The Son of Every Man

Chapter 4.7

Two more nights came and went down at the warehouse. Miguel could feel himself taking to the kid right as it happened. No, he wasn't Marco Junior, and Miguel no longer wanted him to be. He felt drawn to Gabe squarely for the unique individual he was turning out to be. But their talks had gradually lost steam, and Gabe had shown signs of withdrawing once again. Miguel began to feel that something was at stake, something precious he stood to lose if the kid wasn't interested...though he wasn't sure yet exactly what it was. When Friday night rolled around, he made up his mind to abandon formalities and invite himself to Gabe's house. After a bit of reluctance, the kid agreed.

There wasn't anywhere to sit in the dim condo (which Gabe kept referring to as his parents' place), but it was too hot to stay inside anyway. The kid hurried Miguel through the empty house and onto a balcony with iron railing that was painted black. He draped a Mexican blanket over the wide plastic chaise lounge and offered it up graciously, then unrolled a foam mat on the cement floor for himself.

He sat down and threw a worried look up at Miguel. "I told you it wouldn't be comfortable."

"It's perfect," countered Miguel. "It's more than enough. Can I smoke?"

"Be my guest—here." Gabe crawled over and retrieved a red clay ashtray from along the wall. Miguel reached into his pocket, but Gabe stopped him. "Wait a minute," he said, disappearing through the balcony door, returning with a crumpled box of Marlboros. He opened it up to reveal the treasure that remained: four perfect amber-and-white stems. "Guess who these belonged to?"

A surreal feeling washed over Miguel. "Those were his. I don't know—"

The kid waved the box intently in his face. "You want me to throw them away, then?"

"Of course not."

"Because they're going in the trash if you don't want them."

"Don't throw them away." Miguel reached out and took hold of the box. It was still warm from the interior of the condo. "I always called him an old man for smoking these."

"Oh, I almost forgot," said Gabe, vanishing indoors again. He came back out with the lighter—a plain brass Zippo, pocked and tarnished by use and time.

"Oh, Gabe...I couldn't..."

"You know he would want you to have it. Come on—you know."

Miguel tried to remember their last smoke, just the two of them, but found he couldn't separate one memory from the rest. They all blurred together now. "A few more from Big Boss." He glanced up in thanks, but saw only the cobwebbed underside of another balcony. He took the lighter from Gabe, lit one up and stood out at the edge. Gabe came to stand beside him, arms folded on the railing.

"You were always a favorite of his," said Gabe. "Other than Eddie and Otero, I only ever heard your name before I started."

"He mentioned me to you?"

"Once or twice. You know how he wanted to keep us all isolated. The fact that he brought you up at all says a lot. As least, I think it does."

Miguel didn't want to seem vain. If the kid still saw even a speck of mystique in him, he wished to hold onto it...but he couldn't help himself. "What did he say about me?"

"He said I could trust you, no matter what." Gabe paused then, thoughtful, as if trying hard to remember. "He told me once that you hadn't been dealt a fair hand in life. He said it turned you golden."

The cigarette nearly fell from Miguel's mouth. "I wouldn't take it that far."

The kid didn't say anything, just kept staring straight out toward the buildings lining the shore.