Sara's Secret Read online

  Sara's Secret

  by Ted Jakes

  Copyright 2013 Ted Jakes, pseudonym

  Chapter 1: SARA

  That night, in the dimly lit room, alone and awaiting interrogation, Sara’s head nodded, and then it all came back to her, as if instead of falling asleep, she was waking from a dream. Not of the buy that had turned to a bust, but of her last test, at the dojo. On the mat, standing still in the middle, she had known what she had to do. It wasn’t an official requirement to receive her black belt; no, this challenge was personal.

  Three uke. One nage. Sara had a brown belt in aikido but she had never been able to handle three attackers at once. Now, just like in her last attempt, they rushed at her, three attackers, three uke. But something was different this time. Instead of their bleached-white gis and jet-black hakamas, her attackers were dressed in hoodies and baggie jeans. And instead of a plastic knife, a baton really, Sara glimpsed flashes of steel in their hands. The first attacker stabbed at her, and she grabbed his hand, pulling him toward her as she twisted his arm, bringing him down. For once she didn’t hold back, as they were taught to do; something told her this was not aikido.

  This was a fight, and those knives were real.

  The attacker’s shoulder crunched as it dislocated; the man screamed. The second attacker was on her then, and she rolled with him, pinning him on the ground, twisting his arm behind him; again, not pulling back, she felt his wrist break.

  She turned to meet the third attacker, but he was already there, his knife preceding him; what would have been a thrust to her kidneys ended up in her ribs.

  She woke up to see her sensei; or was this still part of the dream? He wasn’t wearing a gi or hakama, now, either.

  “I’m sorry, Sensei,” she said, still stuck in her dream. “I messed up, again.”

  He shook his head. “No,” he said. “You did just fine.”

  Chapter 2: NIC

  He’d woken up hours before he was supposed to return to the police station.

  What he couldn’t understand was how Sara hadn’t returned any of his calls. The night before he’d even tried her house phone, but her mother hadn’t wanted to talk to him, and she hadn’t let him talk to Sara either.

  What was up with her? Why was she avoiding him, just when he needed to talk to her?

  There was only one thing Nic knew of that could let off the steam he felt building in him. Thinking about how angry his father was; how sad and disappointed his mother was; how confused was his brother; and Sara, how had she felt? And how did Nic feel himself? No, there was only one way to let it go, only one way that didn’t involve smoking something illegal, or hooking up with someone. A way that had no complications, and it was legal.

  He took something hard and heavy out of his closet, got out of his house quietly and let himself into the garage, turned on the blinking florescent lights.

  He took ten Classic Coke cans out of the recycling bag next to the garage door. The glass Mexican Coke bottles were better but his parents didn’t like having glass shards all over the garage; they worried about his eyes, too, and this morning didn’t seem like a good one to cause any more trouble.

  He made a pyramid. Four cans on the bottom, three on top of them, two on top of that, and one on the very top. Ten cans. Ten rounds.

  It was a good release of tension and a good test of concentration.

  He walked to the other end of the garage, held out the gun. He imagined how he would shoot. It was always better to visualize things first. Sometimes he started at the top, sometimes at the bottom. But the main goal was hitting all ten cans. Watching them all at the same time, while he targeted them one after another even as they jumped.

  His hand was shaky as he held it out. At least the gun was solid. He had found the most powerful and quietest and fastest gun that he could get. That had been the criteria. It hadn’t come cheap.

  Now it was time to focus. He would either be on, or not. If he was on, he would hit seven of them. Seven was a good number. But ten, ten was next to impossible – he’d hit it only once, one morning after a perfect night’s sleep; no, Nic figured a ten was really unlikely, but a ten would be nice right now, all the same.

  He disengaged the safety and didn’t stop firing until all the cans were on the ground. He walked up and checked them.

  Seven. He’d hit seven of them with ten rounds.

  He felt like trying again for more but he figured it was getting late. Seven would have to do.

