The Bridge to Her Heart chapter 2

In chapter 2, you'll meet the hero of the romance--Jack Rodriguez. What do you think? Any suggestions or comments wold be greatly appreciated. There's a section where the formatting got fouled up when I copied and pasted the file--please ignore it.

Jack leaned against the thick trunk of a sycamore tree, ripping the peel from an orange. Juice dripped over his fingers, and he wiped them on his jeans. The orange tasted as sweet as it smelled and eased his thirst.

            It was mid-October, but felt more like summer, and the river park was crowded with people seeking a cool escape. Paved paths wound beneath the shade trees, past grassy lawns and flower beds. What had once been a busy highway through the center of Madrid had been transformed into a park on both sides of the Manzanares River. In the distance, the gray granite arches of the Toledo Bridge spanned the river. It was a icturesque background for the photos he planned to take.

            A middle-aged man wearing shorts and a sweatband jogged past, ear buds in his ears. He dodged a woman pushing a baby carriage with one hand while focused on her phone in the other. An older couple walked by holding hands. The man leaned on a wooden cane and wore a black beret. His wife wore a floppy sun hat. Jack would have snapped their picture, but his fingers were still sticky.

            He liked the Spanish people. Most were friendly, probably because their economy depended on the tourist industry. Jack didn’t think of himself as a tourist, though he looked like one with a camera hanging around his neck. His folding tripod and other equipment were stowed in a backpack leaning against the tree trunk. He worked commercial jobs to pay the bills, while doing what he liked best—filming real people with real problems. This afternoon, he’d filmed an African street vendor.

            Malik stood about fifty feet away. He’d spread a blanket on the grass in the sun where he displayed cheap knock-offs of expensive name-brand purses, sunglasses, and pirated dvd’s for sale.

            Spaniards called the vendors “manteros” for the blankets or mantas they used. They were illegal migrants from Senegal, and their goods were illegal as well. If the police came along, the Africans pulled hidden strings, gathering their blankets into makeshift sacks, and hurried away like criminal Santas.

            Jack’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he answered it. “Hola.”

            “Where are you?” Cecelia asked. A child’s cry came over the phone. She must have been holding the baby.

            “I’m at the river park. I have a photo shoot on the Toledo Bridge tonight,” Jack said. “Zaffa and his wife will be there.”

            “And a big crowd of fans.”

            Jack frowned. Spaniards were fanatic soccer fans. “It’ll be crazy, all right.”

            “Could you bring home some baby Tylenol? Miguelito is teething, and he’s miserable.” She sounded miserable, too.

            “Sure. Any news from Miguel?”

            She shushed the baby. “Not yet. Don’t worry. If it’s not accepted this year, he’ll try again next year.”

            Jack said nothing. His work visa expired soon, and next year was a big question mark.

            “Don’t forget the Tylenol. Chao.”

            He shoved the phone back into his jean’s pocket. His cousin, Miguel, had gone to Segovia, hoping to get Jack’s documentary viewed and considered for the upcoming festival. The entry was late, but Miguel thought they still had a chance. He’d worked hard to edit the film and had a lot of faith in Jack’s work.

Jack wasn’t as sure. Refugees fleeing Africa, risking their lives to bring their families to Europe to start a new life, held little interest. Most Spaniards would rather watch soccer.

Jack glanced over at Malik, standing beside his blanket. He had a desperate story to tell. Did anyone care?

A group of young boys had been kicking a soccer ball back and forth on the grass nearby. One boy kicked the ball at Malik, and the African kicked it back. The boys returned it, and this time the ball rolled over the blanket, toppling the handbags. Malik knelt down to right them and while his back was turned, the boy kicked the ball at him again.  It bounced off Malik’s shoulder.

Jack stepped out from the shadow of the tree. “Don’t play there,” he called.

The same boy kicked the ball in Jack’s direction, and he scooped it up and walked back to the tree.

Two young boys wearing purple shirts with the Real Madrid golden crown logo confronted him. They looked like brothers—same nose, same brown eyes. And both wore Zaffa athletic shoes with silver “Z’s” on the heels.

One boy was probably two years older and two inches taller than his brother. “Give us our ball.” He jumped up and tried to knock it out of Jack’s hand.

Jack held it high. “Promise to stop kicking it at the mantero.”

The older brother stood back, scowling. “He doesn’t belong here.”

Surprised by the venom in the boy’s voice, Jack tried to explain. “He just wants to make a living and help his family.”

The boy’s expression didn’t change. “He should go back to Africa.”

            “Are you American?” the younger brother asked.

Jack nodded. “How did you know?”

“You wear a baseball cap—like Trump.”

“Trump wears a red cap,” Jack said, chuckling. He wore a dark blue Yankees cap with the brim turned backwards. “Did you know Marco Zaffa will be at the Toledo Bridge tonight?”

“He’s going to sign our ball,” the younger brother said.

“Not if I don’t give it back.”

The older boy pointed. “Look, the police are here. You have to give us our ball now.”

            Jack glanced down the path. Two helmeted, blue-uniformed policemen on bicycles pedaled toward them.

            “Go get it,” Jack said and drop-kicked the soccer ball at the approaching cyclists.

            The boys ran after it, and in order to avoid a collision, the policemen veered off into the grass. One toppled into a bed of red geraniums.  

            Meanwhile, Malik pulled the strings on his blanket. He gathered up his wares in a bundle, tossed it on his back, and hurried away.

            Jack filmed his escape and then aimed the camera at the approaching police officers. They had parked their bikes, but only one came up to Jack. The other man remained with the bicycles and spoke into his radio.

            “What are you doing here, Rodriguez? I thought you’d gone back to Puerto Rico.”

            Jack tightened his jaw. He didn’t recognize the officer behind his wrap-around sunglasses. “I’m from New York.”

            “The African is breaking the law. You are, too, if you filmed him. Show me your visa.”

            Frowning, Jack dug it out of his wallet and handed it to him. “How do you know me?”

            “You were arrested at the demonstration last month.”

            Jack stiffened. “I was filming it.”

            Passers-by stared, curious, and the second officer told them to move along  He came over to stand next to his partner. Neither spoke.

            A wavering siren came from the street above, and Jack grew more uneasy. He put the lens cap on his camera and stowed it in the backpack at his feet.

            After scanning Jack’s visa, the first officer handed it back. “What’s in there?”

            “Just my camera equipment.” Jack lifted the backpack onto his shoulders. He wanted to leave.

            “I have to confiscate it.”

            Jack swore, taking a step back. “Why?”

            “There’s been a terror threat.”  The officer reached for the backpack, and Jack brushed his arm away.

            In the next moment, both officers tackled him.

            “Hey, let go,” Jack protested, but it did no good. He was forced to the ground and handcuffed.