He was tired.
He saw Mary in his mind, in the room in the University Inn, her hands between her legs on the chair cushion and could see the line of her thighs beneath the tan skirt. He saw her looking at him with her look of quiet awareness, waiting. What did he need to talk to this shithead for?
* * *
Corky came out to the red and white Cadillac in the drive. He asked Jiggs, getting out of the car, then reaching in to punch the headlights off, what he wanted. Jiggs said, “If I thought I had to tell you, Corko, I’d be in pretty bad shape. Tell Mr. de Boya I’ll be around back where you used to have a boat dock somebody took out while you’re keeping an eye on it.” And walked away.
He was inspecting the splintered stubs of the pilings, barely visible in the dark water, when de Boya came out to him. Jiggs turned very carefully on the crumbled edge of the retaining wall and stood with his back to the tide breaking in below him, giving de Boya a casual, death-defying pose.
He said, “Seems you got a problem here,” with a grin of sympathy. “Jimmy Cap says take a look. He don’t care to see any his friends get fucked over by parties unknown. Jimmy says it’s like they’re doing it to him.”
De Boya was looking down at the water now, at the stump remnants of his dock.
“How do you think of it?”
Jiggs took cautious half-steps from the cement edge until he felt the safety of grass underfoot. “Well, my first thought when I read about it in the Herald, I think to myself, some dopers’re having a disagreement and one of ’em sends his guy to the wrong address. ‘Seven hundred Arvida. Oh, I thought you said six hundred. Oh well.’ “
De Boya’s reaction: nothing. Like a statue with clothes on.
“But then I started asking around.”
“Yes? What did you learn?”
“You understand we got contacts in Little Havana,” Jiggs said. “I first come here they’re referring to it in the company as Sowah Seda. This girl Vivian Arzola used to work there says, ‘Go on over to Sowah Seda,’ I’m supposed to see somebody over there. I ask her where Sowah Seda is. She says, ‘Sowah Seda, Sowah Seda.’ Finally it dawns on me. Oh, Southwest Eighth Street. She says, ‘Yeah, Sowah Seda.’ Well, I talked to a guy down there this time name of Benigno, runs a tavern, if he’s heard anything. What’s this shit, a man’s dock getting blown up? He looks around see if anybody’s listening. They got the salsa on so loud I can’t even hear Benigno. He says it’s the work of the FDR. I said FDR? Franklin D. Roosevelt? You said that name to my mother she’d genuflect. Christ, she’d have left home, all the kids, for FDR, he ever wanted to get it on. But, it turns out, Benigno says it stands for Democratic Revolutionary Front.”
“It’s Salvadoran,” de Boya said. “It has nothing to do with me.”
“That’s what Benigno says, they’re from El Salvador. But evidently these people, your different revolutionary groups, are getting together, helping each other out. They don’t give a shit you’re Dominican, you’re Nicaraguan, you come from the ruling class you’re one of the bad guys. What do they call it? The oligarchs. You’re one of them and they’re all working for Castro anyway, they don’t give a shit. See, he’s sending ’em here to spread a little terror.”
“For what purpose would that be?”
“I check around, hear it from some other sources there,” Jiggs said. “These people with little bugs up their ass, they come here to cause trouble, score a few big names.”
“What do they destroy the dock for?”
“Get your attention,” Jiggs said. “So you know it’s coming. Like toying with you. Little terrorist foreplay. You go to the cops for protection you’re all right for a while. Then when you aren’t looking—whammo. They hit you a good one, for real this time and get their initials in the paper.”
Jiggs felt de Boya studying his face in the dark, probably trying to look in his eyes, the truth test. De Boya said, “Yes, and what do you do for me?”
“Well, are the cops helping any?”
“They say they keep an eye on my house. They drive by.”
“You hire any more people?”
“Not yet.” De Boya turned abruptly. “We go inside.”
“I know you like Corky, but get rid of the rest of ’em,” Jiggs said, following de Boya, “and I’ll send you over a couple guys, couple heavy-duty Cubans worked for the CIA when the CIA had a hard-on for Castro. Now these guys’re freelance. Jimmy Cap says take care of you, that’s what I’m doing.”
