Dina Santorelli Page 5

"Hey, Bob, it's Edward."

  Bob felt a gnawing in the pit of his stomach. "Edward? Um..."

  "Listen," Edward continued without waiting. "I was just wondering if Jamie was with you."

  "Jamie?"

  "I didn't think she would be, but we haven't heard from her since this afternoon, and she's not picking up her cell."

  "No," Bob said. "I haven't seen her since yesterday. Since..."

  "Yeah, I know, but I thought maybe there was additional paperwork or something that maybe... I don't know. It was just a thought."

  "Sorry," Bob said. "I'm sure she'll turn up. Cell's probably dead. You know Jamie."

  "Yes," Edward said. "I do."

  The call clicked off without a good-bye, but Bob pressed the call end button on his cell anyway. This wasn't the first time he'd gotten a call from Edward looking for Jamie, and, despite his hopes, he was sure it wouldn't be the last. The previous day had gone as smoothly as possible, considering... Divorce is never easy, but he and Jamie had worked out an amicable agreement. He got the condo, she got the car, and they'd split everything else down the middle. It was a generous divvy, as far as he was concerned, since his salary as a lawyer far exceeded Jamie's as a freelance writer. Since Jamie didn't want alimony—which was fine by him, let her mooch off Edward—the whole thing had taken only a couple of hours.

  Traffic was slowing down again, and Bob put his foot on the brake. Fuck. His thoughts turned to Brenda—tall, slender, not-interested-in-anything-serious Brenda—who was making dinner and who-knew-what-else for him that moment. Bob leaned back on the headrest. It had been a long time since he could daydream about sex after a long day at work and there actually be a chance of having some. A flashy Camaro zipped past him in the middle lane, driven by a kid with his arm hanging out the window. Faced with a wall of brake lights up ahead, the Camaro scooted in front of him, switched to the shoulder, and, with a roar of its engine, zoomed past the crawling cars until it reentered traffic about a quarter mile down.

  There was a time when Bob would have done the same thing, thrown caution to the wind— risking a ticket for reckless driving, points on his license, absurd Nassau County penalty fees—all for just that feeling of derring-do and the indignation, or jealousy, of the other drivers. And, for a moment, Bob gripped the steering wheel, but, at age thirty-five, he had learned that the highway wasn't the place for aggression or admiration. What's the sense in riling up a bunch of strangers? He had learned to make his mark in the places that mattered: The classroom. The boardroom. The courtroom. The bedroom.

  He winced when thinking of that last one, but then sat a little taller in his seat. Today was a new day, he thought, and he felt different. Freer. The guilt was gone. The constant, never-ending, suffocating guilt, the clouds that once followed him, had dissipated. He smiled. It was good to be single again.

  Chapter 11

  "What happened to you?" Pedro asked.

  "I fell."

  Reynaldo wheeled his bicycle into the service-station office, parked it in the back room, and then took his place behind the counter. He ignored his brother's stare, although he felt oddly exposed—as if the blood on his face revealed a personal, secret aspect of his life that was now visible for others to see and read. He preferred being a closed book.

  "Hermano, you should buy yourself a real car—and I don't mean that old can of sardines you call an Escort." Pedro took the pencil out from behind his ear and scribbled some notes onto a clipboard. "No wonder you don't go out with girls. Where would you put them?"

  "I can think of a few places," said Ricardo, who was lying on the cushioned wooden bench. A newspaper covered his head.

  "Sí, they can ride on the handlebars." Pedro sat on the counter, rocking back and forth, mimicking the motion of a bicycle. "Pero you won't be able to date any burritos grande."

  "¡Qué lástima!" chuckled Ricardo.

  Reynaldo paid no attention to his brothers and opened the cash register to examine the credit-card receipts that had accrued while he was gone. The day's take was on the low side, but, overall, the garage was still doing considerable business despite the downturn in the economy. People were looking to hang onto their cars now more than ever instead of buying something new. That, coupled with the reputation Santiago's Garage had for honest labor in an industry filled with greed and deceit, generated enough income to let his father retire to Florida at age sixty last year and to keep his brothers from having to grow up at all.

  Across the small office, Ricardo was reaching for a container of power-steering fluid and threatening to douse Pedro, who had left the counter and was whacking him with the rolled up newspaper.

