loud, and the cafecito was strong.
The bright morning sun beat down on the silver Jetta as it darted through weekend traffic—a cacophony of honking horns, changed lanes, and slow-moving Cadillacs and Buicks manned by grumpy senior citizens. Kathy drove while Pete fiddled with the satellite radio. It was a little past eight in the morning. In his right hand, Pete clutched an extra-large coffee, which he’d purchased after a quick cortadito made at home. He’d left Emily sleeping, telling her he’d be back later. She seemed to understand, in her hazy, half-asleep state, but he expected a questioning text or call in a few hours. Her freelance design work gave her a fairly flexible schedule that made room for sleeping in when needed. He was happy Emily was back in his life and that he was better equipped to handle it. It reminded him of the early days of their relationship, without the arguing and histrionics that would become all too common toward the end. Though she was the one who packed her bags and left, Pete was as much to blame—drinking at all hours, working late, and distant when he was around. He’d never expected a second chance. He took a long sip from his lukewarm coffee.
“Are we there yet?” he said.
“Shush, you,” Kathy said, her eyes on the road. “My GPS is busted and you know I don’t come down to Cubatown all that often.”
“Aren’t you a reporter?”
“I was, my dear,” she said. “But now I’m an all-important ‘local columnist,’ so I needn’t worry about remembering where things are. It’s about how things are. Comprende , my little café con leche ?”
Pete laughed and pushed a button on the satellite radio. The Decemberists came on. It was a relatively obscure track—the band’s lead singer, Colin Meloy, doing a Morrissey song. It took Pete a second to remember it.
“‘Jack the Ripper,’” Pete said.
“Pardon?”
“That’s the song.”
“The Morrissey song?”
“Yup.”
“This is a shitty cover,” she said.
“I like it more than the original,” Pete said.
“You would,” Kathy said. “It’s more emo than the original.”
Kathy pulled the car into a parallel parking space on a residential street. After turning off the engine, she leaned back in the driver’s seat, as if to announce “Yeah, I did that.”
“Do you want a prize?” Pete said, sliding his half-empty coffee into the car’s cup holder.
“You wish you could park like me,” Kathy said, smiling. She opened the door and stepped out of the car. “OK, so what’s the plan, mister?”
Pete got out and looked at Kathy from across the car.
“I follow your lead,” he said. “I’m just a special guest star.”
She let out an exasperated sigh.
“Fine, whatever,” she said. “But turn your brain on. I brought you here for help, not comic relief.”
Pete waited for Kathy to come around the car before walking to the house.
“My story is slated to run tonight, and I want it to be more than a ‘wah-wah look at the dead girl’s family’ piece,” she said, opening the front gate to the quaint Morales house, not noticing the older woman standing in the front yard. Her face showed that she’d heard Kathy’s flip remarks. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry.”
Pete looked at the lady and waited for a heated, angry response, but saw only confusion. He looked at Kathy for a second before opening his mouth.
“ Hablas inglés, señora? ”
The lady’s look changed from confusion to relief. “ No, ni un poco. Pero mi hermana, sí. Con que te puedo ayudar? ”
Kathy looked at Pete, uncertainty in her eyes. “She doesn’t speak English,” Pete said, looking at the lady and smiling politely before looking back at Kathy. “Her sister does, however. Thankfully, she wasn’t here to hear what you said.”
“Rub it in while you can, little man,” Kathy said, smiling at the older woman. “Ask her if she has a few minutes to talk.”
“ Señora, somos reporteros del periódico Miami
The bright morning sun beat down on the silver Jetta as it darted through weekend traffic—a cacophony of honking horns, changed lanes, and slow-moving Cadillacs and Buicks manned by grumpy senior citizens. Kathy drove while Pete fiddled with the satellite radio. It was a little past eight in the morning. In his right hand, Pete clutched an extra-large coffee, which he’d purchased after a quick cortadito made at home. He’d left Emily sleeping, telling her he’d be back later. She seemed to understand, in her hazy, half-asleep state, but he expected a questioning text or call in a few hours. Her freelance design work gave her a fairly flexible schedule that made room for sleeping in when needed. He was happy Emily was back in his life and that he was better equipped to handle it. It reminded him of the early days of their relationship, without the arguing and histrionics that would become all too common toward the end. Though she was the one who packed her bags and left, Pete was as much to blame—drinking at all hours, working late, and distant when he was around. He’d never expected a second chance. He took a long sip from his lukewarm coffee.
“Are we there yet?” he said.
“Shush, you,” Kathy said, her eyes on the road. “My GPS is busted and you know I don’t come down to Cubatown all that often.”
“Aren’t you a reporter?”
“I was, my dear,” she said. “But now I’m an all-important ‘local columnist,’ so I needn’t worry about remembering where things are. It’s about how things are. Comprende , my little café con leche ?”
Pete laughed and pushed a button on the satellite radio. The Decemberists came on. It was a relatively obscure track—the band’s lead singer, Colin Meloy, doing a Morrissey song. It took Pete a second to remember it.
“‘Jack the Ripper,’” Pete said.
“Pardon?”
“That’s the song.”
“The Morrissey song?”
“Yup.”
“This is a shitty cover,” she said.
“I like it more than the original,” Pete said.
“You would,” Kathy said. “It’s more emo than the original.”
Kathy pulled the car into a parallel parking space on a residential street. After turning off the engine, she leaned back in the driver’s seat, as if to announce “Yeah, I did that.”
“Do you want a prize?” Pete said, sliding his half-empty coffee into the car’s cup holder.
“You wish you could park like me,” Kathy said, smiling. She opened the door and stepped out of the car. “OK, so what’s the plan, mister?”
Pete got out and looked at Kathy from across the car.
“I follow your lead,” he said. “I’m just a special guest star.”
She let out an exasperated sigh.
“Fine, whatever,” she said. “But turn your brain on. I brought you here for help, not comic relief.”
Pete waited for Kathy to come around the car before walking to the house.
“My story is slated to run tonight, and I want it to be more than a ‘wah-wah look at the dead girl’s family’ piece,” she said, opening the front gate to the quaint Morales house, not noticing the older woman standing in the front yard. Her face showed that she’d heard Kathy’s flip remarks. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry.”
Pete looked at the lady and waited for a heated, angry response, but saw only confusion. He looked at Kathy for a second before opening his mouth.
“ Hablas inglés, señora? ”
The lady’s look changed from confusion to relief. “ No, ni un poco. Pero mi hermana, sí. Con que te puedo ayudar? ”
Kathy looked at Pete, uncertainty in her eyes. “She doesn’t speak English,” Pete said, looking at the lady and smiling politely before looking back at Kathy. “Her sister does, however. Thankfully, she wasn’t here to hear what you said.”
“Rub it in while you can, little man,” Kathy said, smiling at the older woman. “Ask her if she has a few minutes to talk.”
“ Señora, somos reporteros del periódico Miami
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