favorite pastime outside the gym and the ring was a cold beer on the tailgate of an old pickup truck?
An answer drifted to the surface: that Kelly was as dead as Paloma.
“Motherfucker,” Kelly spat. He slugged the heavy bag once more and stepped away breathing hard. The trance was gone, the meditation of the hand-wrapping and the stillness in its wake. He could not think of Paloma and stay in the peaceful place, but now he could think of no one else.
He put his hands on the balcony rail and squeezed. He kept his eyes shut and tried to follow the splashes of light on the inside of his lids.
“Have I ever told you about my daughter?”
“No,” Kelly said aloud to the Sevilla of his dreams. When he opened his eyes it was all there: the city, the
Kelly unspooled his wraps. He stood under the shower for an hour in the dark, heedless of the cost. In his imagination he walked a field of pink crosses and every one of them had the name of someone he knew.
He considered calling Esteban. What Ella told Kelly, Esteban would want to know. But with his skin still wet from the shower, his muscles spent, his mouth finally cleansed of the taste of sour old tequila, Kelly did not want to talk about it. Besides, where Kelly went Esteban had surely gone, too. It would make sense. Esteban didn’t need Kelly telling him what he already knew.
Sevilla’s card was on the kitchen counter with other litter from the mailbox and Kelly’s pockets. Kelly waited a while before he dialed, but when he finally did there was no answer. He tried a second time. Before he called a third time, Kelly stopped himself; he had nothing to tell Sevilla anyway. But maybe Kelly simply wanted to learn about Sevilla’s daughter, or if he had one at all.
This time when he turned on the TV he was able to find some distraction for a while. He found himself looking at the clock too much and before midnight he switched off the television and all the lights and went to bed.
Sleep didn’t come right away because Kelly couldn’t close his eyes. Whenever he did, Paloma was there, so he had to will himself unconscious while staring at the ceiling. It made no difference, because when he drifted off Paloma came to join him in bed and he held her close to him and wept silently against the back of her neck and told her he loved her. Like always, she never told him she loved him back.
“Have I ever told you about my daughter?” Sevilla asked them. He was by the bed in his suit, smoking a cigarette in the dark.
Kelly yelled at Sevilla to get the hell out so he could be alone with Paloma, but when they were alone again Paloma said, “You should have let him tell you.”
“I don’t care,” Kelly replied. “I don’t care about anyone else but you.”
EIGHT
KELLY KNEW IT WAS SEVILLA knocking just from the sound of it. He stirred from sleep at the rap of knuckles on the door, less sure whether he was awake or still dreaming, but Paloma wasn’t with him and she would have been if it was a dream. Putting his hands over his face didn’t keep out light from the window. Sevilla knocked again, more insistent this time, and Kelly heard his voice: “Kelly? Open the door, Kelly.”
“Go away,” Kelly said, too quietly for anyone to hear. He clambered out of bed, pulled on sweats from the day before and made his way to the door. He unlatched the chain and turned the lock. He could almost feel Sevilla on the other side.
Sevilla had two armed policemen with him, one on either side. They were dressed in dark blue and black, armored and wearing plastic tactical helmets that looked like the kind skateboarders wore. Goggles covered their eyes. Between them, Sevilla looked smaller than usual, more rumpled than was customary for him. The bags beneath his eyes were heavier still.
“Kelly,” Sevilla said.
“What the hell?” Kelly replied.
The armed and armored police bulled past Sevilla and into the apartment. One stiff-armed Kelly and he stumbled backward. More cops came in pairs behind them: two more, four more… six. Suddenly there was shouting and the crash of things being knocked over, being broken, being trodden underfoot. Kelly grabbed the arm of the closest cop and the policeman’s partner clipped Kelly on the side of the head with the butt of his automatic weapon. Being struck made Kelly reel.
His hip connected with the edge of the couch. Two cops — maybe the same ones, maybe two more — charged into Kelly as one and lifted him bodily over the couch frame. They slammed him to the cushions. One put his knee on Kelly’s chest. More shouting followed, and the sound of shattering dishes in the sink.
Kelly wanted to yell at them, but the pressure of the knee kept his lungs from expanding. Kelly wriggled beneath the policeman. His hand flopped against the top of the coffee table, seeking purchase and finding none. The cop didn’t even look down at him. The urge to punch came and went; Kelly was not so far gone.
Sevilla appeared. He showed handcuffs to the big policeman. The pressure went away. Kelly sucked air hard enough to choke. The cop moved off. Sevilla helped Kelly sit up. “Put your hands behind your back,” Sevilla said.
“What the… what the hell?” Kelly asked again.
“Damn it, Kelly, put your hands behind your back or I can’t help you.”
Any other time Sevilla might have pushed him, Kelly would have been too hard to give. Now Sevilla turned Kelly, hooked one wrist in steel and then another. Cops in body armor were everywhere, opening everything, destroying what they found. The floor was littered in bits and fragments of broken things. Kelly saw a policeman rifling through his refrigerator and just tossing what he found onto the floor. More were in his bedroom, some with knives. They shredded the mattress he shared with Paloma.
“Now get up,” Sevilla told Kelly. His words were low, urgent and delivered right to Kelly’s ear, as if they could not afford to attract the attention of anyone around them. The police moved like a whirlwind and left nothing untouched. “Look at the floor. Don’t look anyone in the eyes.”
Kelly still felt the cop’s knee on his sternum. He let Sevilla get him to his feet and steer him toward the door. There were questions, a hundred questions, but he didn’t ask them.
Sevilla pointed Kelly toward the door. “I’m taking him out,” he said. “
One of the cops stopped what he was doing. Perhaps he was one of those first two through the door with Sevilla, but Kelly couldn’t be sure because he did as Sevilla commanded; his eyes were on the floor. “The captain said for you to wait.”
“I’m going to put him in the car. La Bestia can complain to me if he wants,” Sevilla said. He pushed Kelly forward, one hand on a forearm, another latched to Kelly’s waistband. He held Kelly closely, and once Kelly felt the hard shape of his weapon between them. “Move it, Kelly. No bullshit.”
They negotiated the door as still more cops came in. The sun blazed white outside. Kelly tried to raise his hand against the light, but his wrists were cinched behind him. He closed his eyes until he was nearly blind. Sevilla watched the way for both of them.
“Steps,” Sevilla said in Kelly’s ear. They went down. Murmured Spanish and moving shadows made Kelly look up. His neighbors watched from landings and balconies. He didn’t know their names or even most of their faces, but Kelly was ashamed nonetheless. His cheeks burned. Staring at his feet didn’t help now.
Police vehicles crowded the street such that even the pink telephone pole was invisible. In five years Kelly had never seen so many police in one place, even when the
“Here,” Sevilla said. His car was nestled among all the others, a simple vehicle without armor or gun ports or official seals. He steered Kelly to the back seat, held Kelly’s neck when he got in and then closed the door. Kelly let himself slump forward across the seat. His heart raced, but he felt drained, not invigorated. He was vaguely aware of Sevilla getting behind the wheel or turning over the engine. Kelly felt the air-conditioning start.
