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  “A good mother watches over her children. One day you’ll understand. I know what she does here. I know what goes on here.”

  “Oh, do you?” Awilda said. “What is it that you think goes on here?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. You know what you do.” Señora Lopez felt herself flushing. It had been a long, hot morning, and she felt her patience evaporating. “You…you low-class people, you sit around getting high.” She heard her voice rise and could not stop it. “That’s what’s in this horrible house. Low-class, sons of…low-class people wasting your lives. Ruining the town, the city, the whole island with your filth.”

  The heat and stink of the room, the persistent boom of the music turned around and around in her head. The room began to spin.

  “I feel funny,” she said.

  Her legs wobbled. She fell. Down into a cave of darkness.

  The little light in the room faded into shadow, and then nothing, and then a sound like a thud, and sour smoke and sweat and piss smell. And it was like she was sleeping, but it had no comfort and no release.

  “Idalia! Idalia!” she began to call. “Please, if you’re here, come out to Mami. Please! Idalia! Please, Mami just wants to see you. She wants to take you home.”

  She lay there a long time, holding on to the floor in front of her. And then there was light, and she turned and above her was Awilda’s face, which now looked very young, as innocent as an angel’s.

  “Ay, Señora Olga, come on. Don’t you have a heart attack on me.”

  The stucco ceiling spun. The music still beat loud. But she was rising out of the cave.

  “I’m fine, negrita. Don’t you worry. I just haven’t…I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and all I had was a cup of coffee. I don’t know how you can stay in here. It’s so hot.”

  “I know. It’s super-hot. You want something to drink?”

  “I’m…I’m not sure.”

  “Don’t worry. Your money buys you a soda.”

  Awilda walked over to a kitchen area and opened a very old refrigerator. She came back and handed Señora Lopez a can. Then she went over to the boombox and changed the music.

  The can was warm and half empty. Señora Lopez put it almost to her mouth, but couldn’t bear the idea of drinking it. She put it down on the floor.

  The boombox began playing a pop song by Menudo. Its candy, pubescent sound was like a shot of energy.

  “Wow. That takes me back,” Señora Lopez said.

  “The song?”

  “Yes. My daughter—Idalia—used to play her these songs back in the day, and we would hold hands and choreograph our own dance routines and perform them in the living room. Every day. For hours. She loved it. Idalia was very young then. I was very young then, too. Although it doesn’t seem like it’s been that many years.”

  Awilda lit a cigarette and flung her greasy hair back. “That sounds awesome. My mother—I did have a mother, a super-long time ago. Well, that’s not the kind of relationship we had. She didn’t hold my hand to dance. She gave me a fist.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Menudo. That was the concert Idalia had wanted to go to, she remembered now.

  “I was very tough on Idalia, too, sometimes, but I thought that was the only way for her to learn, you know. The only way.”

  They stayed still, listening, until the song ended.

  Señora Lopez smiled at the young woman. “Listen,” she said. “Young lady—Awilda. You’re being very kind, and please know that I appreciate that. So please help me. I know my daughter is back there in one of those rooms. I know she is hiding from me. I want to go back there. I want to talk to her. I want to help her.”

  Awilda stood up and folded her thin arms across her breasts. “Lo siento, Señora. But now I’m sorry. Because I have to tell you that you can’t. You can’t just go back there, to the rooms. This place, well, it’s like a club. A super-private club. And you’re not currently a member.”

  “What do you mean? Private club? This place? Look at this mess.”

  “Money only gets you this far, into our lovely vestibule. To go back there, you have to belong.”

  Señora Lopez was still on the floor, and she didn’t have the energy to get up. “Can I ask you a question, Awilda? And please tell me the truth. Did my daughter come here with something, something she was may be going to sell?”

  “You mean something big and super shiny?”

