Good Day In Hell. J.D. Rhoades

now.”

      Stan swallowed hard. He cut his eyes toward the figure of his stepfather on the ground. It began to dawn on him that he wasn’t going to have to get slapped around anymore. He looked back. The girl saw his eyes and her smile got wider. She lowered the gun. “Okay,” he said.

      “You sure you want to do this?” Keller said. He pulled the big car up to the curb and put it in PARK.

      “Si” said the brown-skinned man in the passenger seat. He sounded calm, but the way he nervously stroked his thin moustache betrayed him.

      “Don’t worry, Oscar. This will be easy,” Keller said. “This guy Olivera’s got no record of violence, he just has a problem with showing up for his court dates. We find him, you explain the situation to him, we bring him back. No problems.”

      Oscar Sanchez regarded Keller with no expression in his dark eyes. He spoke with the precise diction of someone who had learned his English in a classroom rather than on the street. “Of course. That is why you have brought a gun.”

      “I always do that,” Keller said. “It doesn’t mean I think the guy’s going to get rowdy. It just helps to be prepared. I have an extra one in the trunk if you want it.” Sanchez smiled thinly. “Gracias, but no. I prefer to be just the interpreter.”

      “You’re sure you’re okay?”

      Sanchez nodded. “I am sure, Jack. I have rested long enough. It is time I made myself useful.”

      “Okay, let’s go then,” Keller said as he opened the door. He stood up and tucked a stubby Glock 9MM pistol into the holster at the small of his back. He waited at the curb, looking away uncomfortably as the other man retrieved a dark-colored wooden cane from behind the seat and struggled to his feet. He was in his mid-forties, but the pronounced limp and the cane gave him the look of an older man. Keller slackened his pace to allow Sanchez to keep up. When they reached the door to the small duplex, Sanchez’s face was shiny with sweat and he was breathing hard, as if he had climbed a flight of stairs. Keller knocked on the door. There was no answer. He knocked again.

      After a moment, a teenaged girl opened the door. She was barefoot, dressed in a denim skirt and a brightly colored floral blouse. Her skin was the same shade as Sanchez’s, but her eyes were hooded and unfriendly.

      “Que?” she said.

      “Buenos dias,” Sanchez said. “Estamos buscando Manuel Olivera. Es el casero?”

      “No se cualquier persona Manuel nombrado,” the girl said.

      “She says she doesn’t know anyone by that name,” Sanchez told Keller.

      “Uh-huh,” Keller said.

      The girl made as if to close the door, but a boy of about seven or eight forced his way around one of her bare legs and blocked the door open. He stared at the two men in the doorway with grave interest. “Porque usted desea ver el Manuel?” he asked.

      The girl made as if to yank him out of the doorway, but the boy evaded her grip with the ease of long practice and shot past her onto the small concrete stoop. “Who are you?” he demanded in English, looking at Keller.

      “Ramon!” the girl hissed. “Consiga detras en la casa…”

      “My name is Mr. Sanchez,” the man with the cane said to the boy. “You can call me Oscar. My friend here is Mr. Keller. Do you know Manuel Olivera?”

      “Sure,” the boy said. “He’s been making out all morning with my ugly sister here.” He raised his voice. “HEY MANUEL!” he yelled. The girl shouted something unintelligible at her brother and tried to slam the door, but Keller stiff-armed it the rest of the way open. He shoved his way past the girl and into the apartment. “You can’t do that!” the girl yelled in English. “You got no warrant!” Keller ignored her. The front door opened into a tiny kitchen and an equally miniscule space that the landlord probably optimistically described as a breakfast nook. Keller moved past them and into the living room. The girl turned to Sanchez, her face dark with impotent fury. “He doesn’t have a warrant,” she said in Spanish.

      Sanchez shrugged apologetically and replied in the same language. “He isn’t a policeman.”

      Keller found himself in the living room. The only illumination was provided by a color television, which was playing a game show in Spanish. A sagging couch rested against one wall. Beside the couch, a darkened hallway led to the back rooms of the apartment. Keller pulled a pair of handcuffs from the back pocket of his jeans. He drew his gun from the small of his back with his other hand. “Manuel!” he called out. “Come on, man, let’s make this easy on everybody.” According to Keller’s information, Olivera spoke no English, so Keller tried to sound as calm as possible, hoping Olivera would respond to the tone of voice, even if the words meant nothing to him.

      It didn’t work. Keller heard the slamming of a door at the far end of the hallway. He plunged into the darkness toward the sound.

      What do you mean, he’s not a policeman?” the girl said in Spanish. “Why is he in my mother’s house, then?”

      “He works for Manuel’s bail bondsman,” Sanchez said. He leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb to take more weight off his knee. “Manuel missed his court date. If Senor Keller doesn’t bring him back, the bondsman loses the money.” Sanchez took a handkerchief from his back pocket and mopped the sweat from his brow.

      “Hey, Mister Oscar,” the boy asked. “What’s wrong with your leg?”

      Sanchez hesitated. “Some bad men shot me in it,” he said finally.

      The boy’s eyes widened in amazement. “Cool,” he said in English.

      There was only one door closed, the one at the end of the hall. Keller stopped short of it. He raised his right knee nearly to his chest, then shot it out parallel to the floor, pivoting on his left leg until his left heel pointed at the door. The heel of his boot smashed the door off its hinges with a shriek of rending wood. The door fell inwards, revealing a narrow bathroom. The window next to the toilet was raised. The room was empty. Keller heard a grunt as a body landed on the ground outside the window. He tried to reach the window, but stumbled on the ruins of the door. Keller cursed as he fell full length on top of the splintered wood. He could hear footsteps outside the window, growing fainter as his quarry got away.

      “Did it hurt?” the boy asked. “When the bad men shot you?”

      “I hope it did,” the girl said spitefully. She sat down on the stoop and crossed her arms on her knees.

      “You shouldn’t be so hateful,” Sanchez told her. “It will put lines on your face.” The girl gave him the finger.

      Sanchez heard the sound of running footsteps. He turned toward the sound in time to see Manuel Olivera come tearing around the corner of the house. Sanchez could see the whites of his eyes. He raised his hand as if to signal Olivera to a stop. Then he saw the knife in the other man’s hand.

      Keller heard the girl scream outside as he picked himself up off the ruined door. Then there was a sharp crack, like the report of a small pistol. He felt the blood drain from his face. Oscar, he thought. Oh, fuck. I shouldn’t have brought him. I shouldn’t have left him alone. He ran back down the hallway as fast as he could.

      When he got back outside, the girl was sobbing, crouched over a prone figure on the sidewalk. Keller saw the glint of a knife in the grass a few feet away. There was blood on the girl’s hands. There was blood on the face of the man on the ground. Keller looked him over, mentally comparing the face to the photograph in his file. It was Manuel Olivera.

      “I think he needs a doctor,” a voice said from behind Keller. He turned. Sanchez was standing there, propping himself against the house. He held up a dark piece of splintered wood. “And I need a new cane.”

      “You can buy one with your cut of the fee,” Keller said.

      Sanchez looked surprised. “My … cut?”