  "¿Dònde Nada, Ricardo?" Reynaldo shouted over the squeals.

  "No sé," Ricardo yelled as he pushed his brother onto the floor and pretended to pour the fluid on him.

  "Está tarde."

  Ricardo stepped behind the counter. "Es cuatro y media."

  "Sí, I want to close up soon."

  "She'll be here. Don't worry, jefe."

  The front door opened, jingling a small bell, and a tall, broad-shouldered woman wearing a long black dress entered the office. "Buenas tardes, Rey."

  "Good afternoon, Mrs. Lapinski."

  "Please, I told you. Call me, Racquel, Rey."

  "Sí, sí. Racquel. You have an appointment?" Reynaldo furrowed his brow. He searched the list on the wall, but Mrs. Lapinski was not on the schedule.

  "No, I was hoping you could squeeze me in for an oil change." Mrs. Lapinski threw her keys onto the counter and pulled her hair back behind her ears. "My goodness, that's a nasty scrape you've got there." She reached over to touch it, but Reynaldo backed away.

  "I'm all right, gracias."

  "He fell," Ricardo whispered. He and Pedro stood at the counter, shaking their heads and tsk-tsking.

  "Oh," Mrs. Lapinski said. "Poor bambino."

  Reynaldo punched the keyboard. "Mrs. Lapin... er, Racquel. It says here you just got the oil changed on the twenty-third."

  "You must log a lot of miles, yes?" Ricardo said.

  Reynaldo shot Ricardo a hard look.

  "I've been traveling. I sell cosmetics." Mrs. Lapinski told him, returning her attention to Reynaldo. "Do you think you can do me in an hour? I have to get back on the road."

  "Uh, I don't know, señora. We were about to close and..."

  "Please?" She reached down and lifted her skirt up to scratch an itch on her lower thigh. "Por favor?"

  "Okay," Reynaldo said, glancing at Ricardo, who was making kissy-faces behind Mrs. Lapinski's back. "I'll work on it myself."

  "I'd have it no other way." Mrs. Lapinski sat down on the leather bench, satisfied. She inched up the bottom of her skirt to cross her legs and picked up the newspaper.

  The front door jingled again, and Nada walked in carrying coffee. Reynaldo pointed to the clock.

  "I know, I know. It's your brother's fault. He kept me up half the night. I fell asleep in my car listening to the radio on my break."

  "You loved it." Ricardo reached for Nada across the counter.

  "Basta, Ricky! Get to work, please." Reynaldo grabbed Mrs. Lapinski's keys and pushed Pedro into the garage ahead of him as Nada took his place behind the counter. "Nada, please offer Mrs. Lapinski some coffee."

  "I know that..." Nada rolled her eyes.

  Reynaldo made his way to the front of the service station, followed by Pedro. "You know, Rey, you don't look good." The two got into Mrs. Lapinski's car.

  "No?" Reynaldo started the engine.

  "Why don't you go get something to eat when you're done? Take Nada with you."

  "Nada?"

  "Sí, you both have to eat. She's a girl. You're a boy. It might do you some good."

  Reynaldo pulled the car into the garage. "You think Ricardo would like that?"

  "He wouldn't mind."

  "¿De verdad? Gracias, pero no."

  As Reynaldo opened the car door, Pedro grabbed his arm. "Okay. Actually, Maria is supposed to
be coming by this evening, and Ricardo was hoping you could... I don't know, send Nada on an errand or something?"

  "Ah, I see." Reynaldo took Pedro's hand off his arm. "Listen, little hermano, don't worry about me. I'm fine. And tell Ricardo to fix his own women problems."

  Reynaldo got out and returned to the office, brushing past Ricardo, who ran over to Pedro.

  "So?" Ricardo asked, sticking his head inside the passenger's-side window.

  "He said no," Pedro said.

  "Ay, no!" Ricardo put his head into his hands.

  "He said to fix your own problems."

  "Ay, no! Why doesn't he want to go with Nada? She doesn't have much to say. He won't have to talk."

  "I'll go with Nada," Pedro said, smiling.

  Ricardo put his brother into a playful choke hold and wrestled him out of Mrs. Lapinski's car and onto the hood until Reynaldo yelled at them from the office.

  "¡Sí, jefe!" Ricardo called out, releasing Pedro with a final shove.