  “Exactly! Yes. My god. You’ve seen it. It’s a trophy shaped like a coquí. It’s the trophy for the Tamarindo Beach Resort tournament. I’m the corporate officer there, at Tamarindo Beach. That’s my job. The trophy is Stubing Glass—do you know what that means? That means it’s very expensive, and it’s very important that I get it back. Not because it means anything to me. You see, it’s from an old tournament, but it wasn’t doing well, decreasing attendance and what have you, so we’re relaunching and rebranding, and we want to keep some of the tradition, so we need the trophy. And it was—let’s say it was taken last night, and the only person who could have taken it, sadly, is my daughter.”

  “Are you saying your daughter is a thief?”

  “Listen to me. Don’t you understand? She took the trophy to buy drugs. And to get back at me for things she imagined I did. She’s been an addict since she was thirteen. She’s never had any strength or courage. I tried to help her, the Lord knows I tried. But her father was not around, and I had to raise her myself, you understand?”

  “I hear you.”

  “So, is it here? The trophy?”

  “Excuse me, Miss Olga, now I am confused. So, what did you really come here for, into this house that you hate so much? Was it to get your daughter or to the trophy?”

  Señora Lopez shook her head. “Ah! My daughter, of course! How can you talk like that? I have to get her out of here. We have to get back to San Juan. The future depends on us going back. Please let me see her. Please.”

  “There’s no need to beg, Señora.” The young woman walked over to a corner and picked up a small Styrofoam ice chest. She put it in front of Señora Lopez. “Like I said, this club is members only. If you want to go back there, you have to be a member.”

  “Fine,” she said. “And how…how much would that cost…to become a member?”

  From the ice chest, Awilda brought out a syringe and a tiny packet of pale-yellow powder. “This is how, Señora.”

  “What do you want me to do with that?”

  “Belong.”

  “Are you crazy? I’m not going to do drugs.”

  “I told you: Members only.”

  Señora Lopez looked at Awilda. Who was now very serious. Who did now not look like a child or an angel. She wondered if she could push past her, hit her with one of the bottles on the floor. But that would be violence, and violence was for low-class people. Yet it would be easy—so many bottles around, and the artery under the ear is what you go for.

  She shook her head. “Please, I don’t want to.”

  “Then you will have to leave,” Awilda said. “With your hands empty. No daughter. No trophy.”

  “I have more money,” she said, reaching in her purse.

  “This is not Disney World. You don’t buy tickets.”

  “I’m scared. You’re scaring me.”

  “Scaring you? No, no, no! I’m sorry, so sorry.” Awilda put an arm over her shoulder, an arm that had no weight to it, was like a stick. But still it gave comfort to Señora Lopez, who found that she was shivering.

  “No, no, don’t be upset,” Awilda said, her voice now cheerful. “You know what? Why don’t you go in the back and go get your daughter. Go ahead. Take her home.”

  Señora Lopez couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She covered her mouth, ready to cry for joy. She immediately got up, took a step forward.

  “Ah ah ah,” and that skinny stick of an arm had turned into an iron bar as it held her back. “But if you want the trophy
, that’s something else.”

  Señora Lopez felt a coldness invade her body, penetrating down from the iron bar. “What do you mean?”

  “If you want the trophy, then you must become a member of the club. I insist.”

  “My god, niña, why would you do this to me?”

  “I’m not doing anything, señora.” Awilda held out the syringe. “You have a choice. Your daughter or the trophy. It’s up to you.”

  Señora Lopez stared at the young woman. She heard her cell phone ring. It would be Analiz calling. Or Koch again. She let it ring and ring.

  She was grateful that this young woman was giving her a choice. She was grateful that now the obstacle was easy to see, was concrete. She could see its edges and understand its costs. Nothing and no one could stop her.

  Back to TOC

  BLACKOUT

  The gentleman’s mouth was wired almost completely shut. Also, he had some bruises about his face and neck. One wrist was in a cast. I made a mental note of these as I endeavored to decipher what he was saying.

