Authors: John Gilstrap
"The concert is why I need to practice more."
"The concert is why you need to rest. Sometimes you can overcook before a performance; play too many times and you lose your edge on the piece."
Christa wasn't buying it. She craned her neck to see past her father, but the doorway to the music room was empty. "It's Tio Jesus, isn't it?" The Ortegas rarely spoke Spanish in their home anymore, but tio- uncle-had somehow survived as Christa's honorific for Pena, who in fact shared no blood with the Ortegas, but was such a permanent fixture in her life that he might as well have.
"Sweetie, I have work to do."
"But this is our time. You said so yourself."
Carlos patted his daughters face. "It was and it is. But sometimes, things interfere. I know you understand this. Now, please, Christa, I want you to go upstairs and finish your homework. After the concert, your mother and I want to take you out to celebrate, and I don't want our plans scuttled by math, okay?"
Christa tried to pout, but couldn't quite pull it off. She understood all too well how business sometimes got in the way. Gently placing her cello on its side, she stood, gave Papa a hug, and then headed for the door. "You can come in now, Tio Jesus," she called even before she reached the threshold. As she passed through the doorway, she playfully stuck out her tongue at him.
When he appeared, his scowl had become a smile, and his ears had turned red. "I'm terribly sorry, Carlos."
Carlos waved him off and smiled. "I swear to God she's thirty, not twelve."
Pena smiled. He'd about reached his limit for small talk.
"Tell me what's on your mind, Jesus."
"Someone is here to see you. She says she knows you from a long time ago, and she seems very upset. Her name is April Simpson. I told her you were busy, but she seemed very insistent. She begged me, actually."
"I don't know an April Simpson."
"She said she used to be April Fitzgerald."
Carlos cocked his head to the side and allowed his jaw to drop a bit. What on earth could possibly bring that bitch out to see him? "What does she want?"
"She wouldn't tell me. She just said that she had to see you and that it was very important."
"Important." Carlos seemed to be tasting the word.
"Life and death is what she said. I can send her packing if you'd like."
Carlos thought about that. There'd be more than a little satisfaction in turning her away without so much as a nod; but for her to come here, her life must have taken a terrible turn, and something told him that he might just enjoy hearing the details.
"No," he said at length. "Send her in."
Pena waited to see if there was more, then left the music room, closing the door behind him. Carlos moved quickly to position himself on the white leather sofa in the far corner from the door.
Twenty seconds later, the door opened again, and in stepped April Fitzgerald. She looked terrible, her once beautiful blue eyes stained red and darkened by heavy rings underneath. She'd cut her hair since high school, transforming that shiny, long mane into a kind of auburn helmet that Carlos didn't find attractive at all. Looking at her now, in fact, he wasn't sure what he'd ever seen in her.
He said nothing for a long while, allowing the discomfort of the moment to make her squirm; to force her to drink in the opulence of her surroundings. She seemed dwarfed by the ten-foot ceiling and the ornately carved walnut panelling, and in the way of most people who visited him here, she remained deferential, waiting to be told what to do. If it were another lady, Carlos might have considered rising to greet her.
"It's been a long time, April," he said at last.
She nodded and forced a smile. She couldn't hold eye contact, though, casting her gaze down to her hands, where she'd worried a Kleenex to tatters.
"How long, April? Ten, twelve years?"
April didn't answer. He didn't expect her to.
"Please," he said, gesturing to the lush leather chairs across from him. "Have a seat."
She moved hesitantly, as if afraid that he might lash out at her, and gently sat on the very front edge of the left-hand chair. As she came closer, Carlos noticed that she'd dressed up for their meeting, but that the pink frock under her jacket seemed unusually lightweight for days as chilly as these. Her ample breasts swayed and jiggled as she moved, and were it not for the obviously pregnant belly, she might have intrigued him.
"I haven't heard from you," Carlos baited. "No Christmas card, no dinner invitations, no nothing."
April remained silent, pulling at her dress where it bound against her tummy.
"Could it be that you still think that I am a-let's see if I can remember how you put it before-ah, yes, 'a worthless, stinking spick'?"
She wound the Kleenex tighter and tighter in her fist.
Carlos leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk. "Look at me, April."
She raised her eyes.
"You have to say something. You can't just come in here and take up my time without speaking."
"You tried to rape me." The words came out as a statement of fact. No anger, no accusation, just fact.
Carlos laughed, but when the moment passed, he turned deadly serious. "You open those pretty thighs for everybody else, but when I make a pass, it's rape."
Silence. She hadn't come here to argue.
He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his chest. "It must be difficult to be so much better than everyone else." His eyes scanned her appearance. He didn't need to tell her how far she'd fallen from her lofty dreams.
More silence.
"Look, April, I thought you came here wanting something. If you're just here to sit, do it on your own time."
It took a moment for her to say the words again. Just hearing the syllables was like reliving the nightmare. "My son has been kidnapped." There, she said it. The words came out in a rush, but at least she'd said it.
It wasn't what he'd been expecting. He'd assumed that this was about money, but seeing the anguish on her face, he should have known that it was something far worse than that. Something changed behind Carlos's eyes, and he lifted a gaudy brass box of tissues off the coffee table and hovered it in the air while she helped herself. He waited patiently while she struggled with her emotions. When she looked ready, he said, "Go on."
"My husband, William, took some money from a man who works for Patrick Logan. You know him, I assume? Logan?"
Carlos kept his expression completely neutral as his neck flushed hot. "I might have heard the name." Instantly, he knew the rest of the story, without April's having to say another word-not the details, of course, but this was exactly the kind of shit that Logan had tried in the past.
