Mickey sauntered inside Chez Borneau with a swagger the two waitresses could not ignore. He would cash two paychecks in less than two weeks. Would there be another after these two paychecks? He didn’t know. Still, Mickey felt great about himself because he would get paid. Perhaps he would go on a date with that other waitress, Fátima. But he didn’t see her there that Monday morning. Did she quit her job? Or was she fired?

Located west of the Florida Turnpike bridge in Delray Beach, Chez Borneau served anything but French food. The place was rather famous for its tortilla espagnole and barbacoa and suadero tacos and for serving those hard-working folks on their lunch breaks. Most of these workers made a brief stop there, then ate their food on their way back to work. The walls, painted with a mixture of apricot and bronze that looked like maple syrup, had no photographs or posters of historical figures or celebrities on them. In addition to the three stools at the counter, the place could accommodate just twenty-three diners.

Janette had worked there for the past eight years since the restaurant changed hands. Yet, Mickey had never seen her before because he only stopped by on weekends during the closing hours and she would have gone home. The other waitress was new. Slim, with long legs in her square neckline dress, she was twenty two years old, half Janette’s age. She thought Mickey was homeless from the outset. She also thought he was trying to flirt with her when he made a beeline for the counter across from where she had been cleaning one of the ten tables inside the restaurant. Mickey’s smile broadened with every step, in his black steel-toed boots and dirty khaki pants the closer he got to the new waitress. Smoking her cigarette near the front door, Janette thought otherwise. She thought him to be a construction worker on his lunch break who had earned a big fat raise and needed to buy himself lobsters, although the restaurant would open in twenty minutes. At eleven thirty.

It wasn’t until Crazy Paco, with his pencil-thin mustache, emerged from the kitchen with a cup of coffee and two pieces of bagel with over-easy eggs that the two women realized they were wrong. “You have ten minutes, Mickey.” Mickey had heard this before, except this time, Crazy Paco’s voice entailed a more serious tone. Why not fifteen minutes? Mickey wanted to ask but didn’t see the point since he knew why Crazy Paco had said it. He never knew a restaurant that liked to serve anyone before it opened, no matter how famished the customers were.  “Ten minutes, Mickey,” Crazy Paco said again, although he had not seen Mickey in two months. Before answering the ringing phone on the wall, he nodded in Janette’s direction and told Mickey in a quieter voice, “It’s nice meeting the boss lady after all, isn’t it?”

Mickey understood what Crazy Paco meant: Janette must have been the co-owner of the establishment alongside her husband, and if anyone needed a job, they had better be nice to her. Yet, when Mickey waved at Janette, she ignored him. His forehead creased a little at the muted TV screen. President George W. Bush had been stressing the urgent need for a ceasefire of the Russo-Georgian War, which had broken out recently. Nonetheless, Mickey took some interest in Janette, lurking at the entrance. She was struggling to tiptoe under her hefty weight so she could peer outside through the small porthole on the vintage wooden door.

“New face. Who’s the new girl, eh?” Mickey asked.

Crazy Paco couldn’t answer because he was still on the phone. However, he had much to observe about Mickey’s appearance that morning. Mickey looked quite aged and tiresome from just two months ago, as though he had not slept in an eternity. His bedraggled black hair and grungy beard only added to that impression.

Mickey reached inside his chest pocket, forgetting he had the three ten-dollar bills inside his wallet. He figured half of it could get him a nice haircut, but he was thinking of personal hygiene first—toothpaste, soap, and shampoo. The haircut would have to wait for another week or so. What was the point of a haircut and clean shave if he could not keep his teeth clean?

“Put it away,” Crazy Paco said. He hung up the phone. “Your money’s no good here, chief. You know that.”

“Had me some work recently, Mr. César. Houses, road repairs, anything I could find. Anywhere, anyhow. Lots of hours. Made plenty of overtime and everything. This past week, I was down in Fort Lauderdale. We finished up late last night. First thing this morning, I hitched a ride and brought my black ass up here.” Mickey crunched the last piece of bagel. The smell of the fresh coffee, which he had tasted only twice, made him want to eat everything before drinking it. “You’re a good man, Mr. César. Appreciate that,” he said after noticing the young waitress’ eyes on him. “Who’s the new face?”

Crazy Paco kept wiping the glasses, pretending he had not heard a thing. Janette sidled toward the counter, ready to answer Mickey’s next line of questioning regarding Fátima without giving Crazy Paco a chance to interrupt.