  “My friend Bob was heartbroken over his girl, Jeannie,” he said. “Big, knockdown, drag-out, breakup fight, know what I mean? So we decided to go out and get blotto.”

  “What was that?” I said.

  “Blotto. You know: drunk.”

  I did in fact know what “blotto” meant but I had not been able to understand the word that had come out of his clenched mouth.

  “So, we decided on this club we like called Rvota.”

  I asked the gentleman to spell that.

  “R-V-O-T-A. It’s Russian. I think.”

  “What was the date?”

  “Saturday before last.”

  “Go on,” I told him.

  “We ordered a bottle of vodka for the table.”

  “What brand?”

  “Solzhenitsyn.”

  I took note of the brand name. I asked the gentleman how many individuals were with him, could he give me their names. As speaking seemed to pain him, I reminded him to take his time.

  He informed me that he had gone to the club with three friends: Bob Drucker, Craig Gill, and Paolo Pecorino. I made a note of their names and contact information.

  I asked how one bottle didn’t seem enough for four men having a night on the town. Was he sure they’d only had the one bottle?

  “I don’t know. Maybe there was more. I don’t remember.”

  The gentleman, who gave his name as Ralph Mirfield, was about six feet tall, curly black hair, early thirties. Wore a polo shirt. He continued his account. “The next day, Craig says he got to work but didn’t remember how he got there. And Paolo woke up on his own doorstep with vomit on his clothes. And Bob says he slept for two days straight. Me, I woke up in an alley, with this.” Mr. Mirfield indicated his fractured jaw. “I have no idea how I got there or how I got this. My friends told me I took a fall down the stairs when we were leaving, but I don’t know, you know. I know it’s crazy but I have this feeling something bad, like, really bad happened and that I’m going to end up blamed for it, you know? That’s what I need you to do, find out what really happened that night. Because I ask my friends and they say not to worry about it, it was just a drunk night. Honest to god, I don’t know if they’re being straight with me.”

  The gentleman became emotional for several minutes.

  I told him, “I understand.” I then asked Mr. Mirfield how he had come to find me.

  “Bob recommended you, said you had good reviews online, said you were a tough guy, persistent. And it looks like you’re used to fighting, what with that nasty cut and bruise.”

  I touched a wound on my forehead. “Rest assured I know how to take care of myself,” I said.

  I asked him if there were anyone else, such as strangers at the table, with them at any point during the evening.

  “Just us, well, as far as I remember. Like I said, everything after we got that bottle is blacked out.”

  I told him my standard starting fee was one thousand dollars and twenty-five cents per mile, plus expenses.

  He told me he didn’t have that kind of money because he had no insurance and hospital bills of more than a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I understood his situation and sympathized. I asked him if he could see to at least six hundred dollars on good faith, then we would work out any other costs once the case was solved.

  He took out a check but had some difficulty trouble signing it. “My good hand’s the one that got busted,” he said.

  I left the office early and went home, where I prepared my own dinner. Steak. Instant mashed potatoes. My wife Marianne would have had it waiting for me, warm in the oven. I had stopped off at the liquor store in Silver Lake, to purchase a bottle of Solzhenitsyn vodka.

  I poured a portion into my wife’s favorite coffee mug, which had been her father’s favorite coffee mug. The next morning, while I did not feel at my best, I did in fact recall everything I had done—watching a mediocre movie about the Vietnam War, playing chess with the computer, listening to my favorite Sam Cooke album, The Rhythm and the Blues. I played the album many times that night. After I went to throw out the bottle and then wash the mug, I realized I had forgotten to cook the dinner I had prepared for myself. In any case, I felt fine and ready to work.

  I concluded that the gentlemen at the club, who were in all probability experienced drinkers, would not have exhibited the symptoms Mr. Mirfield claimed they had. Therefore, it was likely that they had in fact been drugged by someone at the club, for a reason I had yet to determine.

  I took that as my working theory. My next course of action was to investigate the club Rvota.

