Silent City (2 page)

Then it started again. Metal scraping on metal. This time it was clear it was coming from her door—her doorknob, to be specific. What a time for Javier not to be here, she thought. She tightened the robe she was wearing around her T-shirt and shorts and headed toward the door, hoping that the sound of someone inside would startle whoever was trying to get into her apartment. The scraping stopped in the seconds it took Kathy to get to her door. She had no way of seeing if there was someone out there.

“Hello?” she snapped. “Who’s there? If you don’t leave I’ll call the p—”

Before she could finish, the door flung open, pushing her back and onto the floor. As she struggled to stand, a man busted in. He was large, muscular, and bearded—a grizzled, Hispanic man with a collection of gold jewelry around his neck and a scar down the whole left side of his face. She got to her feet. The large man grabbed her shoulders and shoved her to the couch, knocking the wind out of her.

The burly man was holding a small pistol. The sight of the gun made Kathy’s heart jump. He looked around.

“Hey Kathy. How’s it goin’ tonight?”

“Wh-who are you? How did you get in here?” Kathy felt separated from her body, wondered how she could even get the words out. He was very close to her now. She could feel his hot breath on her face, cheap rum and Spanish food in her nostrils. His left hand wrapped around her neck. She tried leaning further into the couch, but he wouldn’t let up.

“No te preocupes. I got in through the front door, remember?”

Don’t worry
, he’d said. Kathy could glean that much with her bad Spanish. She tried to look around, but his grip tightened, forcing her eyes to meet his. “Gotta get you a better lock. This one here was too easy for me to pick.”

Kathy’s eyes darted around, looking for something, anything that could get her out of this. What did he want? Her money? There wasn’t any. Her stuff? Possibly. Her body? Likely. The burly man seemed to read her thoughts in the inch of air between them.

He raised his other hand and wagged his index finger in her face.
No. You’re not going anywhere
. She began to shake. She felt warm tears collecting in her eyes and choked on desperate sobs.

“Don’t go doing anything stupid, ok? No one knows I’m here.” He was whispering now. Her neck, still being held in place by a firm grip, was starting to hurt. “I’ve just got a few things to ask you, is all. Simple enough, no?”

Kathy tried to speak. Nothing came out. She nodded.

“Now, where does a smart reporter like you keep her notes, eh?” He said “reporter” with a sneer, dragging out the last syllable, English clearly not his preferred language. She could barely breathe through the heat of his body.

This is it, Kathy thought. This is how I die. Someone must have tipped him off about her article, but why? She’d spoken to only a handful of people. And they’d all been trusted sources she’d built up over time. What had she done to lead the burly man here?

“M-m-my notes aren’t here,” Kathy stammered. “My story’s done. I’ve already turned it in to my editor. Lots of people have read it.”

Kathy was interrupted by a slap. The sharp pain took an extra sting through the tears coating her face. The burly man was no longer whispering. His breath slammed against her as he yelled, “You had better be lying.” Kathy felt herself being lifted, his grip closing off her throat. “Because if you’re not, this is not going to end well for you.”

Kathy began to speak, but felt a knee slam into her midsection. She couldn’t breathe. She heard her ribs crack. His grip loosened as Kathy fell to the tiles, her knees crashing hard, followed by her body and then her head.

She ran her hands over her face and body, trying to will them to work, when she saw the man take aim and slam his boot across her face. She couldn’t make out what he was saying. Everything had gone dark. For a second or two, it felt like the ground was moving. Then the tile was scraping against her skin. Something was yanking at her hair, no, pulling. She wasn’t sure if she was still crying. She thought she heard Nigel.

T
he bright red numbers on the nightstand stood out in the darkness of Pete Fernandez’s bedroom. Some sunlight crept into the space between his hastily drawn blinds. 2:30 in the afternoon. Pete groaned and scanned the room with his bloodshot eyes. Clothes scattered on the floor. Mail at his feet on the bed, black messenger bag tossed near the door. He covered his eyes with his palm. The throbbing in his forehead was bad. Not as bad as earlier, at four in the morning, when he’d relived the bottle of red wine and peach schnapps shots he’d consumed over the course of a few hours in his bathroom.

Pete seemed to recall the bartender, Jesus, being generous last night. Most of the evening was clinked glasses, slurred conversation, and a foolish drive back home on Biscayne Boulevard to his Little Haiti apartment. His usual nighttime ritual of three glasses of water and four Advil—plus whatever seemed edible in the fridge—had done little to prevent this anguish. Pete wasn’t even sure if he’d managed to get one glass down before passing out.

