been known to change the locks—on me, ex-boyfriends, whatever.”

Pete shrugged.

“She lives around Little Haiti—small place off Biscayne.” That was relatively close to his apartment, he realized.

Pete nodded before taking his latest swig. He was past the point of being drunk and was now coasting toward being just plain fucked up. Still, he was enjoying the misleading moments before pure drunkenness struck. He would be of no more use to this guy tonight.

“I can pay you—a little bit. Obviously, I’m not flush. I’m just not sure what this kind of thing costs,” Chaz said, reaching for his wallet. It was now half past three in the morning.

Pete waved him off. “Put your money away, man.” He said, leaning on the wall now. Pete’s legs hung loosely around his barstool, his left hand still gripping the goblet-like glass. He’d barely touched his new beer. It felt like the previous ones were hitting now, all together. He wondered if he’d had five or four. The stereo had shifted to Modest Mouse. Was it “Float On”? Pete wasn’t sure. Emily loved that song.

“Let me find Kathy,” Pete blurted out. “Then we’ll worry about money.”

“I can’t explain how much this means,” Chaz looked close to tears. That was the last thing Pete needed tonight. A grown man sobbing at the bar.

Pete felt his vision begin to blur. His stomach churned. Hungry, or about to get sick? He had to slow down. Night shift or not, there was work to be done tomorrow; Pete mumbled something in response to Chaz but wasn’t sure what. Something about not worrying about the tab. Chaz slipped him his business card, his number and address on it.

Pete looked over at Nick, who was staring up at the television. There’d been another gang-related murder near the beach. The country was at war. The Marlins were playing the Dodgers. Pete was reminded of the West Coast scores. Chaz left. Pete leaned his head back and let his eyes close.

P
ete felt something grab and shake his shoulder. His eyelids were heavy. He could still taste the alcohol and he had a bitter, bile taste creeping up in his throat. Had he thrown up? He gave himself a quick once-over and determined he hadn’t. He turned his head slowly and saw Mike standing beside him. Pete was still at the Abbey. He’d been leaning on the wall. He was used to this scenario: Mike comes to collect Pete after a bender leaves him splayed out somewhere, usually at a bar. Mike had a list of places to check. The Abbey was not far from the top.

“You alive, man?” Mike was half-joking. Pete could tell this routine was getting tiresome for him. He was starting to worry. Pete hated this.

“Barely,” Pete coughed, and then straightened out his shirt. Nick the bartender met Pete’s eyes briefly, and then he returned to cleaning. The bar was closed. It had to be past five.

“Nick said he’d let you sleep it off, but he’s gotta close up,” Mike said. “You want a ride home? We can pick up your car tomorrow.”

Pete let his head hang down for a second. Mike was like a brother. They’d been in the trenches together. Good moments and terrible ones. Their bond was strong. They’d met in college and became fast friends—going to shows, staying out late, working for the paper. They had been inseparable for a while. Mike leaned on Pete and vice-versa. But lately, it seemed more like Pete depended on Mike to keep him from falling off the edge. He was pushing Mike to the limit. One day, he’d just say ‘Fuck it’ and let Pete fall.

“Nah, I’m OK,” Pete said. “Just tired. I had a few drinks with Kathy Bentley’s dad, it got late, and you know how strong these drinks are.”

Mike sat down, a glass of water in front of him. Pete thought for a second. Had he called Mike to come by? He felt a pang of guilt. The Abbey was a 45-minute drive for Mike. Pete’s hangover had already kicked in—the headache, the dry mouth. He groaned slightly and looked at Mike.

“Let’s go eat,” Mike said. “You need to sober up, and I want to know what you were doing drinking with Chaz Bentley, of all people.”

Pete nodded, and soon they were out of the bar and walking down Meridian, toward David’s Café. David’s was a 24-hour Cuban restaurant. Cheap eats for the post-bar crowd, tucked away amid the neon lights, dance clubs, and dingy hotels that littered South Beach. The ideal spot for someone looking to preempt a hangover.

They both ordered medianoche sandwiches—marinated pork, ham, cheese and pickles on Cuban bread -—with fries on the side. Simple, filling and tasty, Pete thought. The pair ate in silence, Pete regaining some clarity as he plowed into his food. He was still drunk, but at least functional. If Mike allowed him to, Pete was certain he could make the 10-minute drive home. Sort of.

Pete brought Mike up to speed quickly, between mouthfuls of food and large gulps of water.