Page 44 of Loving Smoke

I huffed out a laugh. “Probably.”

Blood pushed away from the table and headed for the kitchen. That was the thing that made me and Blood work. Neither one of us took any bullshit from the other. We could call each other out, but in the end he was the only one I wanted covering my back.

17

“What’s got you so upset?” Rita led me into her tiny kitchen and the scent of vanilla and fresh baked cookies surrounded me, but didn’t calm me.

“I’ve made a big mistake and I don’t know how to fix it. Well, that isn’t entirely true. I can fix it, but I don’t think my father will be happy.”

I hadn’t divulged to Rita what I was doing in Tijuana, and she hadn’t asked. When my father wanted a favor no one turned him down—especially a loyal employee.

Rita always cooked my favorite birthday meal, made homemade snacks and rewarded Manny and I when we did well in school. Her gentle kindness and support when my mother died got me through some very dark days, and for that alone I loved her.

“I know your father can be a hard man, but I believe if you are honest he’ll understand.”

Rita based her view of my father as a savior, a man who favored her with bonuses and extra pay at holidays. Even if she guessed at his true persona it didn’t matter, because in a city where most were struggling, Rita and her family were comfortable.

“I only wish it was that easy.”

“Tell him what’s bothering you, then try to come to an agreement.”

There would be no good way to explain my feelings to a man who prided himself on his austere persona.

“Many people hold your father in high regard.”

Most of those same people were also terrified of him.

“I shouldn’t tell you this, but he helped my family when we were in desperate need.”

I wasn’t completely surprised. He’d helped my mother’s family in Brazil and many of our relatives here in Mexico. He was a paradox with many layers—as ruthless as he was philanthropic. I didn’t doubt my father did good deeds, but I couldn’t fool myself into thinking the good outweighed all the bad.

“He gave you money?”

“Ohhh, no, much more valuable than money.” Rita placed a plate of her special shortbread cookies on the table, but didn’t elaborate and I didn’t question further. I knew she valued her privacy and I respected that quality.

Rita did her best to soothe my nerves, but the tangle of guilt, regret, and a degree of shame refused to disappear. I knew what I had to do, and the sooner I got it over with the better I would feel.

Blood came back with a heaping plate of Marisol’s pasta, but my appetite hadn’t returned. Everything Blood said made sense but it didn’t make it any easier.

“This is fuckin’ good,” Blood said between mouthfuls. “Maybe I should rethink you getting with her.” He pointed to the plate. “This alone could make it worthwhile.”

“Now you’re a comedian.”

Blood flipped me off, then shoved more food into his mouth.

“What the fuck is that?” I pushed away from the table as police sirens and flashing red lights lit up the club from the outside.

Blood dropped his fork on the plate. “What the fuck is goin’ on?”

Two cops barged into the club with guns drawn, followed by four more with assault weapons. Not too different from the ones I shipped up to the States.

“Get down on your knees and put your hands behind your head,” the first two cops ordered waving their guns at me and Blood. He yelled something in Spanish, and the other four cops stormed through the club and out the back door.

I knew the drill, but back in San Diego we had cops on the payroll. Not so in Tijuana, so I sunk to my knees and laced my fingers behind my head. I had no fuckin’ clue how this would play out, but we were definitely flying blind without a net. The other cop grabbed Blood and pushed him next to me. We exchanged a look as they wasted no time zip-tying our wrists behind our backs.

I cocked my head to the cop standing guard above me. “What the hell is this about?”

“Shut up.” He leveled his gun at my temple. One spastic twitch and my brains would be decorating the polished wood floor.

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