by Max Cossack
“You won’t regret that decision.”
“But at the same time, we are not satisfied with the current national DCA leadership. Graduate students and the like. Such people are often mere dilettantes not really up to the necessary forcefulness of struggle.”
“History shows that in any situation, revolutionary leadership takes time to sort itself out and assert itself.”
Abarca reached over and laid his hand on Soren’s thigh. “But I know you. And my comrades know your name, even if you do not know theirs. Do you see where I’m headed?”
“I hope so.”
“My plan is to recommend that we bypass the national DCA organization and link directly with you and your local people.”
Soren said, “That would be wonderful.” And it would be. He felt a small but genuine thrill.
Abarca said, “To make a personal commitment to you, I need a corresponding personal commitment from you. You understand?”
“Of course.”
“Good.”
Soren asked, “But what exactly does that mean in practical terms?”
Abarca said, “Resources, mainly. I need a clear idea of the local resources you command personally. In order to recommend on your behalf.”
“You mean membership?”
“You do not need to provide individual names, of course. We respect your need for security. Just numbers. Also, physical plant, any offices you have, other groups you control or influence, bank accounts and other assets, that sort of thing.”
“I see.”
“The painting would be an excellent start. I am in a position to find a customer.”
“And who would take the proceeds for the painting?”
“The revolution will take the money. You will take your legitimate place as part of the leadership in the revolution.”
Soren didn’t hesitate. “Would you like to see it?”
“Certainly.”
“I brought it along. It’s in the trunk of Roper’s clunker.”
32 Fake!
Abarca opened the door and called, “Enrique, please have Roper bring in the painting from his automobile.”
Then, to Soren: “I am so much excited to see this extraordinary work that has claimed so much attention and may contribute to our Movement so much new capital.”
Soren felt a twinge. Jealousy, maybe? He didn’t want Roper to receive even a jot of the credit he might get simply by carrying in Soren’s painting.
Couldn’t be helped. Three minutes later, Enrique escorted Roper into the room. Roper unwrapped L’Amination from a blanket and set it upright on the sofa. The four men looked at it. Enrique shrugged in obvious disdain and left.
“Interesante,” Abarca said. He crossed his arms. Continuing to inspect the painting, he shuffled two steps to his right. He grunted. Then he shuffled four steps to his left.
“It’s an original Alfonso,” Soren offered.
Abarca said, “It is continuing source of amazement to me how much money rich Americanos will pay for such a dismal article as this one.”
“Alfonso’s reputation rocketed skyward after his surgery,” Soren said.
“I have read that,” Abarca said. “Roper, turn it around, will you please?”
Roper did as commanded. They saw the signature on the back:
ILiANIUS
“If it’s worth one of your imperialist dimes, that signature is why.” Abarca said.
Soren didn’t argue.
Abarca said, “Now we just need to find out if there’s a real Ilianius under the execrable amateurish overpainting.”
Roper said, “Don’t bother.”
“Why not?” Abarca asked.
“The signature,” Roper said.
“What about it?” Soren asked.
Roper turned to Soren. “Is this the painting you showed me in your house?”
“Of course.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
Roper shook his head. “Pafko, I wonder what you’re trying to pull. You must think Señor Abarca and I are idiots. Señor Abarca, the signature is all wrong. The one Pafko showed me had a lower case in its third letter ‘i’. This one is lower case in the second letter ‘i’.
Abarca looked at Soren. ”Camerada, is this true?”
Soren stared at the painting. Was Roper right? But how? Maybe Roper was lying. Soren said, “Señor Abarca, I think you should know that your man Roper here has a history of double dealing. Just last night he came to me and offered to set me up with another buyer. To cut you and our Revolution out of the deal.”
Abarca said, “I know this. I sent him. As a test. I have been wondering when you were going to mention this to me.”
Soren said, “I am mentioning it, right now.”
Abarca answered, “But you waited. Why? Keeping something in reserve? Wanted to see what my terms would be?”
“No! Not at all.” In a moment of mad desperation, Soren gave the truth a shot. “Actually, at the time I guessed you sent him.”
“And is that why you turned him down? Because of this guess?”
Should have known better—the truth just made things worse. “I didn’t want it to look like I’m trying to make trouble between you two.” But even as he heard his own words coming out of his own mouth, Soren realized how lame they sounded.
Abarca grunted. He clenched his jaw. The muscles in his cheeks seemed to bulge out with tension. “Mas importante, do you have any answer for the real issue? What Roper is saying about the signature? Are you trying to switch out the painting?”
“Of course not.”
“Is this the same painting you showed Roper or not?” Abarca glared through yellow serpent’s eyes. “This is your chance. Be honest! Tell the truth! You know I will find out anyway. I always do,”
“Honestly, I don’t know. The front looks exactly the same to me, but Roper may be right about the signature. I didn’t notice one way or the other.”
“And you say this happened somehow without your knowledge?”
“Of course.”
‘How?”
