Page 27 of My Brother's Bad Best Friend

It’s Ezra’s car, and he’s sitting on his hood, talking to a group of guys. I don’t recognize any of them, but Ezra’s clearly nervous. I start toward him, walking slowly. Something in my gut tells me to turn around and pretend like I never saw this, but I can’t help it. I’m attracted and repelled, both sides of the magnet. I know this is probably dangerous, but that’s my brother over there, so how dangerous could it be?

I stop near a group of bushes and peer through, watching as Ezra hands one of the guys a thick envelope. The guy glances inside it, nods once, and hands it over to another man, this one taller than the others. They’re all dark-skinned, maybe South American of some sort, but they’re dressed in business suits which actually makes them stand out even more. There’s a large Latino population in San Diego, so it wouldn’t be strange for Ezra to have some dealings with Latino men. It’s more the way they hold themselves, aloof but alert, and the suits.

Who wears a suit in the middle of the afternoon in San Diego? I guess they could be regular businessmen, but I get the distinct impression that they aren’t.

I inch my way closer. The tall man, his dark hair cropped close and his eyes covered with sunglasses, reaches into the trunk of the car next to Ezra’s and produces a briefcase. He hands it to my brother, who takes it and looks a little relieved. He pops open the latches and opens it up. I crane my neck to see what’s inside.

Someone’s hand grabs my shoulder. I jump and whirl, hands up and ready to scratch out the bastard’s eyes. I expect a suit-wearing Latino man, but instead it’s Jonas, giving me this intense stare.

“Quiet,” he hisses, and grabs my upper arm. “Come with me.”

“What are you doing?”

He doesn’t wait to hear my response. He pulls me along behind him, tugging me forward and away from what’s happening in the lot. We walk the long way around the building before we finally head inside, into the wonderful air conditioning.

He brings me down the back hall and into a side room. It’s clearly his office, based on the desk and how neat everything is. There’s a bank of security cameras on one end, the monitors showing the café, the weed shop, and a few other rooms I don’t recognize. Standing toward the back behind his desk are several big, heavy safes.

“Sit,” he commands, releasing my arm finally. I rub it a little bit, even though it doesn’t hurt.

“Why did you just pull me away?” I ask him.

“Because you were about to do something stupid.”

“No, I wasn’t,” I argue, jaw clenching.

“Sit,” he says again. He takes a seat at the other side of the desk with a sigh, scratching his beard and eyeing me.

I finally sit down. “I wasn’t going to do anything,” I say. “I was just watching.”

“Which is stupid in and of itself,” he responds. “Do you have any clue who those guys were?”

I hesitate. I have some guesses, but do I really want to say it? “No,” I lie, shaking my head.

“Yeah, you do. You’re not stupid, Lizzie.”

I narrow my gaze at him. “Drug dealers,” I say finally. “They reminded me of you.”

He laughs a little bit, ignoring the intended insult. “Hardly. Those guys are way out of my league.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Your brother’s in some deep shit.” He sighs, looking away toward the security monitors. “And he’s fucking stupid for coming here.”

“Who are those guys?” I ask, feeling a little panic rising. “Should we call the police?”

He snorts a little. “No, not unless we want Ezra to get killed.” He sighs and meets my gaze. “Those guys are the real deal, a bunch of Peruvian drug smugglers that don’t fuck around with the likes of Ezra. Normally, at least.”

I stare back at him, not sure I understand. “Drug smugglers?”

“I’d call them cartel, but that’s a Mexican thing. They’re a gang, a mafia, that sort of shit. They bring drugs into the States and they get stupid gringos like E to sell them.”

“My brother’s selling drugs?” The words sound distant, almost impossible. I never would have guessed that Ezra would get involved with real, dangerous drug smugglers. I mean, I can see him working with Jonas, but Jonas is… well, he’s not deadly. Dangerous maybe, and an asshole, but not deadly. These guys though…

“How haven’t you noticed?” he asks, and then shakes his head. “I guess that’s not fair. Your brother hasn’t exactly been trying his hardest to get to know you these last few years.”

I wince a little bit. Ezra and I don’t talk about it, but it’s always unspoken between us, hovering in the room like a mood: why didn’t he call me? Why didn’t he try to reach out more? He knew I was young and I was hurting and I was still living with that abusive dickhead, but Ezra didn’t bother. He came to see me once or twice after the accident, and a handful of times before, but it was never for long, never important. I know five years is a long time between siblings, but I’ve always felt abandoned by him. I’ve always wondered why I wasn’t good enough.

“It was hard,” I say finally, by way of explanation. I mean to say, please don’t judge my brother, he did the best he could, and besides, I didn’t really make much of an effort, either, but I think he understands all that already.

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