INFORMANT (12 page)

He stops abruptly, but it’s not necessary for him to continue. We both know what we thought was about to happen. Miguel Diaz was going to kill me.

“I know,” I say, although I really don’t. I don’t know what Beckett feels about what happened last night in Diaz’s penthouse suite. I hardly know what I feel about it. It’s still too much to process.

After a beat, Beckett continues, “I guess I didn’t hear the bit about it being a baby monitor they picked up, not the DEA mike. I bolted out of the van, but two of Reardon’s agents caught me in the lobby before I could charge the suite. Reardon tried to tell me what was going on, but I wouldn’t listen. At least, not until he got my attention.” He gives a small, sheepish smile and probes the bruising surrounding his eye. “The truth is, I think he’s been wanting to take a swing at me for a while. Last night I finally gave him a reason.”

Well. Lots of information there. Words I can twist endlessly looking for meaning. What am I to Beckett? What is he to me? How do we move forward? (That’s assuming of course, that ‘we’ exist at all. Given everything that’s happened, and might happen still, that’s a pretty big assumption.) Bottom line, it’s early, and I need a break. I’m too spun to think clearly about anything.

“My mom will probably come home to shower before she leaves for work,” I say.

Beckett gets the hint. He slides off my bed and reaches for his jeans. We both dress quickly, silently, our backs to each other for privacy. I walk him to the door and expect him to slip away with a simple nod, a quick word of goodbye. He doesn’t. Instead, he pulls me into his arms and kisses me with the same hungry, fiery possessiveness he did last night.

My knees go weak and I melt into his arms. I could kiss Thomas Beckett Smith forever—I really could.

Finally however, he pulls back and brushes my hair off my cheek, tucking it behind my ear. He uses his thumb to gently stroke my chin. Then his gaze locks on mine. He looks somber, deadly serious. “You can still get out,” he says. “Just walk away from everyone—Ricco, Diaz, Reardon, me… It’s not too late.”

I suppose, in theory, that’s true. I could walk away. But we both understand that’s not going to happen. I’m in too deep, and the stakes are too high. Everyone’s counting on me to see this through.

I give a shake of my head. “I’m in.”

Beckett’s expression doesn’t change, but I can sense the tension coursing through him. He wants to nail Miguel Diaz—for reasons I can’t begin to fathom, it is absolutely essential he accomplishes this—yet he loathes the fact that he’s using me to accomplish this. He wants to protect me from Ricco, from Diaz, from everyone.

Here’s what I wish I could tell him: I’m smart and I’m strong. Also, I’m nowhere near as vulnerable and innocent as he believes.

Last night with Beckett was a fantasy. Amazing. But now it’s daylight, and I can see everything a lot more clearly. For example, I’ve already learned a little bit about how the game is played.

Rule Number One: Grab as much money as you can and stash it away. Jess needs it, my mom needs it, and I need it. Eventually the DEA won’t pay me anymore, and that fountain will run dry. Get the cash now.

Rule Number Two: What the DEA can’t see, they don’t know.

Beckett doesn’t ask me about Miguel Diaz’s phone number. Obviously he doesn’t know I have it—Reardon would probably get a hard-on if he thought he could tap that cell. I don’t remember the exact wording of my conversation with Miguel, but it must have been sufficiently vague for them not to know what was going on.

The DEA has no idea what happened. But there’s the number, sitting in my phone right now, under the single contact letter ‘M’. Miguel Diaz.

I could tell Beckett I have it, but I’m not going to. Not yet, anyway. That’s just the way I was raised. That’s the way life works in The Avenues. If you want to survive, you sure as hell don’t play all your cards at once. That number is power, and I’m not going to give mine up so easily. For the first time in my life I’ve got an edge, and it’s a pretty heady feeling.

I’ll give Beckett my body. My mind. I might even give him my heart.

But Miguel Diaz’s cell number? I think I’ll keep that to myself… just in case.

Day Thirty-Five

Morning

I spy a drugstore pregnancy test kit sitting on the shelf in Jess’s bathroom—the pee on a stick kind of kit. It’s unopened, but its very presence chills me. I snatch it off the shelf and confront my sister the second I return to the kitchen.

“A pregnancy test?” I say, shaking my head in disbelief. “Jess, you’re being careful, right? You and Ronnie?”

It’s Saturday morning and she’s baking vegan cupcakes. When the weather’s nice, she pays for Sunday booth space at the farmer’s market down in the Marina. Jess is a fabulous baker, always has been. Cookies, brownies, cupcakes, muffins… everything she does looks amazing, tastes delicious, and is actually healthy.