“Where Fátima at? Did you fire her or something?” Mickey asked.

“Quit,” Janette said.

“Quit?”

“That’s right. Q-U-I-T. She quit. She works across the street—the Cantaloupe Flip. Going on six weeks now, I think.”

“The Cantaloupe Flip? Are you sure?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. It just seems a bit rushed, that’s all. You know, too soon? Don’t you think so?”

For a moment, Janette didn’t feel the least obliged to retort.

Mickey darted a glance at Janette over his shoulder. He disliked the frown across her round face at once. Her face bore many old sunburn marks. The deepness in her voice surprised him. If he, and Crazy Paco for that matter, carried her voice, their manliness would be complimented and taken with even more seriousness. Mickey had figured Fátima would feel more at home working at Chez Borneau than at the Cantaloupe Flip. He wondered if either of them knew that it was Fátima’s birthday.

“Why don’t you get the hell out of here?” Janette said as her chest contacted the counter, one seat from Mickey. Would he like to lick the plate, too? Lord, how could anyone lick their fingers like this? “Did you not hear me? It’s not like I wanna be rude here, it’s just that customers will be coming in here in a few minutes.”

The new waitress, who understood not a single word, handed over a handful of paper towels to Mickey. Nonetheless, her face tightened because she sensed that Janette’s words could not have been anything nice. At this juncture, Mickey could tell she was less bashful than Fátima despite Fátima’s moderate English-speaking skills.

Mickey smiled at her with his gaze locked on those gorgeous, piercing eyes for a moment before asking in fair Spanish, “¿Cómo te llamas, mi amor?”

“Isabel.”

“Where are you from?”

“Guatemala.”

“Guatemala. Land of many trees?”

“Yes.”

Mickey swigged every last drop of his coffee and said between pauses, “Ms. Proprietor . . . Mr. proprietor . . . Señorita Isabel, so long.” Mickey got off his seat, and just as he had done before, he made a beeline for the exit to make room for paying customers. At the door, he exchanged goodbye gestures with Isabel which ended in a swift but awkward spin because of his boots.

Isabel suppressed her laughter with her hand over her mouth.

Meanwhile, Janette’s glare grew even more vicious until Mickey was out of sight.

Soon, the expression on Isabel’s face vanished as a police officer—an albino-looking man with a ponytail—emerged from the hallway. “Is everything okay?” he asked Janette, where he stood under the ceiling lights, glittering against his rosy-pale face as he wiped his hands with paper towels. “Who the hell was that?”

“Nobody,” Janette said.

“Are you sure?”

Both Janette and Crazy Paco nodded while the dispatcher’s voice came on the officer’s walkie-talkie.

“All right. See you guys later,” the officer said and waved at Isabel with the sunniest smile he could manage. When Janette jerked her head to direct her vexation at Crazy Paco, her husband had already departed for the kitchen. She stomped after him.

*

Born and raised in Nuevo Laredo, Mexico, Crazy Paco didn’t cross the U.S. side of the border until he was twenty-four. He soon found himself in Florida, where he met Janette a year later at a junkyard in Miami. He still remembered the first thing they said to each other: “I’ve never met a broke American girl before.” “Janette Borneau. French Canadian, to be exact,” she said. His ability to make her laugh and even guffaw came at a critical time in her life. She had already dropped out of college, and her stepmother thought she was on the verge of depression.

Half of Chez Borneau’s customers were Latinos—farmworkers from Pero Family Farms, landscaping, and construction workers alike who didn’t speak any English.

For this reason alone, it made perfect sense that the Césars hired mostly Latinos. The less English the girls spoke, the better since Crazy Paco himself had long mastered the art of Spanglish. Overall, they were undocumented migrants with families left abroad, and Janette preferred them because she found it easier to keep them in line. Some didn’t even have money to buy a hamburger after they landed ashore on the Florida coast in pursuit of the great American dream. Those who could afford a place to sleep were considered privileged and lucky enough among themselves not to be disrespected or taken advantage of.

One of the short-order cooks was busy preparing chopped vegetables swimming in sweet, hot tomato sauces. Janette hit Crazy Paco with a food service towel, stopping him in his tracks. “What’s this guy’s deal? And don’t tell me to calm down, cuz I won’t. Why the hell was he asking about Fátima like she owed him money or something?”

