A sense of déja-Vu…

The night ate through the edge of the day, catching up to the car’s speed. Flickering sparkles of noise perforated the guise of the drafted silence when we stopped.

A warm breeze caressed my skin, announcing the summer arrival. Felt like a lover’s touch, affectionate but discreet. I looked at the front gate, blinded by the colorful lights. This hotel tasted of a nightclub’s toxic aroma. This kind of raucous site smelled rotten of an unpleasant scheme. My eyes pierced Mr. Milford Macias straight back, a frown sipped on my face. What he wanted to accomplish, bringing me to such a place.

As if he read minds, his head tilted, granting me a side look, “relax,” The golden chain attached to his glasses oscillated in compliance, “I am banned from here?” His chin bounced up, pointing past the street, “we are going to dine there.”

My gaze marathoned the denoted invisible line, and a shabby rundown restaurant met the end of my sight. I scanned the site up, left, then right to assess any other place. Uncertain, I was, until his frame strolled across the road, joining the disordered tables and seats enclosing a tiny ragged door.

I thought we will settle outside, therefore, my eyes browsed amongst the tables in a hopeless search for a modest, clean spot. Nothing reached the threshold of my lowest requirements. Ah… Also, the amalgam of scents breezing out the gapes of the small building…

“Barbecue?” I said, swallowing my saliva. Mr. Macias’s golden strings danced again, reflecting colorful lights. The glow covered the most significant part of his eyes, “Grilled red meat.” The sly smile filling his lineaments exposed his avidity. “Every carnivore must visit this place,” he whispered, then slipped inside.

Abandoned between the remains of an unsophisticated eatery, hardly called a restaurant and unbearably soiled. Mr. Milford Macias revealed yet another facade of his character. An unexpected one. An individual such as himself who probably had spent hours grooming his attire, a dandy by all measures, frequented a place with no apparent food hygiene.

The scent of roasted meat overrode any prior aversion on my part. I sunk into temptation, guided by hunger. The inside of my mouth was watered with drools. However, my consciousness walked after Mr. Macias’s steps, one after the next.

In a hidden corner, straightened up wooden stairs. Loud cracks and a handful of dust streamed after each foot press. Any instant, I pictured the upcoming collapse of either the wooden stairs or the whole level. Before the last steps, a final cautious glance licked the surrounding before I followed him up.

The full liberty of choosing a table, I granted all the rights to my companion while I settled for a diligent inspection. Once I relaxed into a seat, I approved the harmlessness of the place.

A table near the window, if we can call it a window. The quadrangular opening was stacked with irregular wooden plates, fixing some gaps. Through them, the view encompassed the nightclub entrance and pretty much the majority of the street. Someone outside can’t identify the one inside, while in the opposite situation the statement is held false. In short, a perfect point for surveillance. My eyes side-glared at the person preparing himself for a feast, transmitting a comprehensible message.

Whom were you spying on?

Ignoring me, Mr. Macias continued his before-meal ritual. He removed his golden watch, tightened the strings of his glasses. He placed a napkin above his chest and rolled up his sleeve. Somehow, his propriety pleased my OCD and eased my earlier-induced nausea.

The order loitered, but when the intoxicating smell of grilled meat reached my brain, my empty stomach recalled its desire for food. The reclamation started right away.

The grilled small pieces of red meat loaded on wooden skewers dripped into their own juice. I could tell it was grilled over charcoal. After a few minutes, the server, an old lady, returned with hot sauce, drinks, and raw salad.

As I watched Mr. Macias’s theatrical style of eating, my grumbling stomach kept begging. A man table’s manners can unearth so sought buried traits of his past. Despite his elegance, a trace of a subtle unrefinement resurfaced here and there. It wasn’t the case when I watched August Olvera. If it implied anything, I will consider the possibility of him belonging to the poorest or shunned class of society for a period in his life.

