Prodigal Son Page 7

  The man zeroed in on them, melting from the mist, leading with his gun muzzle. Military bearing, pressed police uniform, requisite mustache.

  Broken English. “Ms. Veronica, are you all right?”

  “Of course. Matías is overreacting as usual.”

  The barrel swung over, aimed at Evan’s center mass. It jerked upward twice. “Manos. Manos.”

  Evan showed his palms, a nice excuse to raise them into an approximation of an open-hand guard.

  “This really isn’t necessary,” Veronica said.

  The policeman’s gaze shifted to her and then back to the space where Evan had just been. Evan was behind the man now. Controlling the cop’s gun hand from behind, Evan palmed his left ear and knocked his head gently against the lamppost.

  He crumpled.

  Evan turned to Veronica. If she was shocked, she covered it well.

  He’d give her this: She was quick to acclimate. It struck him that he owed some of his own disposition to her. How novel to consider that parts of him had been inherited in the twisted ladders of his DNA. The thought undressed him, peeling away a lifetime’s worth of armor he hadn’t known he’d been wearing.

  He walked out. She scurried to keep at his side.

  They exited the gates into the embrace of a semicircle of police vehicles, headlights aimed at them like cannons. The mist thickened, swirling like white dust in the beams, flowing over the shoulders of the men. The air tasted of rain.

  Evan looked down the bores of countless guns.

  The stakes were real once again. If he were caught, his informal presidential pardon would be voided, which meant he would spend the rest of his life consigned to a dank cell in some rendition-friendly country. Or put down in a quiet field somewhere, his flesh burned, his bones powdered and spread to the wind.

  He settled himself and started forward.

  One man stood apart and slightly ahead of the phalanx, his uniform advertising him as the deputy commissioner. Leaving Veronica behind, Evan strode up to him, keeping his hands in sight. The fog swelled, cutting visibility even more. By the time Evan reached him, only the deputy commissioner and nearest two policemen were in view. All three aiming at him from close quarters.

  “Look,” Evan said. “I don’t want to injure anyone and start an international incident. What do you say we just part ways amicably?”

  The deputy commissioner’s mouth twitched as if he’d tasted something and found it not to his liking. “Handcuff this man,” he said. “We will deal with him in interrogation.”

  12

  People Skills

  One of the cops stepped behind Evan to cuff him, and Evan allowed it. As he was steered to the nearest police car, he stumbled, brushing against the guy. He was deposited roughly into the backseat. As the door swung shut, he slung the seat belt aside, flopping it out. The vinyl strap caught in the frame when the door slammed, wedged beneath the latch.

  Mist rolled across the vehicle with car-wash intensity. The car might as well have been underwater.

  The commotion of excited voices escalated outside, arguing in Spanish. Then a voice cut above the others. “¿Dónde están mis pinche llaves?”

  By then Evan had used the key to unlock his cuffs. There was no inside handle, so he shouldered into the door, and it unstuck from the jammed seat belt with a soft click.

  He fell outside, rolled under the car, and flattened against the asphalt.

  Then he waited.

  A few seconds later, the expected outcry arose. Various department-issue shoes shuffled into view, a colorful bouquet of Spanish curse words issuing from above. Then there was running and more swearing, which quickly gave way to recriminations.

  Evan relaxed, pressed one cheek to the cool ground, watched wisps of mist furl and unfurl in his slivered view. At one point the exasperated deputy commissioner passed into sight, close enough for Evan to catch a whiff of his spicy cologne. One flap of his blue uniform shirt was untucked, the back spotted with sweat, and his inexplicably brown socks sagged down by the polished black leather of his boots. Someone was screaming at him through his radio. He vanished back into the mist, his head ducked with defeat.

  At long last, cars started up around Evan and tires peeled off into the night. The vehicle above him erupted as the engine turned over, laying a soothing blanket of warmth across his shoulders. It pulled forward and drove off, leaving him alone lying in the middle of the park.

  He stood and brushed off his knees. The branches of the Gomero de la Recoleta ranged and twisted overhead, cloaked in mist like the cobweb-draped arms of a skeleton.

  It was mostly silent, just the gentle whoosh of the wind and the sound of a couple bickering in Spanish somewhere in the soupy air. He recognized the calmer of the two voices.