Crazy Paco set the empty mug and plate down and then walked into the short hallway that separated the office on the right side from the kitchen. Janette followed him, nerve-wracking, unable to take the silence any longer. “Guy’s okay,” Crazy Paco said at last. Despite the Anglepoise desk lamp, were it not for the black open window blinds, bathed in the reflection from the sun, one could not read anything in the office since the ceiling light was out. “I think,” Crazy Paco said, “he used to live up north—Daytona Beach area. He fell on hard times. That’s all.”

“That’s not what I had in mind when I suggested we could use an extra hand. I’m telling you I don’t trust him.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“For all we know, he could be a rat sniffing around. Goddam pigs.”

“Who said anything about giving him a job? I just helped the poor guy out a couple of times. What’s wrong with that? It’s just food we’re going to throw in the trash anyway.” He pulled out a dusty copy of the Daytona Beach News-Journal from a drawer, ripped a page from it, folded it up, and threw it in her face. “Happy now?”

Janette stretched it out and turned it over. The second article on that page featured a headshot of Mickey, “Substitute Teacher Mike Anderson Arrested on DUI Charges After Crash.” This did nothing to calm her fears. Janette peered at the date—three years ago—and wondered where Crazy Paco had gotten it from. His boastfulness about how resourceful he could be bothered her even more. His acquisition of such an old newspaper reaffirmed her suspicion that he was interested in the stranger all along. But if anything, what could he have told Mickey even if he were drunk one night before closing up?

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Janette said. “What the hell did he want with Fátima? Was she screwing him too?”

“After everything we’ve been through, you still don’t trust me? What’s it going to take?”

Janette stormed away.

Crazy Paco reached inside the drawer for a framed photograph. It showed a slender Janette screaming her lungs out in his ears with her tongue sticking out. His recollection of this particular picture could not come soon enough: New Year’s Eve, a rock concert in downtown West Palm Beach, 1995. The day before this event, they went to the seashore and dined nearby at a seafood restaurant. How fun and flattering he found  it to be called crazy by a woman for his prudence not to get carried away to make a quick buck! Those were the images he wanted to reflect upon now—times when he had hoped to get into the landscaping business instead of some damn restaurants. Times when they had just two credit cards and no massive loans to pay back before Janette became pregnant with twins. The smile on his face vanished. He slammed the drawer shut with a growl.

*

Mickey decided to ride his bike home without stopping at the Cantaloupe Flip. It wouldn’t open for another two hours. Mickey put the birthday present he had bought for Fátima around his neck: a cross made of carved wood with a silver chain. This bargain from a swap shop on Sunrise Boulevard cost him seventeen dollars plus tax. For some reason, when he first laid eyes on it, he had a fantastic feeling that she would love it.

The four-mile ride to U.S. 441 on West Delray Beach left Mickey’s face and collars dampened from the sun. He spat to the ground when he passed Pero Family Farms on the left side of the road. Mickey had no reason to despise the gigantic facility. This was just his natural pique at the farm for not calling him even once for a job interview. He figured he could do some administrative work there, and even serve as a Spanish translator when and if needed. Just a five-minute walk from his trailer park, he wouldn’t have to use the bicycle. The usual dusty dirt road that led to the 300-square-foot home remained sticky from yesterday’s rain. Standing on one side of an abandoned antique store, the place itself looked beat with an old rusty color.

On the contrary, the interior presented quite a different picture. Not a sanctuary like a Tom Cruise trailer, as Fátima boasted when Mickey first brought her home. However, Mickey had managed to acquire very modest furniture and keep everything as spotless as he could. Mickey dropped a huge pile of letters onto a small console table, removed the necklace, and put it on the letters. He then shaved, took a shower, and fell asleep a few hours later on the fern-green couch after rubbing his eyes with his fingertips.

When he woke up, Mickey found himself in darkness. He had to fumble about to find the light switch. Mickey looked now with his mustache like a young Carl Weathers in his mid-thirties. The alarm clock on the table beside the mail showed a quarter to eight. As he checked the letters, his face lit up, spotting a three-by-five envelope from Fátima. He sat with enthusiasm and read the first half of the letter aloud, then the rest in thorny silence.

I’m writing this to you because you care enough and are the only one I can trust. I’d either be back home or dead by the time you read this. Don’t trust Crazy Paco, especially his wife. They’re not who I thought they were. Please don’t look for me or ask questions about me. But please do whatever you can to get the new girl out of there. Don’t go to the cops.

