Authors: Jeff Soloway
Kenny stepped forward into her attention. “What about … me?”
“What?”
“Don’t you remember, that night? When we danced?”
“I can’t deal with this right now, Kenny. I can’t fucking deal with this!”
“Be quiet, please!” said Ray.
“Shut up, Ray,” she said, but quietly. She looked at me. “You could have her share.”
“Of what?”
“Of the money. Pilar’s idea was to get a lot. She was always complaining about being poor. She had her aunt to support, you know. Talk about a drain on the finances, but she did it. She always said her aunt was the only one who gave a shit about her. Every week, she’d give her a call no matter where she was. But it wasn’t just her aunt. They’d send her to the States and she could hardly afford a movie. She was always angling for a raise. But something changed a few months ago. She said she was ready to move on. She was free.”
“Why?”
“Who knows? No reason we can’t still get the money. Pilar would have wanted it. Do one thing right for her, Jacob, you liar. Maybe you could send some of it back to Pilar’s aunt. Do that and Pilar will definitely talk to you in Heaven when you’re dead. You don’t want to get the cold shoulder in Heaven from the only woman you ever loved.”
“They killed her. And it’s your fault.”
“What do you mean? It was a car accident. Wasn’t it?”
Ray looked at her, alarmed at her alarm. I enjoyed their confusion for only a moment.
“No,” I said. “Condepa killed her. They’re the people who own the hotel. They found out that Ray was your boyfriend, and that Pilar hired him. They realized that she must have lied to them, so they killed her.”
Hilary said nothing. My words seemed to act on me more than on her.
“How did they find out about Ray?” asked Hilary.
Still wandering in my thoughts, I looked at Kenny.
Hilary took quick Lamaze breaths to calm herself. It didn’t seem to work. “You told them?”
“No!” cried Kenny. “Not on purpose.”
“You moron. You killed Pilar. You killed me too. You’re a murderer. Ray”—she spoke in Spanish—“Kenny tells them. About us. Then it kills Pilar. Condepa kills Pilar.” Her Spanish was just one rung above Kenny’s.
I turned. Kenny just rubbed his eyes, looking about as little like a murderer as anyone possibly could.
“Cainny,” said Ray, scornfully this time.
“I just wanted to see if you were okay,” Kenny said.
“I’m not okay,” she answered, “because you’re here. I tried to be decent to you, Kenny, and you turn around and ruin every hope I ever had. If you weren’t such a doofus, I’d say you
planned it all out from the start. You arrogant son of a bitch. What gave you the right?”
“The right?” he asked.
“To follow me. Like bad luck!”
“Be careful,” I said. “You’re making a lot of noise.”
“I thought I could find you,” Kenny said. “Ever since that night—”
“What night?”
“That night you kissed me.”
“You pathetic lech. I’m so sorry I ever felt bad for you.” She bent her head back to shout at the ceiling. “Next time, Lord, I’ll shit on the doofus like everybody else, I swear it! Now enough with the frogs and locusts!”
“Keep quiet!” said Ray.
Kenny turned from her wrath and kicked at the wall, bowing his head to obscure his shame. With his other hand he yanked violently on a handle embedded in the wall. An ironing board popped out, and Kenny’s head snapped back in surprise.
“What passes?” demanded Ray in English. He tried again in Spanish: “What’s he saying?”
Grunting at this new affront, Kenny plunged both hands into the recess and worried the iron out of its niche above the board.
“You fucking doofus.”
Kenny looked at her and set the iron upright on the board.
“They’re looking for you,” I said.
Kenny was now flicking the useless light switch by the door on and off again, furiously.
“Stop it, Kenny,” I said, as kindly as I could. He stopped.
“I hear something,” Kenny said. “Do you hear something?”
Hilary rushed to the door and pressed her ear against it.
“Someone’s coming!” she whispered. I heard it too.
Hilary and Ray stared at each other from across the room. Had this happened before? Did they know how to deal with it? Ray twisted right and left, as if to look for some weapon or escape hatch, but his feet never moved.
“You better hide,” I said. “I’ll tell them a story.”
“Right,” said Hilary, as if this was all part of the plan. I scanned the murky room, with its lit and unlit candles, the strewn-about blankets, the trash scattered like rubble on the floor. It would have to be quite a story.
