P. Parrish - The Little Death

Louis parked next to a rickety pickup and got out of the Mustang. He had the feeling he had stepped back in time, onto an abandoned military base where everything had been torn down but the concrete barracks.

There were six two-story, boxy buildings with peeling paint, stairwells littered with plastic toys, and balcony railings draped with laundry. Children with dirty feet and long black hair played in the yard. A few men had found shelter from the sun under a mango tree, hats pulled down over their eyes, fingers wrapped around Tecate beers.

Like in the nursery in West Palm, there was a peppy tune playing somewhere. Faded numbers painted on the buildings led Louis to the farthest building in the compound. He was acutely aware of the attention he was drawing from the folks on the second-floor balcony as he approached.

Building six stood in the shade of a gumbo-limbo tree. Apartment eight was on the second floor, last in a line of four doors, three of which were open to capture the cool air. But as Louis passed, the doors slammed shut, followed by the hurried closing of curtains.

At the last door, Louis ducked under a hanging red-flowering plant and knocked softly on the freshly painted blue door. From inside, he could hear a baby crying but no indication that anyone was coming to the door. He knocked again. A pair of beautiful brown eyes appeared suddenly in the gap of the yellow curtains. Louis had no reason to think Labastide’s sister still might live here, but he tried.

“Rosa Labastide?” Louis called.

To Louis’s surprise, the door opened. A lovely woman with flowing dark hair stood in front of him, a baby propped on her plump hip and a bold tilt tipping her chin upward. She and the baby were dressed in bright orange cotton dresses.

“¿Porqué usted busca a Rosa?”

Louis shook his head. “Do you speak English?”

She pursed her lips and shifted the baby to the other hip. He caught a glimpse of the inside of the apartment: blue sofa, brown throw rug, a gold-framed picture of Jesus dominating a wall of family pictures. A female voice, from a radio or TV, murmured softly in Spanish.

“I am Rosa,” the woman said. “And I am not afraid of you. I am Rosa Díaz now. All legal.”

“I’m not Immigration,” Louis said. “I’m looking-”

The door of the apartment next to Rosa Díaz’s opened. An older woman stuck her head out and spoke excitedly to Rosa in Spanish. Louis was sure she was asking Rosa if everything was okay. Rosa barked back at her, and the other woman quickly retreated. Rosa turned back to Louis, her eyes still wary.

“What you want, then?” Rosa asked.

“I’m looking for your brother, Emilio,” he said.

“Who are you?”

“I’m a private detective,” Louis said.

Rosa put a protective hand on her baby’s head and reached for the door. Louis gently held it open.

“Not policía, ” he said. “A different kind of detective. Private, like…”

“Like Mr. Magnum PI?” Rosa asked.

Louis smiled. “Yeah.”

Rosa returned his smile with a small one of her own, but still, she kept her hand on the door.

“I mean Emilio no harm,” Louis said. “I’m not going to arrest him. I just want to talk to him.”

Rosa glanced behind her, then motioned for him to come inside. A portable fan stirred the air, which was thick with the smell of baking cheese and baby powder. The blue sofa was draped with cream-colored things that looked like big doilies. A tiny TV sat under the picture of Jesus, its screen filled with the snowy image of that Latina talk show lady, Cristina something.

“I not know where Emilio is,” Rosa said. “I not see my brother for long time. Almost five years now.”

“Fall 1984?”

Rosa laid the baby down on the sofa and lowered her head. The bodice of her cotton dress rose and fell. “ Sí. Eight-four. It was Halloween. I remember because I give out candy to the little ones. Since then I have no word. No letters. Nada. ”

“Can you tell me what happened?” Louis asked. “Did he just stop coming home? Did he say anything about leaving?”

Rosa dropped to the edge of the sofa and placed a hand on the baby’s back. Its eyes closed at the touch.

“One time, he just not come home,” Rosa said. “He never speak of going away. He would not do that. We come here to this place from Santa Teresa, Mexico. I sixteen, he twenty. He not want to work here, so he get job in Palm Beach, for Mr. Green, working on pretty houses.”

“When was this?” Louis asked.

“That summer before he go away,” Rosa said. “He only work for Mr. Green short time before he got new trabajo .”

“A new job?”

“Sí.”

The baby drifted off to sleep. Rosa brushed a few strands of hair from her eyes and looked up at Louis. It was obvious that she had gone on with her life, marrying and having a baby, but in her soft brown eyes, he saw a profound sadness, the kind that came with being suddenly abandoned and not knowing why.

“Did he tell you what this new job was?” Louis asked.

“No,” Rosa said. “But he… ganó mucho dinero .”

Louis shook his head and raised his hand to indicate he didn’t understand.

“He make much money,” Rosa said. “I show you.”

Rosa pushed from the sofa and disappeared into the bedroom. She returned with a gold chain and crucifix and held it out to Louis.

“Emilio give me this before he stopped coming home,” she said. “My friend, Juan, he… mi amigo Juan me dijo que vale más que cien dólares .”

Louis guessed she was saying that the friend told her it was expensive. He took the necklace and held it up to the light. The chain and crucifix glimmered in the sunlight. It was impossible to guess its value with an untrained eye, but it did not look cheap.

“Did he tell you what his new job was?” Louis asked.

Rosa took the necklace back, folding it in her fist. “He say it good job but maybe not one he want to do for long time. Say it is… muy degradante .”

“Excuse me?”

Rosa sighed in frustration. “Oh, how you say… not so good.”

“Did he say why?”

Rosa moved away from him and sat down on the sofa. Her hand went back to the baby’s head, smoothing its black, sweat-soaked curls.

“He not talk about it,” she said.

Rosa hung her head, her face hidden behind the veil of dark hair as she began to cry. Louis was quiet, looking absently around the small apartment and wondering what else there was to say to this woman. Emilio was her brother, her partner in what had to be a frightening journey to a new place and a new life. And all she had now was a wall full of pictures.

Louis stepped over to them.

The insolent face he had seen stapled to the index card did not look like the same man Louis saw here. This man-with his brightly colored shirts, funny hats, and engaging smile-this was a man who had found joy not only inside himself but in this place.

Louis took a close look at the other pictures. Most of them had been taken at festivals, at picnics, or in the courtyard below. Most had Labastide as the centerpiece of a happy group, often men. But none offered a clue to what Labastide’s sexual orientation was. And that was something Louis needed to know if he was going to connect Labastide to Mark Durand.

“Mrs. Díaz,” he said, facing her, “can you tell me if your brother had a girlfriend?”

Rosa looked up. “No. No tenía novia. No girl.”

“Are you sure?”

“ Sí, he would tell me,” she said. “We share everything we feel.”

“Did he have a best friend?” Louis asked. “A guy I could talk to?”

Again, Rosa shook her head. “His only friend, Manuel, go back to Mexico three years ago. No one else close.”