PS: I just wish we’d met years before, somewhere else, a different time.

Mickey sucked in his breath. He leaned forward with his face all scrunched up, stunned. Get the new girl out of there? Why exactly? Nowhere in the letter had Fátima hinted at what happened to her or what sort of danger loomed over Isabel. He thought about phoning the restaurant to ask to speak with Fátima, except he didn’t have a phone book.

Nonetheless, images of Fátima from the past soon bombarded Mickey’s mind. A twenty-five-year-old with bow-shaped lips interested in him despite their age difference. Coral-colored purse. She had long black hair kept in place with a royal blue beret hat. His thoughts comprised vague glimpses of her in blue jeans and a burnt sienna T-shirt, making fun of his Spanish dialect and salsa grooves, until his eyes became fixated toward the kitchen. Now, Mickey could recall with absolute clarity one particular breezy afternoon. Now, he could hear her tender voice, the sweet echo of her subtle laughter ringing in his ears. At the time, Fátima could not have been working at Chez Borneau for more than five months.

Mickey’s shoulder prickled at another memory of Fátima. This time, on her second and last visit to the trailer, she needed someone to talk to because she was in a grim mood. He remembered his left hand beneath her chin, the other on her shoulder—oh, how much he had wanted to kiss her for the first time without any interruption. But her eyes had glistened with tears, unable to stop talking about a stupid party that Crazy Paco had brought her to as a cocktail waitress to earn extra money. That stupid albino guy. Ugly ponytail. I hate his ponytail, Mickey. He tried to force himself on me, but I stopped him. Now, Mickey felt he should have done more than merely listen to Fátima. Why didn’t he do more? All he had told Fátima was that he had to step out to fill out job applications.

Mickey let out a deep sigh. He feared that this awkward encounter might be the last time he ever saw Fátima. How could he ever accept that? He didn’t even know where she lived. God, he should never have waited two long months to call her or go back to Chez Borneau. He raised the letter to his nose, smelled it, turned it over, eyes closed, deep in thought. Then, he hopped on his bike and rode at full speed to the Cantaloupe Flip.

*

The beautiful black girl in uniform Mickey talked to right outside the Cantaloupe Flip turned out to be the very waitress who had trained Fátima. She dropped the peach-mango lollipop she was eating into a trashcan on the side of the busy sidewalk after noticing Mickey’s eyes on her lips. At first, she spoke as though the authorities were questioning her. Nonetheless, she maintained her cool.

“How many weeks would you say she worked here before she left?” Mickey asked, keeping the bicycle still with his hand pressed down on the saddle.

“Weeks? More like three days.”

Mickey’s face fell. “What?”

“She—she was like, um, acting strangely on the last day.”

“Strangely? How?”

“Like she was being followed. She didn’t confide in me, but I sensed it. You do understand what I mean, correct? It’s just another way of saying she was looking over her shoulder.” She paused and waited until a Pepsi truck rumbled past the restaurant to speak again. During the lull, she caught a glimpse at her watch: nine o’clock. “By the time she took her lunch break, I thought she would ask to go home or something. She finished her shift . . . but quite on edge.”

“Did you see anyone talk to her or approach her?” The young woman shook her head. “So, what happened when you guys called her? You know when she didn’t show up for work anymore? Me—I kept getting this disconnected phone message. Uh, since, like, Saturday, I believe. Her birthday was coming up, and I needed to see her.”

“Oh, I believe she returned home.”

“Cuba?”

“That’s correct. I believe that’s where she’s from.” The young woman licked one corner of her mouth and went on, “Her phone disconnected? I don’t know about that. She still had a phone. And yes, it was working just fine. Who knows? Maybe she changed her number.”

Mickey thanked her for her help, then crossed the four-way intersection on foot, dashing into the small plaza to Chez Borneau, which was still open. He took out the necklace from his pocket and tried to picture Fátima wearing it. In a trance, Mickey’s head drooped over the handlebars of the bike; his thoughts drifting into the past, Fátima’s voice echoed anew in his head: He tried to force himself on me in the bathroom, but I stopped him. Wasn’t even a real party, Mickey. Just six guys playing cards, watching sports. Mickey rubbed his eyes and pocketed the necklace.

As Mickey glided past the second-row parking lot on the bike, he noticed the police cruiser that pulled up in front of Chez Borneau. His face dropped after the albino police officer emerged from the vehicle. Son of a bitch! I better find out what the hell’s going on here. Had Mickey not glanced back one last time, he would have missed the man.

