“It’s just us here,” I said. “I want to know how you thought of it, and why. I just want my curiosity satisfied. You know as well as I do that I don’t have any fingerprints or witnesses.”
Jimmy looked out the window at the parrots, who were squawking and fighting. I could see the wheels spinning. My heart was beating so hard that I was afraid Jimmy would hear it and not speak.
“You’re right, Lupe,” he finally said. “I did it. Does that make you happy?”
“No, Jimmy,” I said. “It really doesn’t.”
“It’s a goddamned mess,” he said. “And when I found out you were investigating it, I got worried. I didn’t know how to handle you, and I was worried it might come to this.”
“Why, Jimmy?” I whispered.
“Is my secret safe with you?” Jimmy said, his voice suddenly hoarse.
I nodded.
“I want those clubs closed down. I wanted to do something to get the clubs shut down and out of my life.”
“But they employ you, Jimmy,” I pointed out.
“That’s just it,” he said. “Don’t you see? I have to be there at those damned clubs all the time.”
“So?”
Jimmy hung his head down. He was standing in the middle of my office, his arms limp at his sides. I glanced over and saw that the office intercom channel was still open.
“I was beginning to like it too much.” Jimmy raised his hands to his eyes and stifled a sob. “All those young, half-naked kids. Sweating and dancing all around me. I was inside those clubs too much, seeing too much. I don’t need the temptation, Lupe. I have a family.”
I was speechless. Before last night, I would never have considered Jimmy capable of any crime, much less murder. But after talking to Leo about Jimmy’s “vibe,” as my cousin called it, I began to realize that my old friend Jimmy was in the throes of a sexual conflict.
“What would people say if they found out I liked the boys on the Beach, Lupe?” Jimmy said, his voice breaking.
“I don’t know, Jimmy. I guess they’d say you were gay. Or bi. Or somewhere in between.”
“Don’t say that,” Jimmy hissed. He took a step toward me but stopped, his face constricted with self-loathing.
“There were better ways to eliminate temptation,” I said to him. “There are plenty of other places you could work.”
“Thought of that. Doesn’t matter,” Jimmy said. “As long as the clubs are there, I’m going to want to be there. The only way out for me is to shut down the clubs. And I found a way to make that happen.”
Nowhere in Jimmy’s worldview was a thought of remorse for his six victims. I was beginning to see that Jimmy was one sick puppy.
“But the cops were keeping it all quiet,” I offered.
“I know. I hadn’t counted on that happening,” Jimmy said with genuine amazement. “Still, sooner or later word’s going to get out. Right?”
Jimmy was still in his moment, still thinking he had options. I was chilled to realize that he was contemplating committing more murders.
“Gotta get rid of those clubs,” Jimmy said. He looked at me strangely. “Are you with me or against me, Lupe?”
At that, I whistled sharply. Jimmy started when the door burst open and a man with a gun shouted at him to hit the floor. It was Miami Homicide Detective Anderson, whom I’d worked with once or twice before.
“Get it on tape?” I asked him.
“No problem,” Anderson replied. “That intercom worked perfectly.”
Leonardo poked his head around the corner with a look of mixed alarm and satisfaction. The South Beach killer was caught. All the evidence against Jimmy was circumstantial, but the taped confession wouldn’t hurt matters.
“You lied to me! Puta!” Jimmy shouted in disbelief as he sank to the floor, his fingers instinctively interlacing behind his head. “You said it was just you and me!”
“You need help, Jimmy,” I said.
“That’s an understatement,” Leo called from the doorway.
Detective Anderson started reading Jimmy his Miranda rights. Jimmy’s worst fear was about to be realized. Everyone in Miami was going to find out that Jimmy de la Vega, husband of Maria and father of three, had killed six young men because he was tempted by their youth and beauty.
With Detective Anderson on the case, every detail of Jimmy’s crimes was going to become public knowledge very quickly. Jimmy had just been outed. In a big way.
Superheroes
by Preston L. Allen
Opa-Locka
(Originally published in 2006)
The Sister
The sister has the moon in her hair and the wind at her feet.
The brother has the wind at his heels. He wants to be a football star when he grows tall.
She wants to run fast and catch medals of gold, but she has the moon in her hair. She is fair. All men stare. She has the moon in her hair.
He has the wind at his heels. He has thunder and lightning in his hands. He hits hard. He steals fast. He runs fast.
His sister. She has the moon in her hair.
His little sister.
They live in the house in Opa-Locka their mother does not own, the house of the man with the snake in his eyes. In the summer, when there is no school, and the mother goes to work, the man with the snake in his eyes locks himself in the room with the sister with the moon in her hair because she is fair.
And the brother?
He hits. He hits hard. He hits fences and cars with baseball bats. He hits walls with clenched fists. He hits classmates, hits teachers, and screams at his mother, who will not listen. He wants to be a superhero when he grows taller than the man who owns the house. He is tall now, for fourteen. He wants to be Batman.
His friend says, “I want to be Superman.”
The brother says, “I still want to be Batman.”
His friend says, “Sometimes I want to be Batman too. Sometimes I want to be Superman, but no one can be so perfect. I mean, he’s got no real weaknesses.”
“Kryptonite,” the brother points out.
“But there’s no such thing.”
“Magic. Magic can kill Superman,” the brother of the moon child suggests.
“There’s no such thing as magic,” the friend says. Then he asks, “What’s in the bag?” as he observes the bag the brother has brought to the roof.
Up on the roof, they lie staring up into earth’s yellow sun. They pass the joint back and forth. They take sips from the pint of Mad Dog 20/20. They are getting fucked up, which is what they like to do on sunny summer days when there is no school to skip. They are getting so fucked up.
“Magic is real,” the brother contends. “I went to a magic show to see a woman get sawed in half. She waved at us while she was in half, and she moved her toes. Magic like that can kill Superman.”
“I don’t think so. Before he could even get close to him with that saw, Superman would zap the magician with his X-ray vision eyes. Plus, it’s fake. It’s a trick.”
“I saw magic in church. A man was sick in a wheelchair. The preacher laid hands on him and he jumped up out the wheelchair.”
“Man, that’s not magic. That’s Jesus. Pass me that Mad Dog again, homeboy. Jesus ain’t going to waste His time fighting no comic book hero,” the friend says, trading the joint for the sweet bottle of wine they swiped from the Cuban man’s store.
The friend is stouter than the brother, but with a leaner, more handsome face. The brother has a leaner body, but with musculature that is better defined, and he is taller by at least an inch. Six of one, half a dozen of another — they are both big boys. They are only in junior high, but they will grow up to be football stars, or criminals, or maybe even superheroes.