  He cleaned up the mess and went back inside to find his parents waiting for him. His mother handed him a breakfast taco; his father just walked outside and started the car. This was probably going to be what he had to endure for months. The silent treatment was probably the best he could hope for. Though he figured he should feel lucky, Nic just wanted his father to say something.

  Anything at all.

  Which he did not, during the ten-minute drive through early morning traffic.

  Chapter 3: NIC

  Nic filled the portafilter, then glanced at the clock. It was time to meet Juanito and Carlos at Lake Austin, time for a payoff he couldn’t afford, time to hand over at least a thousand dollars he didn’t even have.

  But Nic had other things on his mind.

  He had to get better at this coffee-making business, if he was ever going to hold down a real job. But for the moment, it didn’t look good.

  They had been taking turns pulling espresso shots for the last hour, and Bobby was beating him shot for shot. Which was totally unfair. Nic was older; he was supposed to be the better barista. How else was he ever going to get hired in a real café?

  His stomach burned, his mind buzzed like a swarm of angry bees, but he was determined to pull one more shot. One more for the road, one more to get it right.

  One more to show his little brother who was the real barista, the real barista who was going to get a real job.

  Juanito and Carlos would just have to wait, even if they weren’t going to like it.

  Nic tamped firmly, locked in the shot. He put two tiny demitasses under the two chrome spouts, made a silent prayer, grabbed the chrome lever, and pulled the shot.

  There was a lot of resistance, and his muscles bulged; as he pulled the lever down with all his strength he wanted to close his eyes, afraid he’d wrecked this one. But Nic kept them open, and the coffee came: first a drip, then two, then two thick spirals, snaking down into two waiting cups. His own, and Bobby’s. He brought his eyes back to the clock, watched the second hand, then stopped the shot.

  Just under half a minute. Perfect.

  He picked up his cup, looked at the coffee. Afraid at first to taste it, he studied the crema, as brown and thick as his little finger. He brought it to his mouth. It was sweet. His sweetest of the afternoon, for sure; maybe even the sweetest he’d ever pulled. There was a nice fat mouth feel, fruitiness, a hint of chocolate.

  This, Nic thought, must be real espresso.

  Still he wasn’t sure it was good enough. Nic looked at his little brother. Bobby was smiling at him, some of that same crema on the tip of his nose. Nic could feel it — his little brother knew something.

  “What?” he asked. “What did I do wrong this time?”

  “Wonderful shot,” Bobby said, with all the wisdom of his almost 16 years. He swished the coffee slowly around his mouth. “Definitely better than any of mine.”

  “I did everything right for once, didn’t I?” Nic said. “I’m finally getting it.”

  Bobby shook his head, grinning, then brought up his hand and twisted it.

  “What?” Nic said, “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Bobby shrugged. “You tamped a little hard.”

  “I timed the shot. Twenty-seven seconds for a double, just like it was
supposed to take.”

  Bobby smiled a thin smile and repeated the gesture. “You tamped a little hard, and you didn’t twist the tamper.”

  “Twist the tamper?”

  “Like this,” Bobby said, twisting his hand once again.

  “No man, you’re kidding me. You can taste that?”

  Bobby shrugged, a big smile on his face, the coffee crema still brown on the bridge and tip of his nose. “You can taste pretty much everything, if you pay enough attention.”

  Nic watched Bobby take one last sip from his demitasse. That was something, wasn’t it? When after dozens of espressos your little brother still liked the shot enough to finish the last few drops. Maybe Nic was ready to go show off for Mr. Shipley, after all.

  But his cell phone was vibrating on the counter.

  Nic knocked the coffee puck into the knock box, and dumped the grinds into the trash. The phone kept buzzing. “I don’t want to talk to them until I get there,” he said.

  Bobby put his cup back down on the counter. “So you’re not going to answer it?”

  “I already talked to them on the phone.”

  “Carlos and Juanito?” Bobby asked. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Nic shook his head, then looked at the clock again. He needed to go check the closet. There might be enough in the Bustelo can, but he was probably fooling himself.