His heart thumping, Mickey made a complete U-turn. He left the bike behind and scurried after the albino officer around the back of the restaurant, where both Janette and Crazy Paco were waiting in the corridor. Mickey hunkered down behind a dumpster in the shadows, poking out his head just enough to see and listen.

“You just missed her. She left just a while ago,” Janette said after the officer demanded to see Isabel. He didn’t mention her by name or insinuate, new girl. Yet, Mickey could tell that their conversation entailed Isabel because Janette said, “She’s from Guatemala City; she got the finest legs I’ve ever seen. Don’t you think so?” This resulted in a satisfying laugh from the officer. Janette stepped away from the door to offer him a cigarette. “From the looks of it, I don’t think she’s got any family or close friends around here,” Janette said. She watched the man take a long draw from the cigarette. “I could be wrong about that, too. I don’t know. Why don’t you give us a couple of months? You know, just to make sure. That way, we minimize the risks on our end.”

The officer’s voice became stern. “Three weeks. That’s all you got. Now, you hear me good, Janette. Get your shit together. Three weeks.”

“Is this about Fátima?” Janette asked.

“What do you think?”

“Well, case in point. As you can see, we’re the ones taking all the risks here. I don’t see what the problem is. Just—”

“She’s right,” Crazy Paco said. “Don’t you get that?”

“I’ll tell you what I get, Puto. We had a sweet-ass little deal going. Everything was ready to go, then at the last minute, you messed it all up. How in the hell are we supposed to expand what we got going on here if you can’t keep it together? Huh? All you had to do was keep an eye on her.”

“Oh, ain’t that the truth,” Crazy Paco said. “You’re the one who couldn’t control the little pickle in your pants. Not me, officer. So, this one’s on you. I’m not gonna just stand here and listen to your bull—”

The officer sprang forward and grabbed Crazy Paco by the throat. “Don’t let me put my foot up your ass, Puto. Trust me; you won’t like it. Like I said, three weeks. When I give you that call, you better get your shit ready, Paco.”

“Don’t worry,” Janette said. “You won’t be disappointed this time. That’s for damn sure.”

Mickey rode home that night, feeling a heavy burden on his shoulders, like a man who had been diagnosed with an incurable disease. Now, he understood Fátima’s warning not to trust the police and the Césars. Still, his mind burned with one question: What on earth happened to the girls working at Chez Borneau?

To answer this question, Mickey took his bike on Tuesday morning to Atlantic Avenue, where he boarded the Palm Tran bus to the local library. Less than one minute after he locked the bike and aimed for the library entrance, the waitress from the Cantaloupe Flip exited the two-story building. “Oh, hey. It’s you again,” she said. Her eyes shifted from his black baseball cap to his white T-shirt with the words “Run-DMC” all embroidered on it in red. “Nice T-shirt,” she said with a broad smile. Her cell phone in one hand, she brushed strands of natural black curls from her eyes with the other, making the three bangle bracelets on her arm clang and gleam in the ten o’clock sun.

“Céline, right? What are you doing here?”

“Returning some tedious books, among other things. You?”

That was when Mickey realized that he would need a library card to access the computers. After explaining to Céline his delicate situation vis-à-vis his library card suspension, Céline decided to help. Inside the library, Mickey was unsure what to look for, so he began by googling Janette and Paco César. Céline disenthralled herself from her cell phone when Mickey made an irritated sigh. “What are you looking for?” she asked.

“Anything sinister I could find about that place—Chez Borneau.” “Like what?” she asked, unaware that he had typed “Delray Beach missing girls” in the search box. “Allow me to make a suggestion. Why don’t you start with the name of the restaurant instead? You know, just write Chez—did you say Chez Borneau?” She had just spotted the words “missing girls.”

Mickey saw Céline’s face crumple in discomfort as she leaned back in her chair. “What’s up?” he asked.

“Nothing.” Just then, thoughtful, she said, “Yeah, I do remember reading a story about a missing girl who used to work there. Definitely.”

“What was her name?”

Céline pondered over this. “I think her name was Paola. Don’t remember her last name, though.” She sputtered because the last name would have been much help to Mickey.

“And when was that?” Mickey asked while typing the words “missing waitress Paola Chez Borneau” in the search box.

“Last year. At the end of the summer, right before I signed up for my classes.”

