Surviving Santiago (22 page)

We've been busted. I should have known better than to ask him to get weed for me—a boy I barely knew at the time, in a foreign country with tough drug laws. I feel like I'm going to throw up, right on his leather jacket. How will I tell Papá and Tía Ileana?

Frankie jumps off and clutches my arm. “Leave that crap here,” he says, pointing to the rope, cords, and blanket. I drop the stuff to the ground. His helmet makes a hollow
thunk
on top of the pile.

A uniformed man stands in the doorway under a floodlight. They shake hands.

Shake hands, like they know each other?

The man is stocky, with olive skin and short black hair under his cap. His pants have several dark spots on one leg.

“We've been waiting for you. Where have you been?”

They do know each other! My breath catches.

“Slightly delayed, sir.”

“Is this a setup, Frankie? Are you friends with these cops?” He doesn't look at me. I pat all my pockets, to make sure I don't have any illegal drugs, not even a stray seed.

“And who's she?” The
carabinero
looks me up and down. I'm sure he sees that I can't stop shaking.

“You'll find out soon enough,” Frankie says. My legs
wobble as I follow Frankie and the
carabinero
inside and down a narrow hallway.

The man unlocks a heavy metal door and flicks a switch. A single overhead bulb lights a low-ceilinged room with bare cement walls and floor. A table has been pushed to the side. A chair lies broken beside it. Rags are piled near the back wall.

A moan rises from the pile of rags.

I know that voice.

I scream.

C
HAPTER
20

I
kneel beside Papá, who lies curled up on the pile. His eyes are closed. A line of blood-tinged saliva runs from the corner of his mouth onto a thin towel. I inhale and recoil from his rancid odor, as if they'd picked him from a Dumpster behind a bar.

The
carabinero
hoists my father upright against the wall. “Here's your guy,” the cop tells Frankie.

“Ex-excuse me? I'm his daughter.”

But no one turns my way. Papá's head drops to his chest. His light gray sweater has a whitish stain in the shape of a jellyfish. He doesn't have his glasses. I don't think he knows I'm here.

Frankie pulls a folded-up newspaper clipping from the inside pocket of his jacket. He unfolds it, holds it up to the light, and nods.

From the reverse side, I recognize one of Papá's articles, with his photo in the bottom corner. But why is he in the police station, so beat up? And why did they call Frankie and not me to get him?

“Papá, wake up!” I place my hand on his back to feel
his breathing. He raises his head and opens his eyes.

His stare is empty, unfocused, lifeless.

“Who did this to you?” I ask him.

“Him.” He turns his head toward the
carabinero
. I can barely understand his words. “And another one. Rifle butt . . . my ribs.”

Papá's lips and the ends of his mustache redden with blood. Crouched next to him, I look for something clean to wipe his mouth. I pat his lips and mustache with the cuff of my sweatshirt.

Behind me, Frankie and the
carabinero
are talking.

“. . . bit his tongue . . . seizure . . . We thought he was going to die on us,” the cop says.

“We'll take care of him, sir,” Frankie answers.

“Get him to a hospital—now! Please!”

“Who is this?” Papá mumbles.

“It's me. Tina. Don't you recognize me?” I take a panicked breath and try not to cry. “No. Don't talk.” Turning to Frankie, I shout, “Call an ambulance!”

“Not so fast, girlie,” the
carabinero
says. He stands over me, one hand on his holster. His fingers drum the leather. “Your father was arrested for public intoxication and inciting a riot this afternoon.”

I pat my pockets again. Papá forgot my allowance this week, not that it would have been nearly enough. “I don't have money for bail. Let me call my aunt.”

The officer lays his other hand on my shoulder. I twist away.

“We've decided to release him without charges, as long as he signs a statement admitting that he was drunk and resisted arrest.”

Papá clears his throat and spits a pink gob that lands on the officer's boot. “How can I sign? You broke my fucking arm,” he rasps.

I look to his side. His right arm—the only arm he can really use—hangs limp. His hand is red and starting to swell.

“Use your teeth, cockroach,” the man says.

Papá bares his teeth. They're covered in blood but all the ones he had before today—the crooked and broken survivors of his years in prison—are still there. From his expression, I can tell that he'd more likely spit on the statement than sign it.

The
carabinero
whistles to someone else in the hall. A taller man strides into the room, sniffling and rubbing his nose.
The other one?
His nose is flared and red, as if he has a cold. The cops whisper for a minute or two. The red-nosed
carabinero
leaves and a few minutes later returns with a different sheet of paper.

“You win this one, Aguilar,” he says. “I'll have the kid sign a release form.”

He slams the paper onto the table. Handwritten, in jagged, sloppy handwriting, is my father's name, the name of the police station, and the date and time of release. Nothing more. My hand shaking, I sign. I wonder if the
dictator's newspapers can use this against him anyway, report him as drunk and disorderly the way they reported the beaten-up musician as a druggie.

The two officers lift Papá to his feet. There's blood on the crotch of his jeans. He seems to have passed out again, so they drag him outside, his feet scraping the ground, and help Frankie sit him on the motorcycle in the space where I usually sit. Papá screams when he straddles the bike. My legs are weak, my feet numb. We have to find a hospital. Fast.