Was this the reason behind this over-the-top showy attire? As if he wanted to tell the world he didn’t belong there anymore.

Then how did he climb the social ladder this fast? Hard work? Maybe, but hardly so. Capabilities? Not enough, especially in our society. For the love of power, he is also an acquaintance of August Olvera.

He stopped devouring the meat under my gaze. The subtle annoyance on his face spoke of his dislike of being watched while eating. Perhaps a side-effect of vague insecurity from fear of being found out.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” The tips of his fingers were coated in a fine, oily layer. Compared to Cali, he managed to keep it limited to his own fingertips. “Don’t let the restaurant state affect you.” He almost licked his thumb. He paused at the last second before brushing it over his upper lip. “The mouton meat here is peerless.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle. At the end of the day, old habits die hard. “Are you paying?”

“Of course, I invited you.”

“Yeah, you forced me.” Although I whimpered, my hands braced, drafting my own eating ritual. Thereupon, the situation's perspective changed, and I became the observation target. The brazen stares. I would be a bad liar if I denied the discomfort it had generated. Fortunately, my brain withheld to layering the subjacent significance tailing this remark, ‘don’t let the restaurant state affect you.’

When the symmetry of my meal achieved perfection, I said, “whatever Cali had told you about me… She is wrong.” Before the first juicy bit of grilled meat shut down the rumbling of my stomach.

The strength curving his lips upward in a grin as I watched worried me. Hence, I added while avoiding outright eye contact, “I don’t have mysophobia.”

He fixed me with a crafty peer, “Of course…” Triggering goosebumps all under my skin. At this instant, I believed he brought me to this rundown place just to confirm the details he extracted from Cali.

One more chunk of grilled meat ground between my teeth, followed by another one. Then another one. I barely chewed them enough. Just swallowed as fast as I could. Under his scrutinizing view, it became a high insecure technique to validate my confession, nevertheless, I couldn’t back down.

“Of course, if you have Mysophobia, you won’t have set a foot in this unsavory old restaurant.”

The tone of his word confused me. Did he really get convinced by my act? Was he playing along?

We stared at each other and it was too uncomfortable, so I lowered my head, repeating the earlier eating protocol all over again.

“You know why I love this restaurant?”

“Because of the grilled meat?” Oh, please, someone saves me…

“Yes, that,” once more he smirked, “but also something else.”

I rolled my eyes, where he is going with this stupid conversation? “Hmm… then enlighten me?”

“Seriously,” He wiped the corner of his mouth, “you really didn’t notice?”

“No.” I maintained my sightline away from him.

“The order of the tables and seats outside, the decor inside. The architecture. Maybe it looks like a chubby place at first, but it gives a great sense of relief when you notice these small things.”

“...” He waited for some kind of feedback, except I refused to deliver any. While in the back of my mind, the process of extracting sense out of his words rose in priority.

“You probably have…” His eyes jumped beyond my seat as in searching his brain for the right term. “You probably have Ataxophobia.” A genuine smile crowned the triumph of his discovery and left me dumbstruck. The piece of the meat trapped under my teeth lost its flavor.

Extra fake and overacted, I smiled. The only instant response came to my mind. Evading the scrutinized gaze, my sight fixated on the plate in front of me, finding solace in the beauty of its proportionated display. Yet the silence persisted only for seconds…

“Each person needs a degree of order and tidiness in his life …”

At that time, I didn’t bother analyzing his following commentaries. The stains of humiliation drove me inside my self-built dungeons, suffocating me, slowly, with ropes of my own imagination.

Over the earlier period, I spent my efforts evaluating his behavior. He was doing the same thing.

I wonder what would be my reaction if I had deduced from his spoken remark that he had a similar condition. Would I be as humiliated as I was? Or will I find a kind of comfort in discovering that he suffered from an equivalent disorder? I just remembered how much I wished to change the conversation subject no matter what? No matter how? Even by opening what I deemed a forbidden door.