  "Why can Rey go and not me, eh?" Pedro rubbed his neck.

  "Porque," Ricardo said. "Just porque."

  Reynaldo returned to the garage with a pair of gloves.

  "Rey?" Ricardo clasped his hands together as if in prayer.

  "No," Reynaldo said. He pushed a few buttons on the wall, and Mrs. Lapinski's car elevated.

  "You don't know what I was going to say."

  "You always say the same thing." Reynaldo pulled the oil-recycling container out from behind a garbage pail and swung it under the car.

  "What? I do not."

  "Sí, you do. You ask me to clean up your messes." Reynaldo pulled open a drawer and rummaged through a pile of tools. Exasperated, he threw up his hands. "Where is the oil-filter wrench?"

  "Right here." Ricardo held out his hand; the wrench dangled from his middle finger. Reynaldo grabbed it, stepped under the car, and went to work on the drain plug.

  Pedro looked concerned. "Rey, are you okay?"

  "I think that bump on the head shook up his brains." Ricardo said, returning to the office.

  Pedro stepped closer, leaning his arm across the bottom of the car. "Really, Rey, is something wrong?"

  Reynaldo shook his head. "No, I'm all right. Just tired, I guess," he said as a long, smooth line of black oil poured between them.

  Chapter 12

  Bailino pushed open the newly painted door, and powerful wails pierced through Jamie's body. Inside the narrow, windowless room, lit only by a small floor lamp in the far corner, a tiny, naked body was sprawled upon a table, kicking her feet wearily into the air. Her pale, almost white skin was covered with large red blotches, mostly on her cheeks and legs, and her puffy eyes were small slits of blue and white that were hidden behind long strands of wet, curly blonde hair.

  Jamie stopped at the sight of the child, but felt a large push on the small of her back and stumbled forward. Her sudden movement into the room startled the little girl, who turned in Jamie's direction and fixed her eyes upon her. For a moment, the crying stopped.

  "MaBa, MaBa," the little girl said to Jamie in between large heaves that shook her entire body.

  "What?" Jamie asked. Her own voice seemed inaudible to her.

  The little girl's swollen lips quivered, and it wasn't until Jamie got a little closer that she realized that the child was shivering. There were goose bumps across her arms and legs, and her tiny hands were blue.

  "Ma ... Ba..." the child said again, her breath slowing and her eyes drooping as she used her hands to prop herself up, teetering on the table from side to side as if exhausted.

  Jamie lurched forward, scooping up the little girl, who looked around the room as if she were seeing it for the first time. Her eyes blinked, and two long tears dropped to her cheeks. Jamie ran her hands along the sides of her arms to help soothe the goose bumps. The red patches felt warm to the touch as her palms grazed over them, and the child lay limp in her arms. Every few seconds, her body shook and then would relax again, and she leaned her head on Jamie's shoulder, her right hand reaching up to grab at her hair.

  There was movement at the far side of the room, and Jamie discovered a man that she hadn't seen before standing in the darkness. The other men crowded the doorway behind her and appeared as shadows formed by the sunlight coming in from the windows of the outer rooms. She took off the jacket that Bailino had placed on her shoulders, wrapped it around the little girl almost like a swaddle, her dangling feet now tucked in, and buried her head into the little girl's neck, breathing onto it in an effort to keep her warm. Snot dripped onto Jamie's shirt from the child's nose, but her breathing had become even. Without realizing it, Jamie rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet.

  "Why the fuck is the kid naked, Tony?"

  Leo's acerbic tongue cut through the silence.

  "She started cryin', and I didn't know what the fuck to do," Tony said.

  The baby picked her head up dizzily at the sound of the talking voices, but then rubbed her runny nose on Jamie's shirt and lay back down on the wet spot.

  "So you take off her clothes?" Leo mocked.

  "I thought maybe she needed a diaper, but I couldn't figure out how to get the fuckin' thing on, and what's-her-face was no help."

  "Where is she?" Bailino asked. Jamie could feel Bailino standing behind her and that he was very close.

  "In the closet," the man said. "She told me to go fuck myself."

  "So," Leo said. "Did you, Tony? Fuck yourself?" The driver snickered.

  "She locked herself in the utility closet. I shoved a chair under the knob and figured she ain't goin' anywhere, so I let her stay in there and thought I'd try to get the kid to stop cryin'."

