Roachkiller and Other Stories Read online

  They 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. Good-bye, Papo.”

  “Fuck,” I said.

  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.

  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 aimed at me.

  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, hell, I was in San Juan to have fun. Whatever hand the cops or whoever were going to deal me, I would deal with later. Life is too short, and I wanted a real drink.

  I headed for the casino at the Caribe Hilton. The rain moved in thick, slow strokes across the streets, palm trees flopped about like they were dancing the salsa. I went inside and warmed up with the slot machines. The place was packed with fat tourists. They seemed excited, agitated. I kept overhearing stuff about the hurricane coming, the hurricane coming. Whatever. My life was a hurricane. I ordered a Jack and coke. After two hundred dollars, I went to the blackjack table. I had three more drinks and 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 another drink, 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. She had the gift bag with her.

  “Lady Luck,” I said. I cashed out and followed.

  * * *

  She walked through the hotel, outside and past the pool, to a ground-floor suite. There was tape on every window, to stop the storm winds from smashing them to flying bits. When she opened the door, I moved. I pushed the door open and pushed her in. I pulled out the gun and aimed it at her.

  “Bruto,” she said.

  She was on the floor and her wet skirt was up around her waist. Her thighs were smooth, copper.

  “Don’t even think about it,” she said.

  “I wasn’t,” I said, and then she kicked me hard in the shin. “Fuck,” I said.

  “You only care about yourself. I know you. I know how men like you are.”

  I smirked at that. “How about you? You took me to that park and left me to hang for the cops.”

  “That was not my idea.”

  “The guy with the weird head?”

  “Si. Kaonabo. It was his idea.”

  “Ka-no-bo? Wow, what a mouthful.”

  “He is my husband.”

  “No shit,” I said and went to close the blinds and the curtains on the windows. I kept my eye and the gun on her the whole time. “So what’s up with his forehead anyway?”

  “The Tainos believe that a flat forehead was a sign of beauty,” Itaba said. “Taino mothers carried their babies on their back on a board tied to the baby’s forehead to make it that way. His real name is Pedro.”

  “He’s one serious dude.”

  “Oye me. I wanted you along, negrito, because I knew he would do something like this. Like you say, he’s very serious.”

  “You were looking for a bodyguard, then, not a patsy? I don’t know about that.”

  “You have to believe me.” She kicked off her shoes, lay back on the couch, her body open. Her wet hair covered part of her face. She looked delicious. “I wanted protection. Your cousin used to talk about you all the time. A big man. You do karate, she said.”

  “Aikido. I used to,” I said. Suddenly, I felt like I needed a drink. But there was still a knot in the bottom of my stomach.

  “She had your picture in her room. You had a vulnerable face. I liked it.”

  I was standing above her. Water dropped from my hair onto her thighs.

  “What was that stuff your husband made me inhale?”

  “Cohoba. A hallucinogenic.”

  “I’ve had worse. I imagined a dog that tried to bark but couldn’t.”

  “That is very interesting,” she said. “The Tainos had mute dogs.”

  “Nice,” I said. “That dog saved my life.”

  I could smell her scent, musky and earthy. Her warm, wet clothes clung to her body like a dark second skin.

  “What happened to your lady friend?” she said.

  “Hurricane canceled her flight,” I said. “Where is your husband?”

  “He went to meet the buyer.”

  I was on my knees, the gun still in my right hand. Then I put my hands on her calves and began to move them up her legs, dragging her dress back and dragging the gun across the copper of her thighs. Goose bumps rose up and down her skin.

  “What are you doing, negrito?”

  “Nothing,” I said, standing up. I leaned way down, looking right into her eyes. I kissed her. She let me. But her lips stayed cold. I tried again. No sale.

  “Are you done?” she said.

  “Looks like I am.”

  “Your cousin also told me you were a mujeriego—a womanizer.”

  “I know what it means,” I said. “Wait till I see Carmen again.”

  I was half hanging off the couch. I should’ve seen it coming.

  Itaba kneed me hard in the balls and yanked the gun easily out of my hand. I curled up and she kicked me off to the side. I smacked the coffee table with my head and hit the floor.

  Coco duro. I looked at the ceiling and sighed. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  She sat up on the couch and didn’t even bother pointing the gun at me. “Oye me, negrito. Kaonabo is coming, and he’s dangerous.”

  “Looks like you can take care of yourself fine.”

  “He doesn’t just want to sell the cemi to buy land. He wants to become a drug king.”

  I got up on my elbows. “What the fuck?”

  “He thinks we can get more land and more power if we buy and sell drugs.”

  “He’s right. You’d have money coming in all the time. I—”

  “It disgusts me,” she said, getting up. “I knew he was coming to Ponce to try to get the cemi from me. I knew he would do something stupid. But I didn’t know he would kill Dr. Arroyo.”

  “Why did he?”

  “To start his drug business without witnesses.”

  Outside the wind and rain had picked up and smacked against the windows. The taped glass throbbed like it wanted to bust.

  “I need your help. Please,” she said, waving the gun like it was no more than a hairbrush.

  “You want my help to stop him?”

