Murder With A Splash Of Rum: A Puerto Rican Thriller Read online

  “I'm ok, tough night.” replied Fernando in Spanish.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” inquired Esteban. “I'm pretty good at listening”.

  Fernando almost declined the offer. He actually wanted nothing more than to go home and cry in his pillow. But he had never seen a man like Esteban before. Esteban’s body was utterly jaw-dropping, something the other patrons of Lila’s had begun to notice.

  Esteban persisted, “Medalla okay?” Fernando nodded. Medalla was Puerto Rico's national beer. It was cheap, locally brewed, and served in small cans to prevent the beer from becoming warm before the contents were consumed. It was the go-to drink for Puerto Rico's working class

  A few minutes later, a cuba libre and a Medalla appeared on the table in front of Fernando. Esteban pulled his chair around to rest his body against the seat back, facing Fernando and patiently waiting for Fernando to speak. Esteban’s muscled legs spread widely under the table and his chair groaned under the weight of his massive body.

  “So, what seems to be the problem?”

  “Well, I guess I'm just not good enough” began Fernando. “I don't know what's wrong with me. I guess I'm just a nobody. Never good enough. I'll never be him” stated Fernando as he nodded his chin towards one of the bar patrons, a well-dressed red head who was obviously an American tourist.

  “Why would you want to be him?” offered Esteban. “He came to your island, don't forget.”

  “Thanks” responded Fernando. Even in his lowest points, Fernando was proud of his Puerto Rican heritage, and the reference to his island nation suddenly made him feel ashamed that he had disparaged his island by wishing himself to be an American.

  “You are right, well maybe not him, but at least...him” stated Fernando, nodding now to another muscular dark-haired Puerto Rican patron. The patron was outfitted in hip hugging jeans and a skin tight pink shirt emblazoned with metallic silver letters spelling “Ibiza”. He was obviously enjoying the attention he was getting from bystanders, including Fernando, and strutted to the bar to place an order. From the bar, he turned around to gaze at Esteban’s ripped body, making no effort to hide his stare.

  “He is probably saying the same about you,” commented Esteban, seemingly oblivious to Ibiza’s obvious interest in him.

  “I don’t think that I am the one he is interested in,” replied Fernando with a smirk. The two giggled and each took a sip of their drink. Fernando took a closer look at his new companion. His pitted face was not unattractive. The roughness of his skin actually gave him the appearance of being even more rugged and masculine, if that were possible. There was nothing delicate or easy-going about Esteban except for his personality.

  Esteban's deep-set eyes drew Fernando's gaze closer, their depth seeming to draw Fernando deeper inward into the secrets locked behind them. Fernando felt himself almost topple from his chair as he leaned closer. He was being sucked into Esteban's deep brown irises and didn’t care. The magnetism wasn't simple sexual arousal. Fernando felt his entire being helplessly drawn into Esteban.

  Esteban reached across the table and grabbed Fernando's hand in a vice-like grip. The calloused hand steadied Fernando, it provided a center for him, anchoring him securely inside Esteban’s gaze. The swooning sensation that had nearly unseated Fernando was replaced with a feeling of security and strength like nothing Fernando had ever felt before.

  For the next two hours Fernando didn’t think about Phillip once. Ibiza eventually gave up trying to attract Esteban’s attention and moved to the tables outside, where he continued to periodically glance in Esteban’s direction, waiting impatiently for Fernando to leave.

  Fernando learned that Esteban ‘s paternal name was Arroyo. He had grown up in Lares. Arroyo was the name of one of the original leaders of the Puerto Rico rebellion known as the ‘Grita de Lares’, and Esteban was a proud descendant. He had grown up in a small one-room wood shack, common in the mountains, and his father had raised livestock. His mother sold produce from the market which adjoined their small house. Although his parents had struggled to make enough money to buy essentials like medicine and shoes, the family had continued to live off the land to supply most of their needs.

