Ernesto Quiñonez - San Juan Noir

It was like she knew Spanish, because the Yankee pulled back and gave me such a crack to the jaw that I fell back on the bed. “Fuck you! Leave me alone! I said no!” she screamed, and grabbed me around the neck with such force that I had to climb back on top of her. She slammed another fist into my jaw and I fell facedown on top of her. I was so embroiled in what was happening that I didn’t realize someone was knocking on the door. Suddenly it opened and there they were, watching me.

“What the hell is wrong with you, crazy bitch? Turn around and let me show you who’s in charge here.”

Those were the words that the three security employees and the night manager heard from my mouth while standing witness to that cabaret show.

“Get him off me! He’s raping me!”

That was when I felt them dragging me out into the living room. Then they gave me my clothes and uniform so I could put them on in the bathroom, where they locked me in for half an hour. No big deal. Candy fucked me over — she said she’d called me to collect her dirty clothes and that I came in and raped her without saying a word. At least that’s what I heard from the other side of the wall. Obviously I could’ve asked them where the bag of dirty clothes was, where the order was. But there’s no margin of error here, man. Even if something isn’t your fault, you get screwed over. Tell me how you could possibly explain that to the hotel manager, to a fucking cop. There was no catching a break, the axe had fallen. Hotels are a reality show — it’s not what happens at home, it’s whatever the producers put on for people to see. And what they saw was me on top of a guest, with marks of violence on my body. I was fried. They cuffed my hands behind my back right there and took me to Security through the entrance to the restaurant that opened onto the pool. The last picture I have in my mind of Candy Smith is the little smile of triumph at the corners of her mouth, and the green that sparked from her eyes when the night manager told her in English not to worry, that all of her expenses would be covered by the hotel. “We’re going to take care of you, miss.” Fuck all candies. I’ve never had a sweet tooth.

It was clear that the cabrón night manager wouldn’t have my back. I don’t even know if I should tell you that none of this is personal. Hotels are run like the mafia, everything for the good of the business, not for the good of those occupying it, not for the good of those who enjoy it. They’re all guinea pigs. What matters is how much cash you make them and how much cash the guests spend. The rest is bullshit. Turns out the dumb-ass Hermann isn’t such a dumb-ass. He was in the next room watching my “confession” on a video monitor. When I stopped talking, he opened the door and came in with an employment termination form in his hands. They didn’t let me quit, the fuckers. If I’d quit, at least I would’ve been paid seventeen years’ severance. I didn’t find out anything else about the girl. Nobody tells me anything. Everyone from the hotel avoids me. This was a month and a half ago. And here I am, waiting for my paycheck.

“And you, what’re you doing here? Get mugged over at Santurce Plaza too?”

“No, I’m chilling. It’s just the hotel is in rough shape and they laid us off until November. But the axe comes and goes, I got a couple months of unemployment to even the score.”

“Man, you don’t have to tell me twice. But don’t say any of that to the officer, loco. There are fewer federal funds for the people all the time.”

“Relax, one of the supervisors is a buddy of mine. We go way back.”

“Ah, good. How lucky... Hey, what’s the name of the night manager at the Majestic?”

“Melecio. Carlos Melecio.”

“Ay! It was you with the con artist. Damn, loco, everyone in the industry knows that story, dude.”

“What? Don’t mess with me, man.”

“They booted Melecio too. Turns out the gringa was an underwear model and a professional con artist. She’d charged more than a hundred thousand dollars in jewelry and clothes to her hotel account. When everything went down, the hotel didn’t realize. The trick is that they don’t realize what’s happened until she’s already on the plane heading home. She did the same thing at the Conquistador, the Marriott, and the Intercontinental too. I thought you guys knew about her. Fuck! I didn’t know the bellboy was you. Damn, everything’s so fucked up.”

“You’re not messing with me, right?”

“No, I swear. Last week I ran into Inés, one of the girls from the lobby at the Cactus, at four in the morning and she told me everything. I can’t believe it, man... Ah, that’s my number. See you. Good luck, man. Take care.”

And so I stayed in that chair, watching as my buddy from Santurce Plaza went in to talk to his case officer, wondering what other hotel Carlos Melecio had hidden in.

I went outside to smoke a cigarette. I came back quickly because it was hotter than hell. When I got the paperwork from a little old lady, I wondered what story I could invent to convince the officer to accept my case, when I couldn’t put down the only legal employment I’d had in more than fifteen years as a reference.

San José

You play at identifying buildings to avoid the anxiety that landing always causes. There you are, right in the middle of the airplane’s gut, aisle seat. From there you watch, turning your neck from side to side, and spread yourself into that metal bird’s extremities. Left wing and right wing; engines to the right and left; identification lights off — it’s daytime — to the left and the right.

A therapeutic late-afternoon sun threatens to leave you blind, keeping you from enjoying the descent. You curse the blind man to the left, in the window seat, who cares little about looking out of it. If only they’d given you that seat. You also curse the abundantly white Afro of the old lady sitting in the seat next to the right window. The mass of her messy hair blocks all visibility. You move restlessly about in your seat, sometimes stretching your neck, bobbing up and down, rolling your shoulders, trying to play the game. The game that calms you, keeps you from falling into mania.

You spot the first identifiable place: Palo Seco, an energy plant that supplies electricity to various towns, which exploded once when you were little. The fire could be seen all the way from Las Vegas, Bay View, even from Amelia, the neighborhood where you grew up. No one was implicated in that “accidental” incident, blessed ode to the impunity of creole terrorism. Fuentes Fluviales, as they were previously called; now the AEE in concert with the AAA, investigated by the FBI. You spell them out to see if you remember what each letter stands for — it’s part of the game. Not getting nervous is always the primary objective. Fucking landing.

You keep playing at identifying structures. The second one: Los Molinos, some concrete plants where they manufacture purine, grain, and other contaminants. You also identify the barges at the dock, the cranes, the containers. Some of them say Sealand , others Navieras de Puerto Rico . Your uncle worked all his life for an abusive business just like that one, until he ended up with Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, and a pension that barely provided enough to buy the essentials: eggs, milk, bread. Never meat. Never some good chops or steaks. Los Molinos, even today, continues to erode the health of many people, without the affected or the witnesses ever saying or doing anything. Without anybody protesting.