“Why did you choose FM spy bug transmitters to threaten me?”

Upon this question, his reaction faded into ambiguity, difficult to put a label on it. He poured himself a drink then gestured if I also need one. I gave him a cold silent reply.

The way he drank can be described as messy, maybe enthusiastic, or perhaps cheerful. Wherever it was, it showed me another angle of the 360 shift of his character.

A fruitless wait I felt in watching this ambiguous display, in straps of boredom the patience of waiting for an answer strangled, slowly, with the passing seconds. I craved a response, yet I feared what he will say. What an inconvenient dilemma…

My gaze peddled the surroundings, organizing the details of the decor. Mr. Milford Macias’ remarks judged right. The restaurant was meticulously crafted in its design. The items were well chosen, harmonious in their placement. A soft ripple extended to reach my heart, very pleasing until my supervisor began talking.

“Why did I choose FM spy bug transmitters?” He sighed, eyes lost in the void wandering before they fall straight at me, “because… Because that is exactly what I would start with if I am targeting someone.” This sentence seemed like a trap, a test, especially the accompanying sidelong stares he threw toward me as he resumed his meal.

The quietude nuzzled into a ticklish fierceness. I nibbled the well-grilled meat. He drank what was left in the bottle. The situation grew far more awkward than when it started. However, he possessed that smug attitude that conferred him the boldness to smoothly changes any state of affairs.

“It doesn’t matter what was inside the bag.” He said, but I didn’t believe him. I was more inclined to believe the earlier statement. “Actually, it was a trap,” He added, not leaving a chance for contemplation. “what mattered is that you will touch it with your hands, and once you do, your fingertips will get imprinted on the transmitters. Even if you try to erase your fingerprints, you will end up erasing every fingerprint on the transmitters by then when I present the murder case and ask for a reexamination, the expert won’t find any fingerprints on the suspicious transmitters and that will make you, again, a prime suspect for the Marchetti’s case.”

Speechless, the shock froze my limbs, my jew opened, and my eyelids jumped. What kind of an evil creature did fate set me up against, or rather, what had August Olvera introduced me to?

Oh, my dear Jacob, no, no, I shouldn’t be thanking August for pulling strings to help me out of the interrogation room. I should curse him to the end of his life by paving an effortless road for this demon to my life.

The memories engines of my brain began a painful process to access the images of the day I opened this Pandora bag Mr. Milford Macias had offered me as a token of our newly assumed friendship. Those inattentive seconds of self-absorption created fissures in my strict facial control, allowing him an unwanted advantage.

At the margin of my perception, he adjusted his posture, from the leisurely loosened one to a stance linked to professionalism. If I were in my neutral state, I may have noticed the straightforward change. I may have spotted the similarity between this raw adopted attitude of his and the one in our first meeting in the interrogation room. I may have concluded I was primed for the upcoming interrogation from the start.

“It’s my turn now,” He interrupted the flashback train of mine, “since I answered honestly, you should be honest with me too.” obtaining every bit of my undivided attention, “this is confidential, I swear to you, no one will learn about what we are going to talk about here.” His eyes shone with curiosity, flames like the answer to his next question topped the important matters of his entire existence.

It scared me.

“Why did you kill the poor boy? You didn’t gain anything from it? It only caused you more troubles to take care of.”

Phew, what a relief. I expected another elaborated evidence to frame me. However, the doubts refused to leave my side just yet.

Facing his intense glare, woken unexpected wariness in my heart. What should I say? What I am supposed to answer? How do I turn the table?

“You have been a victim of this Pandora's bag trick before? Right?” As if somebody else said that, I demanded. The words flow like water. The timbre of my voice carried as clear as the moon on a cloudless night. I felt like I was somebody else watching strangers at the negotiation table. And I watched his startled face with a raging pleasure.

“Hum?”

