Silent City (7 page)

Pete felt a sharp jab in his stomach. This is what Javier’s life had become. Pete knew he himself was fucked up—desperately in love with a woman who had cheated on him and left him, on the brink of being fired and drinking away his sorrows and hopes nightly. But Javier was inching toward becoming a career criminal, if he was not one already. Where would Javier be, Pete thought, if he’d had a father like Pete’s? He remembered the new world order after the 7-Eleven incident. His father drove him everywhere. No outings after school. Monitored homework sessions after class. On days Pete didn’t have school, he’d go to work with his father, to the station house at the Miami Dade PD. Pete was resentful and angry for years—it took even longer for him to forgive his father. But his father had made the right decision. What little of a life Pete had, he owed to his dad’s firm hand. Javier had gone down another path, though.

Could he have done more to help him? He was his friend. He’d failed him. Pete sighed. His eyes drifted back to the work-release information. Interesting, Pete thought. Pete didn’t immediately think of Javier’s neighborhood as a place for ex-cons. And from what the report was telling him, Javier was working 30 hours a week as a busboy at a restaurant in Westchester—a suburb of Miami where both Pete and Javier grew up and where they met and became friends.

Pete jotted down the restaurant’s name—Casa Pepe’s—and began to close down his computer when, on a whim, he did a quick search for the restaurant in the Times’ article archive. A few classified listings and ads popped up, as expected, but Pete was surprised to find an actual story appear as a result, a puff piece community news story, but a story nonetheless. Susan Frey, a reporter close to Pete’s age, wrote it. She’d moved to Orlando a few months back to take a business editor gig. He scanned the story, which profiled the restaurant’s owner, Jose Contreras—a Cuban refugee who, after coming to Miami during the Mariel boatlift of 1980 and spending a year in a Miami jail for assaulting a fellow refugee, toiled in the kitchens of various restaurants before finally cobbling together enough money to open his own.

It made him laugh. Did Miami really need another Cuban restaurant? The story went on to paint Contreras as not only a capable businessman, but also a good citizen, noting he had set up part of the Casa Pepe’s workforce as an approved work-release program for convicted felons in an effort to help them get back on their feet. Probably got a healthy tax cut, too, Pete thought as he finished the story. He printed out a copy of the story and jotted down the restaurant’s address after collecting his pages from the printer. This was something, Pete thought. He wasn’t sure what. He stuffed the folded paper in his back pocket and hooked his bag over his shoulder. Something to do tomorrow, he thought. Talking to Javier, if that happened, would shed a different light on the situation. But now it was time to cut loose a bit. As Pete walked toward the elevators, his screen flickered off, asleep.

T
he Gables Pub was a shitty dive off Le Jeune Road, on the edges of Coral Gables, one of Miami’s swankier neighborhoods. The Pub reminded Pete of college and the dozens of nights spent drinking in the bar’s patio area, closing the place down, being politely—and sometimes not so politely—asked to head home by the patient waitstaff. His memories of the drives home were a little blurry, and Pete was grateful to still be in one piece. It had been a destination not because of a particularly great ambiance, but because they were notoriously lax about carding students and the bartenders mixed the drinks strong—an attractive combination for Pete and his friends at the time. Back when drinking a Long Island Ice Tea was a good idea because it fucked you up quickly, the Pub was where Pete and his buddies hung out. Pete, Mike, Emily, and a few others willing to risk missing class the next morning made the bar their salon, where they’d talk about their lives, the news of the day, or argue about whether Radiohead’s “OK Computer” was historic or hype, and when Weezer was going to come out with a new record as good as “Pinkerton.” Pete didn’t care about either band anymore.

Before he’d moved to New Jersey to take the Bergen Light job, before he’d fallen for Emily and decided to go from friend to lover, he’d lived in a tiny apartment less than three blocks away from the Pub, making it all the more obvious a destination for him. It also made driving between the lines less of a worry when he was trying to decide between going home and having one more. It may have even been one of the reasons he moved downtown when he returned to Miami, as opposed to settling into Coral Gables. Not much had changed. In his new neighborhood, he had just found another bar down the street.