  Bobby grabbed his arm. “You aren’t going to sell another package, are you?”

  “I’m being careful,” Nic said.

  “Wait until Mom gets home,” Bobby said. “No one’s won yet. It’s my turn to pull a shot.”

  “We’ll have to finish later,” Nic said. “I need to get going.” He tried to pull away, but Bobby held him firm.

  “What am I supposed to tell Mom?”

  “Don’t tell her anything,” Nic said. “She doesn’t need to know anything about it.”

  “Need to know?” Bobby said. “Dude, who are you kidding? If you keep acting like this, people are going to know you’re still dealing. And at church, people talk.”

  “Pinches chismosas.”

  “She’s not supposed to care about her son?”

  “You think I don’t know how much I embarrass her?””

  “Mom loves you. You’re not embarrassing her. You’re breaking her heart.”

  God, he really did need to toughen up. “You are such a white boy, you know that?” Nic said. “You even talk like one.”

  “I’m just as Mexican as you.”

  “You got all the Callahan from Dad, but none of Mom’s Gonzales.”

  “Right, I know, I’m the bolillo. I hear how your friends talk about me.”

  “That’s not my fault.”

  “Well, you could still apologize once in a while.”

  “For what? For being browner than you?”

  “Forget it.” Bobby grabbed the portafilter and knocked out the puck with a bang. “Forget it, but stay home. Call Juanito, tell them you can’t make it.”

  Nic shook his head. “I told them I’d be there. You don’t just tell people something and do something else. Besides, I need to clear a few things up.”

  “Call them again and tell them what you need to tell them.”

  “It’s not that easy,” Nic said. He tried to turn away, but Bobby tightened his grip. Maybe Bobby had toughened up.

  Physically.

  “I needed to ask you something,” Bobby said then, letting him go. “But I guess I’ll ask you later.”

  Nic punched him then, a manly little tap on the shoulder. Maybe that would calm him down. “Ask me on the way out,” he said, walking to his room.

  “Eat something, at least,” Bobby called after him.

  Nic glanced again at clock by his bed. He was late now. He went to the closet and pushed his clothes aside. There, under a bunch of dirty socks and shirts and pants, was his bank. Three coffee cans: Illy, the coffee fund; Bustelo, with his monthly payments and car insurance; and the Pilon can, with his savings. That was how it was supposed to work, but he’d been borrowing a lot from the one can to the other lately.

  Just getting the truck out of impound had given him a beating, but it was the espresso machine for Bobby’s birthday, and the endless coffee supplies that were killing him.

  Nic grabbed the Bustelo can. There should be $800 inside, enough to get the brothers off his back, although he figured they wouldn’t be satisfied with less than an even thousand.

  He opened the can.

  There were just three bills at the bottom of the jar. And they weren’t even all hundreds. Just two fifty dollar bills and a hundred. Two hundred dollars.

  He was going to have to hit the long term savings. The Pilon can. Nic didn’t want to open it. The Pilon can was special, the bright red and yellow can of his future. One day it would get him out of Austin, take him to Europe, to Latin America, or at least to Houston.

  He opened the can. Another few bills. He pulled them out. There were two hundreds, and a fifty.

  The Illy can, his coffee fund, was all shiny chrome, and … empty.

  All together four hundred and fifty. From all the money he’d made over the summer. It was barely enough to get him out of Austin. It wasn’t enough for the Martinez brothers waiting at the lake. It might be enough for a month’s worth of espresso and supplies, but he doubted it.

  Where had it all gone? Had someone found his stash? For a moment, he thought maybe it was Bobby. Could Bobby have found the cans? Nic almost called him into the room. But then he remembered everything he’d paid for over the last two months.

