Free Roachkiller and Other Stories by R. Narvaez

up, he was on the couch in his cousin’s apartment. A miniature Doberman sat on his chest and barked as if it had just conquered him in some battle. Vega could not move. His body felt like a double-tied shoelace knot. Eventually, he picked the dog up off his chest and began to hobble like a crab over to the door. It seemed to take days.
    “Where you going?” It was Mildred, with a spatula in her hand. Her hair was dyed red now and looked like a burning halo around her head.
    “I have to get home.”
    “Get back on that couch. You’re not going nowhere.”
    He realized he had only moved two feet from the couch.
    She continued to talk to him from the kitchen. “I’m sorry I made you do this. I thought you could find that kid one, two, three.”
    “So did I,” Vega said, so softly he might as well have been speaking to himself.
    Mildred brought him a tray of eggs, sweet plantains, toast, coffee, and four aspirin. He ate, then fell asleep. When he woke up, the apartment was quiet. Mildred was out with the dog.
    He rose stiffly from the couch and slowly, very slowly made his way home. After a hot shower, he got dressed then called a car service. He went back to the Spore.
    Vega put on his glasses and got out of the car with his black vinyl briefcase. He could hear some music but not as loud as it had been. There was no one at the front door this time, but it was open. It was barely lit in there. The art pieces seemed more humble to him now, more modest. He headed toward what looked like an office.
    From around a corner someone walked in carrying a large frame. He could see a woman’s feet in clogs underneath it. The frame was one of the black-and-white photographs of faces. An ancient old man’s face. Vega felt like the picture looked.
    “Hello,” Vega said.
    “Oh, sorry,” the woman said, peeking out from behind the frame. She was thin and pale, but she had thick lips and a thick nose. Her black hair was short and curly, with a streak of purple in it.
    “Is that one of yours?”
    “Sure is.”
    “You did all the black-and-white faces?”
    “Sure did.”
    “I liked those. I don’t know much about art, but those were my favorites.”
    “Thank you,” she said, and for the first time she smiled. “That’s very sweet of you to say. I know some people think I’m not the most radical, innovative artist, but . . .”
    “They’re great.”
    “You’ve got a great face. I’d love to photograph you.”
    Vega could feel himself blushing. “My fat face?”
    “Well, maybe so. But it has a lot of character, a lot of strength. Very ethnic, too. My name is Anya, by the way.” She put the frame down and leaned it against her hips. She stuck out her hand and he shook it.
    “Eulogio Vega.”
    “So, what can I do for you, Eulogio? Are you a collector?”
    Vega handed her his business card. “Actually, I’m a private investigator.”
    “This says, ‘Computer technology specialist.’”
    “Internet fraud is my specialty. But that’s not what I’m here for.”
    “Are you here to see Lime?”
    “Actually, yeah.”
    “He’s right behind you.”
    Vega turned and there was Orange, in a work apron and carrying a soldering iron.
    Orange said to the woman: “Listen, babe, why don’t you go unpack the new art? We got people moving a lot of stuff in today.”
    “Is something going on? Lime, what’s wrong?”
    “Anya, do I have to say it twice? Unpack the art. We got a lot of shit to do today. Please.”
    Vega thought she was about to yell, but instead she picked up the picture and walked away. When she was gone, Lime Orange said, “Sorry. I don’t mean to be a prick. But she’s kinda ditzy. And she worries about the wrong things.”
    “What should she worry about?”
    “Getting all our new artwork up. Yeah, I have a great success on my hands. I have to keep it going.”
    “Sounds great,” said Vega, who looked around for a place to sit. His legs felt like chewed gum.
    “C’mon, let me show you