  "She's not crying now, is she?" Bailino asked.

  Jamie could feel the eyes of all the men on her.

  "Who's this?" Tony asked, eyeing Jamie.

  Bailino ignored the question and left the room. After a few long seconds, Leo spoke.

  "Nice ass, huh?"

  "Shut the fuck up, Leo," whispered the driver.

  "I'm just sayin' the girl has a nice ass, Benny, that's all. I'm dreamin' in my mind of how that ass would look in front of my cock."

  "That's all you'll be doing is dreamin'," said Tony.

  "Who the fuck asked you?"

  There was a knock, and for a brief moment Jamie felt her body straighten at the hope that she would be rescued, that the limousine had been followed, and that she and this unknown little girl would make it out of this thing. But as she heard the knock again, Jamie saw through the open door that the sound was coming from Bailino, who was tapping on another door across the basement floor.

  "C'mon, open up." Bailino had removed the chair that had been wedged under the knob and was talking in a soft voice into the wood of the door.

  The men in the dark room gathered around the doorframe to watch. As Leo moved closer, the cuff link of his suit sleeve scraped Jamie's arm; she leaned in the other direction.

  Bailino put his hands on his hips and spoke once again to the closet door, his voice growing tetchy. "Let's go, open the door," he said.

  Nothing.

  Bailino reached into his pocket and took out a set of keys. He stuck one into the keyhole, and as he whipped open the door, a vacuum-cleaner accessory boomeranged out of the closet, nearly hitting him in the head.

  "Stay the fuck away from me," hissed a female voice from the closet.

  Bailino charged inside as violent shrieks reverberated through the house, causing the baby to jolt awake in Jamie's arms and to scream again.

  "Shut that fuckin' kid up," Leo said.

  Jamie pressed the child's head to her shoulder so that her right ear was covered and then cupped her left hand over the baby's other ear. She kissed her warm cheeks and rocked her again as she watched in horror as Bailino came out from the closet dragging a woman along by the hair and holding a rake in his other hand.

  The woman's voice became a shrill, constant scream as Bailino yanked her across the floor, her
long legs sprawled out under her, unable to find traction. As she raised her head to bite Bailino's legs, Jamie noticed her face: She was a bit older than her long blonde hair implied—her features were weathered, and there were deep grooves across her forehead—but she had pretty, petite features, or Jamie imagined she once did. Her tanned arms grabbed at the air, and all the while Bailino said nothing and walked across the room as if he were pushing a lawn mower leisurely across a front yard. He threw her to the ground, and as she crawled toward the stairs, Bailino raised the rake up into the air and heaved it down upon her head.

  Jamie gave a small, muffled yelp as blood spattered across the room. She could feel urine dribbling onto her underwear and down her leg. With that one blow, the tall, lean woman remained motionless on the floor, but Bailino continued to strike until her skull cracked open and her face was no longer recognizable.

  Satisfied, Bailino motioned to the men. "Come with me." He stopped the tall, quiet kid with his hand. "Joey, watch her, yeah?" Bailino said, pointing to Jamie. The young man nodded and returned to his place outside the doorway.

  "You're leaving Joey with her?" Leo asked, pulling the blonde woman's body to the corner of the room by her arms, while Tony threw a large blanket on the ground. Not a word of instruction passed between any of the men, who performed as if having done this routine many times before. The driver, Benny, rolled the woman on top of the blanket as Leo and Tony held the corners to keep them from bunching up. Then the woman who had fought for her life just moments before lay compliant and quiet as they tossed the ends of the blanket over her and wrapped her with twine. Bailino stood supervising, lost in thought, and then as if remembering Leo's question, glanced at Jamie.

  "She's not going anywhere," Bailino said. A small smile curved up his lips, the same smile that Jamie had seen at Bryant Park, as the four men hoisted the woman's body up and across the room toward the front staircase.

  Bailino had spoken with a certainty and self-assurance that reminded Jamie of Bob, who liked to offer his opinion on what Jamie was capable and not capable of doing. She remembered how every fiber in her being would want to prove him wrong, to vault over his wall of denial and defy his expectations. But as she stood there in the dark room with the sleeping child in her arms, she knew in her heart that Bailino was right: She wasn't going anywhere.