The Heart is a Poor Judge Ch. 03

"I understand."

"I just need you to know that things will be changing around here. I don't know yet how much. And I'm not going to tell you that Marco would've approved, because I don't think he would have."

"It's fine, Eddie. You don't have to explain."

Eddie held his breath for a second, then smiled. He sipped his coffee once more, rotated the mug on the surface of the table. "You have an amazing knack for self-control, Gabe. You know that?"

"I'm don't think that's true."

"I think it is."

Gabe focused on a faint crack in the creamy ceramic of the mug. Eddie's thoughts were fixed on rails now, following an inalterable course.

"Anyway," he continued, "in the spirit of you leaving your own mark, I'd like you to get together with Miguel and tell him who your father was. Think you can handle that?"

"How soon?"

Eddie gave him a knowing smile. "I still want you to take some time for yourself, Gabe. Let's give it another week."

In that moment, Gabe wanted to protest, but he knew it wouldn't do any good. It wasn't up to him.

"Your father saw something in Miguel," continued Eddie. "Never once talked about him the same way he did the other workers. For a while, he had more warehouse clearance than I did. Man, that pissed me off. But I get it now, and I think if your father had been around just a little while longer, Miguel would already know about you. Fuck, now a whole year has gone by, and nothing's changed. It's overdue. So here we are."

—

Monday, June 28th, 1999

According to every crime novel Gabe had ever read, alcohol was supposed to make difficult conversations easier. Raffish protagonists were always tossing one back before spitting out lines like, "Can I speak candidly?" or, "Let me level with you." He was banking on it now, as an unfamiliar warmth had begun spreading from the center his chest, and his small talk with Miguel, seated across from him in a dim booth at the back of Pub Odessa, grew larger by the minute. This, after Miguel had greeted their server by her first name—she wore no name tag—and then asked, "What was it you wanted, Gabe? A gin and tonic?" Gabe had faltered for an instant before nodding his head, and then Miguel had turned back to her: "Doubles. For both of us."

Gabe had at first been offended, then grateful, and now, as their conversation approached a new level of comfort, looked down into his drink and muttered, "I'm sorry I was cold to you in the car."

"I hadn't noticed," Miguel told him. "Anyway, I don't actually care where you come from." He threw a despondent look down at his glass. "I mean, I don't care where I come from, so why would I give a shit about anyone else?"

"It's just that I don't come from anywhere. I was born in the city—in the south valley. We moved to a nicer place in the markets when I was too young to remember—"

"I totally get it," Miguel interrupted, putting up a hand. "You're not from anywhere."

Gabe hadn't said that. He became irritated again. He couldn't help it. He looked around, noticed tarnish gathering on the brass bars dividing the booths, dust on the hunter-green metal lampshades hanging low over each table. "Do you come here a lot?"

"All the time. I know the owner." Miguel had settled in, laying a thick, strong arm across the top of the booth, as if it made a habit of creeping around the shoulders of others. How many shoulders, Gabe didn't care to guess.

"So you were right before, in the car. I'm mixed."

Miguel shrugged. "Thought you might be."

"My father was from Mexico."

"Thought he might be."

Gabe took yet another gulp of his drink; another surge of warmth spread through his chest. "I'm on strict orders from Eddie to share something with you tonight."

"What do you have for me?"

Gabe's tone became careful, as if testing the legitimacy of their peculiar surroundings—down to the black-and-white checkered floor itself, which felt as if it could drop out from under them at any second. "I am supposed to tell you my full name, which is Gabe Marcos Villanueva."

For a short time, Miguel continued nodding along as if Gabe had told him more sun was forecast next week. But then he stopped moving, even appeared to stop breathing, his face frozen in stunned recognition. "You wouldn't tell me that for any reason other than—you know, other than what it seems like, right?"

"No, Miguel. It's what you're thinking."

"You look like him," he blurted out. "You look exactly like him."

"Most people would disagree. It's my mother's genes. I'm practically—"

"They're all blind. Fuck, I'm blind, too. How could I have missed it?"

"You're weren't supposed to know," insisted Gabe. "You know how my father like to run things."

Miguel eyes were wide. "My God. Big Boss had a son."

"Yes, Miguel."

"Please forgive me for what I'm about to say." Miguel had long since drawn his arm from its splayed perch atop the maroon vinyl. His entire demeanor had shifted. "I feel like I've travelled back in time or something. It's like he's almost—wait. Let me hear your voice again."

Gabe became acutely aware of his deep register, mismatched as it was to his small stature. He knew, had known for a long time, that he carried the voice of his father. "What do you want me to say?"

"That's it." Miguel's eyes glazed over. "That's the voice."

"Come on, Miguel."

"Fuck, man, it's all there. The voice, the looks—when you smile, it's like he's...uh..." Miguel swallowed.

What the hell was happening?

"...It's like he's maybe here, somewhere, with us..."

"Miguel."

