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Benny jumped, choked, and coughed.
“Jumpy little thing, ain’t ya?” Maricela laughed. “Idiota, don’t yell at me. It’s under my bed. Just a little. It’s gotta last.”
“Just a little.” Juice disappeared.
Maricela pursued lips under the beginnings of a wispy, black mustache. Then she started after Juice. At the doorway, she crooked one skinny finger at Benny. Her yellow fingernails were long. “You come with me. Stay where I can keep an eye on you. I don’t know what Juice’s up to, but you figure in somehow.”
Benny tore one last bite of meat from the bone and followed her into the living room. The place reminded him of his mom’s apartment. Dirty clothes on the chairs; the springs of the couch showing through ripped fabric, newspapers piled in corners, empty pizza boxes on the coffee table. Smoke hung in the air so thick he coughed again.
“Sit.” She pointed at a chair a few feet from a big screen TV that blared MTV.
Juice had his feet up on a coffee table next to a needle and a long piece of rubber. Benny had seen that kind of stuff before. Scary stuff. “In a few hours I’m gonna have my ticket out of this town. You and me,hijo, you and me. And don’t you be thinking you’ll get out of here, go find your buddy, Daniel.SeñorDaniel is in the hospital. Yep. He’s sick. He may be dying. Dying like your momma died. Done died. Done dead.”
“No. He ain’t. No she ain’t!” Benny started to slide from his chair, the muscles in his arms and legs suddenly limp and weak. ‘You’re a liar. He ain’t sick. He ain’t dead. My mom ain’t dead neither, she’s in prison.”
Juice hopped up and whipped across the room. “You just keep believing that,m’ijo.” He started moving his hips and jumping around like he was dancing. “Man, I like this music. You like U2, man? How ’bout Mariah Carey? Great stuff. Come on, boy, get up, get up and dance with me, man. I love to dance.”
He dragged Benny from the chair. Benny’s legs were so bruised, he had could barely stand. Juice sneered. “You don’t know how to dance, son? Man, that Shawna, what kind of mother was she? Here, I’ll show you. A good daddy shows his son how to dance.”
Juice hopped around and jumped up and down. Suddenly, he switched to an air guitar, dipping forward and backward, his head thrown back, eyes closed, face screwed up with excitement. “You play the guitar?”
He didn’t wait for Benny to answer. “I always wanted to play, never had no money for the guitar or the lessons. But I do a mean air guitar. Maybe when I get the money, I can buy you a guitar. You like that, little man?”
Benny tried to think. He didn’t want to make Juice mad. It was nice to offer to buy him a guitar. Nobody ever did that. Juice seemed okay sometimes, like he was really thinking he was Benny’s dad. Maybe he was. So where’d he been all this time? Why was he back now?
“Well, would you? Come on, kid. Are you retarded or what? Answer me, man.”
When Benny didn’t answer, Juice abandoned his fake guitar. His hand smashed into Benny’s face. His face on fire, he jolted back and landed on his rear end. “Answer me when I talk to you. That’s the respectful thing to do. When a dad asks a question, the son answers. Understand me? Understand?
“Yes.” Benny whispered.
“Yes what?”
“Yes . . . sir?”
“That’s better.” Juice staggered from the room.
Benny didn’t think so. And he was sure Juice wasn’t his dad.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Alex pounded on the metal trailer door again, harder.
The ride over had given him time to think about his approach. He would confront Chavez straight on. Lay it out for him. No sympathetic lead-in. Either the guy killed his daughter, and his wife took the kids and ran because she was afraid, or Clarisse Chavez killed Nina and ran for fear of what her husband would do when he found out. One way or the other, someone was going down for it. And Tómas Chavez was the only person within handcuff range at the moment. If he ever came to the door.
Alex pounded until his fist hurt.
The door jerked open. Chavez’s bleary stare, rumpled T-shirt, and jeans suggested he’d either been sleeping or passed out in a drunken haze. Alex could smell his body odor and the stench of cigarette smoke wafting around him. Chavez rubbed at the dark stubble on his cheeks and then scratched his posterior. He hacked and coughed. “You got news?”
“Yeah, I got news.”
Chavez moved aside. The smell of alcohol got stronger. Alex stopped at the edge of the tiny living room. Chavez shut the door and shuffled into the kitchen without looking at Alex. “So.” The sound of cabinet doors slamming and glass clinking followed the inquiry.
“So, maybe you should have a seat.”
Chavez returned to the living room, a glass of amber liquid in one hand. He didn’t offer anything to Alex. “It’s Nina.”
Alex nodded. “Yeah. It’s Nina.”