Before he could decide whether he would get up or try to finagle an extra hour of sleep before work, Pete heard the familiar pounding on his door. It was Costello, his four-year-old black cat, alerting him that, yes, it was time for breakfast, hangover or not. Costello had become very methodical in his requests for food. Thump. Thump. Tortured meow. Thump. Thump. Questioning meow. It was cat jazz, Pete thought, and then laughed out loud. Yeah, he was still drunk.

His dry mouth and all-over ache made it clear to Pete that he wasn’t getting up just yet. This didn’t deter Costello, who Pete had named after Elvis—not Lou—during a particularly obsessive period that had never really disappeared. The case of records near his desk could attest to that. The only Costello albums collecting dust were recent stuff. And “Goodbye, Cruel World,” too. He leaned over, found an errant shoe, tossed it at the door. The racket stopped. For now.

Pete fell back into bed, trying to block out the sunlight by closing his eyes and letting his mind wander. Bits and pieces from the night before flooded back, between the throbbing of his headache and his aching body. He remembered talking to Mike Carver, one of his few remaining friends since he’d returned to Miami, after a stint as a sports reporter in New Jersey had gone up in flames, and drunkenly thanking him. For what? Pete wasn’t sure. There was a girl, too, at some point. He hadn’t gone home with her, as he was in his own apartment. Pete groaned again. Every time he awoke like this—feeling like shit, hazy on what he’d said or done the night before and usually embarrassed by what little he did remember—he’d promise himself it’d be the last time. So far that hadn’t worked. He rolled over in bed, facing the wall. He could still sneak in an hour or two of sleep before he had to head to the Miami Times newsroom. Back to the grind of his life now. Copy editing the stories he used to be tasked with writing. A paper pusher in a time when paper—and newspapers—were dying.

Then the phone rang.

Pete rolled back and reached for his cell phone, which was blaring a scratchy, digitized version of the Replacements’ “Waitress in the Sky” as its ringtone. Great song, Pete thought, but not now. The sloppy, shuffling delivery Westerberg gave the ode to flight attendants wasn’t what Pete needed. The sad, pleading lyrics only reminded Pete about how sad and pleading he’d been the night before. The alarm clock’s red numbers taunted him as he checked his phone. It was Mike. He wondered what kind of details he’d find to fill the gaping holes in the memories from last night.

“Yo.” Pete half coughed his first word of the day.

“You still asleep, bro?” Mike let “bro” drag out for a few extra seconds, an old college joke that wasn’t funny anymore but had become a habit. Pete could hear that Mike was on the road, probably heading back to his apartment up in Fort Lauderdale from his girlfriend Tracy’s house. Mike, like Pete, had been pretty tanked in the wee hours of the morning. Unlike Pete, though, Mike knew when to stop.

“Nah, I’ve been up for a while,” Pete lied. “Have fun last night?”

“It was good. Good to see the crew. Too many shots, though,” Mike said. “How’d you get home? You were still with that chick when I left.”

“Which chick?” Pete asked, instantly regretting it. Shit. What chick?

Mike laughed. “Never mind. I didn’t know who she was. It seemed like you guys knew each other, though.”

Pete thought back. He remembered the girl now. Stephanie—a former co-worker from Pete’s time in Jersey. She was also friends with Emily Blanco, formerly Sprague, also formerly Pete’s fiancée. After the breakup, Emily had done a stint as a designer with the Miami Times before settling down with her new husband, Rick, down in Homestead. Pete liked to think they were friends now, in that weird, stunted way people tried to be friends with someone that broke their heart. He liked to think that, at least. Pete grimaced. Stephanie was in town covering the Miami Book Fair and just happened to be at the same joint where Mike, Pete, and a few other friends were imbibing: Kleinman’s, a narrow sports bar nestled in a half-empty condo building just a block away from the Times. Pete only got back bits and pieces of conversation, but he could see Stephanie’s face. A sad, pitiful look. Not for her, but for him. Maybe it was better that he didn’t recall what they talked about.

“You’re lucky you just had to drive a few blocks, bro. D-U-I…” Mike sang the dreaded three letters.

He was right. Pete had been stupid last night, could barely remember anything after that last shot of schnapps. Not anything clear, at least. But being such a creature of habit helped. Pete could stumble home pretty capably from anywhere. Or so he told himself. What was the term for this—”Functional alcoholic”? Best not to think about that.