“It’s kind of him,” de Boya said.
They went up on the deck, through the two-story hallway filled with plants and young trees like a path through the jungle, and into de Boya’s study. Jiggs liked it, the oak paneling, the gun cabinet, the framed photographs of people in military uniforms all over the walls. There was a big one of Trujillo himself in a white uniform full of medals, shots of de Boya with different people, another one of de Boya in what looked like a German SS uniform, de Boya nonchalantly holding an old-model Thompson submachine gun. Jiggs paid his respects to the photographs, nodding solemnly, while de Boya went around behind a giant oak desk and sat down. There was a tape recorder on the desk, a tray that held a brandy decanter and glasses.
Jiggs finally took a chair. He said, “I wanted to ask you. I locate any of the party responsible, General, you’re gonna want to prosecute, I take it.”
“In my own way,” de Boya said.
Jiggs said, “That’s how I’d feel about it myself. You have ’em arrested they’re back on the street in twenty-four hours.” He said then, “I understand, what I’ve heard, you were the expert at getting people to tell you things they didn’t want to. Back in the old days.”
“Really? I’m surprised you hear anything about that,” de Boya said.
“You kidding?” Jiggs said. “General, there certain areas you’re a living legend among people that know anything about or appreciate the fine art of interrogation. It used to be, when I was a youngster on the Force in New York, we could use our own resources, so to speak, in extracting information. Now, the guy doesn’t even have to tell you his name his lawyer isn’t present. Fucking Miranda changed everything.” Jiggs shook his head, began to grin a little. “Wasn’t like that where you come from, I don’t imagine.”
“You say to get information?”
“Yeah, interrogate a suspect.”
“The trick,” de Boya said, “when you question someone is not to ask a question.”
Jiggs maintained a pleasant expression. “You don’t ask ’em anything?”
“No, never. You take the person’s clothes off. Always you do this, strip the person naked, and sometimes it’s enough. Or you subject the person to an unpleasant experience, increasing this gradually,” de Boya said, giving his recipe. “The person wants to tell you something, but you still don’t ask him. He pleads with you, he begins to say things, to ask the questions himself, yes, and then answer them, he’s so anxious to please you if you’ll stop the unpleasantness.”
“The unpleasantness,” Jiggs said, his face creased in appreciation. “That’s not bad, general.”
“But the information,” de Boya said, “that isn’t the important reason for interrogation.”
“It isn’t?”
“What do you wish to know?” de Boya said. “Where someone lives? Where they hide arms? Something they’re saying about you, the government? No, the purpose of interrogation is preventive. What you do in the secrecy of the act always becomes known to others, to the ones against you.”
“And it scares the shit out of ’em,” Jiggs said, nodding. “I getcha.”
“I like to think it gives brave men pause,” de Boya said. “Remember, fear is of more substance than information.”
“Yes sir, that’s a good point.”
“Information, it has degrees of importance at different times,” de Boya said. “But fear, you can use fear always.”
“Keeps your people under control,” Jiggs said.
“Yes, they
don’t know what to do, so they do nothing.” De Boya began to nod, a pleasant expression masking his thoughts, his pictures from another time. “I always do a good job at that.” He gestured with his hands. “Well, it was my especiality, of course.”
A few minutes past midnight Moran’s phone rang. He turned off Johnny Carson and got to the counter, knowing it was Mary, feeling wide awake now.
She said, “Jiggs Scully was here, earlier this evening. They were in Andres’s study with the door closed for almost a half hour.”
Moran said, after a moment, “I know what you’re thinking . . . But I talked to Nolen and now I’m leaning the other way, back to Jiggs.”
“You think the whole thing’s his idea?”
“I’m pretty sure. If Andres wanted to get the goods on us there’s got to be a simpler way than all this.”
“Then why did Jiggs come here? He must be working for Andres.”
“For him and against him. Listen, you got to get out of there.”
