Triage: A Thriller (Shell Series) (9 page)

She was in her mid-twenties, dressed in a halter top and extra-short shorts. Perfect clothes choices for her body type. A full and natural looking bosom, the points of her breasts poking through her bra to leave imprints in the halter top. Bowflex waistline, long shapely legs, and skin the color of white bread toast. Long black hair pulled back in a knot that fell just below her shoulder blades. One perfect strand of hair fluttered over her right eye. Eyes, dark.

Lovely.

Her gaze was trained on me as she made her way up the path. She carried an oversized, leather portfolio case over her right shoulder as though it was the most prized of all of her earthly possessions. An artist, I decided on the spot, and as beautiful as a rare painting herself.
La Gioconda
, Leonardo da Vinci’s famous portrait of Mona Lisa.

As the young beauty reached us, Mrs. Rubalcaba said something to her in frenzied Spanish. Mona Lisa stopped next to me and spoke her own calm Spanish in reply to Mrs. Rubalcaba’s words. The old Cuban woman made a gesture with her hands, and then she frowned and waved off the younger woman. They went back and forth like that for several beats, Mrs. Rubalcaba becoming more agitated the more they spoke. Mona Lisa remained composed, though. Mrs. Rubalcaba didn’t. After awhile, the old woman clapped her hands together and muttered something hateful. The clap made a firecracker sound. Mona Lisa reached her hand in Mrs. Rubalcaba’s apron pocket at that point, pulled out the bottle of Cuban rum, clucked her tongue and wagged a lone finger across the older woman’s field of vision. That quieted Mrs. Rubalcaba. She dropped her head. Mona Lisa said, “Abuela,” then made a sweeping motion with her hand. Mrs. Rubalcaba sighed, looked at me with her angry mouth for a second, and then slid into the dark maw of her doorway.

“You make it a habit of upsetting our octogenarians?”

The beautiful, young artist—Mona Lisa—wasn’t looking at me as she spoke.

I said, “I think you upset her more by keeping her from getting a sloppy wet kiss with Ron.”
Ron
was the Cuban word for rum.

Mona Lisa’s gaze found me then. “She’s been through enough. Leave my abuela be, would you please.”

“Your abuela,” I said. “Didn’t know the Rubalcabas had another grandchild. No one has ever mentioned one. Where’s Renny?”

“Just leave.”

I said, “Such hospitality, Mona Lisa.”

“What did you call me?”

“Mona Lisa. You’re a work of art,” I replied, meaning it with the greatest sincerity.

“Please leave. I will call the police if I need to.”

“Don’t turn this into something it doesn’t have to be,” I said.

“You just love to intimidate others,” she said. “Especially women. All I’ve heard is true.”

I half-smiled, extended my hand.

She didn’t take it, didn’t even glance at it. I pulled it back.

“I’m Shell,” I said. “But it sounds as though you know of me already. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“The Lord is graceful isn’t He,” she said with a coy smile.

“What?”

“My name is of no concern to you, Shell.”

“Feisty. That’s good. I like a challenge,” I said.

“Even those you’re certain to lose?”

“I seldom lose, Mona Lisa.”

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“I need a favor of you,” I said.

“We are not people of favors,” she said, frowning. “Please leave.”

There was something about her voice; I couldn’t place what it was exactly.

 “Have I spoken with you before? You’re Renny’s sister?”

“Cousin,” she replied, “not that it is your concern.”

“Where is your grandfather? Or Renny, even? I’d rather deal with him at this point.”

The smile on her soft lips removed the top from the jar of butterflies in my stomach. “Giving up are we?” she said.

“Living to fight another day,” I said. “Where’s your grandfather?”

Mona Lisa placed the bottle of Cuban rum at her feet, then sat down Indian-style on the porch steps and unzipped the leather portfolio case she’d been carrying, placing it across her lap. I looked down at her and attempted to pull a scent off of her skin or out of her hair. Nothing I could put a finger on. She flipped through several foam boards until she came to an image that stole my breath away. It was a charcoal sketch of Armando, as detailed as a Polaroid image, his mirthful eyes peering up from the page. “Incredible,” I said, studying the image, my eyes leaving Mona Lisa’s shapely legs for the first time.