The money’s good, and she can set up Dally in his crib while she sells. I’ve offered to watch him while she works the market, but she likes to bring him with her—she swears he’s her good luck charm. That’s probably true. People like helping out young working mothers, so she always sells more when he’s there. (I know for a fact that her tip jar fills faster, too.)

She carefully finishes applying an artful swirl of lavender, honey-sweetened frosting, and then looks up at me. “What do you mean?”

“This,” I say, tapping the box on the counter. “I mean, you guys are using protection, right?”

She shrugs and averts her gaze, reaching for another cupcake to frost.

A note of alarm races through me. “Jess?”

She heaves an irritated sigh and plops down her frosting bag. “Kylie. You know I want kids. I always have. Ronnie wants them, too. Besides, I love being a mother. Why wouldn’t I want more beautiful babies when Dally is so perfect and gorgeous?”

My heart skips a beat. “Now?” I say. “You’re trying to get pregnant
now?”

“What’s wrong with now?”

Everything,
I want to scream. She’s too young, too broke, and too exhausted to handle even one baby, let alone two. Everything about her life is just too unstable. But most importantly, how will she ever get out, how will she get away from Ronnie permanently, if she’s tied down with kids? I’ll admit it straight out: if I could have one wish in the world, that would be it. Get Jess Away From Ronnie. She deserves so much better.

But I can’t say that, of course. I’m not even supposed to be thinking it. Any comment I make along those lines would only serve to set off World War III again. I’m trying to be a better, more supportive (or at least less judgmental) sister, I really am. It’s her life, her choice.

And so I simply say, “What about buying the garage? Is that still in the works?”

“Absolutely.”

She and Ronnie want to buy Noriega Street Auto. The owner’s retiring, so they have six months to raise a fifty thousand dollar deposit. Even with the five thousand a month I’ll be funding them (courtesy of my work with the DEA), coming up with that kind of money still seems like a stretch.

Jess, however, seems convinced it’s going to happen. I assume she’s just living in fantasyland, but the next second she leans across the counter and whispers conspiratorially, “Ronnie made over a thousand dollars last week. All cash.”

What? Ronnie?
Ronnie
made over a thousand dollars cash?
In a week?
WTF?

As if to underscore my disbelief, Ronnie opens their bedroom door and stumbles out. He emerges dressed in boxers, looking bleary-eyed and hung-over. I think he got a new tattoo, but I can’t tell—they all kind of merge together. Swaying unsteadily, he surveys the room. Our gazes meet, but neither of us says anything. Instead, he moves to Jess’s side, locks his arm around her waist and gives her an affectionate squeeze. Then he sticks his fingers in the frosting bowl and scoops up a thick glob of the lavender goop.

“Hey!” Jess protests, swatting him away with a wooden spoon.

He shoves his fingers toward her mouth, but she ducks away and the lavender frosting smears her cheek instead. Ronnie pulls her to him and slowly, erotically, licks it off. Jess giggles.

I can’t stand to watch them, so I avert my gaze. When I turn back, I find Ronnie watching
me
, a smug expression fixed on his face. His naked chest swells. He looks super satisfied, thoroughly pleased with himself. “You heard about the money I’m making, right?”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“So maybe we’re not gonna need your help after all. Looks like I can get all the cash I need to take care of my family.”

I shrug. “Good for you.”

He gives me a slow, nasty smile and lifts his hand. Globs of frosting drip down his fingers. “Want some?” he asks.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

“Suit yourself.” He licks his fingers, and then uses his sticky hand to swat my sister on the ass. “I’m going to take a shower, babe. Why don’t you come join me?”

There’s my cue. I abruptly stand. “I’ve got to go,” I say.

Jess worries her lower lip, her dark blond brows drawn together. “Already? You just got here.” She looks conflicted, torn between her loyalty to me and her loyalty to her husband. That must suck.

“It’s fine,” I say, reassuring her. “I’m working the lunch shift at the café. I’ve got to go home and change. I’ll be late if I don’t leave now.”

Her expression lightens. “Oh, okay.” She walks me to the door.

I hesitate. I should just let it go, but something about Ronnie’s earlier stance is bothering me. He wasn’t just cocky and obnoxious—he was aggressively cocky and obnoxious. Swaggering, almost bullying, definitely in my face. Something’s going on.

