Jason Pinter - The Mark

Luis’s voice was soft, but the emotion was unmistakable. He dabbed at his eyes, took another sip of water, then continued.

“Anyway, this play, it’s about what you want and what you can’t have. Made me think about why I was inside in the first place. I always wanted something I couldn’t have, and then when I thought I had it, turns out it was nothing but bullshit. That’s my most vivid memory, Mr. Henry.”

For a half hour, Luis poured his heart out to me. He laughed, cried, but never asked me to turn the tape off. I learned how he met Christine at a Harlem poetry reading after his release. How she was knitting clothing for a child they hadn’t yet conceived. That he worked as a security guard and pulled in $23,000 a year, before taxes. I learned that he was the happiest man in the world because he was supporting the woman he loved under a roof he paid for.

When he mentioned the apartment, a small chime went off in my head. Christine didn’t work. The apartment, I estimated, based on my own home’s pitiful dimensions, was a solid thousand square feet, at least. Not bad for a guy barely above the poverty line.

At six-thirty, Luis stood up and clicked off the tape recorder.

“And now I need to get ready for my appointment.” I stood up as well. He took my hand and ground more meta-carpals into powder.

“Thanks, Luis, it’s been a pleasure.”

“All mine, Mr. Henry. So, Henry wants to write newspaper stories. Well, I wish you all the best of luck.”

As I left I watched Luis close the door, his eyes disappearing as the bolt latched home. Right before it closed I saw that fear again. And saw there was more to this man than even Jack O’Donnell knew.

Sitting in the back of a Greek diner, shoveling souvlaki into my mouth, I listened to the tape of Luis’s interview. Tomorrow I’d transcribe it for Wallace and Jack, highlighting the best parts. This was my chance to prove I could hunt with the big boys. Jack O’Donnell, a living legend of the newsroom, would review my work for his story. There was some great stuff on the tape. But the more I listened, I couldn’t help but listen to the trembling in Luis’s voice. Something was eating at him while we talked.

The more Luis spoke in that quivering tone, I knew he was holding back. He’d lied about the doctor’s appointment-hell, I’d done the same thing to get out of work before-but Luis was dressed to the hilt, like he was preparing for a wedding or a funeral. And I didn’t buy for a second that he could afford that apartment on $23,000 a year. There was more to this man than what I’d caught on tape.

I needed to know more, to pry out of Luis Guzman what caused the fear behind that voice. But Jack had given me an agenda. I did what he asked, no more, no less, but it didn’t sit right. There was more to Luis Guzman, and I had to find out what it was. Christine would be home. Maybe she could shine a light.

Stuffing the tape recorder and notebook into my backpack, I left the diner and headed back to the Guzmans’ apartment. I walked into the building on the coattails of another tenant who was kind enough to hold the door. I only had one chance to do this right. Christine might be reluctant. I might have to lean on her, tell her it was in Luis’s best interests. Hopefully she’d answer me honestly, thoughtfully, and then I could give Wallace and Jack the full picture.

The elevator opened and I strode toward apartment 2C with visions of a firm handshake from Jack O’Donnell and a pat on the back from Wallace Langston. I felt warm, invigorated, and knew I was doing my job right.

And that’s when I heard the screams.

Christine. She was screaming.

And then there was silence.

I heard a deep, baritone voice from inside apartment 2C. The voice was enraged, but the words were muffled. Then another bloodcurdling shriek sent shivers through my body.

Christine.

I stood in front of the door, afraid to move.

Could Luis be beating her? No, it wasn’t possible. I’d looked into his eyes, saw that violent life had left him long ago. But for most criminals, rehabilitation lasted only as long as chance. All it took was one moment to plunge back into the abyss.

Then I heard the voice again, more clearly. It wasn’t Luis. No, Luis had a thick Hispanic accent. This was a different person altogether. The voice was crisp, American. No Latin inflections.

I heard a loud thunk, like the sound of wood hitting wood.

Oh, Jesus, oh, God…

My feet were rooted to the floor. This was none of my business. I wasn’t supposed to be here. My job was done. I already had what Jack wanted. Nobody would think worse of me.

Then I heard it again. Another thunk, and a muted scream.

Mya.

That night, sitting by her bedside at the hospital.

I called you. You weren’t there.

I called you, Henry.

The screams grated my flesh. I heard Christine sobbing. Then the hush of another man’s voice, pleading. This voice had a Hispanic accent.

Luis.

Then the American shouted, and I heard another thunk.

I was alone in the hall. Nobody else wanted any part of this. An evil quiet had set in, because nobody dared to stop it.

And then there was silence.

Maybe it was over. Maybe I could go back to the comfort of my bed, sleep off the terrible night and prepare to turn in my interview. Luis and Christine would be fine. Surely it was all a misunderstanding. Deep down I knew I would have helped if they needed it.

I called you, Henry.

Then Christine screamed again, and my thoughts were shattered. And in that moment, I knew what I had to do.

I set my backpack down. I took a deep breath. Then I knocked on the door.

“Luis!” I shouted. “Christine? Is everything okay?”

My words were met with silence. Then the sound of footsteps. The American was talking, his voice soft but firm. I could turn back, recede into the shadows, and whoever was inside wouldn’t know the difference.

Or I could be strong. Like I should have been for Mya.

And so my feet remained bolted to the floor as the door swung open. And in that moment, my life changed forever.

Thankfully I’d gone to the bathroom before leaving the restaurant, because when the door swung open there was a gun aimed right at my head.

“Who the fuck are you?” the man said, his narrow eyes surprised, taking me in.

He stood a hair over six foot two and outweighed me by a good fifty pounds. It wasn’t all good weight. His midsection was soggy, lines creasing his face like he’d fallen asleep on chicken wire. His hands were rough, calloused. Two of his knuckles were bleeding. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

I gulped down saliva, coughed on it, and forced myself to breathe.

“I said who the fuck are you?” His spittle pecked my cheek.

“Leave him alone!”

It was Christine, wailing from inside the apartment. I looked past the man with the gun and saw Luis sitting in a chair. His arms and legs were handcuffed and bloody. His suit was spattered with red, his tie unraveled. His face was shel-lacked with cuts and bruises. Blood leaked from several openings. Then I saw Christine. She was tied to the radiator.

“What…” was the only word I could muster. The man with the gun leaned in, peered at me.

“You got some business, kid?” I waggled my head, neither a nod nor a shake. “Then get the fuck out of here.”

He pushed the door closed, turned back to his captives. Without thinking, I blocked the door with my foot.

The man waited a moment, cocked his ear, then turned back to me. His gun was still raised, his finger gently tapping the muzzle. In Bend I wrote about guns and violence many times. I recognized his weapon as an old-school. 38 caliber. A six-shooter.