A tap on the door unfroze them, and they scrambled off to the bedroom. Kenny stayed with me, whether out of loyalty or confusion I couldn’t tell. If they wanted to hide, they should
have blown out all the candles and huddled in the dark. Why hadn’t they thought of that? Because they were idiots. Or no one had come looking before. Someone barked a command through the door. I stepped back.
“Enter,” I said.
An electronic click, and the door flashed open an inch, then stopped, then exploded open with a shout that startled me so much I almost laughed. Arturo burst inside. He held a gun. Dionisius followed. I gave way to them, so they now stood between Kenny and me.
Dionisius had no gun, or perhaps he just hadn’t pulled it. He had made the armed Arturo go first.
“I found where Pilar was hiding,” I said, hoping hate would mask the shaking in my voice. Not to my ears.
“What’s going on?” Dionisius demanded. Arturo said nothing. His gun was aimed not directly at me, but not far away either.
I tried to think of a saving explanation, but though my thoughts were quick and precise, though my powers of concentration were so heightened that I could see every line on the skin of Dionisius’s hairless knuckles, even in the candlelight, no answer came to me. It was as if my brain was dashing just past the right response at every moment.
I heard a clumsy bump in the bedroom. Were Hilary and Ray trying to hide under the bed? Maybe they were struggling to throw open a window, or cut their way through the wall with dental floss.
Kenny heard it too. His eyeballs twitched in the direction of the bedroom.
“That young man”—Dionisius pointed at Kenny—“he knows what happened to Hilary Pearson, right? We will speak to him.”
“To Kenny?” I said.
At the sound of his name, Kenny stiffened.
“No,” I said. “It has nothing to do with Kenny. He’s just my friend. He helped me find this place. He’ll go back to his room now. Back to sleep.”
“He cannot leave,” said Dionisius.
He stared at Kenny, whose truly sleepy eyes were now bulging at me, bursting with confusion and the secret. I knew that all Kenny wanted was to read my mind, to pick from it a few words of advice and comfort. I couldn’t help resenting his helplessness. Who did
I
have to look to? Still I nodded slightly, to acknowledge his terror and remind him he wasn’t cast adrift.
“What’s he saying?” asked Kenny.
I wished I could approach Kenny, so I wouldn’t have to toss my English across the room, past the dangerous gaze of Dionisius and Arturo, but my feet had seeped into the carpet and were
stuck.
“You don’t understand me. I have evidence back in my room. Let’s go there.” I hoped we would be safer in the main, occupied part of the hotel.
“Liar!” said Dionisius. “Your friend knows what happened.”
Dionisius examined Kenny through the dimness as a commando sizes up the nearby hill he’s been ordered to secure. Arturo’s gaze followed.
“You son of a bitch,” I said to Dionisius. “You killer. Will you kill him too?”
“Not if he tells the truth,” said Dionisius.
Kenny scratched his nose with a long, broomstick finger. “What did he say?” he asked.
“Enough,” said Dionisius.
“Wait,” said Arturo, but Dionisius had already started toward Kenny.
“Arturo, they’re hidden in the other room,” I blurted out. “Hilary Pearson and Ray Quinones. Go now and look. Tell him to leave Kenny alone.”
Dionisius halted just in front of Kenny. Arturo shot Dionisius one last lingering glare, then sidled to the door, flung it open, and plunged inside.
Kenny tried to leap after him, but Dionisius caught him by the shirt and spiked him like a football to the floor. He lay there stunned, his limbs jumbled. Then he opened his eyes, which immediately, infuriatingly, sought mine.
“I see nothing,” Arturo called.
“Kenny, don’t!” I said.
Kenny scrambled to his feet and stumbled backward into the ironing board, near me. It quivered but stood. The iron’s dangling cord, a thin black snake in the darkness, swung with the motion, counting the seconds.
Dionisius stepped toward Kenny, intently, almost delicately. He was just beside me. I could see the short bristles of hair on his neck, shining in the candlelight. Perhaps he had just had a haircut. I tried to tell myself to concentrate, but I wasn’t sure what I should be concentrating on. The pendulum was slowing. Soon it would be barely stirring. A thud came from the bedroom.
“Come out!” came Arturo’s muffled bark, from within the bedroom.
“Kenny, no!” I cried.
With a swift intake of breath, Kenny slung his skinny fist at Dionisius’s head. It wouldn’t have mattered even if it had landed. Dionisius blocked the blow with his left forearm, and then with his right hand grabbed Kenny, whirled him around, and shoved him to the floor across the room.
