BRIAN’S PHONE RINGS as he passes another mural of MLK — this one painted on the side of an on-ramp as he turns onto 95 southbound, hard to see in the lowering light. The evening is mottled and hazy. “You okay over there?” Javier, coming up beside him in his satiny blue Jag.
Brian looks at the car. “Were those glasses worth twenty-six hundred?”
“What do you care?”
“I want to know if I owe you twenty-six hundred.” The roots of his teeth ache. “Because I can’t really tell what anything is worth anymore. At least as far as you’re concerned.”
“Let’s go to one of the hotels, we can have a drink, and we’ll talk.”
“No.” Brian squeezes the steering wheel. “Tell me now. I want to know what the fuck is going on with that Steele Building project.”
“No one’s answering the phone at Prescott Filson.”
Brian rubs the outer edges of his eyes: they feel gritty, as if there’s a mineral residue. “Well, for how long?”
“Forty-eight hours. Give or take.” There’s a crackling rush of car echo. “They split. There’s a lock on the development office door — the listing agent told me.”
“Unbelievable. They actually blew town?” They slow down behind a backup headed to the beach exit.
“The FBI’s already into it. These two guys, I guess they siphoned money from some project up in Delaware to try to get the Steele Building going.”
“You’re telling me I was about to give you all that money, and it was all just a big fucking scam? What, the developers took down payments and split to Grand Cayman?”
“Ah.” He can almost hear Javier’s shrug against the car seat. “I swear to you, Brian, I’m as blown away about it as you are. There’s no way I would have taken that deal to you if I’d had the smallest idea.”
“But you did know — why the fuck didn’t you tell me the deal was crap?”
“What, when you called? I wasn’t sure what was going on. The listing agent had just called me. He was freaking — he has clients who’ve already paid their money. He thinks the financing fell apart and the guys decided to hit the road…” Javier’s voice seems to lose volume, as if he’d moved his mouth away, then back, “. distracted, a little. I took my eyes off the ball, I admit it and I’m sorry, man, disculpe, I apologize.”
“Sons of bitches were a bunch of crooks! Or losers and phonies. And you’re dealing with people like that? And dragging me in too?”
There’s a silence filled with ringing highway noise, then Javier says quietly, “I fell for it — that’s right — but there were plans and they did buy the property and they did develop other projects up north — I checked — and six other smart, rich bisneros gave them about eighteen million.”
“Damn.” Brian twists his hand on the wheel. “I guess it is what it is,” he says. “But goddamn.”
Javier sighs. “You are fine, man — right? Look — you didn’t jump on it and gracias a Dios, eh?”
Brian feels ground down, too exhausted to do more than follow the bumper in front of him. He might just end up tailing this car to the Everglades or Key West. Simply can’t think about it. He still doesn’t know the truth about those glasses. After a moment, he squeezes his tear ducts and says, “Hey, buddy, I’m gonna head home, okay?”
“Claro, man, of course.”
“I’ve gotta get things ready… with the storm and…”
“No, man — you gotta do it. Supposed to be nasty tomorrow. Get yourself home, get it sealed up. Hasta la vista.”
“Thanks, buddy. Really.”
“No, no. For what? Go, get home. It’s good to get ready for things, no?” Javier asks. “What do those Boy Scouts say? Be prepared?”
Avis
SHE THINKS SHE CAN FEEL A NEW WEIGHT IN THE AIR — tomorrow’s storm, but the first thing she’d noticed this morning was a sense of tranquillity. As she showered and dressed it gradually occurred to her that she was not hearing — for the first time in weeks — the bird’s racket. No deafening braaah, no singing, no little boy crying out to playmates; no mad laughter. Nothing. Avis had stepped outside to look for Solange and found only the enormous birdcage, still as an empty bell.
When she went back in, someone was at the front door. The man seemed astounded when Avis swung the door open. He was well over six feet, wide and solid in a square-shouldered black jacket and black collarless shirt. Avis had the impression she’d seen him before. His face was a mask of pain — coruscated, eyes burnt to crusts: consumed in a way that was all too familiar.
He’d said, “My wife is missing — perhaps you might’ve seen her? We live around the corner.”
Avis’s stomach tightened with dread: she wanted to shake her head and flee into the house. She had her own private losses to contend with. But he’d looked so stricken, his face shock-white, a livid streak in each cheek — she couldn’t help stepping back. She invited him in and slipped from the room to fetch coffee and sugar.
Now the man hunkers over on their couch, taking up the center, radiating loss. His jacket neatly folded beside him. For some reason, he calls to mind her mother with her reams of poetry, slender chapbooks filled with her essays. Each one trying to get at Heaven. Essayer means to attempt — she told Avis. As a girl, Avis imagined her mother pulling arrows from her quill, aiming over her head, trying to hit the obscure target.
She’s pleased with the steadiness of her hands as she brings coffee — the cups silent on their saucers. She has practice in panic — like an expert nurse or sponsor. She places the cup and saucer before him and watches him curl forward. He puts his hands on his cranium as if to hold it in place, stubble bristling through his fingers, and stares at the tops of his lace-up shoes.
“So, you live around the corner? On Camillo? Or Fluvia?”
He nods, still not lifting his head.
“Have you called the police yet?” She feels competent, almost motherly. In her element. “Do you have a photograph of your wife?”
He straightens, patting at his jacket pockets, produces a wallet, its edges white with wear, and extricates a curved photograph. He places it on the table between them. Avis stares at the familiar face: her face is plumper and milder, her hair is uncovered and glimmers in a close-cropped halo. “Ohh…” She leans in, taking the photo by its edges.
He looks up, hearing something in her voice; his face a beat of hope. “Have you seen her? She liked to work outdoors, in the back.”
Avis holds the photograph in her cupped hand like a bit of eggshell. “You were — you’re married to Solange?”
“You know my wife?” He straightens.
She shakes her head slowly, a sense of unreality rolling over her. “We’ve been getting to know each other.”
“My God.” His head lowers, his fingers push into his eyes.
Avis returns the photo to the table, as if it belongs to neither of them. She takes deep breaths — a technique she’d learned years ago from a grief counselor, to stave off panic attacks. “Have you contacted her family? When did you see her last?” Avis slides forward on the seat. She looks toward the windows, tries to will her thoughts into clarity.
The man seems stuck in some kind of maddening torpor. “Well, yesterday? Last night. I’m doing everything I can think of. She doesn’t have any people here. I tried to track down her aunt and cousins, but it seems her family are all…” His head tips again, as if his skull is too heavy. “She wasn’t happy. I always knew it. The police told me to write down everything — the details — what she was wearing, what she liked to do, the names of her friends. I’m at the ministries office all day — I worried about her getting lonely. I didn’t know she had any friends…” His eyes flicker over hers hopefully. “I’ve been going from home to home — you’re the first to know her name.”