"Give me a moment." Miguel moved around strangely in his seat like he couldn't get comfortable. He hid part of his face with his hand. "You know what? I gotta go have a smoke, alright? I'll come back." He got up and swiftly made his way toward a dark velvet curtain in the back corner of the room.

Miguel was overreacting. Gabe tried to piece together his behavior. Perhaps he was bearing witness to the lasting effects of that mark Eddie was talking about. The one his father supposed left on everyone he came into contact with. The irony was, if what Eddie said was true, if his father's plan was for Gabe to have the chance to leave a mark of his own, it had surely backfired now. Gabe had ceased to exist in Miguel's eyes. In his place sat an emaciated, faulty reproduction of the great man Miguel had once known. Nothing more.

After a few minutes, Miguel return to the booth. He sat, steepled his fingers and said, "I for one can't stand the idea of living in my father's shadow. Can I assume you feel the same way?"

The words sounded rehearsed. "Yes, you can."

"Well then, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to suggest that you and him are the same. I know you're not." Miguel cast a morose look over Gabe's shoulder and then tipped his drink skyward. (He really did look sorry, and also somewhat let down.) "I'm glad I got to find out straight from you. I wouldn't have wanted to hear about it from anyone else. Not even Big Boss himself—and that's the truth."

Either Miguel had attended a full term at charm school while sucking down that cigarette, or he was being genuine. Gabe was willing to take a chance on the latter. "Thanks. I'm glad you see it that way. I'm really nothing like him."

"I know. And that's not a bad thing." He was becoming relaxed again, even aloof. "I'm sure you've got your own strengths."

Gabe knew he must be buzzed—so this was what if felt like to find oneself in that infamous state. The glowing fuzz around the rims of the lampshades grew thicker, began interacting with the smoky air; on the walls, innocuous paintings and photos of ships and sailboats seemed on the verge of coming to life. Even the sharp edges of Miguel's personality had softened. "Plenty," he told him.

Miguel coughed into his elbow. "So, Eddie wanted you to be the one to tell me?"

"Yeah."

"Typical Eddie, outsourcing the work once it gets tough."

"I think he thought it would be best for you to hear it from me—I mean, you just said you were glad you heard it from me, remember?"

"I remember."

"He also told me you and I need to get to know each other better. I think it's all part of his plan."

Miguel burst into laughter. "Well, do you think it's working?"

Gabe didn't see what was so funny. He finished off his drink, letting a single, dulled shard of ice slip into his mouth. He crushed it between his molars.

"Hey, I'm all for it," Miguel went on. "You're a nice guy, and this is a good excuse for drinks, so unless you have any more secrets up your sleeve, let's get another round."

Gabe shook his head. "I've had too much already. I have to drive the car back tonight."

"Of course you do." Miguel sat back and stirred the ice in his glass, his eyes flitting around the dim room. "What difference does it make whether it's stored in that garage or out in Eastbrook?"

"None," said Gabe. "I would just prefer to put it back where it belongs."

"I'm sure you would."

Was Miguel trying to set him off? "Look, if you want me to stay, you can stop talking like that."

"Stop talking like what?" Miguel asked innocently, while at the same time flagging down the server. "You want something different, or the same?"

"Like you don't value what I have to say."

The server arrived at their table. Miguel ordered more of the same. He did not respond to Gabe's accusation right away. He just sat there, still, like he was actually thinking it through. "It's just something I do when I'm nervous, okay?"

"Okay." The last thing Gabe had expected was a confession. And it even sounded genuine. "That's alright."

"And, I mean, if I wasn't nervous before, then now...now that I know..."

"That's no reason for anyone to be nervous."

"Maybe not to you," Miguel said. He was still for another few seconds before sitting up. He stretched, flexing his tan arms. His pectorals swelled temporarily, showing up large and firm through his t-shirt.

A fresh drink materialized in front of Gabe. Eddie's words came to mind now, those words meant only for him: Stop hating yourself. Don't feel so ashamed. He decided there was no harm in continuing the conversation. "Well, I guess I'm stuck here now. So tell me how you found out about the desert stream."

"I got into it because of your dad," Miguel said after collecting his thoughts. "He found me. Actually, he rescued me."

"When was this?"

"I guess about a year and a half before you started."

"What do you mean he rescued you?"

"I was sleeping underground. It was winter, so I had been doing that off and on to get out of the rain. But that night it wasn't raining. I was just drunk off my ass. I think my plan had been to make it to the beach and sleep on the sand, but I was kicked off the train in Joyce. I must have picked a fight with someone, because they don't throw you off just for being shit-faced on that line. Anyway, your dad caught the train at Senna Road. Just stepped down from the street and there I was, passed out on the floor of the station."

"What was my father doing in Joyce?"

"They kept the old delivery car there. Blue Cutlass. It's funny, because your dad rarely did the drop-offs then—that was Boss Man's job. But Eddie was sick or something, so your dad was filling in for him. I got pretty lucky, if you think about it. I mean, can you picture Eddie stopping for my sorry ass?"