He enfolded the frustrating question with a thin veil of ignorance, apparent at least to me. Hence I refused to leave him an escape route. “someone used the fingerprint trick on you before?” In other words, I repeated, parching for a spoken response, or silent reaction.

“Ah…”

The taste of overpowering an arrogant person, addicting, “someone, I know?”

“...”

“If you answer me truthfully, I will answer you truthfully. I mean… your question, I mean, who killed the poor boy?”

The suspenseful instant cut into explosive hysterical laughter, disturbing and unappealing. Suggesting an impolite demeanor compared to his attire. In its loudness, he attracted an irritated gaze. Unpalatable, persisted gazes. As uncomfortable as I became, he wouldn’t stop, rather he couldn’t stop.

I looked at my plate for solace and resumed my eating ritual. Hopelessly denying any relation to this sudden madness. With the passing moments, the clamorous giggles converted into muffled chuckles. Still, I resolved to keep my head low, finish the meal and get out from here before things will evolve.

Yeah, for a second choice I could depart at once, but there was no way I was going to leave without drying his pockets.

All over again, at the drop of a hat, the peace returned. He didn’t attempt further communication, neither I demanded an explanation. Let him wallow in public dishonor, alone.

However, this peace didn’t last long. Weird intermittent noise reached my ears from the outside, through the window bars. Akin to hitting and smashing, accompanied by a sound like shattered glass and clanging metals. At first, I ignored it until it lasted long enough for me to seek attention, and its intensity irked my mood. In a moment of extreme annoyance, I waggled near the window, spying on the road.

Under the playful lights of the nightclub building, near the newly stationed high-class car, a familiar shadow colonized a margin of my curiosity, but I ignored him. Another one held its center, for he seemed extra familiar. My mind focused on the second one, as he was the source of this noise.

To add meaning to the scene displayed outside, I needed to hurry downstairs even at the expense of disregarding the dinner etiquettes.

My eyes got sight of a long iron bar swiping air up and down. Sometimes it hit the car front, other times it hit the window glass, severely. The impact resonance rang louder compared to when I was inside the restaurant. At the scene periphery, a few men gathered around the culprit, yet they did nothing to stop his rage.

The spectacle continued for a couple of minutes, in which the red car rendered a pile of trash. The culprit’s pause came out of exhaustion, not out of self-fulfillment. So apparent in his wild features.

The iron bar dangled above the ground. It looked like it will fall from his fingers at any instant. From this distance, I felt his rage, frustration. And worst, I related to it.

The first shadow approached under some order unheard by me. He caught the iron bar, then whispered into the other’s ears. Even beneath the night cloak, between the flickering artificial lights and the so-not close distance, both men were recognized by me.

I recognized Emery Cromwell in his favorite suit style, which grew ruined because of the violent activity. He was eyeing the red car, chest up and down due to anger and strain. The men around him stood wordlessly. Their back blocked my sight, hence identifying their temperament counted inaccessible.

It wasn’t difficult for me to grasp the situation. The reason for this commotion all boiled down to the presence of the red car, the famous red car, and the possibility of the presence of its owner.

But this wasn’t my problem… or at least not my very own personal problem for now.

My unforeseen problem became the other one. The one standing next to Mr. Cromwell. He was no one but my named friend, Travis. High and mighty. From every man who satellited the scene, he was the sol individual who held enough courage and approached the out-of-control Mr. Emery Cromwell. So naturally, so confidently, to the point it set an angry fire into my core.

What is the meaning of this? What was Travis’s real identity? Have I been played from the start?

Afraid of being recognized as well, I hurried back. Confused on all levels, I worked up the stairs, slowly, in hesitation. From above, Milford Macias' visage greeted me. Solemn. He sustained neutral expressions, straight lips, a precis gaze. This exterior prestige, below it, buried an immense satisfaction of victory. I knew I felt it.

The purpose of this trip, why did he bring me to this place? Why did he park August’s car near the nightclub building?

He killed two birds with one stone.