Mickey clicked on the first link that came up in the search: a CBS News article entitled, “Search for 22-Year-Old Paola Sanchez Continues.” Céline motioned to Mickey to scroll up the page so that the thirty-second video clip buffering on it could play. Mickey’s heart began to race as he watched the albino police officer asking anyone with vital information regarding Paola Sanchez to come forward. The officer’s name was Kurt Hargrove. The ponytail, a soft reddish-blonde color, looked much shorter.

“What can I do?” Céline asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I want to help. Okay?”

*

Mickey removed his sweaty hands from his pockets and was just about to check the time on his watch when he spotted Céline returning from Chez Borneau. It was early dusk, and he was waiting outside the Cantaloupe Flip. The sign of anxiety he couldn’t hide on his face even if he wanted to morph into relief. His cheeks broadened with a smile as he hastened down the sidewalk, dodging pedestrians to meet Céline halfway.

“Much better this time, that’s for sure,” Céline said. “Not just pics. Got videos, too. Still kind of sucks, though, without the audio.” She wore a casual outfit with Mickey’s baseball cap.

They sat on a backless wooden bench, and Mickey kept nodding as she swiped cozy pictures on her cell phone—the Césars in cahoots with the albino police officer. “You know something? I do appreciate what—” Mouth hung open, Mickey stopped mid-sentence and leaned forward to see one particular photo much better: the officer appeared to be shouting at Crazy Paco with bellicose hand gestures.

“You’ve seen those already, remember?” Céline said.

“Just wished I knew exactly what the squabble was about this time. Anyway, Isabel’s shift is almost over, but you can go home now if you want.” He saw Céline scowl at him. It was her day off; she would rather help him than socialize with her friends. “Thanks for doing this, mama.”

She suppressed a smile, and then asked, “Hey, what if she decides she doesn’t want to play along in the last minute?”

“I don’t think she’ll change her mind. How hard could it be to show some excitement? Show you’re being grateful because you’re asked to make some extra money. That’s all she has to do.”

“Okay,” she said. She returned the baseball cap to Mickey. “But do you know what I was thinking? A stun gun. I think we should get her a stun gun. Just to be safe.”

Mickey, who seemed to consider the idea, tilted his head back to the brown soffit ceiling and slapped his knee at once with the baseball cap. Why had he not thought of this? He laughed because, for the first time, he came to have a lot more confidence in their plan.

When he had talked to Isabel in the afternoon following his encounter with Céline at the library, Isabel claimed that she didn’t know Fátima. Her reluctance to get involved with him and Céline faltered after Mickey disclosed the letter sent from Fátima. “You won’t have to do anything risky,” Mickey told her. “All I need to know for now is where that so-called party will be so I can check out the place beforehand. ¿comprender?”

*

After two turbulent weeks, Mickey sat in Céline’s brand-new white Toyota Corolla parked in front of Isabel’s two-story apartment building on Linton Avenue, overlooking the I-95 freeway. Only in his wildest dreams could he ever imagine that he would be staking out here like some undercover cop.

Céline was outside under a young slash pine tree, talking on the phone with her ex-boyfriend. When she returned to the car, she found Mickey singing a rather despondent tune in Spanish. She turned to him with a moderate smile. This prompted him to stroke the sides of his newly faded, clean haircut, which she found not too different from her brother’s. “So,” she said, “where did you learn how to speak Spanish, Mr. Anderson?”

“Friends, I guess. Even though I took it in high school. The secret is, it gets better and better if you keep using it every now and then.”

After a while, Céline said, “When all this is over—and I know we’ll pull it off—you owe me a drink. Okay?”

“Okay. But I don’t drink—not anymore.”

“How come?”

“Got myself in enough trouble.”

“Punched the wrong guy?”

“Worse.”

At five o’clock sharp, Mickey saw Crazy Paco’s pickup truck pull up, and Janette climbed out. Mickey hunched down in his seat and covertly took pictures.

 Just then, Isabel walked out of her apartment in a casual blue dress. “I hope she took the gun with her,” Mickey said.

“God, I was just gonna say that,” Céline said.

Mickey took several shots of Isabel getting into the truck, then they started to follow it.

When the pickup truck turned south on Dixie Highway, Céline kept some distance behind it. “I know we’re not expecting an actual party to be happening there,” Céline said, “but what if there’s more than one guy? In fact, what about a house full of people? What’s Isabel gonna do with just a little stun gun?”