  That humble lifestyle was completely different than the way most Puerto Rican live or grew up. Puerto Rico is an island addicted to money and status. It gradually abandoned its agricultural roots in the 1970s and 1980s, and under Hollywood’s tutelage had replaced industry and hard work with waste and extravagance. Esteban was something different. He represented something new that was old, something that was ancient yet fresh.

  Esteban was particularly proud of his mother’s market, the Colmado Arroyo. She still operated the small enterprise. It apparently was the local hangout for his small village. In the few remaining rural areas of Puerto Rico, work schedules are fluid and often dependent upon the season and climate. Socializing with family and neighbors occupies a good portion of the day. The Colmado Arroyo had served many purposes over the years. A market, a source for news and gossip, and a place to play dominos. On weekends, teenagers gathered to flirt and plot mischievous pranks to extract revenge on their parents. Drugs remained relatively unknown in Lares, thanks to the watchful eyes of parents and neighbors.

  Esteban was one of the few in his village that had left Lares after high school. While most of his classmates had stayed behind, three years ago he had convinced his indulgent mother to drive him to San Juan where he managed to get a handyman job within hours of arrival. His mother had waited around for hours in San Juan to meet up and return with him to Lares, only to learn that her son would not be returning. She also learned that her industrious son had located a room in the apartment of a friend while he had kept her waiting. She returned home without her son, fearful and crying but resigned to the fact that he had grown up.

  In truth, Esteban had managed to locate neither a job nor housing. He hated lying to his mother, but knew that if she discovered the truth she would cry until her tears forced him to return to Lares. But, after only spending a half hour under the street lights of San Juan, Esteban had determined he would remain in San Juan no matter what. He had slept in deserted buildings and vacant lots before, and could do it again. Which is exactly what he did for the next three weeks until he managed to locate a job as a ship-hand in the Puerto Nuevo docks. He located and then moved into a week-to-week hostel in Santurce, and eaten food handed out at the homeless shelter near the Salvation Army. He had managed to borrow a cell phone each week to make calls to his mom. With each conversation he had creatively made himself slightly more successful, allaying her fears with small white lies.

  Fernando was enthralled by Esteban’s story. He eagerly shared tales about his own life. He talked about his new job and his parents.

  “Damn,” Fernando suddenly blurted.

  “What’s the matter?” Esteban asked with a slight giggle.

  “I forgot the alcapurria delivery,” replied Fernando, shaking his head.

  “The what?” Esteban inquired again with more amusement.

  “The alcapurrias.” Alcapurrias are a Puerto Rican delicacy made of chicken, pork, or crabs deep fried in a crust of taro and green bananas common in roadside bars and restaurants. “I deliver mom’s alcapurrias to Ely’s Place out in Luquillo every week. That’s the gay kiosk, number ten. You should try it. I forgot to do the delivery today, Phillip has gotten me so fucked up,” Fernando stated in disbelief. Weekends were Ely’s busiest days, and if they ran out of food his mother would hear about it. “I’ll get to it first thing tomorrow. Anyway, what were we talking about?”

  The two resumed talking, and eventually Fernando broached the subject of his first meeting with Phillip at Lila’s. When he started to discuss the night’s drama and the reason Esteban had found him crying alone at the table, Esteban looked back at him with a frozen stare.

  “What was he doing. Is he a drug dealer?”

  Fernando leaned back into his chair. In his naiveté, he had never considered that poss
ibility. Now, Phillip’s actions might be explained. He hoped that Esteban was wrong.

  Danny the bartender waved at Fernando, signaling that it was past closing time. Danny knew Fernando well, and didn’t mind letting him stay until after closing. He had known Titi, Fernando’s mother, for years, and Fernando was almost like family. While he generally noted the goings on of all his bar patrons, when it came to Titi’s son he was particularly attentive. Everyone else had gone, and only a few people lingered on the street outside.

  “Goodnight, Fernando. Tell your mom to call!” Danny exclaimed.

  Fernando waved, and both he and Esteban rose from their chairs. As he exited Esteban wrapped his arm around Fernando’s waist.

