Ernesto Quiñonez - San Juan Noir

I looked out my window as we moved away from Old San Juan and returned to the city like the rest of the mortals. I was more sad than angry about what had happened. Migue was generally a good guy, and many times I’d wondered if our thing was going somewhere. I was savoring the journey without destination that we were on, and his hands always made me happy, so I enjoyed the coming and going without thinking of dates or reasons. But what had happened that day was forcing me to make a decision, to draw lines, define things — the opposite of everything we were.

I heard a deep gasp, as if Migue were reading my mind. I turned to look at him and his brow furrowed. He pushed back from the steering wheel to plant himself in the seat and stretched out his right arm as if he could protect me from flying out the windshield. The world was moving in slow motion. I felt a violent lurch and almost hit the dashboard. The screeching of tires broke the silence. When I managed to look up, I saw the silhouette of a man, then the details of his face growing clearer — coming closer and closer, as if focusing binoculars — until I could recognize the panic in his eyes, and then the impact came. I closed my eyes. I still heard the screech of the tires and the impact, again and again, pulsing from jaw to sternum. I opened my eyes and looked at Migue. He didn’t have his glasses on, and he was covering his face with his hands with their many rings. “What do I do? What do I do? WHAT DO I DO!” He ran his hands over his forehead and pushed his hair back, over and over. When I dared to look out the windshield, I saw the body on the ground. It was wet and his face was looking in the other direction. His clothes were dark. It was impossible to know whether or not he was breathing. Migue unfastened his seat belt and unlocked the doors.

“What’re you doing?”

“I’ve gotta take him to the hospital.”

“Miguel, you’re crazy.”

“We can’t just leave him lying there.”

“You know how much we had to drink?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“We could go to jail, Miguel.”

“No way, it was an accident.”

“An accident? If we’re unlucky enough to have killed the bum, it’s like homicide, Migue, seriously.”

“What does it matter that he’s a bum?”

“He’s got no family, nobody’s gonna give two shits about investigating. Start the car, let’s go.”

“I can’t do that, I can’t.”

“We drank a ton and we’re driving around with a brick of marijuana in the car, we don’t have any other option.”

Miguel looked down. He tied his hair into a half-bun, dried his tears, crossed himself, and started the car.

At 4:23 a.m. yesterday, there was a report of a serious accident involving a pedestrian. The incident took place on Avenida Constitución at the exit of the walled city, in the jurisdiction of the municipality of San Juan.

According to the preliminary report, the incident occurred when a vehicle, described as a blue pickup, was driving down the aforementioned roadway toward Avenida Ponce de León. Several neighbors in the vicinity said that the female driver abandoned the scene immediately.

The body of the victim was identified as Julio Botet, owner of the Galería Éxodo on Calle San Francisco in Old San Juan.

Agent Nicholás Marrero of the Highway Patrol Division of the Puerto Rican Police Command at Avenida Fernández Juncos Station, Parada 6 in Puerta de Tierra, and District Attorney Esteban Mendizábal have taken charge of the investigation, ordering that the scene be photographed and analyzed.

Avenida Fernández Juncos

She has dyed blond hair that’s turned orange in spots, and her eyes twitch left and right as she storms down Avenida Fernández Juncos in a panic. Her red blouse should be tighter and she pulls her short black skirt up as she goes. Of medium complexion — not white, not black — she was once very beautiful.

Shattered glass crunches under her scuffed maroon heels as she passes windows that are barred like prison cells — or tiger cages — along the restless Santurce thoroughfare on the night that will claim her forever. She knows something’s wrong, very wrong, and fears that she’ll never find her way out again.

So she runs to him in the meantime.

The tantalizing aroma of a pig being fire-roasted whole for a celebration floats past her on the pirate breezes that sneak in like thieves from the brooding Atlantic Ocean. The breezes always disappear inland, toward the lush, mysterious green mountains in the dark island interior.

She forgets her hunger as soon as the winds move on and now she won’t stop for anything. Only one thing haunts her thoughts tonight and she will not cease until he appears. She digs through her purse and sprays her neck and armpits with a flowery perfume she stole from a pharmacy.

I’ve missed him, she thinks, and snaps her compact closed, wedging it between her lips in order to undo and redo her frizzy ponytail, tighter and cleaner. She hurries down the dark avenue as cars zoom past blasting salsa, and the descendants of shipwrecked derelicts linger, drinking liquor out of brown papers bags.

They lick their lips and call her precious things. A man appears out of nowhere in a green tank top and dirty blue jeans. He’s tall, dark, and smells of beer; a lightning flash of pink tongue sneaks out, pornographic desire.

“Hey, mami, come over here—”

“Go to hell, cabrón!” she says, and shoves him out of the way.

The man keeps talking to her — he trails her for an entire block — and his voice fades away with the now distant, distorted pulse of salsa in the background. She quickens her pace, careful not to misjudge the uneven pavement beneath her throbbing feet. She has to avoid injury tonight; no distractions or accidents this time.

Our young lady of the night wonders what time it is (a constant concern since her watch and cell phone were stolen), as she passes a loud parade of whistling and catcalling men who grope themselves and conspire to slow her down — or stop her. She breaks through them and continues on her quest, not stopping to ask for the hour.

Specters linger under the swaying shadows of palms draped in moonless darkness, like something out of one of those old black-and-white movies her grandfather used to love. Her mother would pass the day watching them when she was a little girl, and now she adores them too.

A familiar outline materializes in the darkness up ahead. It becomes clearer and approaches with threatening speed: another young woman working the same perilous trade approaches, her black eyes and sculpted eyebrows narrowed and pinched tightly with confrontation. Her hair and outfit are Gothic black and she curls her dagger-filed fingernails into her fists with feline grace. “You got some nerve—”

“You got nothing and I got a date, puta,” our young lady tells her. “Now, get out of my way before I kill you.” She pushes the newcomer aside and digs through her purse for a knife, almost knocking the cat-girl off her feet. Their throaty profanities echo off the buildings and ricochet over the busy avenue, and men passing in cars press down on their horns excitedly. One fellow stops and offers to take them both with him.

Our young lady of the night ignores him — that motherfucker doesn’t have any money — and finishes telling the cat-bitch what she’s been waiting to tell her for some time. Then she puts her knife away and continues on her aching feet, letting the puta live for now.

Hissing, cat-girl fades away from the frame as she approaches the man in the driver’s seat — “Wait for me, papi,” she says — as his friends in the backseat deepen their voices and squash together to make room for her. They grasp the heads of their dicks through their basketball shorts and the salsa pulse gets louder.