"Not really."

"Not really? Fuck, man, Eddie won't talk to anyone he doesn't have to. It just wouldn't have happened. But it wasn't Eddie, it was your dad."

"How did he get you to go with him?"

Miguel covered part of his face with his hand. "I actually thought I was being picked up." He smiled coyly just as Gabe came to understand what this meant.

Gabe did not miss a beat. He was feeling brave, and knew it was time to confirm something: "So if that's what you thought, why did you go with him?"

Miguel's expression became that of someone recalling a fond, distant memory. "Clearly I was in a bad place, wasn't I?"

Gabe stared at him, then took another drink. The roomed tipped slightly to one side, but then he realized he had begun leaning and straightened up.

"Obviously he had no intention of sleeping with me. I spent the next day sobering up in his apartment, and after that, when he saw I wasn't a complete loser, he started talking to me about...well...about what I do now. To this day, I still don't get why he trusted me. I mean, I knew he could, but I don't know how he knew."

"He could tell that stuff."

Miguel nodded urgently. "He couldn't, couldn't he? Man, I never knew anyone who could read people like Big Boss could." He disappeared into his glass for a few seconds.

"What apartment was this?"

"It was part of the operation, used as a meeting place in the city. The lease was in his name."

Gabe remembered back to the times his father spent mysterious nights away from their home. He had always pictured Marco booking some hotel room in midtown, or maybe Chinatown—but now it seemed more likely that he had sequestered himself in this strange Odinberg apartment. "Did my father ever sleep there?"

"Not that I know of. There was a bed there, but I was never aware of him using it. He could have, at some point. It's where I slept, at first. He actually left me alone that first night. Can you believe that? I could've been anyone. I could have torn the place apart. Anyway, later on, he shifted some things around and I took over the lease. I'm still there—you should come see it. There's a pretty nice view of the port. Doesn't look so bad from above, I promise."

Port of Odinberg was the foul, industrial sibling of Port of Las Sombras. These days, the latter's clean blue waters were better equipped to handle cruises than containers, and there was less actual industry surrounding it than untold numbers of tourist shops and hotels attempting to invoke its (admittedly real, but distant) industrial past.

Gabe straightened himself up again. "Hey, the PO's where all the work gets done."

Miguel raised his glass to the sentiment. "I bet you have a nice view of the ocean if you live in the markets."

"Not really. I'm too far inland. They put up new towers that block it."

"You must live in the real markets, then."

Gabe nodded. "But even tourists climb the hill now."

"Tourists aren't so bad," said Miguel. "They have money."

Gabe felt his head nod up and down once more. He finished off his drink. His mind began to drift. He wondered what it meant to be in the kind of bad place Miguel had described...getting drunk in the evenings, being kicked off of trains, sleeping on the street and under it. And apparently he also slept with strange men—could Gabe possibly have misunderstood that part? It was clear that Miguel was in better shape these days. It seemed many of these habits had been long put to rest...

Miguel was gone. He had insisted he was visiting the restroom and not smoking another cigarette, even though Gabe had not made any comments about his smoking.

Gabe read a book once about a man who lived on the streets of 1970s London and became drunk every night. He slept with anyone, indiscriminate of their sex, physical traits or even hygienic habits. His only requirement was that they were connected on a cosmic level that the man could sense, but which never fully became clear to the reader. The man was profoundly unhappy. Eventually he pulled himself together and cleaned up his life, marring a woman whom, the narrator suggested, he would remain faithful to until his death. It wasn't a very good book, but so it went.

He thought back now to Miguel's words: Clearly I was in a bad place, wasn't I? Yes, Miguel, you were in a bad place—a place you have, by all accounts, left far, far behind you. The homelessness, the alcohol abuse...the willingness to sleep with your own sex...all of it, far behind.

Gabe slouched dreamily in the booth when Miguel came back to him. He looked up.

"Come see my place tonight. It's a short walk from here."

Gabe considered Miguel's bright and encouraging face for a few seconds, took in his kind brown eyes and tidy features. A fleeting accusation bubbled at his core: You know how handsome you are, and you know exactly what you are doing. But then he lost his grasp of whatever concern had thus far held him back. I'll do anything you want, Miguel. You've got me right where you want me, and you can have me, you can have it all. All he said was, "Okay."

The heat had let up outside. They walked through the orange lamplit night without talking for a few minutes, but when they came upon an alley, Miguel said, "Let's cut through here." Gabe stopped dead, peered through the rusty web of fire escapes, past a shunted row of dumpsters and saw it standing there, near the opening to the next street.

That strange cold glow flickered deep inside its eye sockets, drawing his gaze impossibly near to it, so that he could now confirm for himself the personal accounts of so many: There were no lips on that face, nothing concealing his inscrutable grin.

Gabe turned to face the other way, surveying the wide, clear street. He heard himself speak, unable to account for the incredible calm that overtook his voice. "Can we go around? I don't like alleys."