  At the club, I noted that the front steps were made of stone and somewhat difficult to climb, and therefore could in fact cause injury.

  A very large man and a much shorter man stood outside the front door, while a long line of festively dressed young men and women waited behind a velvet rope. The short man was telling the very big man, “Make sure to check every damn ID. I don’t care what they look like. Every single one.”

  I went up to them and asked to speak to the manager, and the shorter man indicated that he was indeed the manager. He stated that he did not believe I could be an investigator, so I produced ID and asked if I could talk to him inside. He said he preferred talking right there. His name was Dragan Stevic. He was about five-foot-five, very bald, shiny maroon shirt, baggy shorts, a heavy cologne user. During the conversation, I ascertained that he was not in fact Russian but Serbian. I told him what had transpired with my client and asked if the club had surveillance cameras. In fact, they did. I asked him for a copy of the surveillance tapes. He flatly refused. As I was no longer a police officer, I could not force him into giving me the tapes. I asked him who had been working that night and could I interview them. Again, he flatly refused, using very impolite language.

  I left the club with no answers.

  I called my client and told him that I could not get the surveillance tapes. I informed him that he should retain a lawyer and the lawyer would be able to seize the tapes. My client said he could not afford a lawyer, that he was desperate, and that he was depending on me to solve the case.

  After a stop off at a nearby bar to think, I determined that my next step then was to interview all of my client’s comrades.

  Mr. Bob Drucker was at home, a large residence in the Brentwood area that also happened to be his place of employment. His architectural design studio took up most of the ground floor. He was about average height, Caucasian, thick around the middle, shaved head, shiny white shirt, gray slacks. Drucker also said he could not remember much of the event. He confirmed that he had gotten home and slept in his clothes for two days, getting up to vomit and drink water. Before I left him, I asked him about his girlfriend Jeannie and what had happened.

  He said, “Oh, her. Nothing new. Breakup. Heartbreak. Same old, same old. I’m already over her.”

  I asked him if h
e would mind being more specific about what had caused the breakup, in order to be thorough.

  He said, “Yeah, okay. Jeannie had been getting weird, for a few weeks, months, I guess, and one day she shows up with rope burns on her wrists and ankles. I asked her straight out and she said she was with some other guy. Some kinky lowlife. Not my thing. If that’s what she wanted, good riddance.”

  I observed that he did not seem very heartbroken at the moment.

  “I was. I am. I just—I’m a guy, I don’t let it show.”

  I asked him to put me in contact with her. He asked why. I told him, “Just in case.” He said he couldn’t because he had deleted her number from his phone and all her emails. I asked him for her address. He said he did not have it. I observed that the GPS device on his phone might remember. After a second, he went to a desk and wrote down an address.

  I left him and went to see Mr. Craig Gill at his residence the following week. African American, average height, blue sweater, black jeans, earring on left ear. He said he preferred to speak on the front porch instead of inside. His home was more modest, but he had a new car in the driveway, the dealer plates still on it. He corroborated my client’s statement, that he had gotten to work but didn’t remember how he had gotten there. However, he added that Mr. Mirfield was “stupid” and that they had in fact ordered several bottles of vodka and then did tequila shots. He said he thought he was still feeling the hangover a week later. I asked him about Jeannie, and he called her an unkind name and said it was good thing Bob had broken up with her. Then he politely excused himself and said he had to get back to dinner with his family.

  Mr. Paolo Pecorino was also at home. He lived in a small apartment complex in a studio apartment. It was around two in the afternoon but it appeared I had woken him up. Boxes were piled high behind him.

  I asked him if he was moving. He said he had found a bigger place. He had brown hair, was of average height, Caucasian possibly Hispanic, flannel shirt worn outside of ill-fitting jeans. He admitted that he woke up on his own doorstep with vomit on his clothes. He said they definitely had more than one bottle. “Yeah, and then we did shots. First bourbon, then tequila.”