Free Roachkiller and Other Stories by R. Narvaez Page A

something.” Orange led him to the side of the warehouse and through a door that led to dark, wooden steps.
    “I met Danny a few months back when he came to a gallery I co-own,” Orange said. “I saw that he was interested in art. So I started asking him to run errands and stuff, and eventually I let him help me hang stuff and put in sound equipment, and every once in a while I let him stay here.”
    “Here?”
    “Yeah, I think he had a problematic home life, you know. I guess he came here to escape. This was his spot.”
    An old red futon mattress lay flat on the floor. There was an empty box of cereal and a bowl. On the floor was a large drawing pad, with the graffiti tag “GhostD” on the front. On the floor was a brown cigar box, with the same tag on it.
    “So you have no idea where he is?”
    “No idea, man. But if he comes back I’ll let you know.”
    Vega handed him a card. “I’d appreciate it.”
     
    *  *  *
     
    On Monday morning, the offices of Valiant Security International were busy. Phones trilled, operatives rushed about. Alone in his cubicle, Vega ignored a pile of assignment sheets to install new operating systems or DVD drives, and performed a quick public record search. Lime Orange’s real name was Michael Cooper, he was twenty-nine, from Ohio, had a large trust fund, and a modestly successful art and music career. Vega found an elaborate Web site that featured news about the artist and his projects. He’d also had some trouble as a teenager—a DWI and a marijuana possession charge—but since then, nothing.
    “Hmmm,” Vega said to himself. Then he noticed the phone had been ringing. “Help Desk.”
    When he got home that night, Vega still felt like one giant sore spot. His left side felt particularly useless. Under his right armpit, he carried groceries, and in his right hand, along with his briefcase, he carried a six-pack. He had to set them all down in order to open the door to his basement apartment.
    Inside, he stepped on the back of one shoe then the other to get them off. He popped open one beer, then picked up his game console. He stared at the screen. Then put down the console and picked up the phone. He dialed Orange. An answering machine came on that suggested visiting his Web site. Or leaving a message. Have an incredible day and an amazing life. Vega put down the phone.
    He drained his first beer in under twenty seconds. The second in forty-five. Then he attacked a box of powdered donuts.
     
    *  *  *
     
    Vega had a vague idea of what he needed to find out next. He took the next afternoon off, claiming a doctor’s appointment.
    Jorge’s Pet Emporium was located on Grand Street, squeezed between La Luna Botanica and the Great Wall Chinese Take-out. A sign in the window read “Aquarium and Pet Supplies, Birds and Tackle.” Two scrawny puppies scrambled over each other in a window display. When Vega pushed through the front door a bell rang somewhere.
    The humid smell of fish food, live fish, and dead fish hit him. To his right, a tired-looking man bent over a tank of golden-red guppies. Down the main aisle, huddled around the cash register, were four men. They stopped talking when Vega walked up to them. One of the men said, “Lo puedo ayudar?”
    “I need to see Antonio.”
    “Quién es?”
    “Eulogio Vega.”
    The first man nodded, and one of the other men turned and went behind a curtain to a back room. Vega watched the tired man clean out a tank. It took a long time.
    The second man emerged from the curtain and pointed his chin at Vega and then the curtain. Vega ducked and went down a narrow hallway to a small office. The man Vega knew as Antonio stood at a desk shaking hands with an Asian man in a guayabera. Antonio did a little bow and the Asian man bowed back and they both laughed. Then the Asian man left, giving Vega a broad smile as he passed him.
    “Eulogio! A face from the past!” Antonio said. “Good to see you, bro.” He came around the desk and