“So how’d Ronnie make that kind of cash?” I ask, trying my best to sound nonchalant. “Is he still doing oil changes at night?”

“No, that didn’t pan out.”

“So what’s he doing?”

“He got a job delivering Chinese food. The tips are huge.”

Really. A thousand dollars a week delivering Chinese food. Bullshit. Well that’s just great. Now I can add one more thing to my ever-expanding list of things I have to worry about: What’s my lowlife brother-in-law up to now?

Day Thirty-Six

Afternoon

I bring Ricco with me to the farmer’s market to check up on Jess. I’m worried about her. (Yes, I recognize the irony in this. I really do. I’m strolling hand-in-hand with the son of a Cuban drug lord, a man who could order my execution with one careless flick of his wrist.) But I can’t shake the feeling of foreboding I have about Jess, Ronnie, and Dally. I have a mental picture of the three of them tucked into a canoe that’s being swept straight toward a raging waterfall.

A psychiatrist would probably diagnose me as suffering from some sort of savior complex, but maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe I just don’t want to see people I care about hurt.

Of course, when we get to her booth, Jess is fine. Better than fine, actually. It’s a gorgeous day, the green is crowded, and she’s selling like crazy. I get a kick out of what she’s wearing. My high-heel loving, make-up addicted, highlight-haired sister is dressed like the ultimate earth mama. Her face is bare, her hair is caught back in a messy braid, and the dress she’s wearing looks like a burlap sack. Her get-up is actually worse than the tie-dyed t-shirt and crown of daisies I wear when I’m waiting tables at the Karma Café. It’s a riot, but I get it. That’s the image her clientele wants to see. Meet the all organic, dairy-free, soy-free, gluten-free, holistic baker in person.

Ricco selects a small bag of carob-chip cookies for us to snack on later. Jess tries to give them to us for free, but he insists she take a twenty. (She normally sells them for five dollars a bag. I can’t tell if he wants to help Jess, or he’s trying to impress me, but either way it’s a nice gesture.) Jess is too busy to talk, so we wander off and leave her to it.

The season is almost over for the farmer’s market, which is held early spring through late fall on the Marina Green. The park is an enormous expanse of lush, flat lawn that juts right up to the bay. Today is one of those rare picture-postcard days. Almost too perfect. If you were trying to sell someone on the idea of moving to San Francisco, this is the scene you would show them.

The Golden Gate Bridge hangs over the bay, sparkling in a fresh coat of International Orange. In the distance, Alcatraz Island looks more like an abandoned castle ready to be explored than an infamous and decrepit prison. Sailboats and windsurfers are scattered across the bay, tugged by unseen currents and breezes.

On the lawn, vendors like my sister gather together under crisp white tents to sell baked goods, farm-fresh produce, organic meats, handcrafted jewelry, clothing, candles, soaps, and local wines. There’s a woman reading Tarot cards, and someone else offering massages. There are bicyclists, joggers, roller-bladers, and baby strollers. A group of folk musicians have set up on the eastern edge of the green and are playing for tips. The sound is lively and fun. Children bob up and down in front of the make-shift stage, dancing to the music.

Even Ronnie presents less menace than usual. I spy him stretched out on a blanket soaking up the sun, little Dally asleep on his chest. But as he pretends not to see me, I return the favor and walk right past him.

Ricco gathers the makings of a picnic lunch. He buys wine (the guy selling it cards him, so he must be at least twenty-one), a loaf of bread, cheese, and apples. We settle down on a pair of beach towels, nibble the food, sip the wine, and relax. 

My date with Ricco is entirely impromptu, so I’m not miked. Nobody’s listening in on our conversation as it meanders from music to movies, from favorite sports to favorite foods. There’s no agenda. Ricco buys me flowers, holds my hand, but he doesn’t push. We’re just two friends passing the afternoon together, checking out the scenery, getting to know one another. It’s nice.

There’s only one shadow to mar the afternoon. This is going to sound weird, but here it is: Ricco lifts an apple, but he doesn’t bite into it. Instead, he whips a knife from his back pocket, flicks it open and deftly begins to slice away the skin. The blade is razor-sharp. It glitters in the late afternoon sunlight. His motions are fast and fluid. This is definitely a guy who is comfortable wielding a knife. And as I’m watching him peel the apple there is a fraction of a second where his expression looks exactly like his father’s. I see the same handsome, killer intensity in Ricco that I saw in Miguel Diaz.

Then he looks at me, smiles, and offers me a slice of golden delicious. Clearly I’m being ridiculous.