Everything is Broken by Anthony DeCastro

Author:Anthony DeCastro
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Palmetto Pulp Mill

I checked myself out of the hospital against my physician’s advice. A physician I never spoke to, mind you, and one I never remember seeing, at least not in a lucid state. I decided that there was no case. I had done my job, sort of. All the collateral damage was none of my concern. I stopped by my branch of Carolina First and dumped the photos in my safe deposit box. Then decided there was one stop I needed to make, before I could retire back to my shanty in Murrells Inlet and get some of that rest Nurse Ra Ra had advised, but had been impossible amongst all the racket at the hospital.

The Carlton Arms seemed somehow less depressing today. It had more to do with the overall beautiful weather we were having than anything else, but it seemed less oppressive. Less like the communist stronghold. I had not seen a tail on me on my drive over. So I had either checked out before anyone at police headquarters expected me too or I had picked up the world’s greatest police tail. I had been looking that close.

I decided it was the latter and had no fear climbing the steps to the Rodriguez apartment. Again, the Salsa Meringue played behind the door. The sound was faint, but pleasant.

Papi answered my knock.

“You,” he said.

“I need to talk to Marisol, Mr. Rodriguez.”

“She no here,” he said. “She no come home last night.”

“Does she often do that?”

His lower lip trembled. “No, Mari come home late often, but she always come home.”

“Mr. Rodriguez, maybe you can let me in? I can see you are concerned. Maybe we can talk and figure this out together.”

He held his chin up in defiance. “It was after you come talk to her she act funny and disappear.”

Despite the puffed out chest, he stood aside and let me enter his home. The living room was about what I expected. Beige carpet, white walls scarred with marks from moving furniture, scuffles, life, second hand, brown sofa, sagging in the middle, old tube-type 19-inch TV set on a red plastic milk crate turned on its side. A video game console was hooked to it. Mr. Rodriguez pointed to the sofa.

I took a seat on one end, thinking he would take the other end.

But he grabbed a scarred wooden chair from the dining set that shared space with the living room and set it before me. He took a seat and asked, “Tell me, Señor, who are you?”

The morphine must have been lingering in my veins, because before I knew it I had blurted out, “I’m a Private Investigator.”

“What like a police?”

“Kind of,” I said. “But I am private, I don’t work for the police.”

“Then,” he said. “Who do you work for?”

“I really shouldn’t say, Mr. Rodriguez. It’s kind of against the rules for me to tell people who I work for.”

He stood up. “Ah, so you no care. It’s okay, I let you in my home. But you no can say why you are here.

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