Name and Face

I lean against a streetlamp across from the restaurant, watching the entrance while pretending to check my watch. The pink suit makes me stand out, but I position myself in the shadows. The night air carries salsa music from a nearby club, providing a soundtrack to my stakeout. Twenty minutes pass before the Colombian finally emerges.

He's not alone. A woman in a tight black dress clings to his arm, laughing at something he's said. They're clearly on a date, just like I was with Dee. The irony isn't lost on me. This man tried to kidnap a teenage girl, and now he's playing the gentleman.

They stroll toward a gleaming red Cadilac Eldorado parked under a streetlight. The car screams big money, too flashy, too expensive for someone like him. The Colombian pulls out keys, clicks the driver's door lock.

"Hector, wait!" The woman's voice cuts through the night. "I forgot my purse inside!"

Hector. Finally, a name for the face that's been haunting me.

He turns, annoyed but hiding it behind a smile. "Hurry up, baby. I got places to be."

She totters back to the restaurant on high heels while Hector leans against his car, lighting a cigarette. The ember glows orange in the darkness, illuminating his face in brief flashes. Same scar across his right cheek. Same dead eyes. Definitely one of Maria's unfortunate abductors.

The woman returns with her purse, and they climb into the Cadilac. The engine roars to life, and they pull away, taillights disappearing around a corner into the Miami night.

I exhale slowly, realizing I've been holding my breath. Hector. Now I have something concrete to tell Miguel. A name can lead to connections, history, weaknesses.

I walk toward the bus stop, replaying the evening in my mind. A perfect date with Dee, plus valuable intelligence on an enemy. Not bad for one night. The pink suit was worth every penny.

The walk back to my room feels longer than usual. No car means no freedom in this sprawling city. Bus schedules and taxi fares eat into my earnings and waste precious time. If I had wheels, I could've followed Hector tonight, traced him back to whatever hole he crawls into.

That settles it. A car jumps to the top of my priority list. Nothing flashy like Hector's Cadilac, just something reliable with a full tank. Two or three more jobs with Miguel should cover it. Then I can start building a real life here, maybe take Dee somewhere nice outside the city.

First wheels, then leaving cheap motel. Everything has its time.

The morning sun beats down on Free Spirit, a small café tucked into a corner of Little Havana. Old Cuban men play dominoes at tables outside, slapping pieces down with practiced precision. The air smells of coffee and cigar smoke.

Miguel sits across from me at a corner table, nursing a cafecito. His expression darkens when I mention Hector's name.

"Hector," Miguel repeats, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Thick eyebrows, scar on his right cheek?"

I nod, watching his reaction carefully. "That's him. One of the guys who tried to grab Maria."

Miguel's knuckles turn white around his tiny coffee cup. "I know this piece of shit. Works for the "Machete" crew. Low-level enforcer, but ambitious."

"He was on a date. Flashy red Cadillac."

Miguel leans forward. "This confirms what I've been suspecting all along. I once saw O'Malley meeting with Rafael "Machete" in club. They were quite friendly.

The dominoes clack loudly behind us as an old man celebrates a win.

"Trying to pressure me through Maria. Now I know for sure." Miguel drains his coffee. "O'Malley wants intel on Cuban mafia to help his Colombian friends move in. I was delaying and withholding information, so he sent Hector to push.

Before Miguel could continue, the distinctive sound of cowboy boots clicking on pavement draws my attention. A young guy approaches our table, his oversized cowboy hat casting a shadow over his eager face. He walks with exaggerated confidence, like he's practiced his swagger in front of a mirror.

Miguel doesn't seem surprised by the newcomer's arrival.

The young man stops at our table, thumbs hooked in his belt loops like he's in a Western standoff. His eyes lock onto mine with undisguised curiosity.

His hand suddenly drops to his belt, and in one motion, he draws a chrome-plated revolver, twirling it dramatically before pointing it at us.

"Alright partners, wallet or your life!" His face splits into a wide grin, clearly pleased with his performance.

My heart lurches. Instinct takes over. Threat. Neutralize. My hand shoots to my pocket, fingers closing around two single dollar bills.

Fuck this kid.

I burn the bills between my fingers, feeling the familiar rush as time bends backward. Two seconds. Not much, but enough.

The world rewinds. The cowboy's gun slides back into his holster, his arm moves in reverse, and suddenly I'm back at the moment before he draws.

This time I'm ready. I grab my empty ceramic coffee cup and hurl it directly at his face as his hand drops to his gun. The cup connects with a sickening crack, shattering against his face.

I lunge forward, knocking over the table as I tackle him. My hand clamps around his wrist, twisting until the chrome revolver clatters to the ground. I snatch it up, pointing it at him as he stumbles backward, blood trickling from cuts where ceramic shards sliced his skin.

"Whoa, whoa! Carlos, stop! It's okay!" Miguel jumps between us, hands raised.

"Okay?" I keep the gun trained on the bleeding cowboy. "This pendejo just tried to rob us!"

"No, no, this is Ricky. I told you we were meeting him."

The cowboy touches his bloody face, looking more confused than angry. "It was just a joke, man..."

Miguel sighs. "He always does cowboy shit. Stupid idiot."

The kid's eyes are wide with hurt and embarrassment. Blood trickles down his cheek from the spot where my coffee cup shattered against his face. The old men playing dominoes look at us with obvious disapproval.

Shit. This isn't how this should go.

I reach for my wallet again, pulling out a ten-dollar bill. This needs a bigger rewind. I burn the bill between my fingers, focusing on going back ten seconds.

The world blurs and resets. The cowboy stands before our table again, hands still on his belt loops, hat tilted at that practiced angle.

This time, I see his theatrical approach with new eyes. Just a kid playing cowboy. Not a threat.

His hand drops to his belt and pulls the chrome revolver in that same exaggerated quick-draw motion.

"Alright partners, wallet or your life!" he announces with that same grin.