 “Yes.”

She turned to another foam board, showed me a second image, this one of her cousin.

The porch light flashed above us.

“I need to go,” she said. “Abuela is upset.”

“I need to speak to Armando, Mona Lisa.”

“Must you call me that?”

“Yes,” I said. “I must.”

The corners of her lips crinkled; she shook her head, and then said something I couldn’t quite make out, the same thing Mrs. Rubalcaba had said earlier.
Croak? More?
It sounded less harsh from Mona Lisa’s lips, though. At least that’s what I forced myself to believe.

I questioned her about what she’d said.

“Pallbearer,” she whispered.

“I don’t understand.”

“
Croques-morts
,” she said. “It’s French. I’m taking a course in the language. Abuela has been more fascinated by it than I have. I dread the classes to tell you the truth.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“
Croques-morts
means pallbearer,” she said. “We’ve taken to calling you that.”

“Why?” I asked, swallowing, that one word a ball of guilt lodged in my throat.

Instead of answering, Mona Lisa flipped foam boards again, stopped on another image. The charcoal sketch bled through the sheet of paper on the foam board like a fresh wound. I swallowed hard for a second time. “No. I had nothing to do with Nevada’s…”

I couldn’t finish.

“I’m sorry,” Mona Lisa said, looking at me curiously, “I didn’t mean to—”

“Turn that. Please.”

“I’m sorry to upset you. Don’t yell, please. Abuela will—”

“Turn that. Now.”

She flipped the portfolio case closed, paused for a beat, then zippered it.

A mouth full of copper pennies. I staved off the feeling of nausea again, allowed my gaze to trail to the brownstone across the street from us. The lights were out.

Nevada’s, in spirit. One of my assumed names was actually on the lease. Nevada’s name was on a lease in a place she never occupied. A precaution I had taken because of my former life.

“Nevada was a wonderful neighbor,” Mona Lisa said, following my eyes. “A great friend to me in the short time since I moved here with Abuela. I’m saddened we didn’t have more time together. I believe I would’ve really—”

“Pallbearer,” I said, cutting off her eulogy.

“I shouldn’t have said that to you, Shell. That was thoughtless of me. I know you and Nevada had a difficult relationship but…”

“I had nothing to do with Nevada’s... They haven’t found a body.”

“I’m emotional,” she replied. “So much is stirring inside of me. I apologize.”

I didn’t answer to that, couldn’t answer to that.

“Three days,” she said.

“What?”

“Nevada has been missing three days.”

Seventy-two hours.

My eyes were on the brownstone across the street, but I felt Mona Lisa’s eyes on me. She said, “The police say after three days the chances of…”

The prospect of finding her alive was slim.

“Pallbearer,” I whispered again.

“Again, I’m sorry. Calling you that was cruel. That was evil of me to say.” She paused, let her apology sink in. “I wasn’t expecting to see you. So much has happened. Nevada, Abuelo before her. Renny. I’ve been pulled in so many directions. I’ve learned that I do stretch and not break, but eventually…I’ll break. We all will. Don’t you think?”

I looked at her. “Abuelo before her? What do you mean by that?”

Her eyes were on the sky, dry, but squinted with pain I knew all too well. “Died last February,” she told me. “He’s been gone almost four months now. I came to stay with Abuela right after. It was difficult at first, we hardly know one another, but time has been kind to the relationship.”

“Gone?” I was too stunned to say more.

She looked at me then. “Nevada didn’t tell you? You did not know?”

“I didn’t,” I said, voice cracking.

I descended a couple more porch steps, stopped just beyond Mona Lisa and regarded the 100 block of Elm Street for a beat. The sun blared in my eyes. I blinked against it several times, thinking it was the brightest sun I’d ever seen. It was time to go, time to leave the 100 block of Elm Street, and I moved to do so. But Mona Lisa was up, standing in my path, looking at me curiously.

