The Second Girl(10)

He nods like he understands.

I help him walk up the stairs.





Eight



He leads me to the master bedroom. I pull away the duct tape. It’s like he can’t help himself from looking toward the bathroom. I set my backpack on the floor near the bed.

“Is that where you keep the drugs, in the bathroom?”

He shakes his head no, nervously.

“I didn’t think so. You make an addict out of a little chica, you can’t trust her being near the drugs, right?”

He doesn’t answer. I lead him by the arm to the bathroom, show him inside.

“Sí, she’s not here. No aquí. You can’t hurt her no more.”

I pull him back to the middle of the bedroom, with a bit of force this time.

“Show me.”

“There,” he says, his head indicating the closet.

“The closet?” I ask with disbelief. “Only stupid people keep their stash in the closet.”

I pull him there.

“?Dónde?”

“Caja de zapatos.”

“You gotta be kidding. That’s too easy.”

“Sí. It’s there.”

I push him up against the wall.

His cell phone in my backpack rings again.

“Shit,” I say, then take it out.

“Angelo.”

I show it to him and say, “You tell him you’ll be there soon, that you’re taking a shit or something. You damn well better make him believe it. ?Claro?”

“Sí.”

“?Entiendes lo que digo?” I ask, so he knows I understand.

I place the phone against his ear and mouth.

“Sí,” he speaks into the phone.

I put my ear close so I can hear a bit.

Angelo asks him why he didn’t answer.

“Tengo que cagar,” he advises Angelo.

Angelo laughs and tells him to use the hallway toilet and then something about the girl.

“Sí, claro.”

Angelo says to hurry back and something about the girl again, like “Don’t f*ck around.” And then something about “No more bruises.”

“?Claro que sí! Hasta pronto.”

Angelo says good-bye, and I take the phone, disconnect, and toss it back in the backpack.

“Good job. Now siéntate,” I tell him.

When he does, I make him stretch out his legs and cross them. I grab the shoe box out of the closet, move toward the bed to examine the contents. When I do, I find several zips, mostly tens and twenties and maybe fifty grams. But it’s f*cking crack. What am I gonna do with this shit? I close the box, set it on the floor next to my backpack, and then look directly at the boy.

“I never asked before. What’s your name?”

“Andrés.”

“Well, my little friend, you’re full of shit. I mean, not including what you already filled your underpants with. You do wear underpants, right?”

He doesn’t know what to say.

I move toward him, take him under the arms, and pull him up to a standing position.

“No. Wait, please!”

I grab him by the jersey close to his neck and toss him over so he falls on the bed.

“Wait, se?or. It’s all in the box.”

“Cocaine, powder!” I demand then, “Heroin and money too. Show me now. No more playing around.”

“Only crack. That is all.”

“Wanna be a big man, huh?”

“No, no…”

“Cállate, little big man.”

“Por favor, se?or,” he pleads.

I slap the tape back over his mouth and roll him over onto his belly.

He’s trying hard to say something, but it’s only mumbling and too late anyway. I don’t have much time here before his boys return. Not to mention Leslie. For all I know, I really messed up and Amanda does know the address. Police might already be on the way. I move toward the window and look out.

Looks clear.

I go back to what I have to do. I take Andrés’s left hand and grip his pinkie tight with the whole of my hand. He struggles more after he realizes what is next. I yank his pinkie hard, all the way back and then to the side. I hear it pop out of the socket with a rip. His squeal of a scream is filtered through the duct tape. I roll him back over so he’s on his back.

He’s crying. I slap him hard on the cheek.

“Cocaine, heroin, dinero,” I demand.

I slap him hard again so he knows.

He gives several short nods.

I have no pity for this piece of shit. All I gotta do is think about the girl first, my needs second, and that’s enough. You’d be surprised what most of us are capable of.

I already know what I’m capable of, and it’s a lot more than bustin’ little fingers.

I pull back the tape. Don’t have to say anything this time.

He catches his breath. A few snivels. He looks toward the corner of the room, over the foot of the bed.

“Under…pull up.”

I look in that direction, but don’t know what he means.

“Tapete,” he says.

I don’t know that word, so I repeat, “What is tapete?”