“You’re so dead!”
“Someday,” said Serge. “Save me a seat.”
As previously instructed, Coleman walked behind their guest.
Raul glanced over his shoulder, then back at Serge. “What are you going to do to me?”
“Here’s a critical fact you need to remember,” said Serge. “No matter how much you panic, the closest source of water is the toilet.”
“Why do I need to know where water is?”
Guillermo raced around number 24.
“Sure he didn’t slip out without you seeing him?” asked Miguel.
“Positive. Never took my eyes off the room.” Guillermo opened the sliding glass door and looked down off the balcony. He came back in with a puzzled look. “What could have happened to him?”
“It’s like he vanished into thin air.”
On the other side of the wall, Serge tapped his nose. That was Coleman’s cue. He flicked a disposable lighter behind Raul and touched it to the Bacardi 151 in his hair.
Raul’s hands shot up. “
“The toilet!” yelled Serge, pointing toward the bathroom. “Don’t forget the toilet!”
Raul ran by screaming.
“I love flamb-,” said Serge.
“But there isn’t any water in the toilet,” said Coleman. “You filled it with another bottle of one fifty-one.”
“Did I do that?”
“
Guillermo heard the hysterical screaming in Serge’s room. But then, there was even louder yelling from spring breakers in the unit on the other side.
“Guillermo…,” said Miguel, picking up a towel dropped in front of the dresser.
“Quiet. I’m trying to think.” Guillermo slowly rotated. He stopped and stared at the adjoining door. “What is it?” asked Miguel. “The next room. That’s it.”
Guillermo ran over and opened the first door but the second was locked. He put his shoulder into it. The door gave slightly, but the deadbolt held. He hit it again.
“Serge,” said Coleman, watching Raul run in frantic circles, slapping the top of his head, “I think I hear someone trying to knock down that side door.”
“Right on schedule. This is going to be tight timing.” Serge grabbed Raul by the arm and pointed. “The sink! Water in the sink!”
Raul ran.
Coleman stepped up next to Serge and looked toward the kitchenette. “More one fifty-one?”
“That would be repetitive. One-ninety-proof grain alcohol.”
A shoulder hit the side door again.
Coleman looked at the ceiling. “Why aren’t the sprinklers going off?”
“He’s not staying in one place long enough, and alcohol burns at a low temperature,” said Serge. “But he still doesn’t like it.”
“
Another shoulder into the door. This time the frame began to fracture.
“The pool!” Serge pointed at the open sliding glass doors. “Water in the pool! You can make it!”
Raul dashed across the room and never broke stride as he dove off the balcony.
Serge and Coleman ran out and looked over the railing.
“Oooooh,” said Coleman. “He didn’t make it.”
Guillermo had given up on his shoulder and pulled a.380 automatic, preparing to shoot his way through.
Suddenly, even louder shrieking from some kind of pandemonium outside.
“Guillermo!” Miguel shouted from the balcony. “Come quick! The patio! I think I found him!”
Guillermo ran to the railing. People splashed water from the pool onto a smoldering Raul.
“Serge,” said Coleman. “The guy stopped trying to knock down the door.”
“Shhhhhh!” Serge counted under his breath. “Five, six, seven… They must be out on the balcony now, trying to figure where their pal fell from… Escape window just opened!”
They ran out the door and down the stairs. “I get the
Guillermo leaned over the balcony, tracing Raul’s flight trajectory up to the next room. “Miguel! Quick!” He ran back inside and unceremoniously shot the locks off the connecting door with excess ammunition.
They rushed inside. Empty but recently occupied.
Miguel fanned his nose. “Jesus, what is that smell?”
“Liquor.”
Another urgent room sweep. They checked the bathroom, closet, under beds. Then a second round. Guillermo ran past the TV and hit the brakes. He looked back. “Fuck me.”
“What is it?” asked Miguel.
They both looked on top of the television. A propped-up envelope. In big letters across the front: GUILLERMO.
He tore open the flap and pulled out a get-well card.
Chapter Thirty-Six
GUILLERMO
Back in the nineties, Juanita was always taking in strays.
Young street boys looking for trouble.
She waited in a Mercedes outside the county jail.
Her extended family was growing in both size and loyalty. She should have been a psychiatrist.
Guillermo was barely eighteen when he finished a three-month stretch for petty larceny. He walked out the back of the jail with two plastic bags of personal junk and no direction.
Juanita rolled down her window. “You need a place to stay?”
“What do I have to do?”
“Whatever I tell you.”
He got in.
To the cast of surrogate sons, she was the mother they never had. To Juanita, it was business.
Guillermo quickly became her most valuable asset. Grooming time.
One Saturday afternoon, he sat alone watching TV in a Spanish stucco house south of Miami. The Mercedes returned from jail.
Juanita came through the front door. “Guillermo, this is Ricky.”
“Hey.”
She set her purse on the table and removed a blood-pressure gauge. “Ricky, come here.”
“What’s that for?”
“Just put out your arm.”
Juanita fastened Velcro and pumped a rubber bulb. She reached in her purse again and handed Ricky a nine- millimeter automatic with a full clip and an empty chamber.
“Guillermo, stand up.”