  “Kid, that guy did a number on you. You’re deserve better.” Esteban wiped a curl of hair back from Fernando’s forehead. “When you have gotten him out of your system, look me up. I will wait around for you. No matter how long it takes. I know what I like when I see it. I am like a boomerang, you can’t throw me away. I always come back. Nice to meet you, kid.”

  “Goodnight”, replied Fernando, stumbling slightly. He had stopped drinking a while ago, but had consumed several cocktails and shots over the course of the night.

  Fernando slid out of Esteban’s arm and shuffled unsteadily towards his car. He was too drunk to drive to Rio Grande and he couldn’t stay with Phillip tonight. He also really wanted Esteban.

  “You sure you can make it home?” asked Esteban, noticing Phillip’s unsteady gait.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I just point the car in the right direction and hit the gas.” Fernando, slowly turned and very slowly started to walk towards his car, hoping that Esteban would call for him and invite him home, or to a restaurant, or something that would allow them to talk a little while longer. Instead, Esteban chuckled and headed in the opposite direction towards Duffaut Street.

  Disappointed, Fernando walked to his car. As he was grappling to insert his key into the ignition, Esteban was on the other side of the parking lot entering the cab to his own truck. The two had parked on opposite ends of the same parking lot. Esteban saw Fernando struggle to unlock his car door as Esteban pulled his sun visor down. The truck keys fell to the floor mat. He reached down in the darkened floor well to retrieve them, and instead of keys his hand brushed across a rough, fibrous surface. He smirked and pulled up a length of bound white cord. Esteban grunted and reached to adjust the rear-view mirror. He paused to look at himself in the mirror, his hands subconsciously massaging the white cord. He grunted again, readjusted the mirror and tossed the white cord into the passenger floor well.

  Across the street, Fernando glanced up and saw Esteban in his car. He was still parked.

  “What the hell”, muttered Fernando. He reached for his door latch, and started to walk over and proposition Esteban. Then he saw the guy in the Ibiza shirt walk past Esteban’s truck, prop himself against a wall, and stare at Esteban.

  Fernando was deflated. He quietly closed his door, started his engine and veered towards the high way, not bothering to watch what happened next. His eyes started to swell with tears for the second time that night. He wiped the tears away angrily with his palm, and stomped on the gas pedal.

  An hour later Fernando entered his family’s driveway. As he entered, he felt a sense of tightness in his chest. He was despondent each time he returned to home, always careful to adjust himself to appear less “gay”. He looked around the cab of his car, double checking that a club flier hadn’t found its way in. Tonight, his depression manifested itself in the form of a deep, heavy pain in his chest. He was too angry and hurt to cry.

  Hours later, just before daybreak, Fernando awoke with a start. He had just had a dream about Esteban. He had seen Esteban against a dark backdrop, like the sky or the ocean at night. Esteban seemed to be calling him, and then suddenly had appeared behind him, holding him so tightly that Fernando couldn’t breathe. He awoke, gasping for air. He was fighting off a bedsheet which had found its way around his shoulders and throat. Sighing, he unrolled himself from the sheet, turned over, and drifted back to his troubled dreams.

  As Fernando quietly slipped back to sleep, a short distance away a figure drifted along a dark sandy beach. The shore was devoid of light under the starless moonless sky. Behind the figure loomed a dark and ominous banyan tree, standing as if a sentinel against the sea’s endless black horizon. Cupped carefully into the tree’s cavernous roots was another figure. That figure lay curled in the roots of the tree in endless slumber, silently sharing vigil over the night’s thundering silence.

  ‹10›

  Alexandra Vargas lifted the crime scene tape and ducked through the perimeter under the glare of Reynaldo Garcia and his huddle of uniformed cohorts. Garcia had fully expected to be rid of the irritating female after referring her to the Commissioner for discipline. However, not only did his attempt to have her finally terminated fail, but he had been informed that he was to take a ‘hands off’ policy on Vargas’ involvement in the Van Dusen and any related homicides.

  Today at least, Alexandra was focusing her attention to the task at hand. The crime scene she had been called out to was located on Luquillo Beach, just outside of the public campground gate. Garcia had arrived on the scene minutes before Alexandra, but by his body movements and mannerism any onlooker would have assumed that he had arrived hours before Alexandra.

