Raw Deal

by Les Standiford

  He reached across the table to grasp Real’s shoulder. “My father grew the sugar, Dagoberto. The lifeblood of our island. He tended to those fields as if they were his children. He cared for his men, he saw to the welfare of their families.”

  He broke off, his eyes glittering, and pointed at Coco, who stood nearby, listening impassively. “That man there, for instance. He owes his life to my father.”

  The look that Real gave Coco did not suggest it was a matter of great concern to him. Torreno continued on, forcing his voice to calm. “He built schools, he built roads. He was a magnificent citizen. He was an institution.

  “And for all this,” Torreno said, “his reward was to be gutted like a pig, murdered by comunista shit while his own wife and child watched.” Torreno slammed his hands on the table. The noise rang off the tin walls of the building.

  “It is regrettable,” Real said. He had found a thread to worry at a buttonhole of his fabulous suit, snapped it clean. He glanced up. “But this is no political rally, Vicente. I admire all your father did. And he was first and foremost a businessman. He would be the first to tell you: Do not base your investments upon emotion…”

  “Nothing could be further from my intentions,” Torreno interrupted. “I know this sugar. I am offering you an opportunity of unrivaled possibility.”

  Real shook his head. “And he would also say, ‘Never throw good money after bad.’” He stared around the vast interior of the processing plant. “I understand your desire to become a sugar baron, Vicente. Though I wish you well, I think you are doomed.”

  Torreno shook his head. “You misread me. It is an opportunity for yourself and those who depend on us…”

  Real held up his hand. He would hear no more. “Not a penny from me, not a penny from the funds we control. I could not in good conscience allow such a risk.”

  “The risk is already taken,” Torreno said flatly.

  Real stared at him, not certain he’d heard correctly.

  “Others were interested. I was forced to act quickly,” Torreno said.

  “You have committed our funds?” Real was shaking his head in disbelief. He stared at Torreno, making sure he understood. “To what extent?”

  Torreno shrugged. “Some twenty million.”

  Real shook his head, dazed. “That is everything. Every cent in the foundation treasury.”

  “And it will earn itself a hundred times over,” Torreno said, his gaze hard now.

  Real’s face had turned scarlet. “This is outrageous. Unbelievable. You had no right, no authority…”

  “What’s done is done, Dagoberto. I am asking for your support. There is no need to publicize this matter. And one day, with your assurances, the others will not question my actions.” He gave Real a significant look. “You must trust me. There are aspects of this arrangement which I cannot discuss. But, rest assured, there will be benefits for everyone involved. Unbelievable benefits.” He paused. “I am prepared to share these with you, Dagoberto.”

  Real stared at him. “You would offer to bribe me?”

  Torreno raised his hands in a gesture of acquiescence.

  The two stared at one another, the quiet palpable once again. This time, Real broke the silence. “I am sorry, Vicente. You have placed yourself in a position of great financial strain, but it cannot excuse what you have done.”

  “It is done,” Torreno repeated.

  “It will be undone,” Real said. “As you say, there are other suitors, American corporations seeking a tax loss. Let them preside over this doom.” He rose, ready to go.

  Torreno nodded. “You intend to inform the others then.”

  Real stared at him. “How can I help it?”

  Torreno raised his hands in surrender. “And your desire to lead alone…that has nothing to do with your decision?”

  Real seemed not to have heard the question. His face was expressionless. “I am sorry, Vicente.”

  “I am sorry too, Dagoberto.” Torreno made a hopeless gesture with his hands.

  Real turned to leave.

  Then Torreno lunged, his heavy hands finding Real’s throat.

  The two bodyguards started forward. Coco stepped in, his hand flashing upward in an arc. One of the bodyguards stumbled backward, one hand still caught inside his coat where it fumbled for a pistol. His other hand clawed at a band of scarlet that had magically appeared above his collar. He tottered a moment, then fell, spraying blood, making the hacking noises of a dog with a bone caught in its throat.

  In the same moment, Coco brought his hand down again, and the second man, who had glanced aside at his fallen partner, looked up in surprise. With Coco’s motion, his face had been suddenly divided. It was like a drama mask: surprise on the half that could still respond, a sag toward the earth where the nerves no longer held.

  His one good eye traced a scarlet line down his chest, on down to his belt, which now flapped open, neatly sliced in half. When he finally understood, his hands jerked up, clutching, as if he might join his stomach back together. His mouth opened, but instead of a question, there was only a bubble of blood. Coco stepped aside as he tumbled to the floor.

  A few feet away, Torreno still struggled with Real. The two fell across the wooden table and disappeared for a moment. As Coco started forward, he heard the sound of a blow landing, a heavy grunt, and then saw Real rise up from behind the fallen table.

  Real’s eyes were bright with fear. He stared at Coco, at the blade in Coco’s hand. He shoved the table forward and the heavy wood cracked into Coco’s shins. Coco meant to dance away but felt his feet slipping in something. Then he was falling. He felt his hand strike the railing sharply, felt his knife fly from his hands.

  Coco heard the rustling of feet near his head, threw his arms up in reflex. There was a stinging sensation at his arms suddenly, bright lines of pain crossing and recrossing his flesh. Something splashed on his face, into his eyes, blinding him. The knife, he thought. Real slashing at him with his own knife. The panicked strokes of an amateur. In a moment, Real would come to his senses and finish the job.

  Coco drew his legs to his chest, rolled to his side, and kicked. He felt his heels dig into Real’s chest, and thrust on with all his strength. There was a cry as Real fell backward.