  He strolled over, their words coming clear. Veronica had switched to English. “—your jealousy isn’t nearly as charming as you think it is.”

  Evan walked up to where they sat on a low bench near the base of the behemoth tree. The man at her side was exceedingly handsome, late fifties, a curl of thick black hair laid across his forehead with timeless matinee-idol aplomb. He rose abruptly. His posture, ramrod-straight, compensated for the fact that he was not as tall as he seemed to think he was.

  “This is him?” he said, showing his teeth. “This is the puta madre who injured my men?” He stepped toward Evan. “Give me one reason not to have you thrown in prison and leave you to rot.”

  Veronica rose and rested a hand on the ledge of Matías’s shoulder. “You’ll have to forgive him, Evan,” she said. “He’s been working on his people skills for years, and he’s gotten them to the point where they’re merely terrible.”

  Matías took out his phone, dialed, and pressed it to his cheek.

  Veronica said, “Hang up the phone.”

  His dark eyes swiveled over to her. “Or what?”

  “Or you’ll never see me again.”

  His jaw clenched, bone rising at the hinges. Through the line a voice said, “¿Hola? ¿Hola?”

  Matías took a breath, then said into the phone, “Perdón. Estaba tratando de llamar a Francine.” He hung up and clenched his mouth with irritation.

  Veronica said, “Evan, this is Chancellor Matías Quiroga. Matías, this is my … friend, Evan.”

  Matías glared at Evan.

  “He’s a former fútbol star,” she told Evan. “You know how they get.”

  “No,” Evan said. “Not really.”

  She turned to Matías. “Give us a minute.”

  “I am not leaving you alone with this man.”

  “I’m not asking,” she said, giving him a nudge to get him moving.

  Matías strode a few paces off, lit a cigarette, and glowered over at them. She flicked her hand at him, and he ambled a few steps farther away.

  Evan said, “Are you always like this?”

  “No, dear,” she said. “Sometimes I’m assertive.”

  “You two fight a lot?”

  “He does. I don’t show up to every argument.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Argentina?” She sighed. “I’m here on a lark.” She shot a glance at Matías, who was locked onto them and smoking aggressively. “I bore easily.”

  “Who do you need me to help?”

  She lowered her voice. “His name is Andrew Duran. You’ll have to find him.”

  “Who is he to you?”

  “I made a promise to someone, his mother, to look after him if anything ever—”

  Matías called over. “I need to know what the hell is going on.”

  She ignored him, and Evan followed her lead.

  Evan asked, “Why should I help him?”

  “You just need to. Go. You’ll see.” She reached to shake his hand. He felt something pressed between their palms—a scrap of paper. “This is a starting point. He’s somewhere in Los Angeles.”

  That struck Evan as a hell of a coincidence.

  He glanced down at the paper,
saw an address scrawled in a feminine hand, and slid the scrap into his pocket.

  “After this little fiasco, I’d imagine that airport security will be a problem,” she said. “Get down to Saladillo Airport, Paramount Jets. I have a private charter standing by. It’s a Bombardier Global 6000, but you’ll make do.”

  “And you?”

  “There’s a bit to untangle here after all this, so I’ll be coming a few days behind you. I have a gentleman friend with an estate in Bel Air.”

  “Another gentleman friend,” Evan said, in a tone he did not recognize. “Is he as much of an asshole as Chancellor Matías?”

  “Of course.” She blinked once, indulgently. “No one wants to have polite sex, darling.” She took in his reaction, amused. “What?”

  “I’m trying to figure out what to say that won’t make everything worse.”

  “And?”

  “I can’t think of any good options.”

  She leaned forward, perched on her toes, and kissed him on the cheek. He pulled away, the lipstick imprint of her lips cool on his skin, the scent of lilac lingering.

  Matías was storming over, brow twisted, face red. She turned calmly to receive him as he came at her with pride-bruised grievances.

  Evan took two steps back, vanishing into the haze.

  13

  A Test

  The handball court and the dark sedan lurch into view as Evan rounds the corner, sprinting, feeling much younger than his twelve years. The Mystery Man jerks around from his languid pose by the fence.

