I lay there for a thousand years. The sky got brighter and brighter, then dimmed like a flame going out. At the edge of my face tiny insects crawled up and onto my eyes and under my eyelids. I heard the sound of coquís, first low and quiet, then it grew and grew until I thought my eardrums would bleed. I saw a dark beach, black water, black sky. The waves jumped onto the shore like the claws of a giant animal, tearing at the sand, reaching for me. There was a sound like a gunshot, and I tried to shut my eyes, and then I thought I was crying. I looked up and saw a dog licking my face. Small, hairless. It moved its mouth like it was barking but no sound came out. My face felt so wet I thought the dog was drooling all over me, then I realized it was raining.
There was no dog. I was on the ground outside of the hut. My head throbbed.
Soon I heard sirens.
I tried to get up and quickly realized there was a gun in my hand. I saw the body, still lying there. Poor bastard, but there was nothing I could do.
“Fuck,” I said.
The dark sky was circling, moving fast. Set up. The gun in my hand — it was a setup.
“Fuck,” I said.
I pushed myself up, felt nauseous.
I stood, threw the gun away, then I said, “Stupid. Stupid.” I went to pick it up again, fell down, got up again, began running.
I saw the batey courts and tried to remember where we had come in. I fell. I heard the sirens approaching. I got up and ran toward where I thought we had come through the trees.
I pushed back through the trees, saw the big space in the fence, tripped, got up, got to my car. I opened the door, sat down, wiped the powder off my face, checked the back of my head. There was a little blood.
I went to start the car. “Keys,” I said. Itaba had the keys. “Fucking fuck fuck fuck.”
I grabbed my duffel bag and wobbled away from the car. How far was I from San Juan? Blackjack, I thought. Julie. Blackjack. The cops. I had to get out of there.
I walked five feet, got down on my knees, and felt the hard, wet, cold road, considered laying down, considered throwing up again. Then a vehicle stopped in front of me.
There was a big canoe on the back of the guy’s truck. He was an old man, with white, kinky hair, and his skin was as dark as an overripe banana.
“Necesita ayuda?” the man asked.
“I need to go to San Juan,” I said. My voice sounded thick, garbled.
“Venga. Entre.”
I got in the truck. I thought I looked normal but I was worried that I looked slow, drunk. The man asked if I was okay.
“I need to get to San Juan.”
In a thick accent, the man said, “You look bad. You better see a doctor.”
“I’ll be all right.”
There was a big crucifix hanging from the rearview mirror. The radio played old tunes, singers picking at a cuatro. The saddest music ever, the kind of music to slice your wrists to. One song after another.
We drove on, and I concentrated on the blacktop and the highway signs, mile after mile. I saw two more dead dogs, ripped open, lying there like pieces of meat on the road. I had the kind of aching hangover that makes you want to split your own head open and take your brain out to rinse it in cold, clear water. My mouth didn’t feel like it belonged to me. My head was numb, throbbed.
All of sudden I said, “You ever heard of the Taino Indians? The Tainos?”
“Sí, los Tainos. A long time ago. In school,” the man replied.
“You think you have Taino blood? You think you’re a Taino?”
The man laughed, kept his eyes on the road. “My abuela was. At least she said so. Who knows? I respect the history. I respect where I come from. Pero soy lo que soy ahora, en este momento. Puertorriqueño, tu sabes? Boricua.”
“Uh huh,” I said, although I didn’t understand. I felt like sleeping but somehow knew it was important not to.
Mile after mile of blacktop went by. The sky grew darker. Rain started to pelt the windshield.
“My name is Papo,” I offered.
“Ángel Luis,” the man said and stuck out his hand. We shook and he kept on driving.
When he dropped me off at my hotel on the Condado tourist strip, ángel Luis warned me about the hurricane. “Storm is coming,” he said. “Dios te bendiga.”
I waddled with my duffel bag toward the hotel. I was tired all the way to my balls. I was just about to walk in when I saw these two men through the glass doors. Talking to the front desk lady. Plainclothes cops look the same wherever you go. Bad suits, lots of attitude. There was no way they could be after me already. I mean, they could trace me through the rental car, but not that fast.
Still.
I turned around and walked a couple blocks to a cash machine, got out my last five hundred, then headed to a little hotel outside of the Condado.
It was a small room with smelly blankets. One chair, one desk, an AC that rattled. I pulled the blanket off the bed, folded it neatly. Then I sat down, opened my flask, took a shot. It hit my stomach like a bull — I ran to the bathroom to puke. I got some soda, mixed it with another shot. It stayed down, but not for long.
I laid on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. Mosquitoes had arrived from somewhere and were biting me.
Back at the other hotel, there were six dozen roses in vases waiting. A box of candy. Champagne. I had called ahead to prepare everything for my night with Julie. All on credit.
Then I remembered to check my cell phone.
There were two messages, both from Julie. “Papo, where the hell are you? Call!” The second: “I don’t know, Papo. The flights are all being delayed. This must be a sign. I don’t think I can do this. He’s your best friend and it’s not right for you to do this either. Goodbye, Papo.”
“Fuck,” I said.
I turned facedown on the bed and thought of Julie’s fine perfect-handful breasts and her pale freckled skin and I woke up twenty hours later.
It was dark outside, and rain hit against the sliding door of the balcony. I took a hot shower, did my hair and beard, put on a jacket, put on cologne. I smoked at the table. The curtains were pulled back and I watched the rain beat at the glass, a million tiny liquid bullets trying to get in.
I had the gun on the table. I knew I should ditch it but it made me feel safer to keep it. I thought about finding Itaba and the man with the flat head. But San Juan was a big town.
Hell, I was here to have fun, to do some gambling. I would cope with whatever hand I was dealt. Why not live it up until the cops found me?
I headed for the casino at the Caribe Hilton — the rain moved in thick, slow strokes across the streets, palm trees were flopping about like they were dancing the salsa — and went inside and warmed up with the slot machines. I ordered a Jack and Coke, but only sipped at it. After $200, I went to the blackjack table. I played without caring, losing deal after deal. This gay couple laughed and joked with the dealer, and I felt like a fourth wheel.
“Lady Luck is not with me tonight,” I said to no one but myself.
I turned to order water and that’s when I saw her. Straight back, head held high, firm ass in a tight red dress, Itaba walked past the slot machines. Gift bag in hand.
“Lady Luck.” I cashed out and followed her.
Itaba was in a ground-floor suite outside, past the pool. There was tape on all the windows, for the hurricane. When she opened the door, I moved. I pushed her into the room, pulled out my gun, and aimed it at her.