  “Pedro is a very violent man. I don’t want to use this,” she said.

  “I’m not so sure about that,” I said.

  * * *

  We listened to the growing storm for what seemed like hours. It had begun as a slow steady rhythm against the windows, against the walls. Then it picked up in tempo and became a hard, consistent conga. It made me itchy for a drink. But there was only water in the room, and the kitchen was closed. Itaba stayed on the couch, saying nothing. She kept the gun near her the whole time.

  The storm’s beat increased, turning from percussive beats into blows. I heard things scraping and crashing outside in the dark.

  The door suddenly opened, and the man with the flat forehead walked in, drenched from the storm. He did not look happy to see me.

  “Hola, Pedro,” I said. “How’s it going?”

  In fact, it looked like
he wanted to rip my heart out of my chest and eat it.

  He had his dark shades on. Behind him was a short white man, late fifties. Bald head, yellow-white beard soaked with rain. He looked surprised, maybe from the storm, maybe from not expecting a party. He had a satchel in one hand.

  “You must be the buyer?” I said.

  Outside, the storm began to lose its beat, fall off rhythm, became just one loud noise.

  The flat-headed man said something to Itaba in that strange language. His voice was deep and came out like a growl. She spoke back to him, and he seemed to calm down.

  Itaba walked up to the white guy and they shook hands. “Mr. Hubbard,” she said. “Welcome to Puerto Rico.”

  “Thank you,” Hubbard said. “I look forward to seeing the amazing cemi you’ve told me about.”

  He kept his eyes on me. I glanced at the couch. The gun was still there.

  “This is an associate of mine,” Itaba said. “Don’t worry about him.” She turned and said to me, “Please hand me the cemi, Papo.”

  I was tired of being on the sucky end of all this. The gift bag was on the chair by the couch. I picked up the gift bag, and as I handed it to her I bent down and grabbed the gun.

  “Get back,” I said.

  The buyer yelped like a puppy. Pedro said something in Spanish, fast. I didn’t get all of it, but I think he called me a stupid fat American. Itaba stared at me. Wondering what I was going to do next. I had no idea.

  “Give me that satchel,” I told the buyer. “You guys can divide up your rock. All I want is the cash.”

  Hubbard stood still, hesitating.

  Pedro spoke again, this time in English, with a heavy accent. It sounded like it hurt him to say each word: “You have no respect.”

  “At least I have the self-respect to not deform my own fucking head.”

  The storm banged against the windows like a giant monster punching at the room, trying to get in.

  “The Tainos are noble,” Pedro yelled above the noise. “You have no nobility.”

  “And you call stealing and killing and setting up a drug empire good and noble?” I yelled back.

  Pedro turned to Itaba. “Puta! Mentirosa!”

  “Hey!” I said. “Listen up. If things were different, I could help you. I know about this sort of thing. You could probably use my help.”

  “What’s this about?” the buyer said.

  That’s when something clicked.

  Pedro cursed me more in Spanish. Mentirosa. Liar. Why was he calling Itaba a liar? She was yelling back at him in that weird language of theirs, taking advantage of the fact that I had no idea what they were talking about. But it didn’t look like what she was saying was making him any happier.

  Itaba came to my side. “Negrito, he won’t listen. You have to stop him.”

  “Wait a second,” I said. “I have some questions.”

  She took another step toward me, and I turned to point the gun at her. There was something in the look of her eyes that was hitting me wrong. “I never said I was smart,” I told her, “but you seem a little too excited to get rid of your husband.”

  She called me a bad word in Spanish. A really bad word.

  The flat-headed man took a step forward. The buyer took a step back.

  Then there was a loud knock on the door.

  * * *

  It was some guy from the hotel, a bellhop probably. Through the door he said, in Spanish, something like, “We would like you to move to the main part of the hotel. For safety. The hurricane is here.”

  “Itaba, get that,” I said. I turned to face her and, in that instant, Pedro picked up a glass from the table and threw it at me. It smashed against my skull, and I dropped the gun. I reeled.

  He grabbed Itaba, pulled the door open and ran out. The buyer ran too, in the other direction. I got the gun, wobbled on my feet, and got to the doorway. The hotel man stood there, confused.

  It was wild outside. The rain came down in black sheets, and the wind howled like a giant baby dying for attention. I could see barely a few yards in front of me. But I caught a flash of color ahead—Itaba’s skirt—and ran down the path toward the beach.

  I was getting drenched. The rain was warm, almost hot on my skin. I followed through the throbbing storm, onto the sand.

  “Stop, you son of a bitch,” I yelled into the wind, then remembered I had the gun. I shot into the air. The pop barely registered in the storm.

  But Pedro let go of Itaba and turned to face me. “Nuyoriqueño!” he yelled.

  Just then the giant baby got nasty, smacking us both down with a huge slap of wind.

  Before I could get up, Pedro was on me, elbowing my head and kneeing the gun out of my hand. I tried to move, but the hurricane kept me off balance.

  Pedro head-butted me in the stomach and, as I bent over, in the chin.