“I will, soon.”
“Have you written down what you want to say?”
“I’m working on it.”
“Does Andres know I was there today?”
“He didn’t mention it, but I’m sure he does. He got home late.” Mary paused. “Wait a second, okay?”
“What’s the matter?”
“I heard something. Hold on.”
Moran waited, standing straight up now. He heard it then, away from the other end of the phone connection, sounding like shots, glass breaking. He pressed the phone to his ear and heard a voice far away, someone shouting. He heard Mary’s voice, closer, call out, “What is it?” Then nothing. He waited. He heard jarring sounds close, as though she might have dropped the phone picking it up. Now her voice in the phone was saying, “I’ll call you back.”
“Wait a minute. Are you all right?”
Her voice came as a whisper now. “I’m fine, but I can’t talk now.”
“What’s going on?”
“Andres is upstairs.”
“Just tell me what happened.”
But she’d hung up.
15
* * *
MARY DIDN’T CALL BACK during the night.
Moran phoned her in the morning. The maid with the accent said Mrs. de Boya was not at home. It was only nine o’clock; Moran didn’t know what to say next. He asked what time she was expected. The maid said she didn’t know. He asked then, “Is Mrs. de Boya all right?”
The maid, Altagracia, said, “Yes? I think so.”
He took a chance and said, “What was all that noise last night?”
The maid hesitated. She said, “I don’t hear any noise.”
He tried again a little after ten.
A recorded voice answered to say, “The number you are calling is temporarily out of service. Please try again later.” He dialed again to be sure and heard the message repeated.
What in the hell was going on?
He got the number of the Coral Gables Police from Information, 442-2300, dialed and a male voice answered. Moran said, “Hey, what was all the noise over on Arvida last night? Up at the end of the street.”
The male voice said, “Who is this speaking, please?” Moran said he lived in the neighborhood and was just wondering . . . The male voice said, “Could I have that address and your name, please?” Moran hung up.
He knocked on the door to oceanfront Number One, waited and banged on it. Then got the key from Jerry, Jerry in a lighthearted mood whistling “I’m Going to Live Till I Die,” and went back to let himself in.
The apartment was empty, still a mess from the night before: the bottles standing on the coffeetable, the bowl of water, bits of potato chips all over. The bed Rafi had slept in was unmade, the light spread and sheet in a tangle on the floor.
Nolen, in Number Five, was popping open a can of beer. He said, “Stand back. Don’t say anything yet.”
Moran waited in the doorway to watch.
Nolen poured a good four or five ounces of Budweiser down his throat. When he lowered the can and looked at Moran with grateful wet eyes he said, “Oh Jesus. Oh my God Almighty.” He raised the can again and finished it in two tries.
“I’m gonna live.”
“Till you die,” Moran said. “Jerry’ll whistle it for you while you’re going down the tube.”
“Fuck you,” Nolen said.
“If you know you’re gonna be hung over—”
“And if you know I’m gonna be,” Nolen said, going to the gas range where a saucepan of chili with beans was starting to bubble, “what’re you asking me for? You want to be useful, open a couple of beers.”
Moran sat with Nolen while he ate his breakfast, chili laced with catsup to sweeten it and drank several ice-cold beers, the sorrow in his watery eyes giving way to a bleary expression of contentment.
Moran commented. “You having fun? You dumb shit.”
“Don’t judge,” Nolen said, “till you walked a mile in my moccasins.”
“Few weeks you’ll be down to Thunderbird.”
“Or Chivas. I’m making my run.”
“Bullshit, you’ll be down making love to the toilet bowl.”
“I never throw up, George. I value my nutrition.”
“What time’d you go to bed?”
“I watched black and white TV, you cheap fuck, and hit the sack early.”
“Where’s your pal Ché?”
“Who?”
“Rafi, your spray painter.”
“He borrowed my car to go look for Loret.”
“He expect to find her, Miami Beach?”
“Rafi expects—Jesus, this hits the spot, you know it? I doubt Rafi’s expectations have anything to do with the real world. He’s a twinkie.”