“We’ll handle it. Didn’t we talk about that?”

Céline decelerated when the pickup truck came to a halt with a squeal. Mickey pointed to a grassy dirt area where the truck soon made a left turn to make its final destination at the second house on a residential street. “Pull over now, over there,” Mickey said. “Don’t turn off the engine.”

They could see only one vehicle parked in front of the house as the truck pulled up. “Relax, mama,” Mickey said. “We’re doing just fine. Stay here.” He left his camera in the car and got out. He used Céline’s fancier cell phone instead to document as Janette and Isabel climbed out of the truck and headed for the front door, which opened straightaway.

Less than one minute after the two women went inside, Janette walked out of the house. She started the truck, prompting Mickey to take one final snapshot of the woman before bolting back to the car.

“Oh, my God, Mickey, she’s leaving,” Céline said. “What now? How long do we wait?”

“I told you, five minutes. Cinco minutos. Good thing is . . . it doesn’t look like there’s a party going on. How many cars do you see outside? But if there’s more than one guy in there, she’s gonna ask to use the restroom first before giving us a buzz. That’s the plan, so we wait.”

“I know. But don’t you think that’s way too long? Something might go wrong. Comprenez-vous? Why won’t you listen to—?”

They lowered their heads and held their breath while the pickup truck rumbled past the car.

Five minutes later, Mickey glanced at Céline’s cell phone before handing it back to her and said, “Okay. Now, I’m gonna check it out.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?”

“I’m sure.”

Céline sputtered.

“Listen, if you don’t hear from me in, like, three minutes, call the police. Say you just saw Paola Sanchez at a house . . . the Honduran girl who’s been missing, like, forever. Say you heard gunshots. Okay?” Céline nodded, then watched Mickey stride toward the house.

Mickey rang the doorbell. Strange—how normal his breathing became again. No sweating hands or weakened legs, he looked like a man with a proven plan from the start. This proved to be the case until the door opened, revealing Officer Kurt Hargrove, unflinching, relaxed in a crumpled T-shirt that boasted, “ANY HOLE IS A GOAL” in carrot orange letters. Mickey froze. The hair on his arms stood on end, his mouth agape.

“Hey there. What can I do for you?”

That very second, Isabel surfaced behind Officer Hargrove and zapped him in the back of the neck with her stun gun.

*

Tied up in a metal armchair with his hands and legs bound with duct tape, Officer Hargrove growled and struggled despite the fresh bruises on his face. Mickey put a piece of tape over his mouth, then dropped the duct tape on the gray board floor where he had found it. He believed Officer Hargrove was going to use it to hold Isabel against her will.

Mickey surveyed the house while Isabel called Céline on her cell phone. Mickey could not find one family picture, except for the two photographs atop the coffee table that featured Officer Hargrove alongside his fellow police officers in uniform. Displayed on the wall that divided the kitchen and dining room was an American Civil War rifle. A celadon-green-colored, old-fashioned mini-refrigerator against a closet in the hallway seemed to be the sole utensil out of place. Mickey exhaled a deep breath, shaking his head in disbelief at how spotless the house was. It smelled sweet and waxy.

“Let me see your phone,” Mickey said to Céline when she came in. He then approached Officer Hargrove and removed the tape from his mouth while Céline and Isabel left to inspect the house.

“Untie me, goddamn it! Now!” Officer Hargrove said, spraying spittle in Mickey’s face.

Mickey didn’t flinch. “Where is Fátima?” he asked.

“Who?”

“Are we gonna do this now?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You better pray that girl is alive.” Mickey showed Officer Hargrove the pictures on Céline’s phone.

“What the fuck is this? They don’t mean anything. What the hell is going on here? Whatever the fuck this is, you either got the wrong guy, or you’re having a real shitty day!”

Mickey swiped one more picture and asked, “Does this one mean anything?” The picture exposed Officer Hargrove in civilian clothes having a heated conversation with Janette and Crazy Paco inside Chez Borneau.

“So what? It’s just me talking to some people. Like I said before, you got the wrong guy! Now, why don’t you get the hell outta my house?”