Soren scrambled through the possibilities. Gloria Fiorenzi? Ridiculous. He couldn’t picture her skulking into and out of his house to swap paintings. And who else even knew there were two paintings? Tania? Why?
Soren didn’t want to confess to Abarca and Roper he had only possessed L’Amination for a few hours and not the many months he had claimed in his emails. “I have no idea. I admit it doesn’t seem to be the exact same painting, but I have no idea who swapped it or how.”
“I must think.” Abarca paced back and forth. Roper leaned against the wall staring at Soren, his arms crossed, an arrogant smirk on his face.
Abarca straightened in a visible effort to control his anger. “Soren Pafko, you have put me in a difficult situation. I embraced you as a comrade and as a personal friend. When you passed your loyalty test with Roper last night, I immediately made a ringing recommendation to my people on your behalf. Now after I staked my personal reputation on you and your trustworthiness, I suddenly find you have failed the faith I placed in you.”
Soren said, “First of all, I’m going to get to the bottom of this thing with the painting. I promise you that. I admit I cannot explain it, but I did not lie.”
Soren tried to put on his most honest face, but he didn’t remember exactly how to do that when he was actually telling the truth.
Abarca stepped so close that their foreheads almost touched. He stared into Soren’s eyes. Soren met him stare for stare and said, “Again, I promise you I’m not lying.”
Abarca said, “I believe you. Against all evidence, I believe you.” He patted Soren’s shoulder and turned away.
Roper snorted in disgust from his corner of the room.
Soren said, “There must be some way I can justify your faith in me while I find out what happened to the painting and where the real one is.”
Roper snorted again. “A likely story.”
�
��Roper!” Abarca thundered, “Silencio!” He said to Soren, “We must together find a way to remedy this situation.”
“What can I do?”
“Without the real painting and its potential for great financial benefit to our revolution, you need to make some other immediate contribution. Do you see?”
“Yes.”
“So, putting the painting to the side for a moment, what contribution can you make in the meantime that will justify my faith in you?”
“Well the painting’s contribution was ultimately financial, was it not?”
Abarca nodded. “True.”
Soren recalled the check in his wallet. The cashier’s check to Gloria Fiorenzi. Since she had refused to sell, he still had it. “For starters, I can come up with ten thousand dollars.”
Roper groaned.
Abarca glared at him. “Roper, I have observed that for some reason you have developed a personal antipathy for this camarada. Jealousy, perhaps?”
Roper said, “No way could I be jealous of this snot.”
Just as he had done with Soren, Abarca placed his hand on Roper’s shoulder. “You are also my friend, Roper, and I trust you. But you need to learn that the needs of the Revolution transcend our personal feelings.”
To Soren, he said, “Soren Pafko, my other friend, I am sure you understand that ten thousand dollars will not even begin to justify the efforts I have made on your behalf or support the hopes I had for you. You understand?”
Soren said, “I do. But it’s a start, isn’t it?”
Abarca said, "Perhaps.”
Roper shook his head.
But Soren would show the bastard.
33 Soren at the Bank
Soren stepped from the front of the teller line. He plucked out of his wallet the same $10,000 cashier’s check Gloria Fiorenzi had refused. He shoved it under the teller window.
She picked it up. “How may I help you with this?”
“I’d like to cancel this check.”
She inspected it. “Are you making that request on behalf of the payee, this Ms. Fiorenzi?” the teller asked.
“No. I’m the person who had the check made out to Ms. Fiorenzi.”
“So the answer is no?”
“I’m not here on her behalf, no,” Soren said.
“Then I’m sorry, I can’t cancel it.”
“Why not?”
“This is an instrument promising that Ojibwa City Minnesota State Bank will pay ten thousand dollars to the order of Gloria Fiorenzi. You are not a party. You’re not our bank and you are not Ms. Fiorenzi.”
“But I just said, I’m the one had the check made out.”
“Yes, you paid to have our bank pay this money to Ms. Fiorenzi. When you did that you cut yourself out of the loop. You’re neither the payor nor the payee.” She pushed the check back to him. “Those are our rules. I’m sorry.”
“This kind of thing must happen a lot,” Soren said, “You must have a way of dealing with situations like this.”
“Possibly. But I don’t have the authority. Please take a seat and I’ll get you a banker.”
Soren left the line and waited another fifteen minutes on a sofa until a woman banker came out of her office door and invited Soren to come into her office and sit in front of his desk, which he did. She asked how she could help him.
He explained, “I purchased this cashier’s check to buy something, but the deal fell through. How can I get my ten thousand dollars back?”
The banker was a woman in her forties, with curly reddish-orange hair and red-framed horn-rimmed glasses through which she stared at him with a business woman’s professional friendliness. “Well, since you have the check right there with you, clearly the check is not lost or stolen.”
“Does that matter?”
“Well, if it were lost or stolen, you could file papers swearing to that fact under oath and then after ninety days you could get your money back.”
“Ninety days?”
“Correct.”
“Can’t I just turn it in and get my money back?”
