Page 49 of Vice
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CROQUET
Three days later
Croquet. On the same fucking lawn where Persephone was mauled to death by wolves only a few days ago. Fernando is one sick, sick bastard.
He is red and yellow; I am black and blue. He expertly knocks his first yellow, and it rolls right through his intended hoop, scoring him a point. I’ve never played croquet in my fucking life. I have no idea what the rules are, even though I briefly Googled them before we came down here. I’m probably going to screw up any second now, but when Fernando Villalobos asks you to come play a game with him, any game, you say yes, or you brace for trouble. The lawn is damp underfoot, the ground soft and sticky with mud. The rains have been consistent, showing up around eleven in the morning every day, sticking around for a couple of hours, oversized raindrops hammering into the earth, and then stopping in the most abrupt way, like a showerhead being turned off.
“You have been here for a while now, Kechu,” Fernando says. He has a small cigarillo hanging out of his mouth—surprising, since I haven’t seen him smoking before, and he doesn’t strike me as the sort of man who would conform to such a trite addiction. “Are you happy here? I was wondering, because you seem a little…tense.”
Tense is not the right word. Livid is a good substitute. Furious. Consumed by rage. I am all of these things and more, and trying to hide my feelings is growing harder and harder by the day. That’s what Fernando is sensing: my overwhelming need to dash his brains out of his head with my croquet mallet.
“Oh, y’know,” I say. “New York’s a crazy city. It’s a lot quieter here. I’m busy all of the time. I’m adjusting to having more time on my hands here in Orellana.”
Fernando leans on the end of his mallet, listening to me intently. He seems to mull over everything I say, pondering deeply. After a while, he stands straight, smiling at me like he’s an old friend. “I understand. You need something to do here, and I know just the thing. You must teach Natalia about America. For so long she has wanted to know about the country where her mother was born, and I’m ashamed to say I’ve discouraged her from her research. I don’t like to leave Ecuador, let alone visit the United States. It is my hope that Natalia won’t either. But she is a young woman, and young women rebel if they are told not to do something. Perhaps if she learns the good and the bad about America from one of the country’s own citizens, she will see how much better life here in Ecuador is.”
I take my shot, and I miss the hoop. I’m glad. Jamie would have a goddamn field day if he knew I was whacking a ball around a manicured lawn like this. It’s just not right. “So you want me to make the place sound terrible?” I ask.
“No. I simply want you to tell the truth. People here have a very warped idea of what life is like in America. They think it’s all sunshine and roses. That the politicians and the police are not corrupt. That the government are all seeing, and all powerful. That there is no poverty. No crime. No homelessness. If you are honest with Natalia about the true state of affairs in your country, she might not be so eager to charge over there, expecting every city to look like Hollywood.” Fernando takes his shot. The ball speeds through the hoop again with ease; he must play a lot.
“Well, I can certainly try.”
“Thank you, Kechu. You know, despite the hiccups we’ve encountered since you arrived, I find myself considering you a friend. Does that surprise you?”
“Uh, yeah. It does a little.” How about a whole fucking lot? I’m fairly sure he was hunting me in the forest the other day, while Natalia and I were in her hideaway. And he threatens me with death every time we meet. I guess when you’re a violent, insane dictator, you have a warped view of what friendship looks like, though.
Fernando nods. “Natalia thinks of you as a brother, and that warms me.”
I try not to react to this, but I’m crowing in my head like a madman. Yeah, she thinks of me as a brother all right. A brother she likes to fuck. Shit, if only he knew.
I’m about to take my turn, trying to think of something to say that won’t sound suspicious whatsoever, when Harrison appears, hurrying across the lawn toward us. He has a phone in his hand, and he looks like he’s just discovered the location of the lost city of El Dorado.
“What is it?” Fernando asks.
“One of our guys in the States,” he answers.
“And what do they want?”
“He wouldn’t say. Just that he has information he thinks you might find interesting.” Harrison’s gaze flickers to me, and his meaning is clear: he thinks he might have interesting information about me. Fernando’s eyes roll. He sighs like a frustrated father being pushed to his limit by a persistent son. Taking the phone from Harrison, he walks away slowly, holding the device to his ear. He speaks, but his voice is lulled, low and soft, and I can’t make out what he’s saying.
“I’m going to sleep so well tonight, motherfucker,” Harrison hisses out of the side of his mouth. “Like the dead. Like a baby. Like a stone. It’s going to be the most peaceful night’s sleep I’ve had in years, and it’s all thanks to you. I owe you, man.”
Damn. That sounds worrying. Harrison knows I was in the military. What if he’s gone snooping? What if he’s discovered I’m not Sam Garrett, but Cade Preston, vice president of a motorcycle club hell bent on bringing down sex trafficking rings and murdering people like his boss? Doubt that would go down well. Then there’s the matter of my sister. Julio’s men know exactly who I am, and who I’m looking for. If they know I am the one who killed Julio, then what’s the stop them from spreading the word? Someone already told Fernando a guy on a motorcycle killed the bastard. How many pieces of this puzzle need to be put together before they figure out who I really am?
“The fuck are you talking about?” I snap.
Harrison bounces on the balls of his feet like a live wire, full of energy. “I couldn’t possibly say,” he tells me. “It’s just too fucking good. I’ll let Fernando explain, I think.”
Fifteen feet away, still with his croquet stick in his hand, Fernando goes still, standing like a life-size statue of someone who just heard something entirely unbelievable. He turns, his eyes fixing on me. He doesn’t say anything else. He listens, and then he hangs up the phone.
He holds the cell out to Harrison, who goes to take it from him. Fernando moves quicker than lightning, snatching hold of Harrison by his neck. For such a thin, frail-looking man, Fernando’s a hell of a lot stronger than he seems. Or maybe Harrison tolerates him grabbing hold of him. Either way, Fernando maintains a grip on him as he walks in between the metal loops of our croquet game, driven into the ground.
I try not to act surprised as Fernando shoves Harrison away from him, growling under his breath. “My friend in America just told me something interesting, Kechu,” he says.
“Oh?”
“He went to pay a visit to your employer in New York. To check in with him on my behalf, to see if his personal matter is almost resolved so that he can come and meet with me. He said that the office assigned to your Louis James Aubertin was unoccupied. Can you explain why this might be, Kechu?”