  “Listen, listen—” Evan stops, panting, leaning over. “I know you want Van Sciver, but there’s stuff about him that’s … that’s…” He shakes his head, agitated.

  The Mystery Man walks toward him, annoyed. “What’s this about? What’s wrong with Charles?”

  Van Sciver is currently doubled over on his bed, clutching his gut. Late last night Evan emptied two bottles of Papa Z’s Ex-Lax onto the kitchen counter, crushed the pills, and mixed the residue into Van Sciver’s protein powder. The cramping set in a half hour after Charles downed his morning shake, and he’d since alternated between toilet and bedroom, awash in a cold sweat.

  “This some jealousy thing, kid? Believe me, you don’t want to fuck with me. I told you. You’re not good enough. You’re not strong enough. You’re not gonna surprise m—”

  As the Mystery Man nears, Evan sinks to his haunches, pivots, and kicks the back of the guy’s lead ankle with as much force as he can, sweeping the leg. Mystery Man goes horizontal and lands hard, cigarette ash scattering across his face as his head audibly strikes the asphalt.

  Evan pulls himself up, all five feet and three inches, and drops the blue bandanna on the Mystery Man’s chest. “You surprised now?”

  In a flash the Mystery Man is on his feet, fist twisted in Evan’s collar, knuckles grinding Evan’s chin. His other hand draws back, blotting out the sun, and Evan realizes for the first time just how much he is willing to be hurt.

  To the side the dark sedan’s headlights flare. Just once.

  But it’s enough to freeze that fist in midair. The Ray-Bans are off kilter from the fall, dangling off one ear, and Evan sees now why the man wears them day and night—he has a lazy eye. The left pupil, slightly misaligned, peers past Evan’s shoulder even as the right lasers a hole through his forehead.

  The Mystery Man shoves Evan away, adjusts his shades, and walks over to the sedan. The driver’s window eases down with an electric purr, but Evan can see nothing and hear nothing from inside. He stares at the tinted windshield as if it might magically turn transparent.

  “But he’s too small.” The Mystery Man is doing his best to keep his voice hushed. He rubs the back of his head gingerly, notices Evan watching, and lowers his hand. “You want to waste two years waiting on him to grow? I can get you dozens who are better than him. Why’s this one worth it?” A pause, and then he draws his head back sharply. “Maybe he did, but I still would’ve beat the shit out of him after.” He listens intently for a moment, then shrugs. “It’s your life.”

  The Mystery Man walks over, passing Evan without slowing. “Well,” he says, without looking behind him. “You coming?”

  Evan keeps at his heels across the handball courts.

  “You wanna go home, say good-bye to your friends, your Papa Z?”

  Evan pictures Van Sciver dragging himself along the wall to the bathroom, his hands balled into fists. “Nah,” he says.

  “You got stuff?”

  “Nuthin’ I need.”

  A few blocks away, they reach a beige Crown Victoria, and the Mystery Man says, “Get in.”

  Evan obeys. The heavy door shuts behind him. He reminds himself to keep breathing.

  The engine shudders to life, and they loop back through the neighborhood, passing Mr. Wong’s dry cleaner that has the dish of Tootsie Pops the boys plunder with regularity. Mystery Man cuts around the corner, and Evan realizes with a stab of fear that they’re going to pass right by Pride House and its big front window. And sure enough there they are, crowding against the pane just as Evan himself has done so many times.

  Even though they are partially lost in the reflection, Evan identifies them by posture and silhouette. Ramón looming tall like a stick figure, bony arms poking out from his knockoff Timberland shirt. Tyrell stooped in that way of his, eyes lowered, hand swiping the wisps on his chin. Andre’s head craning as he watches the Crown Vic coast by, looking lost, left behind, as far from those “California Dreamin’” roller-skating girls as ever.

  Evan slumps down in his seat. The Mystery Man looks over with a sadistic smile, eases his foot off the gas a bit more to prolong the torture.

  Evan risks one last glance before the row house slides out of view, just in time for him to make out Charles Van Sciver staggering to the glass, elbowing the others aside. He looks pale and sickly, his Redskins jersey askew, as if he’d pulled it on hastily. While Evan stares back in horror, Charles slams his palm against the window hard enough to make Evan wince inside the air-conditioned sedan.

