I was in a tunnel that stretched and contracted. Cabezón was at the other end of it. Beyond him there was haze or fog that suggested light, and between us there was only darkness and shade. The instinct that makes the mother bear slash at anybody who looks at her cubs vibrated like a supernova inside me. Somehow it got compressed.
Cabezón said, “Why they call you Palo?”
My stomach churned battery acid.
Cabezón looked at his brother. “Your friend looks sick.”
Pelón chuckled like he was nervous. I opened my mouth as if to say something, and a little vomit shot out, unexpectedly, onto the bright white carpet, and onto Cabezón’s crisp, lime green guayabera.
He cursed and wiped himself with a handkerchief. “¿Coño, pa’ eso bebe?” He ordered his brother to take away my tequila. Pelón took my drink from my hand and said that if I thought I would be sick again, to please go to the bathroom.
I looked at Pelón. I immediately realized that if Cabezón was the gold-toothed killer in the gangway, then Pelón was likely the accomplice, the one who snuck up on my father and fired the first shot. I felt tremendous heat in the palms of my hands. Pelón’s apartment spun under my feet.
“I have to get out of here.”
Pelón said, “¿Cómo? You just got here.”
I went out of the apartment, to the elevator, where I waited for what felt like an hour for the car going down. Pelón watched from his doorway. He asked if I wanted water.
“Go away.”
The elevator opened. I hit buttons like it could never be quick enough. Downstairs I made it out the main entrance, and as far as the gutter out front, before my knees buckled and I threw up.
I waited for Coltrane and Johnson at Buckingham Fountain. I stared at the bronze sea horse and remembered a time when I had been at the fountain with my dad, in the summer. We came by the fountain to watch the water display and the colored lights at night, and when the water shot in the air, my father walked on his hands and did cartwheels to make a real show out of it.
There was no water display and no lights that night as I waited for the narcs to show. I saw them walking toward me and I waited until they were real close before I said their names out loud.
Coltrane said, “This is romantic.”
“I chose this because it’s out in the open. I’m not in the mood for your antics, Detective. We don’t have time.”
Johnson frowned. He licked a lollipop. “Like we give a fuck about your moods.”
“There’s a lot going down tonight. I need to get ready.”
“A lot? What does that mean?”
“A heist that you never thought Pelón could pull off. Son of a bitch got an airtight plan.”
Coltrane and Johnson looked at each other.
Johnson pointed his lollipop. “Spill it.”
“In a second, narc. First I wanna set some ground rules.”
“Say what?”
I spoke clearly. “You heard me. You too, Coltrane. Don’t think the bully tactic is going to work this time. The way I’m feeling? A bullet to the head would be a relief. Prison’s the only place that feels like home anymore. I’m more desperate than you think.”
Johnson seethed a little, but Coltrane only nodded.
“Ground rules are for my own protection.”
“Go on then,” said Coltrane. “Speak.”
“You’re in it for the money, and that’s what you’re gonna get out of this, loads of cash. Only thing is: there has to be something in it for me.”
Johnson said, “We don’t negotiate with convicts.”
Coltrane said, “Easy, partner. Go ahead, Santiago. Shoot.”
“You agree? I’m entitled to get something outta this too?”
“What have you got in mind?”
I told them what I wanted, including which parts were nonnegotiable. I told them much, but not all, of what I knew. Enough juicy details about Pelón’s plan to get them really stoked. I reminded them that time was running out.
“I’m not haggling. We can drop the whole thing right now. You really think you can pin a murder rap on me—then go ahead. Arrest me. Maybe you can get a little overtime out of it.”
They were reluctant, but we agreed to terms. I’m certain they called me “sucker” and had a good laugh after I walked away. Any idiot should’ve known there was no way these two would ever honor our pact.
The crew met at Pelón’s to eat ribs and go over every last detail of the plan for Halloween night. It was painful to sit near Cabezón as he smirked and licked barbecue sauce off his fingers. Pelón kissed his ass. And Tony acted as if he felt better than he had in a long time.
Cabezón talked about life in PR. Deep-sea fishing, scuba, snorkeling, the way he still picked up lonely American women in hotel bars in the Condado. I didn’t pry or try to investigate anything more than what I needed to know, because there was no doubt that these were my father’s killers.
There was no doubt, and there was no other way out of my predicament other than to play the game the way it was designed. I had a strong impulse for vengeance, and it was something that had been there most of my life, in the back of my mind, at my core, underneath all my thoughts. It was a poor substitute for the love that I once shared with my father, but it was all that I had. I clung to it, subconsciously, for all my life. And now it was at the surface.
What could I do? It would take great cunning—not luck—to escape from this. I wanted desperately to live. And I didn’t want any more black marks on my soul.
So I prayed and went in to the meeting with Pelón and his brother and Tony, and I ate with them, and I put up with Cabezón’s jokes. When Pelón went over the plan, I paid close attention and stayed in character as the guy whose only interest was to pull off a successful job and go home.
I was the last to arrive on the night of the heist.
Pelón opened the door with a worried look. “You really trying to give an old man a stroke.” He asked for my jacket.
“Just give me the costume, so we can get the fuck outta here.”
He handed me the box that was on top of the bar. Cabezón and Tony were ready. Cabezón was dressed as a lion, with the big overstuffed headpiece, like a mascot at a college basketball game. Tony was dressed and made up in face paint as a happy clown. Pelón, of course, was dressed as himself, since he was the getaway driver, and no one would see him.
I took the box to the bathroom to change. Pelón had bought me a gorilla costume. It was a little big on me, which was OK. Actually, it was good. I put it on and practiced moving around in it. I struck poses in the large bathroom mirror like I imagined I would during the stickup. It was hot inside the costume. I took the mask off and joined the others.
“Looking good,” said Cabezón.
I ignored him.
Pelón displayed our arsenal on the same coffee table where Tony had once spilled ten G’s for him. We had two 9mm’s for me and Tony. A sawed-off shotgun for Cabezón.
His weapon of choice, I thought, recalling how he used one before.
Pelón said, “I’m gonna repeat this: These weapons are clean. They’re untraceable. No serial numbers. Never been used on any other jobs. Never shot anybody. You gonna make sure you wear your gloves every time you handle the weapon, and at all times while you on the boat. When the job is over, you got the money, you in the dinghy coming over to the shore”—Pelón slowed his tempo to emphasize—“you drop the weapons into the water. Do not bring these guns on shore or into the getaway car. We don’t need to get caught with them later. ¿M’entienden?”
Pelón paraphrased what he’d said in Spanish for his brother. He looked at the three of us. “Any questions?”
Cabezón, the lion, Eddie, the gorilla, and Tony, the clown, stood mute.
“Bueno. Let’s take this party on the road.”