Authors: Don Bruns
“You’ve got a serious problem? And it involves your on-again-off-again romance?”
“It does.”
“Either she’s leaving you or she’s pregnant.”
“Pregnant.”
“Who’s the father?”
I knew there was a reason he was my best friend.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
T
HE PHONE RANG at three in the morning. When my cell phone is recharging it will just repeat, “You have an incoming call. You have an incoming call. You have an incoming call.”
I grabbed it, still somewhat foggy from what I call half-asleep. I hadn’t been able to drift off, but I wasn’t exactly wide awake. I knew who it was. It wasn’t.
“Eugene?”
“Yeah.”
“Eugene Moore?”
“Yeah. This is me.”
“You have something that we need. If you give it to us, we can call things even.”
The Spanish accent gave him away. It was the greasy haired nervous guy from our Cuban duo.
“Mr. Moore?”
“What do I have?”
“You have mail.”
Like a computer. “You have mail. You have mail.”
“Obviously we’ve had some confrontations in the last several days that have come to no resolution. I am suggesting that you turn over whatever mail you have and we will stop any aggressive action.”
Did they think we still had the finger? And what would happen if they found out we didn’t have it? Everything was a blur in my mind.
“Mr. Moore?”
“I’m here. Can I think this through?”
“No. I need an answer.”
My head was clearing by the second. I saw movement in the doorway and James stood there, in a T-shirt and boxer shorts, rubbing his eyes.
“What is it, man?”
“What’s your name?”
“Carlos.”
“Carlos, my partner is here and we need to talk. Call me back in ten minutes.” I hung up the phone.
“Whoa!” James had snapped back much quicker than I had. “They want the mail? We don’t have the fucking mail.”
“Well, James, that’s not entirely true.”
“One envelope out of two boxes of mail—come on. That could have just fallen out by mistake.”
“It’s a little too early in the morning for me to figure all this out.”
We’d talked until one thirty in the morning, sitting outside on the slab, smoking cigarettes, and getting loose on cheap beer. I kept staring at the building behind us, and the playpen. Two old people praying for a chance to be with their first grandchild, and me, praying that maybe there was a mistake and Em really wasn’t pregnant. One thirty in the morning I’d gone to bed, and it was now three thirty. I’m a growing boy. I need a lot more sleep than that.
“I’m having a tough time putting it all together, James.”
“Yeah. You’ve got a full plate, partner. I say we call Rick Fuentes. Tell him that as far as we know he got all the mail we had. Ask him what we should do. Or, we could just tell your pal Carlos to stop by Fuentes’s condo and get it for himself.” James looked at me, then glanced at my cell phone. Obviously he didn’t want to call the man at three thirty in the morning. I sat on the edge of the bed and made the call. The machine picked up.
“Rick Fuentes, this is Skip Moore. We just got a phone call from the two guys who threatened us and, by the way, almost killed us on the way home from your place. They say that if we give them your mail, they’ll go away and leave us alone. You’ve got the mail, Mr. Fuentes. Should we just tell them to deal with you?”
I had this thought that maybe I should have just kept quiet. Once the two Cubans had the mail, all of us were expendable. If they wanted to get rid of everyone who knew about their plans, they’d have to eliminate all of us—including Angel and Emily.
“I need to hear from you in the next ten minutes. It’s,” I struggled to read the alarm clock, “three thirty-eight in the morning.”
I hung up and we waited. James paced and I sat on the bed, thinking for a couple of seconds about actually having a kid, then thinking about how much trouble we were in. Back and forth. Would she even want to discuss marriage? Would these guys actually try to kill all of us because we knew about the plot to overthrow Castro?
Finally, James sat down on an old wooden trunk that I used as a closet and cupboard. “If they get all of that mail, they may kill us.”
“Yeah. I was thinking the same thing. And some other things as well.”
“My old man, he had fifteen different businesses. That’s just fifteen that I knew about.”
“And?”
“I never heard of one of them leading to murder. Or even the threat of murder.”
“Well, he never had a trucking company. Pretty rough business.”
“Yeah.”
“James, I think we should just tell Carlos that we don’t have the stuff. That’s all. We don’t have it. What can they do about that?”
“We
don’t
have it.”
“Yeah. We don’t have
most
of it, but they’re liable to stop over here and find out for sure.” I looked at my watch. “I’ll call Fuentes one more time. If he’s not there, we’ll have to tell this guy that Fuentes has it.” I dialed his number and got his answering machine one more time.
“We can’t wait any longer.” James was pacing again. “If they call back and we don’t have an answer—”
“They’re liable to come over here.”
“Shit. Why won’t Fuentes call back?”
Off the charger, “Born in the USA” blared from the little flip phone. “Hello?”
“Skip?”
“Em.” I found myself short of breath. “I . . . I am so, so sorry about this afternoon. There was no excuse for that response. I mean, you just shocked me and I—”
“No. I’m sorry. I planned how I wanted to tell you, and, and it just didn’t come out right at all. I didn’t mean to walk away. I’ve been an emotional wreck, and—” the receiver beeped. Somebody else was calling in.
“Em, I am so sorry. I’ve got to take this call.”
“At four in the morning? Come on, Skip. Look, if you don’t want to talk, fine.”
The line went dead. I hit the green button. “Hello?”
“Eugene? This is Carlos. Do we get the mail?”
“Carlos.” I let out a slow breath. Em had called and wanted to talk, and here I am dealing with a life and death situation. I guess Em’s situation is life and death too. “We don’t have it.”