He walked toward the double doors that led into the Gables Pub. Blondie’s “Dreaming” was playing low on the jukebox as he walked in, looking around for Emily and Mike. The Pub was dark and empty. Aside from Blondie, the only noise came from the middle-aged, longhaired bartender whistling to himself as he wiped down the bar. He stopped abruptly as Pete entered, recognition flickering in his eyes. It’d been a few years, but Pete remembered him, too. Pete slid onto a stool near the end of the bar.

“Hey Jimmy,” Pete said, realizing the bartender couldn’t place his name. He leaned over the bar and extended his hand. “It’s Pete. Pete Fernandez. I used to basically live here a couple years back.”

Jimmy the bartender smiled and nodded, shaking Pete’s hand drowsily and speaking in a hippie/surfer drawl that took Pete back to simpler times, when his biggest concern was being able to roll out of bed at noon to get to class.

“What can I get you, dude?”

Pete hesitated for a second. It’d been a shit day. Normally, that’d call for a serious drunk. But he needed to think. “Just gimme a Bass,” he said.

Jimmy’s eyes widened slightly at the request.

“Damn, dude. No shot this time?” Jimmy said, puzzled. “Shit, I remember you closing this place down more than I did, and I fuckin’ worked here, man.”

Pete looked around. Emily and Mike probably stopped to get a bite to eat or decided to go somewhere else. He stood up quickly and scanned the patio area. Nothing. He took his seat at the bar. That was fine. He wasn’t in a hurry to see her. Not yet.

Jimmy walked over to the other end of the bar and began pouring Pete’s beer. Jimmy pointed at the Jägermeister machine next to the tiny Red Bull cooler and nodded toward it. Pete groaned to himself as he gave Jimmy the thumb’s up. Fuck it, he thought. The reminder that he’d be seeing Emily soon made the decision that much easier.

Jimmy returned with a full pint and a shot of Jäger—a healthy shot, too, not a plastic, sissy shot. As Jimmy walked away, Pete downed the purple liquor in one swift motion. He winced as it slid down. He coughed, gagging a bit on the drink as it coated his stomach. Pete gripped the bar.

He took a small sip from his beer and pulled out the small notebook he carried in his back pocket, a remnant of his reporting days. He started jotting down notes. Kathy. Javier. Jose Contreras. Kathy was missing, Pete decided. He wasn’t sure if it was the Jåger giving him clarity, but she didn’t seem like the type to leave her cat unattended or her TV on for days. Her apartment did not seem like its owner had left on vacation, either. And if she was missing, she was most certainly in trouble.

He was certain he’d missed something at Kathy’s apartment. Had he planned better, he’d be able to figure out where Kathy went, and if she’d left with Javier. Pretty unremarkable work, Pete thought, as he took another sip from his pint glass. Yet, for some reason, he felt energized.

He was fuzzy on why he was helping Chaz, beyond his inherent need to be liked and to be helpful. Something still bothered him about Chaz’s request. He could have done many of the things Pete did today—basic info hunting, visiting Kathy’s apartment—but he’d passed the buck to Pete instead. Odd.

His thoughts drifted back to Kathy. They worked opposite schedules. She was a day-sider, which was standard for most local reporters. He worked nights and weekends. They’d only exchanged workplace pleasantries before she came out with Emily to meet him and Mike for a drink a few months back. Pete was smitten, but also drunk. More drunk than usual, because Emily was around. Kathy seemed accepting, and their conversation was breezy and funny. He didn’t have to work hard to make her laugh or keep her interested. The random bar outings didn’t translate into much else. The times they’d see each other were few and far between. She hadn’t crept into his thoughts until Chaz interrupted him at work the night before. He also didn’t know much about her. What was she like? What were her hobbies? Was she a happy person? What were her goals in life? Pete shrugged. He made a short list of things he needed to accomplish the next morning. Well, maybe afternoon. He motioned to Jimmy for another beer. No shot.

• • •

Pete straightened up in his seat at the bar. It was close to two in the morning, no sign of Emily or Mike. He shook his half-filled pint glass at Jimmy and tried a smile. There were a few people in the bar now, none of them sitting next to Pete. He recognized a girl he’d dated briefly in college sitting close to the jukebox with two dudes that were probably fraternity alums trying to relive their heyday. What was her name? Lisa? Linda? He didn’t know. Had it been a few years earlier, Pete would have felt the need to say hello, or make some small talk. Not tonight. He’d had at least three beers on top of that shot—nothing destructive by his standards, but still enough to have him feeling fuzzy.

