Roachkiller and Other Stories Read Online Free PDF Page B

roll up, and then nothing. Nothing changed on the old man’s face.
    “What did you do that for?” I said.
    “We got dogs everywhere. He don’t belong on the highway.”
    “Holy shit,” I said. I looked in the passenger-side rearview, but there was no mirror there.
    “I can’t slow down for every stupid dog,” he said.
    “Uh-huh.” I was disgusted, but what was I going to do? I had to get to San Juan and away from Utuado. Was I going to get out and walk?
    Mile after mile of blacktop went by. The sky grew darker. Rain started to pelt the windshield. I kept seeing that dog.
    When he dropped me off at my hotel on the Condado tourist strip, Angel Luis warned me about the hurricane. “Storm is coming, my friend,” he said. “Dios te bendiga.”
    I waved at him. Crossing in front of the car, I saw there was blood on the front fender.
     
    *  *  *
     
    I waddled with my duffle bag toward the hotel. I was tired all the way to my balls. I was just about to walk in when I saw two men through the glass doors, talking to the front desk lady. Plainclothes cops look the same wherever you go. Bad suits, lots of attitude. There was no way they could be after me already. I mean, they could trace me through the rental car, but not that fast.
    Still.
    I walked a couple blocks to a cash machine and got out my last five hundred. Then I walked a few more blocks to a small hotel outside of the Condado.
    It was a small room with smelly blankets. One chair, one desk, an AC that rattled. I pulled the blanket off the bed, folded it neatly. Then I sat down, opened my flask, took a shot. It hit my stomach like a bull—I ran to the bathroom to puke it out. I got some soda, mixed it with another shot. It stayed down.
    I lay myself on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. Mosquitoes had come in from somewhere and were biting me.
    Then I remembered to check my cell phone.
    They were two messages. Both from Julie. “Papo, where the hell are you? Call!” The second: “I don’t know, Papo. The flights are all being delayed. This must be a sign. I don’t think I can do this. He’s your best friend and it’s not right for you to do this either. Good-bye, Papo.”
    “Fuck,” I said.
    Back at the other hotel, there were six dozen roses in vases waiting. A box of candy. Champagne. I had called ahead to prepare everything for my night with Julie. All on credit.
    I turned facedown on the bed and thought of Julie’s fine perfect-handful breasts and her pale freckled skin, and I woke up twenty hours later.
     
    *  *  *
     
    It was dark outside, and rain hit against the sliding door of the balcony. I took a hot shower, did my hair and beard, put on a jacket, put on cologne. I smoked at the table. The curtains were pulled back, and I watched the rain beat at the glass, a million tiny liquid bullets aimed at me.
    I had the gun on the table. I knew I should ditch it but it made me feel safer to keep it. I thought about finding Itaba and the man with the flat head.
    But, hell, I was in San Juan to have fun. Whatever hand the cops or whoever were going to deal me, I would deal with later. Life is too short, and I wanted a real drink.
    I headed for the casino at the Caribe Hilton. The rain moved in thick, slow strokes across the streets, palm trees flopped about like they were dancing the salsa. I went inside and warmed up with the slot machines. The place was packed with fat tourists. They seemed excited, agitated. I kept overhearing stuff about the hurricane coming, the hurricane coming. Whatever. My life was a hurricane. I ordered a Jack and coke. After two hundred dollars, I went to the blackjack table. I had three more drinks and played without caring, losing deal after deal. This gay couple laughed and joked with the dealer, and I felt like a fourth wheel.
    “Lady Luck is not with me tonight,” I said to no one but myself.
    I turned to order another drink, and that’s when I saw her. Straight back, head held high, firm ass in a tight red