  At last the Crown Victoria drifts away. Charles’s face, twisted in anger, remains like an imprint on the backs of Evan’s eyelids.

  His lips pursed with contentment, the Mystery Man focuses on the business of steering. They drive out of the city, heading north, passing drab concrete overpasses and interstate exits Evan has never seen. His excitement morphs into terror and then back again. The line between opportunity and ruin seems wafer thin.

  They pull off the interstate. Evan can no longer hold his mouth. “Where are we going?”

  The Mystery Man earns his moniker. He keeps his fist atop the wheel, a cigarette protruding from his knuckles, an endless ribbon of smoke sucked out the crack of the window.

  They pull in to a gas station, but rather than head toward the pumps the Mystery Man idles behind the convenience mart near the air hoses. Evan eyes the meter, notes that the tank is still three-quarters full.

  Mystery Man reaches for Evan, and Evan jerks back, but the hand continues past his thighs to the glove box. The lid thuds open. Inside, a gleaming handgun. The man removes it, the barrel jogging loosely toward Evan. He has gone board-stiff in the passenger seat, his hamstrings and calf muscles turned to piano wire. He tells himself to exhale, and a moment later he does.

  The man smirks, enjoying this, then reverses the gun in his hand with an expert flip. Offering it to Evan. “Take it.”

  Evan does.

  “Go inside,” the Mystery Man says. “Aim it at the checkout clerk.”

  “Then what?”

  “Oh,” he says with knowing amusement. “That’s all you’ll need to do.”

  Evan feels the heft of the gun, this neat metal contraption that contains the power of the universe. This is a test—it must be—but for what, he does not know. Is it a test he even wants to pass? If he does, will that make him the golden boy or a calf ripe for slaughter?

  For the first time, his nerve deserts him.

 
“I, um … I can’t. I can’t do this.”

  “Okay. Let’s get you back home.” The Mystery Man slots the gearshift into drive, and the tires creep into motion.

  Evan pictures his mattress on the floor of the crowded bedroom. Mac and cheese from the pot five or six nights a week. Ramón’s brother, who left Pride House two years ago and now works at the mall, mopping floors and hauling trash. The size of Van Sciver’s clenched fist.

  They pull out onto the main road when Evan says, “Hang on.”

  The brakes chirp. Evan feels Mystery Man’s eyes on him, and a moment later he gives a little nod.

  The man drives him back. Idles again in the same spot. Evan takes two deep breaths, then two more.

  “Well?” the man says.

  Evan finds his voice. “Can you take the bullets outta the gun?”

  Another smirk. The man drops the magazine, pops the round from the chamber, hands back the weapon. Reaching across Evan’s waist, he flings the passenger door open.

  Evan gets out. His blood thunders in his head. He holds the gun low at his side. The glass door approaches in a haze. A grating chime announces his entrance. The man behind the counter looks up. Middle Eastern maybe, or Indian, with kind eyes. He looks like someone’s father.

  Evan approaches the counter. “Sorry,” he says, and lifts the gun.

  The man rears back, knocking packs of Dentyne from the display. His hands go up in front of him, fingers wavering. “Please, please, just take. Just take.”

  Before Evan can react, the front door smashes open and two cops barrel at him, guns drawn. “Hands! Hands! On the floor!”

  He sees them approach as if in a dream. His gorge presses up through his throat. And then his cheek is smacking the floor, his arms wrenched back so hard he thinks the shoulder sockets might pop. Metal cinches his thin wrists. He’s hauled out, his head lolling weakly, and hurled into the rear of the squad car.

  The beige Crown Vic is nowhere in sight.

  14

  Wildly Out of Context

  The house matching the address Veronica had palmed off to Evan was a shade of green that was better suited to peppermint frosting. The xeriscaped front yard featured little more than a few dead cacti and some square concrete blocks embedded in a sea of wood-chip mulch. The place was tiny, nestled between other Mid-Century houses, most of them Spanish style, heavy on stucco and adobe-tile roofs. A ladder, a few buckets of paint, and a bundle of detached rain gutters rusted by the side of the house, evidence of a remodel that had run out of steam. A collection of take-out menus had gathered on the doormat, a few weeks’ residue.