“Bullshit.”
“No, I’m leveling with you.”
“Would you care to tell me where it is?”
I hesitated. I didn’t want to put Fuentes in more danger, but this was his battle. And, it was his mail. “Rick Fuentes has it.”
There was silence on the other end.
“Carlos?”
“Rick Fuentes has
all
of it?”
“We took it up to him the night you tried to run us off the road.”
“Cut the bullshit, Mr. Moore. You have the list of donors for Café Cubana. I want it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
J
AMES STARED AT ME, his jaw slack. “He said he knew we had the donor list?”
“Why would I make that up, James?”
“How the fuck does he know?”
There were two ways. “One, they were parked nearby and saw us when we took the envelope out of the box and tossed it back in the truck.”
“Possible. We know they tried to get by the gate.”
“Number two, they did get by the gate and took the mail from Fuentes. Once they went through everything in those two boxes, they realized the donor list was missing.”
“Shit. What do we do, Skip? That donor list was extensive. And potentially damaging.”
“They’re going to get it somehow.”
“They’re calling back in—” the phone started it’s raucous music.
“Carlos?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve decided to give you the list. Why don’t you give me your number, and we’ll set up a time and place where you can pick it up.”
He was quiet for a moment, but I could hear him breathing. Then he must have put his hand over the mouthpiece and I could hear his muffled voice talking to someone.
He came back on line. “Do you think I am a stupid fuck, Eugene?”
“No.”
“Eugene, you couldn’t trace this number if you tried, and I am obviously not going to give you my phone number. I want the list tomorrow night. And I want you to leave it in the trash can that sits outside the Denny’s across the street from your apartment. We don’t have to meet each other any more, see each other anymore, or threaten each other with guns. Do you understand?”
“Yeah.”
“Put the envelope in a plastic garbage bag. Drop it in the trash can around eight tomorrow night. It’s that simple. And Eugune?”
“What?”
“Don’t make copies. No copies. It had better all be there. I know what I’m looking for and if it’s not there, I’ll start cutting toes and ears off your high school classmate. Got it?”
I got it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
T
HAT DAMNED FIELD TRIP. Vic was my trip buddy, but there were a lot of things to do, a lot of people to see, and simply being buddies didn’t mean that you were chained together. It was just a way for one teacher and one chaperone to leverage a little more supervision. So, we weren’t together the whole time. Should have been, but we weren’t. And when Vic wasn’t around, I figured that he was off with Cramer and Stowe, the goon squad.
It was a park, and we were doing some nature things. God knows, I couldn’t remember most of it if I tried, but there was a sinkhole about forty feet deep at the edge of the property. It was surrounded with yellow tape with signs warning us to stay back. For most of the kids, you didn’t need the sign. I remember everything about the sinkhole. Everything.
Mrs. Marlow explained how the limestone deposits had built up and eroded and she went through the story about how sinkholes came to be. This particular one had swallowed a garage and two cars. Pretty impressive to a seventh grader. And as long as someone didn’t go to the actual edge of the sinkhole, as long as someone stood back maybe a couple of feet behind the yellow tape, what danger could there be?
My trip buddy was nowhere around and I really wanted to see if you could still view the garage or the two cars. The story was that nothing had ever been brought back to the surface. So I worked my way over to the yellow tape, and seeing no one who would stop me, I ducked under the yellow plastic and walked up to the sinkhole, leaning forward and peering into the craggy depths of the pit.
When I felt the pressure on my back, the hard shove, I started to turn, but it was too late. I staggered forward as the ground crumbled under my feet. I can still feel the breathless rush of fear that gripped my midsection. My heart seemed to stop and my stomach rolled in wild turmoil. Feeling my body dropping with the soft earth, I think I screamed and turned in midair, grasping at what remained of the dirt, clawing at it with my skinny fingers. Somehow I hung on. About two feet down. The earth I was clinging to was soft and I could sense it was only a matter of time before it gave way and I would plummet to the bottom of the forty-foot chasm.
I looked up, hoping to see a sign of rescue. Instead, I saw Justin Cramer and Mike Stowe looking down. As I remember, not with glee on their faces. I actually believe I saw raw fear, and it was totally clear to me what had happened. They’d pushed me, for no apparent reason and now were petrified that they’d be found out or possibly they realized they’d finally crossed a line. They had attempted murder.
I screamed again, the cavern soaking up the sound. I watched them turn and run and I felt the fine silt of the earth slowly erode under my fingertips.
And then, there was Vic. When he called my name and I looked up, he was already on his belly, inching forward with his hands outstretched. He reached down, telling me everything was going to be all right. To this day, I can still feel the pain in my knuckles, the cramps in my hands from grasping the dark brown dirt.
Slowly, he reached down as his shoulders and chest cleared the opening. I should have prayed that he didn’t fall as well, but all I could do was pray for myself. He wasn’t just saving my life, he was putting his life on the line and there’s a difference. A big difference. Finally, he reached my wrist and he pulled, breaking my grip and holding my entire weight with one hand. He worked his way back, pulling me with him until he was able to reach down with his second hand and haul me out. How he managed it, I’ll never know, but we were both shaking when I reached the surface.
“Vic.”
He was breathing deeply, and he looked into my eyes and shook his head. “Don’t ever tell anyone about this. Ever. Don’t tell them how it happened, and don’t ever tell them how you got out. Don’t, Skip. Just don’t.”
I called Emily three times. She didn’t answer the first two times. The third time she picked up.