Run pendejo
Brian’s left shoulder and knee hurt where he had landed. A brown scuff marred the seersucker at his knee and the jacket’s seam had torn at the shoulder. His bowtie needed attention. The office door hung from a single hinge; its shattered glass glittered on the floor. The finely made chair, one leg broken, lay on its side. His wallet’s contents spilled across the coffee table like a gutted fish, beside his, car fob, iPhone, and portfolio. Beneath the table, Raul’s cigar smoldered on the floor.
Brian straightened the fallen chair. It toppled as soon as he released his grip. He bent to the coffee table, pushed the wallet’s contents back in and began reorganizing his pockets. Wallet to right rear, car fob front left, iPhone right. He dropped to his knees, fished Raul’s smoldering cigar from beneath the table and placed it in the ashtray. Reaching for the decanter, he poured a glass of rum, took a sip, decided it wasn’t a good idea, drained the glass and poured another. Drink in hand, he dropped onto the couch. What did they mean, “Bag him?” He took another sip. Could they make him disappear? Put him on a secret list. Or on no list at all. Would he cease to exist?
He tossed back the drink and put the glass on the table. Cradling his head between both hands, elbows on knees, he stared at the gold flecks in the black terrazzo between his feet. Fan twisting overhead, he closed his eyes, shook his head and reopened them. The fluorescent orange zip tie that had bound his hands lay on the floor beside the broken chair. Raul’s cigar smoldered in the ashtray.
The black phone atop Raul’s desk rang.
Brian started at the sound. It rang three times before he crossed the room. It rang once more as he lifted the receiver to his ear.
“Run pendejo,” a man yelled. “ICE is after you.”
“They’re already here.”
“Who’s this?”
“Who is this?”
“I asked first.”
“I answered the phone.”
“Do you know who this is?”
“No.”
The man hung up.
Brian placed the receiver back in its cradle.
Swamped in an angry sea of cream-colored folders, Nelly Sheridan rocked side to side, struggling against fluorescent orange zip ties binding her to a chair. Earmuffs from her sound reducing rig covered her eyes. She gnawed at the blue bandanna wrapping her mouth. Her office door hung sideways on a single hinge. Beside her, The Exonerator’s screen was blank, its maw dark, empty as a black hole. Brian waded through hip-deep folders, lifted the earmuffs from Nelly’s eyes and loosened the bandanna from her mouth.
“I can’t reach my vape,” Nelly shouted, “I have a prescription. You’re denying me access to medical care.”
“I’m not denying you anything.”
“Who’s that?” She looked up.
“Brian Newell.”
“The new Pearl?” Squinting, she struggled against the zip ties. “For Christ’s sake, cut me free.”
“With what?”
“Jesus. Don’t men carry knives anymore?”
“You can’t bring weapons into public buildings.”
“Tell that to that bunch that tied me up.” She jerked her head toward her desk. “Check the top drawer.”
Brian struggled, dragging one leg after the other through waist high files and pulled open the desk’s top drawer. A narrow metal tray along its front held twisted blue elastic hair ties intertwined with strands of white hair. A nickel sized red, white and blue “McGovern for President” button nested in a pile of silver paperclips, red pens lay beside blue pencils, and a yellow birthday cake candle, wick blackened, a pink frosting crust at its base lay atop a pair of scissors with silver blades and red plastic grips. “Found your scissors,” he said.
“Great job, Columbus. How about you cut me free.”
Brian waded back through the files and clipped the zip ties.
Nelly stood, patting her chest. “See my glasses?”
Brian scanned the sea of files. He spotted a cracked lens to his left and twisted earpieces still attached to the bejeweled chain to his right. “They’re broken.”
“Bad?”
“I see two pieces.”
“Goddamn them to hell.” Nelly pulled the vape from her rear pocket, sucked a big inhale, and held her breath before releasing a pink fog into the air. Head dropping, she staggered, then straightened. “In my desk. Lowest drawer on the right.” She snapped her fingers. “Come on. Let’s see a little hustle.”
Brian wriggled back through the files, cleared a mess of paper away from the lowest drawer and pulled it open. A damp, navy blue bathing suit lay folded across a white towel. “There’s a wet bathing suit and a towel.”
“Under the towel. My swimming goggles.”
Brian pushed the suit and towel aside. Black framed goggles stared at him from the drawer’s bottom. “Found them.”
“Great job. How about you give them to me.”
Brian recrossed the files and handed her the goggles.
Nelly eased them over her head, adjusted the lens at each eye and focused on Brian. “Did Raul get away?”
Brian peered into Nelly’s eyes, framed by the black swimming goggles. “He climbed out a window before ICE broke down the door. They thought I was Raul.”
“You, Raul Mendoza? Wonder where those boys went to school.” She scanned the office. “What a mess. I hope they didn’t damage the machine.”
“That’s what you care about? That machine?”
“What should I care about?”
“They just blindfolded you and tied you to a chair.”
“And you cut me free.” She swept her hands across the files. “If I let every little interruption keep me from my job, I’d never get anything done. That’s the second time the feds paid me a visit today. The first ones didn’t get past the outer office. Education shows.”
“Right.” Brian said, nodding, though unsure what he agreed with. “I’ll just get my portfolio from Raul’s office and head back to the park.”
“Smart thinking, Einstein.”
Brian returned to Raul’s office. Broken glass ground against terrazzo underfoot. He retrieved his portfolio from the coffee table. He scanned the office: the ruined door; the pillaged humidor; the smoldering cigar; the broken chair; the empty rum glasses. Only the fan spinning overhead persevered.