“Do not do this to me, Shell.”

“What?”

“Don’t play with my emotions.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Touch your eyes.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Your eyes are watering.”

“The sun,” I said.

She smiled a tender smile. A knowing smile. A smile that was so much more than just a smile. “You cared for my grandfather?”

“Very much so,” I admitted.

 “You are a very complex man,” she said.

“What happened to Armando?” I asked while resisting the urge to touch my eyes.

“You,” she replied. It seemed to hurt her to say it.

“Me?”

“Yeyo,” she explained further, using the street slang for crack cocaine. “Renny has had great troubles with it. Abuelo and Abuela have had as much trouble coping with that. My abuelo…his heart finally failed us.”

His heart finally failed
us
.

I stood a few feet away from Narciso Lopez’s flag of Cuba and considered the circumstances of yet another broken family. For the first time in memory, I didn’t know how much more I could actually take. Mona Lisa had said she’d break eventually. I didn’t know how much more I could stretch before I broke right along with her.

“Yeyo,” Mona Lisa said bitterly. “When it got so bad Renny couldn’t deny it any longer, he finally told the truth. You were gone by then, but Renny explained how it all happened. You’re a hard man, Shell. So are the people you deal with. Renny idolized you. Hung around you as often as possible. It was you introduced the yeyo to him. No?”

I ALLOWED MY MIND to travel backward, to a dark period I’d just as soon forget. I’d just come in from a vigorous morning run, my wet T-shirt a second skin. I caught the smells of breakfast immediately. An oddity. Nevada wasn’t the least bit domesticated. I peeled off the T-shirt I was wearing, moved to the kitchen, and watched Nevada with interest from the doorway. She didn’t process my presence and I didn’t disturb her. Just watched. A kettle of water boiled on an oven burner, for tea I guessed. Two slices of wheat bread popped up in the toaster. Blackened Jimmy Dean sausage patties sizzled in a frying pan, scrambled egg whites browned in another. Sausage and bread, not too much to manage, but Nevada was flummoxed by it all. A smile parted my lips.

Nevada must’ve felt it. She turned in my direction.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

“Trying to fix you breakfast.”

“I see.”

“Not going too well.”

“I see,” I repeated, still smiling.

Nevada threw her hands up, sighed in frustration, and began to weep like a brokenhearted child. I moved to the oven and turned off the kettle, did the same for the frying pan holding the burnt sausage patties, and then grabbed the charred toast with my fingertips and tossed them into a wastebasket. I turned back to Nevada, went to her and took her in an embrace that swallowed her whole. “It’s okay,” I told her.

“Could Taj cook?”

“Is there any way for me to answer that without turning this into something bigger?”

“So she could,” she said.

I kissed her forehead. “IHOP?”

She managed a small laugh between sobs. “Thought you’d never ask.” If my skin had have been dry I would’ve felt her warm tears.

Forty minutes later, we eased into a booth at IHOP, menus in hand, both of our minds settled on omelets. After a few minutes of small talk, Nevada covered my hand with hers. I pushed my menu aside and looked at her, gave her my full attention. Her gray eyes didn’t have their usual light.

“Say it,” I said.

“I know you don’t like to get involved with other people’s troubles but I want you to talk with Renny.”

I’d thought she’d discovered one of my skeletons. I’d thought the conversation was headed somewhere else entirely. The dryness left my mouth. Heart rate slowed.

“Renny,” she said, waving her hands across my field of vision. “Cuban boy across the street.”

“Stop it.”

“You’ve got that look in your eyes that you get. Didn’t know if you were having a bout of selective memory,” she said.

“How many footballs have I tossed to Renny, Nevada? How many Pina Colada Slurpees have I bought him?”

“How many
Playboys
have you smuggled him?” she said.

“I plead the fifth.”

We shared a rare laugh. Things had been patchy between us.

“He’s into something,” she said.

“Like?”

“You know.”