Fifty Grand

When he appears in the kitchen the coffee’s ready. I pour him a cup.

“Thanks,” he says.

I wait a beat, then two, then almost half a minute before finally he remembers to say it: “God, María, I’m really sorry about Briggs.”

“I was so scared,” I tell him, giving him a big slice of the truth.

“It’s ok, it’s ok, it’s ok,” he says.

I sit on his lap and have coffee and a stale bagel. Not once does he offer an explanation but several times he looks at his watch.

I shower, scald myself with the water. Wither away that expensive olive oil soap.

I change into my invisible clothes from yesterday. No lipstick, no makeup. Wool hat over my forehead.

Jack’s on the phone when I come out of the bedroom. He hangs up with an enormous smile on his face. “Fucking hell! Sunday lunch at the man’s! Can you believe it? Can you believe it? Beckham’s gonna be there. Not to mention Kelly and Katie. Fuck, he didn’t say Travolta but if Kelly’s gonna be there, who knows, right? Me and Mister C. Jesus! Jesus! Gotta tell Paul and Danny.”

“That’s great,” I say without inflection.

“Wow, he remembered me, all right. Did I tell you we were in Mission Impossible 3 together?”

“Yes.”

“I was little more than a glorified extra, but he must have remembered me. See, that’s how things go. It’s all contacts. And Paul’s right. Do some indies, the big pics follow. I’m not even thirty-officially-and I’m moving into the territory. Lead in Gunmetal and then maybe a second lead in a Cruise flick. Maybe the quirky best friend. Second banana in a Cruise movie. Fuck! That’ll pay the pension. Ever see A Few Good Men? The guy can act. Oh, and don’t think I’m discounting Travolta, hell no. Pulp Fiction, Saturday Night Fever, man, two of the all-time classics.”

His eyes glaze over and he stares through me. His face falls.

“Oh, honey, look, I’m sorry, forgot to say, invite’s only for one. Wait a minute, look, tell you what, do you want me to call up and ask if he’d mind or…” His voice trails off.

I try not to smile. Would he really do it if I asked him?

“No, no, thank you, Jack. I have a million things to do.”

Relief. Maybe Katie or Kelly has a sister.

I kiss him on the cheek and he calls Youkilis. I don’t think he even notices me when I slip out.

Five minutes later I’m walking back down the hill to the crossing.

In town I stop at Starbucks and order an espresso. It comes in a giant cup. Even when I add sugar it’s about as far from a Cuban coffee as A Few Good Men is from a real depiction of the naval base at Guantánamo Bay. The espresso costs a dollar seventy-five, which is more than the average daily wage in Havana. I can’t bring myself to finish it.

I shoulder the backpack and continue on. Past the trophy-wife stores, the ski shops, the delis, up the other hill to Wetback Mountain.

A police cruiser waiting outside the motel.

Might be a deputy, might be unrelated to me and the garage, but I can’t take the chance. The last thing I want is another encounter with that psychopath. I step off the road and disappear into the woods. I walk through the pine cones and fallen branches and sit on a log.

There’s a river running through the trees. The quiet glade reminds me of Río Jaimanitas, just outside Havana.

Time to think. Think about suspects, think about the clock.

Suspects. Their talk has more or less cleared Esteban. They thought he was involved in a blackmail plot about the accident. Ergo it can’t be him. I never thought it was. Ricky’s hunch-who kills a man and leaves his car unrepaired for six months? Still, I’d like one last interview to ask him about his deer.

Not E. Not Mrs. C., not in a million years. It’s Y.

Jack has given him to me. Jack and his good buddy the sheriff. Y. Y. Y.

The clock. Sunday morning. My flight from Mexico City to Havana is early Tuesday. So by this time tomorrow I need to be on the bus to El Paso. Cross over, to Juárez. Flight from Juárez to Mexico City. Jesus, it’s tight. I certainly don’t have all the information. In Havana I’d call this half a case. I’d need another full week’s work before I’d even think about going to Hector with the file. But that’s there and this is here. Here Briggs is on my neck and my options have collapsed into one simple thought: If I’m going to do this then it has to be tonight.

Fairview disappeared. The road narrowed from four lanes to two and the houses on either side quickly became swallowed up by forest. Beech Street was not meant for pedestrians. There was no sidewalk, and when cars approached they pulled all the way over to the left lane, annoyed at the presence of someone on foot.

In another five minutes so thick were the trees that it was hard to believe there were any houses at all. Mailboxes and driveways the only clues. The smell of douglas fir, aspen. The crunch underfoot of golden, red, and black pinecones.

I counted down the addresses on the mailboxes. 94, 92, 90.