She told the whole story, so far as she knew the details, covering William's bonehead mistakes, the kidnapping itself, and her efforts to repay the debt on her own. "We don't have that kind of money, Carlos. I've done what I can, but I just don't have that kind of cash."
Carlos shook his head when she was finished and made a clicking sound with his tongue. "This is a terrible thing, April, but why do you come to me?"
She looked away again and shrugged. "I guess I thought that maybe you could do something."
Oh, he'd do something, all right. God damn that Logan for pulling this kind of shit. Yes, Carlos would do a lot. He'd dance on that fucker's face when he was done here, but that did not concern this woman. "I'm a businessman," he said in his most soothing tone, "not a policeman. I don't know what help I could possibly be."
"You're a drug dealer, Carlos." She spat the words at him, and he surprised himself by recoiling. April saw the reaction, and she leaned forward in her chair. "You're in the business of intimidating people, the business of getting things done. You can talk the same language as Logan."
Carlos recovered quickly. "Oh, I do speak the same language, April, but I conduct my business in a whole different way. Still, what would you expect a man to do when someone steals over a thousand dollars from him? Merely shrug and forget about everything?"
That was it. April reached her breaking point. She slammed her hands down on the coffee table and shouted, "He's not yet three years old, Carlos! Logan's not threatening to kill William-the man who stole from him. He's threatening to kill a little boy!"
The outburst brought Pena to the door, but he retreated from his boss's nod.
Carlos thought a long time before saying anything. His anger built like steam in a kettle as his mind raced through all the shit that Logan had pulled over the years. Every breath that stupid mick took was a gift from Carlos. If he watched a sunset, ate an ice cream cone, or made love to one of his whores, it was because Carlos had decided to let him live for one more day. Why could he not get it through that thick skull that he wasn't just a punk anymore; that he was part of a team now?
There was nothing new or unique about Carlos's business dealings with Logan; it was the same compromise he'd negotiated with every other upstart tough guy who'd decided to try his hand at competing against Carlos. Rather than going to war against them, Carlos wooed them to his side. For a 50 percent stake in everything they brought in, Carlos allowed them to live-live well, in fact, if they were any good at what they did. In return, Carlos and Pena and the people they trusted most helped them to defend their turf from encroachment by outsiders. Everyone profited from the strength of the group as a whole, thus reducing the need for violence and all the police meddling that bullets brought.
The system had worked well and profitably for nearly seven years now; to the point where Carlos sometimes felt as if he were running an insanely profitable pizza franchise or a chain of burger joints. He'd found that by keeping a tight rein on his network of suppliers, he could avoid the kind of violence that raised the ire of police chiefs and city councilmen. People had their vices, and he was the entrepreneur who helped them find happiness.
Logan had no idea how close he'd come to dying. Twice, Carlos had been given reason to believe that Logan was holding out on him, and twice the stupid shit had been within five hours of being whacked before he voluntarily came forward with what he called bookkeeping corrections. People who played so fast and loose with their own lives made Carlos nervous.
Then again, Logan was good, regularly turning fifteen, twenty grand a week in crack, angel dust, and meth, but he was a sick, sadistic fuck who couldn't separate his ego from his business sense. Not every affront required the kind of nuclear overkill that had become the mick's trademark. And this kind of shit-this stuff with April's kid-was so over the top that it threatened everything that Carlos had built.
You don't shit in your own nest. How many times had Carlos said this to his franchisees? If you want to make money off of people's vices, you make yourself the most desirable neighbor, the most reliable friend. You don't sell junk to kids; you protect them. You make sure that they get to and from school safely, and you make sure that some other fuck from another neighbourhood thinks five, ten, a thousand times before he even considers challenging your turf. Why was it so difficult for Logan to understand these things?
"Look, April," Carlos began, after cleansing his lungs with a giant sigh. "Your hubby made a bad, bad move here. Logan is an animal. What was he thinking?"
"It's not about William. This is about Justin. I have no idea where William's head was. I don't care. I only want my boy back. I'll give you whatever you want. I'll do whatever you want." The words made her choke and she reached for another tissue, clasping it over her mouth as she fought her sobs.
Carlos finally understood, and he felt an unfamiliar sense of sadness. "Is that what this outfit is about, April? With the swaying breasts and the light-weight fabric? You're offering to trade yourself for your son?"
She looked straight at the floor. "Please just tell me it's that easy."
"It's not that easy, April. It's not even close to being that easy."
When her eyes came up, they were as hard and as cold as onyx. "I want my son. And you can get him for me. My Justin had nothing to do with any of this. You were once a nice boy, Carlos, and now you're a powerful man, and that's why I came to you. If I was wrong, then I'm sorry. And I'm sorry for your daughter when she finds out what her father is."
That last comment brought darkness. "Did you just threaten me, April?" Threats never worried Carlos. Too many had been made over the years, and people in his line of work knew how to deal with them effectively. But something in the set of April's mouth rang a little bell of fear, deep inside his head.
"I made a promise," April said, her voice growing softer and more intense. "I swear to God, if I don't get my son back, everybody in the world will know what kind of business you're in. I'll name names, I'll-"
"You'll die."
April nodded, her eyes now clear and animated. She saw that she was making her point, and the realization energized her. "Perhaps. I expect you'll try. That's why the first paragraph of my letter begins, 'By the time you read this, I'll likely be dead at the hands of Carlos Ortega and Patrick Logan."
Carlos leaned closer. "Letter? What letter?"