“No, it’s a cashier’s check.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“It has to do with the fact that this is not your money.” She glanced at the check. “It’s this Gloria Fiorenzi’s money. You’re not a party on this instrument. You have nothing to say about it at all.”
“But I changed my mind about paying her.”
“The very reason sellers often insist on cashier’s checks. In case buyers change their minds. Otherwise you could just take the goods and then put a hold on the check.”
“But this is my money.”
“It was your money. Now it’s hers.” The banker keyed into the computer on the desk in front of her. “Actually, it looks like the money didn’t come from you, but from something called the “Democratic Communists of America.” Her lips formed a mew of distaste.
“When I say it’s my money, I’m not speaking literally. I’m DCA Minnesota Chief Organizer and I’m signatory on the DCA account.”
She said, “Is this DCA like the Democratic Socialists of America?”
He swallowed his irritation. “We’re nothing like them.”
“I see.” She leaned back in her swivel chair and folded her hands on her desk in front of her. “Doesn’t matter. Can’t help you.”
Soren asked, “Are you refusing to help me for some political reason?”
“Like what?”
“Like the communism thing? We support democratic communism, you know.”
“Not that other kind of communism, you mean?” Soren detected more than a hint of sarcasm through her customer service veneer.
He’d been through this thousands of times with thousands of skeptics. “True communism has never been tried.”
“I can hardly wait.”
“That’s all in the past.”
“You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that.”
Soren said, “You know, you’re not making any friends for this bank of yours.”
“How so?”
“Your attitude, for one thing.”
“My personal attitude has nothing to do with laws governing cashier’s checks.”
“Yes it does,” he said. “It’s exactly the reason people hate banks. Someday we the people will replace this capitalist bank with a people’s bank that will serve the people instead of greedy corporate interests.”
Right in his face, she actually sneered. “Professor, do you have any idea what banks do or how they work?
“I have delved into the study of economics in depth.”
“Well you didn’t delve deep, Professor. Under any system, cashier’s checks have always worked the same way and they always will. They have to. If you could just cancel a cashier’s check, it wouldn’t be any different from a standard personal check. No one could rely on it. That was true two thousand years ago in the Roman Empire and it will be true two thousand years from now. It’s true under capitalism, feudalism, fascism, socialism or communism—even the democratic kind, should that happen by some fluke ever to pop into existence—or any other system human ingenuity or raw stupidity can come up with.”
Soren said. “What kind of banker are you, anyway?”
“I’m the kind of banker with a Ph.D. in Economics who’s raising four children and working half-time here in this sweet little bank in this sweet little town partly because I can use the extra money and mostly because I like to help people. What kind of professor are you?”
Soren glared at her.
She pasted her customer service smile back onto her face. “Now is there anything else I can do for you at this time?”
Soren got up and stalked out and started his car and headed for St. Paul.
As he drove, he muttered to himself. The bitch banker had knocked him off his game and he’d almost lost his temper with her. Like this hick knew more than he did about economics. And her open contempt and nastiness—what kind of customer service was
that?
Come the revolution, he’d remember her. A perfect candidate for his Wall. He regretted he hadn’t gotten her name. It was too late now to go back in there. But when the time came, he’d know how to find her.
Anyway, Soren had an alternative. Ten thousand was chump change. He knew where there was five hundred thousand. Ninety minutes away in Wayzata. And he was bored with little league crap anyway. Time to move up to the majors.
34 This White Man
This white man resembles no tourist Zita has seen. He never swims in the Gulf or even in the hotel pool. He doesn’t drink the famous Bajan rum or any other alcohol. He doesn’t chase women. He doesn’t even sneak secret peeks at her ass. She experiments by walking by his table but never catches him glancing even once out of the corner of his eye. She wonders if he’s tapered, but she never spots him ogling the pool boys either.
This white man doesn’t look rich enough to stay at the Fly-By Resort. He dresses like a redleg, in shorts and touristy Barbados tee shirts he must buy from cheap outdoor peddler’s bins. She wouldn’t be caught dead in one herself, but of course she has a public image to maintain. If this white man has a public image, he cares nothing for it.
There are a lot of other typical things this white man isn’t. He isn’t weak looking with thin flabby shoulders and he isn’t fat with one of those paunches that make a man look like he swallowed a football.
He isn’t one of those big talkers either; in fact, Zita never hears him say a word.
He also isn’t red-faced from the sun, but maybe that’s because he never goes out in the sun at all. All day he sits indoors at a table in the Fly-By Bistro, typing into his laptop and scribbling in his notebooks like he’s bazodee.
The only other thing this white man does is dance. The Fly-By hosts a nightly beach party with a DJ who plays island music styles—reggae, calypso, soca and ragga-soca, including Zita’s hits, naturally—and this white man jumps up every night. He shows great rhythm and moves, like a dingolayer who just happened to be born in the wrong skin.
But he never makes any move towards any woman. After an hour or two he goes back inside all alone. It troubles her heart to see.