“Hold him up,” Frankie tells me, his tone matter-of-fact, no longer angry like he was at the apartment. I sit on the motorcycle behind Papá and lock my arms under his armpits to keep him upright without touching his ribs. I adjust my grip when Frankie wraps the blanket around my father's body and pulls at the top of it to create a makeshift hood. The blanket fails to stifle the stench—blood, vomit, and more than a hint of hard liquor—that clings to Papá.

Frankie avoids my eyes while he works on the blanket. I shake Papá's shoulder. “Papá? Can you hear me?”

The only thing I hear is Frankie humming “For Whom the Bell Tolls.” And dogs barking in the distance.

“Come on, Frankie,” I beg. “We gotta get to the hospital.”

“I'm almost ready,” he says. “You don't want him falling off.”

The tall, red-nosed
carabinero
hands me a plastic bag with Papá's wallet, watch, belt, cigarettes, lighter, glasses,
and pill bottle. I pull my hand back quickly after taking the bag. I don't want to touch those creeps who hurt Papá. After shoving the bag into the kangaroo pocket of my sweatshirt, I lift Papá to my lap to give Frankie room.

Frankie squirms, trying to make more space for himself. I push Papá toward him so I can get a grip on Frankie's jacket. Frankie hands the short, dark-haired
carabinero
the rope and bungee cord.

“Secure him to me, sir.”

“Good idea, Romeo.”

Romeo?
As in
Romeo y Julieta
? If this is another high school nickname like Pepe, these guys are way too old to be Frankie's high school friends.

And I'm trapped here, holding Papá up. I suck in air through my mouth to avoid the smell. “You're taking him to the hospital. Right, Frankie?”

Silence.

“You are Frankie, aren't you? Frankie Zamora?”

When the man touches him, my father shivers under the blanket. I feel the rope pulled around my back, the three of us bound together. My skin crawls. I whimper with each breath but make myself stop because I don't want Papá or Frankie to hear me.

Then Frankie shakes hands with both
carabineros
. “You're in with these guys!” My throat is parched. I can't swallow.

Frankie steps to the motorcycle and shushes me. “I have a plan, okay?” he whispers.

I tug on his jacket. “The hospital. Now!”

“Hold on, we're going,” he says without looking back. He puts on his helmet and kicks the motorcycle to life.

Frankie steers carefully, avoiding the heavily traveled avenues. I hold tightly to his jacket so Papá won't slide off the bike. My father's body is limp and still. I press my face against his back from time to time to make sure he's breathing. The wool blanket scratches my cheek. I cough out fibers and grime.

“Where's the hospital?” I yell over the wind and engine noise.

“Not far,” Frankie answers, staring straight ahead. But I don't recognize where we are and it seems to be taking a long time to get there. There are no streetlights in this part of the city. And no traffic at all, even though we're at the tail end of rush hour. The cold fills my lungs and penetrates my body. An icy wind slaps my face. There are hills where we're going. I can feel the up and down in my stomach and ears. Papá twists and groans.

“Wait a minute! You're lying!” I don't know where Frankie has taken me, but it's not the hospital. It's nowhere near the hospital. I run through the events, one by one: the phone call, his sudden change from hot boyfriend to total lunatic, telling me to dress warm, throwing my helmet in the bushes as if he didn't care about me anymore, the name Romeo, the small talk, the handshake with the two cops.

He said he had a plan? How can this be the same person who made me feel so good a few hours ago . . . who said he loved me?

A cry escapes my throat. Sweat runs down my body inside my layers of clothes. I shout, “Stop! Go back!” but Frankie doesn't hear me in the roar of the wind and engine. I can't see a thing.

I beat my fists on Frankie's jacket. Still no response. And the trembling I feel is not mine but Papá's. I'm afraid he's having another seizure. I push him harder against Frankie.

We leave the paved blacktop and climb a hill. Gravel crunches under the tires.

Finally, Frankie screams, a long, agonized wail.

“Where are we?” I pound his shoulder.

He slows the bike and cuts the engine. I look down and see snow. Packed snow with bits of gravel on the narrow road. Fresh snow—I can't tell how deep—on each side. And beyond that on our right side, the rock face of a cliff.

“What are we doing in the mountains?” It's the kind of place where you can kill someone and no one will find them for months.

Frankie dangles his helmet by its chin strap on the handlebar, unhooks one of the two bungee cords around himself and Papá, and takes something from the inside pocket of his jacket.

It's a switchblade. Its sharp edge reflects the motorcycle's headlight. Frankie cuts the rope with a single motion of his wrist.

“Frankie, don't!” I plead.

He unhooks the other cord. He's breathing hard, his shoulders rising and falling. My father stirs.

“And who's Romeo? Is this some secret name? Like Pepe?”

“Shut up!” Frankie shouts. “I can't think with you screaming!”

“You said you loved me!”

Papá's back stiffens against my chest. He coughs into Frankie's jacket, a muffled sound like squashed innards spilling out. “Tina, was this right-wing thug your boyfriend?” he says.

Frankie slides off the bike and raises the knife to Papá's face. Frankie's cheeks glisten. Has he been crying? “You drunken subversive, you have no idea what your daughter's doing,” Frankie says, his voice breaking.

Papá teeters, and I hold him steady around his shoulders and chest. He tries to raise his weak arm as if to point or grab Frankie. “You. You're the one who beat up Rodolfo Guerra.”