  I fell back on the sand. The wild surf curled in large foamy waves onto the shore, only a few feet away. The sky over the sea was dark, but there was something black and gigantic on the horizon, moving closer. I had a moment to think I should’ve gone after the guy with the satchel. Stupid.

  I jumped up and reached for Pedro, but he ducked and kicked me twice in the ribs. His sandals or his toes must have been made of steel. I went down, spitting up, almost vomiting. He came at me, and we wrestled, moving closer to the waves, getting soaked with seawater. Pedro was about to hit me again when I grabbed his arm and pivoted, using his momentum to throw him to the ground. He spun right back and leaped at me. I turned on my left foot and threw him down again. He got right back up again, came in low. I smacked my flat palm into his nose, hard, and he fell back. I went to kick him, but he kicked my feet out from under me. I fell on the hot, wet sand—it felt like hitting concrete. That really hurt. I felt the ocean spraying on my face. I’d had enough. Someone get me a drink.

  Suddenly, Pedro was picking me up—I was too limp to do anything—getting my head and neck in a chokehold.

  Then there was a shot. In a haze, I turned, looked up, and saw a small hole in Pedro’s flat forehead. He fell back onto the dark sand.

  Itaba stood there with the gun. The gift bag lay on the wet sand between us, closer to me. She ran toward it, and with my last bit of energy I leaped like a frog. Our fingers closed on the bag at the same time. I yanked and the wet bag split open. The plastic-wrapped cemi fell on the sand between us.

  She aimed the gun at me.

  “Itaba. Wait,” I said, standing, the torn, wet bag in my hand.

  “Lo siento, negrito. But I need this,” she said and fired.

  The bullet whizzed past my face. I could feel it even in the wild wind. I stumbled back, and a monster clawed at me and pulled me away.

  * * *

  I don’t believe in magic. I pray at night but don’t expect any answers. But I do it just in case—like making a side bet.

  As I fell into the ocean, I went deep. I swallowed water. There was darkness and cold and, then, maybe even small glowing lights. I could’ve imagined that part. But somehow I survived. I can’t explain it. If I had to give an answer, I’d just say it was dumb luck.

  This time there was barking. When I lifted my face from the sand, there was a small hairy dog barking at me, stepping forward, moving back, stepping forward. Sand in its fur. I looked up and saw dull sunshine. All around me—seaweed, dark wood, things tossed out by the storm, just like me.

  I turned my head to one side and saw, like another dead dog, Pedro’s seaweed-covered body on the drying sand. Moving toward us were police and paramedics. A gurney. Some tourists.

  It began to make sense. Pedro wasn’t the one who wanted to start a drug empire. It was Itaba. She’d wanted Pedro out of the way, maybe because he didn’t approve, maybe to keep the money for herself. He could’ve killed the doctor for her. But I’d put my money on little miss archaeologist—she’d had plenty of time to do it, then come back and pick me up to be her patsy.

  Now she had her stone, and I still somehow had in my
hand a torn gift bag with the little coqui on it. Bienvenidos a la Isla del Encanto.

  The dog was licking me. It was still there. It really existed. It looked like a stray. I thought about what was probably going to happen to him, what with all these crazy drivers on the island. “It’s my dog,” I told the cop who handcuffed me. “Eso mi perrrro.”

  The cop must’ve thought I was crazy. I was more worried that my hair was a mess.

  Roachkiller

  Roachkiller’s heading to the subway, not two feet off the bus from Attica and minding my own, see what I’m saying. Wanting to leave that shit behind. But Joselito, he don’t shut up. Boy talked the whole way down.

  He said, “So, Roachkiller, bro. Anything you need, give me a call, bro. You got my number.”

  “Straight up,” Roachkiller told him. “Roachkiller’s got your number.”

  Two-faced, backstabbing, cocksucking motherfucker. You gotta make friends in prison, a lot of times with people you don’t want to know. But Roachkiller was free now. Joselito was bad on the inside, and tied up with worse shit on the outside. Trouble puro. Roachkiller done did his ten-year bit. Roachkiller was not going back, not for no one.

  “I owe you my life, bro. I owe you,” Joselito said and gave Roachkiller a big handshake and hug.

  “Forget about it.”

  “Let me give you a ride, bro,” he said. “I got a ride outside.” He pointed to a big-ass truck parked at the curb. Bigger than my old cell.

  “Nah, man. Roachkiller’s got places to go, things to do.”

  Joselito went to his big-ass truck, and Roachkiller just strolled down to the A train. It was hot down them stairs, sticky sidewalk hot. Bet that truck had a sweet-ass air conditioner.

  Roachkiller got on the A, switched to the J, and when we pulled out over the Williamsburg Bridge, Roachkiller could see the City, the Empire State Building way up, shiny and silver and shit, and then Brooklyn, Williamsburg, spread out like a brown and gray rug. But Roachkiller was home. Roachkiller was free.

  * * *

  Roachkiller had nowhere to go but Abuelita’s. She was still in the same dump two blocks from the highway. The same three rooms Roachkiller grew up in. This is the room we ate dinner and watched cartoons. This is the room my bro gave me my first, second, and third black eye. This is the room where Mami died.