Nicholas Esperanza thought he was dead. He couldn’t open his eyes. Couldn’t move his body. Last thing he remembered was the buxom stripper popping the Ecstasy tab in his mouth while giving him a wild lap dance. The rest was a blur. Fun filled and crazy, but still a blur. So, maybe he wasn’t dead after all. Maybe this was a simply the worst hangover ever.
He concentrated his thoughts and finally managed to sluggishly open his eyes. Bright sunlight gushed through the windows and made his head shriek in pain. He clamped his eyes shut again, for a moment uncertain where the hell he was. Esperanza reached into his pocket, whipped out a pair of Calvin Klein sunglasses and popped them on. Now he could see without his pupils melting. The room steadily came into focus.
He’d awakened from his post-party coma, on the floor of his upstairs office, in his nightclub, Sueño Latino–Latino Dream.
On the floor besides him was his gold lighter and matching cigarette case. Esperanza reached out, picked up the case and opened it. Inside were several nicely rolled joints. He stuffed one into his mouth, sparked it up and toked on it, enjoying the primo weed. Otherwise, Esperanza didn’t move. His cobalt blue, Hugo Boss suit was covered in dust and carpet fibers and wrinkled like an old lady’s ass. His brain was pounding as if a crew of gangsta rappers were locked inside, shooting off monster rhymes to a ceaseless, thumping ghetto beat.
Coño, I shouldn’t have polished off that bottle of Bacardi last night.
He smiled to himself as the memories of the bachelor party came flooding back in Technicolor images of cocaine sniffing, pot smoking, porn videos, strippers getting off with dildos, girl/girl sex acts, and all kinds of other debauchery.
It took forever for Esperanza to sit up. At least the weed helped sooth his headache a little. As much as he drank these days, he rarely got hangovers anymore, but last night he’d gotten a little too carried away. He looked at his Hermés watch. Three PM. Esperanza sat there for a long moment, like a toddler in a playpen anxiously waiting for a grown-up to pick him up and take him out to play. But no one was coming anytime soon. It required a ridiculous amount effort, but Esperanza finally managed to heave himself to his feet. The office spun for a few seconds, then stabilized to a low-key sway.
He dropped into the high-back leather chair, behind the expansive glass and chrome desk. The panoramic windows behind him–which offered a spectacular view of Manhattan’s Upper West Side—were letting in too much blinding sunlight.
As he continued to puff on the joint, his eyes scanned the far wall. It was decorated with framed citations, awards and newspaper articles detailing his career: from Navy SEAL to NYPD Homicide Detective. A couple of newspaper headlines screamed: LOTTO COP WINS $30 Million!
That was the final chapter of his life in law enforcement. The ghetto kid from El Barrio in East Harlem, the oldest brother of three, whose father prayed every day for him not to wind up on drugs, or in jail, or dead, like so many of the other boys in the neighborhood, was now a very wealthy man.
***
La vieja –the old lady sat before him, with Cookie standing by her side, his hand gently resting on her stooped shoulder. Esperanza lounged behind his desk, wearing jeans and black tee shirt with the Puerto Rican flag on it. There was a small note pad in one hand and a pen in the other.
“The police will do nothing,” Abuela said in Spanish, her usually spirited voice a whisper. Her face was a complicated map of deep grooves and wrinkles. Her white hair was tied in a neat bun and stood out against her nearly jet-black skin. She reeked of lavender water.
“This isn’t a new situation, Abuela,” Esperanza said, trying not to sound disrespectful.
“This is different, mi’jo” Abuela clutched rosary beads in her frail, calloused hands. Her fingernails were thick, yellow-ish and chipped. “Alina’s in great danger.”
“What gives you that idea?”
“I’ve had visions.” She made the sign of the cross and gently kissed her fingertips. “Dark and disturbing ones.”
Then call the psychic network, Esperanza thought.
“And what do those visions tell you?”
“That Alina’s being held by evil men.” Abuela leaned forward, her gaze confident. “Men who do the work of the devil.”
Esperanza stared down at the note pad where he was supposedly taking notes. Instead, he was doodling. An assortment of exaggerated tits and asses. He was still horny from earlier in the afternoon. Esperanza took a deep breath, tried remain patient. Premonitions and visions. Evil men and the devil.Bullshit. The lady was supposed to be an espiritista, but Esperanza never believed in any of that pseudo psychic stuff. He’d been a homicide detective for five years. It was all about facts and forensics.
“Anything else besides these…‘visions’ that will help me find her?”
“She’s been spending time with a very bad element lately.” Abuela turned her attention to her grandson.
Cookie was thirteen. He got that nickname because when he was a baby, it was the first word to come out of his mouth. Thank God he didn’t say “ca-ca”.
The kid’s oily, pudgy face was sprouting an impressive crop of pimples and there were a few curly hairs decorating his strong, cleft chin. Cookie possessed that awkward goofiness boys can’t avoid as they struggle to make the transition into manhood. His head was shaved and he wore the ultra-baggy, jailhouse influenced, hip hop style outfit Esperanza detested.
“She’s been runnin’ wif a freak,” Cookie said, bobbing his head as if the words were stuck in his throat or something.
“What do you mean by ‘freak’?”
“Ya know...one o’ dem faggits that looks like a girl. Tit...breasts and everythin’.”
“Pre-op transsexual.” Esperanza assumed Alina was testing new waters when it came to her sexuality. A tranny sure was a different way to go.
“What-evah. All I know is, lass time I seen Alina, ‘bout two weeks ago, she was bouncin’ wif the freak on her way to a party. Ain’t come back since.”
“You have a name for the transsexual?”
“Midnight Desire.”
“Cute,” Esperanza said and closed the note pad. Then he proceeded to reassure Abuela that he’d do his best to find Alina and bring her back and everything would be just swell. Yeah, right.
Truth was, Esperanza didn’t really give a damn. Esperanza genuinely cared about Abuela. That wasn’t the issue. Alina was. Baby girl was a selfish, out of control, fourteen-year old, little tramp. She was disrespectful, ungrateful and was going to shove the poor old lady head first into an early grave.
But he’d go searching for her for only one reason: his girlfriend Legs asked him to. And when it came to Legs, Esperanza could never say no.
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