Damaged Goods by Austin Camacho Page B

the side of the hall. Once inside he took a deep breath. It was refreshingly cool inside, since the owner had replaced the ancient boiler with a modern furnace and installed central air conditioning.
    The flat wasn’t luxurious, but it was just enough for Hannibal. Big, sliding double doors stood in for walls between the rooms. With all of them open he could see through his two extra rooms to his bedroom at the front of the building. To his right, past the bathroom door, his small but functional kitchen waited. For just a moment he debated withhimself whether breakfast or a shower should come first, but the shower won out.

    After arranging to meet with Anita in the afternoon, Hannibal drove to Marquita’s house. Pulling into the driveway around ten o’clock he was met with a few surprises. First, the sprinklers were running. Then he noticed that the lawn had been mowed. Curiosity drove him to open the mailbox. It was empty. Even greater curiosity spurred Hannibal to the door. Five seconds after he pushed the doorbell, Sarge pulled the door open.
    â€œHey, Hannibal. Good to see you man. The doc’s already here, doing an exam on her.”
    Hannibal followed Sarge into a house that was transformed. The carpet had been vacuumed, maybe shampooed. The mail was stacked neatly on an end table. Swiping a black-gloved finger across the entertainment center proved it had been dusted.
    â€œSo I guess you kept busy through the night,” Hannibal said.
    â€œWell, they taught me in the Marines to keep my quarters ship shape,” Sarge said. “The galley gave me the most trouble. I don’t know how the woman could stand to get food in that place. Anyway, I figured she’d find it easier to get back to normal if she wasn’t living in a crap hole.”
    Hannibal lowered himself onto the edge of the sofa, almost afraid to ruin the house’s showroom appearance. “You did quite a job. Did you get any sleep at all?”
    â€œI caught a few winks off and on up in the bedroom.”
    Hannibal cocked an eyebrow. “Her bedroom?”
    Sarge shook his head with a grin. “It ain’t what you’re thinking. Markie woke up screaming in the night. The night terrors, you know, like I’ve seen alcoholics get.”
    â€œMarkie?”
    â€œThat’s what her friends call her,” Sarge said, dropping into the recliner. As he spoke, his fingertips slowly rubbed hisleft palm. “We got to talking a bit. She was too scared to stay in there by herself so I sat with her a while. She dozed off and on, and so did I. You were right, buddy. She sure as hell didn’t need to be out here by herself last night.”
    Hannibal nodded. “And she dug her nails pretty deeply into your hand, I see. You’re a good man, Sarge.”
    â€œShe’s a good woman,” Sarge said. “Hannibal, how could a man break a woman down like that?”
    Before Hannibal could answer he heard his named called from upstairs. He and Sarge stood immediately and jogged up the stairs to Marquita’s bedroom. The door was ajar, but Hannibal pushed slowly on his way in. Marquita was under the comforter, just as he had left her, but nothing else was the same. Both the disorder and the smell he had faced the first time he entered the room were gone. Roberts perched on the edge of the bed, speaking to her in hushed tones. Marquita had regained a little color and Hannibal could see a hint of African heritage, although her background was overwhelmingly French, judging by her features. She looked more centered than she had the night before, but her knit brow told Hannibal that it was still hard for her to focus.
    â€œNow, will you be all right in here alone, while I go outside to talk to Mr. Jones?” Roberts asked. “He’s a friend.”
    â€œI know,” Marquita said, smiling for a second in Hannibal’s direction. “He’s the man who was here when I collapsed. He was