Kenny lifted his head, again looking for me. He was cornered now, on the opposite side
of the room from me. I did this, I thought. I did this too.
Dionisius observed him for just an instant, then pulled something out of his pocket. It glinted in his hand.
I picked up the iron from the ironing board. The room seemed as wide as the ocean as I started across it. At the last instant, Dionisius must have heard me coming, because he turned his head to look, and the flat of the iron landed directly on his face. He roared and toppled over, cramming his hands to his face, a gun still entwined in his fingers. Blood flowed through his fingers over his hands and his shirt. I must have broken his nose.
“Run,” I said. Kenny dashed through the doorway and halted, befuddled, in the corridor, flipping his gaze from side to side; then he turned and ran. Dionisius removed his hands from his face, revealing a gargoyle, black-smeared with blood. He was between me and the door. I didn’t even have the iron, which had slipped from my hand. I backed into the wall. He lifted the gun.
Arturo was in the bedroom doorway.
“Stop!” he cried.
Dionisius roared again and aimed, and a crack, like the sound of the air itself tearing, almost knocked me over. But it was Dionisius who pitched sideways and crashed to the floor. I couldn’t hear if he cried out. Human material was oozing from his chest. He wasn’t moving. I looked at Arturo. He was lowering a gun. He had shot his comrade.
“Son of a bitch!” he said, and crossed the room to crouch before Dionisius.
My fingers were curled into fists. I relaxed them and let my fingertips feel the surface of the wall behind me; it was rougher than I expected, unglossy paint, hard to wash. They’d have to clean the whole room, maybe repaint it, or just give up on it completely as cursed, make it a linen closet or maids’ dormitory. The iron I’d dropped was lying on its side like a kicked-off shoe. Arturo was still crouching.
“Is he dead?” I asked.
“How could he be alive?” Arturo sprang up. “This is your fault.”
“How my fault?” My heart rate was returning to normal. I couldn’t believe I was alive.
“You forced me to do this. Son of a bitch North American!”
“You saved the hotel,” I said. “If another American had been killed here, the place would have been finished. And this is justice. He killed Pilar. You know that.”
“Of course I know that. Now shut up or I’ll shoot you too. Bring those two idiots over here.”
“Come out, Hilary!” I called into the bedroom. “It’s all right. I’m going to take you home. Are you in the bathroom? Come out, both of you. You can’t stay there forever.”
I heard a low but frantic mumbling within.
“If he wanted to shoot you he could shoot you through the door. Or get a friend to kick it in first. Come out.”
Hilary emerged with her hands up, as she had seen in movies. Ray was trembling all over.
“Sit down,” ordered Arturo.
“I’m going for Kenny,” I said to Arturo. “I’ll be back.”
I knew he couldn’t have gone far without the passkey. He was crouching by the door to the wing, trying to hide in the shadows. All the doors had been locked to him.
“It’s me, Kenny. It’s all right.”
“What happened?”
“Arturo helped us out. We got him, Kenny. Dionisius. He’s dead. You helped.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“I tried to hit him.”
“I saw you.”
“He’s a big guy, but I tried. Why did I try? I don’t even care anymore. I’m not gonna waste my time. She’s got a boyfriend. She’s not worth it. Right? Let’s just go home.”
He made no move to stand up.
“We’ll go home. I promise.”
“Ray’s not dead. And she’s not dead, right? That’s not what I want. I want to get her out. That’s what I came to do. After that I don’t care anymore. Let’s go home.”
I helped him up.
Back in the room, Arturo had Ray on his knees, mopping up what he could with toilet paper and tissues from the bathroom, while Arturo himself lit more candles and placed them on the floor around the corpse, so Ray could see what he was doing. It wouldn’t be easy to lug the body out of the building; perhaps they’d bundle it in more blankets and strap it to a handcart.
“Why did you kill him?” Hilary asked Arturo in Spanish.
“He was about to kill Kenny and me,” I told her.
“I didn’t kill him,” said Arturo. “He did.” Arturo waved at me with the gun. I tried not to flinch.
“This is the plan,” Arturo went on. “I want you all to listen! I am going to tell Barrientos what happened. That you grabbed his gun in the struggle, after you pegged him with the iron. With the iron! Very macho. Don’t touch it. It still has blood on it. My evidence. I only arrived much later, after you had run off. Yes, and I’ll throw my gun and his in the river.”