“Yeah, I remember now,” Pete said. “She was a friend of Emily’s from Jersey. I don’t really remember what we talked about. I’m sure she’ll tell Emily all about how wasted her almost-husband was. Great.”

“Eh, fuck it. I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” Mike said. “Who cares what Emily or her idiot friends think?”

Mike was always good for this kind of support. He was a coworker and a good friend. Always loyal, always forgiving, he helped Pete come to terms with his own failings. Or at least ignore them. Pete wondered if this would all be easier if Emily had stayed in New Jersey, allowing Pete to create this idea of her in his mind as an evil person, so he would not have to cross paths with her regularly, only to be reminded of why he fell in love with her in the first place.

“Anything going on tonight?” Pete asked, more out of habit than anything else. The last thing he wanted was another drink. But he was kidding himself if he thought he wouldn’t have one or two before the day was done.

“You nuts? Nothing, man. I’m just going to chill at home,” Mike said. “I need to do some shit around the house.”

“Yeah, I should do the same,” Pete said. He gave his bedroom a quick once-over. “You work tonight?”

“Nah, I’m off. Unless Vance calls me in. That dick.” Mike laughed at his own profanity. “Alright, I’m out. I’ll talk to you later.”
Click.

The abrupt ending to the call, much like the beginning, didn’t faze Pete. It’s how he and Mike communicated.

He returned to bed, eyes on the ceiling. Headache was better, Pete thought. He couldn’t help thinking of Emily, and he groaned aloud at the thought of what Stephanie—a girl he’d met once at a random dinner party—would tell her about their encounter. Knowing Emily, though, she’d never mention it to Pete. She’d made it clear that she was no longer going to try to fix him. It wasn’t her responsibility anymore.

After a few minutes, he dozed. In that cloud between sleep and wake, Pete found himself dreaming. He was younger, probably in high school. He was riding shotgun in his dad’s old blue Ford Fairmont, down 87th Avenue, in Westchester, the Miami suburb that young Pete had called home. He was smiling. The sun was out. The leather seats of the car felt hot on his arms and his back. His father had the oldies station on. The Beatles were playing, Pete thought. “Hey Jude”? His dad was wearing his usual short-sleeved business shirt, tie, slacks, and thick glasses. He was still working. A homicide detective for the Miami PD. He looked good, healthy. He was smiling, too. It was summer in Miami and all was good. A leggy Dominican girl crossed the street in front of them and Pete saw his father motion with his chin. “Esta rica, no?”
Isn’t she lovely?
Pete shrugged and looked out his passenger side window. In his dream, he wasn’t sure why he did that. His father looked away. Pete could tell his disinterest hurt his father. The dream fizzled. Pete awoke sad. His cat had gone quiet.

P
ete’s battered black Toyota Celica wheezed its way up into the Times’ main parking garage. While working nights at the paper allowed him to sleep off the most brutal of hangovers, it never guaranteed a parking space. The broiled meat smell wafting from the McDonald’s bag resting next to Pete in the passenger seat made him wretch a bit. Too soon for a double cheeseburger and fries.

After some swerving around, Pete snagged a space on the garage’s top floor, open to the elements, which meant his car would still be a sauna when his shift ended, around midnight. Summers in Miami were brutal. A tropical paradise most of the year, Miami became unbearable from late May until about mid-September. For Pete, who wasn’t much of a beach guy, that meant a lot of time indoors, in cars, and in bars. Pete winced. Sweat was already through his black polo.

He stepped out of his car, snatched the Times ID badge hanging from his rearview mirror, and collected his grub. He sighed as he walked toward the Times building, nestled between a vacant strip mall and the expressway.

• • •

The newsroom was in its early stages of life. People were still shuffling in for the evening shift, and the unluckies forced to work weekends were already gone, desperate for some semblance of a normal schedule. Pete nodded here and there as he made his way across the Features cubicles toward Sports, where Pete found his desk in the same shape he’d left it two days prior—disorganized and funky. He tossed his food to the side, sat down, and logged on. Pete had the dubious role of “duty officer” on weekends, meaning he had to represent the Times’ sports section at the nightly news meeting and oversee the pages being sent to press throughout the night. It also meant Pete had to come in at least 30 minutes earlier than usual to familiarize himself with what was going on in the sports world. His hangover and junk food run had eaten into any chance for prep. Pete was barely on time.