“You finally realize that?”
“I’ve always known it. But he’s got to learn on his own, right? I’m not gonna lead him by the hand.”
“You bring him into the deep end, now it’s up to him to get out, huh?”
“It’s hard out there,” Nolen said. “You can strike it rich or break your pick. It’s up to you.”
“That from a play or a movie?”
“It’s an outtake. I’m on cutting-room floors at all the major studios. So I’m going into a different field.”
“You remember anything I said last night?”
“Every word. I never experience blackouts.”
“But you don’t want to talk about it.”
“I don’t care. Get me a beer, I’ll listen.”
“Jiggs was at de Boya’s last night.” Moran waited.
Nolen spooned in bright red chili, his face down close to the bowl. “Yeah?”
“Why do you think he went there?”
“I think to tell de Boya some dirty Comminists want to kill him. Also set the stage for what’s coming up in the next couple of days. Time’s getting short, George. Then you know what I think he did?”
Moran had to ask because he didn’t expect all this.
“What?”
“Then I think he gave this crazy Cuban—the one drives his Donzi at night with sunglasses on? I think he gave the Cuban five bills and a twenty-two rifle and told him to take a run past de Boya’s house and see if he can bust a few windows, then throw the twenty-two over the side, deep-six it, whether anybody comes after him or not. That’s what I think, George. What do you think?”
He thought of Mary, little else. He went back to his house, called Leucadendra and had her paged in the grill and at the tennis courts, knowing she wouldn’t be there. He thought about calling the Holiday Inn in Coral Gables; but would that make sense? He tried anyway. There was no Delaney or Moran registered. In the afternoon he tried her home again and listened to the recorded voice tell him the number he was calling was temporarily out of service. He thought about driving over there but knew he’d better wait. Mary would get in touch with him when she could.
It was a dismal, overcast day. The surf came roaring in making a spec
tacle of itself, but failed to interest him. Grocery-shopping at Oceanside didn’t either. Until he was putting a six-pack of Bud in his cart and remembered something Nolen had said. Something about setting the stage for the next couple of days . . . time getting short. Christ, were they ready to move? He’d better put Nolen against the wall and get some facts.
But by the time Moran got home Rafi had returned and Nolen was gone.
Rafi said, “No, I didn’t find her. But I went in the Fountainebleu and let my eyes see the most beautiful hotel in the world. I think I like to stay there before I go home.”
Moran said, “There’s a Miami to Santo Domingo at one tomorrow afternoon, they give you your lunch. Why don’t you get on it?”
Rafi said, “Oh, am I being ask to leave? You have so many people staying you don’t have room for me? Certainly, I’ll be happy to leave a place where they don’t want me.”
Moran said, “Rafi, you’re full of shit, you know it? . . . Where’d Nolen go?”
Rafi said he didn’t ask him and if this was the way Moran felt he would leave as soon as he made arrangements to move to a resort that suited him. In the meantime, because Loret had taken his money, could he borrow a few dollars for something to eat? Moran gave him a ten and checked with Jerry, just before Jerry left for the day, to see if he’d had any calls.
None. He tried Mary and got the recorded message again. All right, he’d wait until later tonight—after the maid was in bed and hope de Boya didn’t answer—and if the phone still wasn’t working he’d drive over there, or drive past at least; he wasn’t sure what he’d do. He fixed half of a yellowtail with tomatoes, onions and a touch of garlic for dinner, sautéed it, trying to keep busy, looking at the clock. He read. He watched a little TV. He read the latest on Stevie Nicks and an interview with Lee Marvin, former U.S. Marine, in Rolling Stone. Still looking at the clock. Anxious. Looking at it a few times each half-hour, waiting to call about eleven. It was the reason he would remember Jiggs Scully came at exactly 9:40.
Moran opened the door and Jiggs said, “You not doing anything I’d like you to come see somebody.” Moran stood with his shirt hanging out, barefoot. When he didn’t say anything Jiggs said, “Mr. de Boya wants to have a word with you.”
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