  No, the money wasn’t missing. He had spent it. And now he had nothing to sell to get it back. In the past, when he was tapped out, he’d just gotten aggressive and slung more product. But getting aggressive right now? With a probation officer watching him? Impossible. Besides, he didn’t have the money to buy another package. He’d spent all his savings on coffee. On the grinder. On the roaster. On the green coffee to practice with the roaster. Where was he going to get the money he owed, now?

  His phone vibrated again. Nic was really late now – it was time to get a move on. He put fifty dollars in the Illy can, another fifty in the pocket of his black jeans, and the rest in the Pilon can. Then he searched around at the back of his closet for something hard and heavy and dangerous. It wasn’t there. He must have left it in the Suburban.

  Bobby blocked his way at the screen door, still looking way too serious for someone who had just turned sixteen.

  “You going to let me get by?” Nic asked.

  “You said I could talk to you on the way out.”

  “What?” Nic sighed. “What did you want to ask me?”

  “It’s about the car show you told me about,” Bobby said. “I thought maybe we could get some ideas.”

  “The one on Riverside?”

  Bobby nodded. “I was thinking, maybe with just a little work? We could show your Suburban next month, in the Convention Center.”

  “Yeah,” Nic said. “Sure.” Next month was so far away. Who knew what could happen in the meantime? “You taking Molly to the car show?” he asked.

  “I’m kind of afraid to call her,” Bobby said. “She’ll just say it’s a waste of time.”

  “You’re afraid to call her?” Nic said. “Afraid to call your own girlfriend?”

  “No, man,” Bobby said. “I’m just afraid she’ll say it’s a waste of time.”

  “Just call her already,” Nic said. “Unless maybe you don’t want her to go with you?”

  “My phone’s dead anyhow.”

  “Here,” Nic said. “Use mine.”

  “Sure,” Bobby said. “Whatever.” Bobby took the phone, dialed digits, turned away, moved out of earshot. Nic couldn’t hear anything but mumble, but maybe Molly could understand him.

  Nic did sometimes wonder what Molly saw in his brother. Not that Nic didn’t love his brother – he just didn’t think that Molly was ever going to succeed at molding him into what she wanted.

/>   Right now, though, Nic needed to get out of there. He wished Bobby would hurry up. He caught Bobby’s eye just as he said, “Fine!”

  But Bobby didn’t look like anything was fine, as he shut Nic’s phone and shook his head.

  “Did you just hang up on her?” Nic asked, incredulous. He wondered if Bobby had just grown some chest hair. Maybe there was hope for him after all.

  “Yeah,” Bobby said. “I get tired of her ideas about people. She’s got us all stuck in our own pigeon holes. Like now, she says car shows are for gangbangers.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Nic said. “She said that? ¿De veras?”

  “Yeah,” Bobby said. “She said that.”

  “What a pendeja. She may go to that smart school with you, but that’s just ignorant,” Nic said. “Sure, some gangsters like hydraulics and lowriders, but no one in our car club has ever run in a gang.”

  “Molly believes what she wants to believe.” Bobby shrugged. “She’s kind of stubborn about things. Sometimes I think she’ll ditch me if I don’t make varsity.”

  “Ditch her, then,” Nic said. “She doesn’t deserve you, anyhow.”

  “Whatever,” Bobby said. “You know she’s totally together, and I am such a mess. Sometimes I don’t think anyone deserves me.”

  “Sometimes you make me sick,” Nic said. “Why don’t you ask Sara? She misses you, you know.”

  “You seen her around?” Bobby asked. “Oh, wait, that’s a stupid question, right? You were with her when you got busted.”

  “She invited you, first, you know,” Nic said.

  “Oh, sorry, let me be a little clearer,” Bobby said. “You were with her when you got busted selling her weed.”

  “Yeah, well, if someone hadn’t called the cops,” Nic said. “We would have been fine.”

  “You really think Molly called the cops?” Bobby said. “Or is that what Sara said to you.”

  “I don’t know what to think,” Nic said, honestly. “Sara didn’t say anything to me, but I don’t trust Molly. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Anyhow, it’s a good thing you didn’t show up.”