He thought about his life in New Jersey. The cramped two-bedroom apartment in Hoboken with Emily and Costello. The miles he’d racked up flying. The myriad hotel rooms, locker rooms, and meeting rooms that came with the job. He loved it, or so he told himself. He had started drinking heavily then. Started ignoring Emily, ignoring their problems. For the first time, they weren’t talking. And yet, even that life sounded appealing. But Pete had no clue how to get back there. If he continued to spin out at the Miami Times, there was no chance he’d catch on anywhere else.

He thought about Emily’s expensive perfume—some kind of Chanel. He’d forgotten the name, but he could pinpoint it if he smelled it on someone else. He thought about how her eyes would squint, almost close when she was focusing her gaze on Pete in mock anger. How her lips would pout. Moments flashed at him like a highlight reel during a sitcom reunion show. Flowers, anniversary dinners, concerts, mix tapes, bars and restaurants. All painted by the brush of his memory. Except she wasn’t gone. He still had to see her. He wasn’t strong enough to shut her out of his life, although she’d given him ample opportunity. He had come to terms with still being in love with her. It’d been just a few months back that he and Mike had sat outside the Pub, Pete cross-legged on the floor, drunkenly explaining to his patient friend why Emily was the only thing he’d ever wanted. How nothing was worth his time anymore. They never spoke of that night again, but Pete saw pity in Mike’s eyes for the first time, and that was heartbreaking. Loving Emily was all Pete had after his father died, and he’d let it slip away without fighting for it.

It was always work, though, Pete realized. Even at their best. Still, the memories flooded his mind constantly. He tried not to think about the bad ones, but those popped into the beer soup of his brain, too. The arguments. Her disappearances. The dozen times or so she’d gotten up and left him sitting alone—at a restaurant, bar, or visiting friends. Those memories, unlike the idyllic ones he’d started with, still stung. He found himself back on his father’s lawn, a few weeks after the funeral. Realizing that he couldn’t return to New Jersey, that the life he’d created and wanted to continue with Emily was close to collapse. He’d been staying at his father’s house—the smallish three-bedroom where he’d grown up—with Emily while they got his father’s affairs in order. It had been surreal, but also strangely comforting.

He remembered pulling into the carport slowly. He had stopped at La Carretta, a chain Cuban restaurant on Bird Road, for a few beers. He moved slowly. They’d been fighting lately. It took him a second to notice the suitcases by the porch. A few more to catch Emily as she brought out another bag. She saw him first and stood at the top of the steps, waiting for him to speak. A cab pulled up. Pete stood there.

“Please, don’t try to call me. This is the decision I’ve made and I need you to respect that.”

At the foot of the steps, Pete shook his head, to clear the cobwebs partially, but also on the off chance that this was just another bad dream in a series of nightmares.

“You’re doing this now, of all times?” The words spilled out of his mouth.

She walked to the cab, dropped the remaining bags in the trunk and got in the car. Pete remembered walking up to her window. She didn’t lower it. She was looking straight ahead. He rapped his fingers on the window. Nothing. She looked back at him for a fleeting moment and then the cab was moving. Pete was tempted to chase after her, like in the movies. All that he had left, though, was dust.

The memory disappeared as quickly as it had popped into his head. Pete made himself cough in an effort to explain away his red eyes to anyone that cared. He noticed Paul Westerberg was on the jukebox now. “As Far As I Know.”

“How long have you been here?”

Pete turned around slowly to see Emily, her dark brown hair in a tight ponytail. She was in a T-shirt and jeans, but still looked great—scrubbed and fresh-faced. He felt a pang of guilt for lusting for her so quickly after taking a rollercoaster ride through their failed relationship. Emily looked concerned. She stared at Pete, which made him realize that a few seconds had passed and she was waiting for an answer.

“I dunno, couple of hours?” He tried to not sound as buzzed as he felt. “Where were you guys?”

“Don’t get me started,” Emily let out with a dry laugh. She was a little annoyed, Pete could tell, but it wasn’t worth getting angry over. “Mike wanted to go all the way to his neighborhood to eat, so it took forever to get here. Then we walked in and went straight to the patio. I just came to the bar because our dumbass waiter went home and closed his bill with us.”