“Yeah, but with Janette picking up Isabel—this new girl fresh off the boat—and dropping her off at your crib while you happened to be the lead officer investigating all those other missing chicas, I’d say there will be a lot of explaining to do. After all, all those girls have worked at the restaurant at some point, right before they vanished. Isn’t that right, Mr. Hargrove?” Mickey grinned, but beneath this façade, a feeling of dread was rising. “Besides, with everything I’ve already got on tape, who knows what Janette or Crazy Paco is gonna say when they have a sweet little deal on the table. ‘Just me talking to some people’ isn’t gonna get you out of the deep hole you’re already in. ¿comprender?”

Mickey had no recordings whatsoever, but his ploy seemed to have produced results as he watched Officer Hargrove’s face turn red. “Of course, not knowing who else is involved, I can’t go to the police just yet. Gotta get the media involved first. Publish those pictures, those juicy recordings.”

Officer Hargrove whispered.

“What was that?”

“Fátima. She’s—”

“Mickey!”

Both Mickey and Officer Hargrove jerked their heads toward the sound of Céline’s voice in the hallway. Céline and Isabel had hauled the small fridge aside to reveal a hidden door that led to a basement. Mickey kicked the door open.

They stumbled below the house into a dim space where they found a makeshift jail cell housing a young woman lying on a pee-stained mattress.

Mickey flicked the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. “Mother of God,” Céline said. “Paola Sanchez.”

Drained and hollowed, Paola’s face bore new and old bruises. She was almost unrecognizable from her pictures in the news. Her left ankle was wrapped in a gauze bandage, and her loose dress was rumpled and dirty. She heaved up her head, squinted against the light, and then struggled to widen her eyes at the three strangers. Isabel came to a standstill beside a camcorder on a tripod facing the cage. All she could do was gape at the young woman. Mickey’s troubled gaze shifted from a combination of masquerade and BDSM masks to a leather whip and then to the handcuffs, all hanging on a purple-tinted wall.

Isabel broke into violent tears.

“No, don’t touch anything,” Céline told Isabel and pulled her into her arms before she could reach the metal bars of the cage. “I think we should call an ambulance.” With tears in her eyes, Céline extended her hand for her cell phone from Mickey. “What about Fátima?” she asked.

*

Mickey was at work at a construction site just north of the trailer park on the day Fátima finally called. She explained that she had seen the story on the news—that the Césars and four police officers had been arrested on multiple charges, including sex trafficking, kidnapping, and murder.

Fátima then spoke of Paola Sanchez. “Well, the thing is, I already knew about her because she was in the news. So, one night after this whole thing with that cop, I heard Janette talking to her husband. She was outraged, freaking out because she thought I might have seen Paola or some other girls at that house.”

“Jesus. Did you?” Mickey asked.

“No. But I could hear plenty of sexual activities going on, you know.”

“So, what happened after you quit?”

“Got a strange phone call. It was a warning, you know, to just leave, to go as far away as I could.”

A long, painful silence arose on the other end of the line. Mickey was about to see if he was still connected when a short hissing sound finally ensued. “What can I say? I’m okay now. I’m alive. That’s all that matters,” Fátima said, trying to keep her voice from cracking. “I think it was from Crazy Paco, that mysterious phone call.”

The next day, Mickey visited a three-star restaurant about one mile from the Cantaloupe Flip in the evening. He wore a black suit with not a tie. Céline had her doubts about whether he would have honored her invitation. Yet, there he appeared at the entrance glimmered with dotted neon lines, finding the place rather occupied even though it was approaching ten o’clock.

Cheerful, Céline darted over and ushered him to a table near two flat-screen TVs hanging from the ceiling. “Thanks for coming,” she said, watching him marvel at the menu, the restaurant’s name printed in deluxe copper foil stamping. A waitress hurried away from their table and returned apace with two iced teas.

“Much nicer in here than I thought,” Mickey said and grinned. 

“You bet.”

Mickey made the ice clang in his glass. “Big night tonight, huh?”

“Hello! Is it ten o’clock yet?” Céline laughed, unable to contain her excitement because tonight’s news broadcast would feature all three of them—Mickey, Céline, and Isabel.

Mickey raised his glass. “Anyways, to life, health, and prosperity. Oh, and criminal justice!” They drank together, then faced the TV screens to watch the story of the missing girls from Chez Borneau.

About the Author:

Soidenet Gue is a writer based in South Florida with a penchant for writing about families. His short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Whistling Shade, Washington Square Review LCC, Bridge Eight, Maudlin House, Twenty-two Twenty-eight, and elsewhere. Currently, he’s at work on a short story collection. Find him on Facebook.

*Feature image by Claire Kelly on Unsplash