  When Commissioner Padilla had first broken the news of the new power structure to his former drinking partner, he had at first attempted to placate Garcia and soft pedal the news. But when Garcia protested and began to make threats, the Commissioner had narrowed his thin grey eyebrows and bluntly informed “Colonel” Garcia that this was a direct order. The order had not been directed to “Reyes”, “Rey”, or even “Reynaldo”, but to “Colonel” Garcia. Reynaldo Garcia was not taking the turn of events well. He had spent every free moment since that meeting assembling allies, disparaging Vargas among fellow officers, and raging against the “fucking bitch” to anyone who would listen.

  Padilla was sorry to lose a drinking partner. Garcia was fellow-whore chaser and an entertaining conversationalist, but Commissioner Padilla was a political survivor. He knew when and how to capitalize on the efforts of others. Besides, Garcia was ultimately just a skirt-chasing boozer with limited career potential. Garcia would be back around as soon as he needed another favor from Padilla to cover another transgression. It would probably involve some whore threatening to squeal on Garcia for roughing her up during a prostitution bust. But the Van Dusen murder was an opportunity to make national, and possibly even international, headlines. Alexandra Vargas had been the obvious choice to lead the investigation.

  Alexandra timidly walked past Reynaldo without making eye contact. The slurs and name-calling had muted. Only Garcia dared to mutter epitaphs under his breath, although his sentiments were shared by the fellow officers around him. They hated the idea of a woman being given direct support by Padilla. Daggered eyes leered in Alexandra’s direction as she made her way, but the huddle of police officers around Garcia remained silent. No one had yet dared to broach the subject of this injustice. It was no secret that all of the officers around Garcia shared his sentiments, and a disapproving glance towards Vargas was the only thing they dared do. Soon enough, though, someone would break the ice and make a comment. Thereafter, once the dam was broken, a torrent of vitriol would spew forward; but it would be carefully directed only to the known supporters of Reynaldo Garcia. And certainly loud enough for Alexandra to overhear.

  For now, Alexandra’s focus was elsewhere. Immediately in front of her was the exposed corpse of a young man, his head tilted backward in a frozen stare towards the sky. His neck bore ligature marks, but he appeared to have been repositioned into the curvature of a banyan tree to give the illusion of falling quietly to sleep. The mid-afternoon sun was just beginning to peer around the corner of the tree, illuminating the corpse’s youthful sneakers.

  “Has anything been moved?” inquire
d Vargas of the rookie police officer assigned to guard the crime scene.

  “No, ma’am” responded the officer. “It’s just like we found it”, he indicated, nodding to another rookie standing a few feet away.

  “Look for a white handkerchief,” ordered Alexandra.

  Ordinarily Vargas would have been reticent to give orders or appear in charge, but her recent brush with near termination had left her ennobled. She wasn’t taking Garcia’s bullshit anymore.

  The rookies glanced at each other quizzically, unsure of whether to follow the order. They were well aware of the power struggle going on before their eyes, and they were hesitant to cross swords with Reynoldo Garcia. Garcia had a well-deserved reputation for being petty.

  The rookie closest to the corpse shrugged, pursed his lips and started scouting the area.

  “You said a white handkerchief?” he asked demurely, unsure whether he was making the biggest mistake of his career by following Vargas’ order.

  “Yes, a men’s white handkerchief”. Vargas knew perfectly well what was going through the young policeman’s mind. She admired him for his courage.

  Reynaldo Garcia could hold his composure no longer. “Officer Vargas…”, he began, emphasizing the “Officer” to remind Vargas that he was still her superior. “What may I ask are you doing? We have been here for half an hour. This is costing the taxpayers money.” He smirked and signaled for the rookie to cease the search.

  “I am conducting an investigation”, answered Alexandra. She felt a pit in her stomach as she prepared to answer Garcia’s challenge. “I have been asked to pursue this investigation”, she continued, diplomatically treading the thin line between name-dropping the source of her authority and rubbing it in.