Sparrow

I was getting too old for this shit, and frankly, the only woman I was vaguely interested in screwing right now hated my guts and happened to be my wife.

Paddy Rowan lived in Little Havana. A Cuban neighborhood where nobody knew him or gave a shit about who he was, so I figured that’s exactly why he chose it in the first place. Laying low was easy in a place where no one had the slightest interest in you. In Little Havana, he was just another old dying senior with no history or future to speak of.

He lived in the nicer part of the neighborhood, though definitely a downgrade from his upscale house back home. It was a yellow, Spanish-style house with arches and all that jazz. The stucco was clean, the yard looked remarkably well tended, and there was a young Latino woman sweeping the floor of the walled front courtyard, humming to herself. She wore a cleaning company’s uniform and looked up at me when she heard my footfalls. Her smile faltered, and her humming and sweeping stopped. A gust of hot wind blew on her face and a strand of dark hair teased her forehead.

The innocence of her expression reminded me of Red. Then again, pretty much every fucking other thing in the world reminded me of my wife nowadays. Focus, asshole. Revenge first, pussy later.

“Can I help you?” she asked, cautious and scared. She flinched when I sauntered toward the door without acknowledging her. I didn’t have time for a chit-chat.

“Sir!” she objected behind me, leaning her broom against the yellow archway and stalking my footsteps.

The front door was locked, so I kicked it open. Most people don’t realize that kicking-in a door is a fucking walk in the park to anyone over 150 pounds. I didn’t even break a sweat. I marched into the house, the door behind me swinging on its hinges, not stopping to admire the Spanish artwork on the walls or the nice interior design Paddy has decided to go for in his retirement. He’d always liked pretty things.

Shame one of those things belonged to me.

“Where’s Paddy?” I growled in her direction. It was a two-story house, traditional, vast, with a shitload of doors. I wasn’t going to play hide and seek with the motherfucker.

“Who are you? I’m calling the police,” the maid announced, but she made no move to pull out a cell phone or lunge for the one on the table in the foyer.

I offered her an impatient smile. “Don’t be stupid. Tell me where he is and get outta here.” I reached into my pocket and jerked a stack of money from my wallet.

She jumped back, watching the hundred-dollar bills feather-float all the way to the Spanish tiles. She then looked back up to face me and silently stared up to the second floor, tilting her head toward its right wing. Her gaze was steady, but her body shook.

“That’s where he is?” I tipped my chin down, inspecting her.

Her full lips were pursed and her thick eyelashes fluttered. She was having a hard time giving him away, but knowing Rowan, he couldn’t have been nice to a maid. He was notorious for putting women through shit, especially powerless ones. The Irish mob was always into the pussy business (mainly strip clubs that offered some extra attention to their clients—it was too profitable to turn down), but most men weren’t particularly anxious to leave their mark on the girls. Paddy, however, liked them young and suffering. Preferably the latter, if he had a choice.

The girl nodded wordlessly.

“Are you giving him away because of the money or because he messed around with you?” I tucked my wallet back into my breast pocket, waiting with interest for the answer.

She gulped hard and studied the floor, knotting her fingers together. “Both.”

A brief, heavy silence fell between us.

“Get out of here and if anyone asks, he gave you half the day off because you caught a stomach bug. I was never here. Understood?”

She nodded again.

“Who am I?” I asked.

“No one,” she parroted. “I never saw you.”

“Good girl. Now off you go.”

When I walked into the darkened master bedroom, the stench almost knocked me over. So far the house looked nice and taken care of, but the thick and suffocating scent of illness crashed into me the minute I stepped into his room.

There was a tall king-size bed, and right in the middle of it, tucked inside dozens of fucking duvets and fluffy pillows lay the man I hated. Or, at least what was left of him.

He looked frail, skinny, the opposite from his old burly self. He used to be stocky, bald, short, ugly and healthy. Now blue veins traveled up and down his hands like vicious snakes and his skin was dotted yellow and brown. He was withering. An autumn leaf sticking out like a sore thumb in green Miami.