  Coco came up, wiping his own blood from his face. Real tottered for a moment, balanced upon the railing that separated the floor of the plant from the processing line. His arms windmilled once, twice, then flatted outward like angel’s wings. He cried again and fell hard, half a dozen feet onto the clattering metal belt below.

  Torreno pulled himself up from the toppled table, dragged himself to the railing beside Coco. Beneath them was Real, who had fallen onto the conveyor that fed the massive rollers’ jaws. Real struggled to raise himself on one elbow, staring stupidly at the knife blade that seemed to sprout from his own ribs. He was twisting about, clawing at his back, trying to find the handle of the knife he’d fallen on, when the conveyor chattered, dipped, and abruptly tossed him down the chute.

  Real might have felt something, at his foot, up his leg, down the whole length of him. But it happened in a motion so rapid, it was hard to comprehend what was happening. Was there pain, Coco wondered, or was such a thing beyond all sensation?

  Real might have meant to call out. But if he did, the sound was swallowed in the growl of the machinery. The last Coco saw of him was his face—an instant’s expression of utter surprise—then a glimpse of an outflung hand, wrist and palm bared, fingers extended as if in an aristocrat’s wave—“Ah well, so be it…” Then the massive rollers growled again and gathered him in altogether.

  ***

  The machinery still howled, though he was accustomed to it now. Coco righted the table and turned to inspect the floor once more. A smooth concrete surface, soon to be covered with dust, the ooze of sugar settling from the air, the clomping of a thousand filthy boots. He had wrapped bandages about the shallow cuts on his forearms,
donned a fresh uniform shirt. There was pain, of course, but nothing of significance, nothing to what others had felt.

  Below him, the conveyor carried stacks of cane toward the implacable rollers. Beyond, the catch-basins glimmered, pristine in the reflection of the few lights that remained. A furnace in the far corner roared, consuming the evening’s waste. The snake eats its tail, Coco thought, and the circle is closed.

  Torreno emerged from a workman’s latrine, smoothing his suit, pressing his hair into place. He will never see the inside of such a place again, Coco thought.

  Torreno glanced about and nodded approval of Coco’s work. He actually seemed at ease.

  “Those men in the fields,” Coco offered. “They saw things.”

  Torreno shook his head. “Those men kill one another to come to this country, to work here. You could feed them to the rollers inch by inch. They would never talk.”

  “Others must know Real came here.”

  “Yes,” Torreno said, giving him a look. “And come he did. And leave.” He put his hand in his coat pocket and withdrew some documents. “He signed these papers. He congratulated us on our mission here. And left.”

  Torreno shook his head and gazed off into the distance, as if gathering strength after a great disappointment. “Our movement has many enemies, Coco. Perhaps Señor Real has gone into hiding, as is often required.” He shrugged. “Or perhaps he has fallen prey to a misfortune. If that is so, we must all of us find the will to draw together and press on.”

  Torreno turned to Coco, his face as open as if they had not shared this evening together. Coco nodded. His employer had concluded the matter then. “In the name of the revolución,” Coco said at last.

  “In the name of the revolución,” Torreno echoed. And led them toward the doors.

  Chapter 24

  Deal sat in the waiting room, trying not to look at the guy in the chair across the room from him. Short guy, pockmarked face, good suit, leather clutch briefcase. Deal had caught all that, as well as the haunted look in the guy’s eyes when he pushed the call button to let one of the therapists know he’d arrived.

  Deal knew without looking that the guy was still tearing at the ragged flesh around his fingernails—he had been since he’d come in. He could hear the little nips of the guy’s teeth, the little grunts of satisfaction when a good-sized chunk came free. He also knew the guy had his eyes on him, maybe trying to figure out what Deal’s problem was.

  Hmmmm, a fellow in checked shirt and jeans, tooled-leather boots, retro cowboy with something of a tan, needing a haircut and certainly a manicure—those nicked-up hands a disgrace—yes…

  Deal found himself sliding his hands out of sight beneath his thighs, then stopped himself. Christ, sit in a shrink’s office long enough, you’d develop problems whether you had any or not. Guy probably thought he was wearing lacy underwear beneath his work clothes.

  An inner door popped open then and they both looked up. It was Dr. Goodwin there, beckoning to Deal. Deal got up. He couldn’t help but glance at the guy across the room. The guy was working hard on one of his thumbs. When he saw Deal looking at him, he blushed furiously and turned his head away. Deal shook his head and followed Dr. Goodwin.

  “I appreciate you doing this,” Deal said as the door closed behind them. He was following the doctor down a long carpeted hallway. Plush fabric, thick padding, muted light from deco sconces along the walls.

  Quite a contrast to the paint-peeling HRS clinic where he and Tommy had started off their day. There a young Pakistani doctor had listened impatiently to Deal’s vague concerns, shined a light in Tommy’s eyes, whacked him on the knee with a rubber hammer a couple of times, and sent them packing with a suggestion that they come back in a month to check that blood pressure again. Deal couldn’t blame the overworked HRS doctor. The place was full of society’s forlorn: pregnant mothers herding their squalling children, zombied-out street people with tubercular coughs and festering sores—it was a scene out of Delhi. Whatever might be troubling pleasantly addled Tommy, he was clean and disease-free, knocking back three squares a day, next patient, please.

  Still, Deal had set aside his day, and on a hunch had called Dr. Plattner, the bluff physician in charge of Janice’s case. Someone had been in to “see” Janice, Deal knew, but he didn’t have the name, hoped Plattner could direct him. Plattner listened to Deal’s story about Tommy for a few minutes, then made a call of his own and sent them along to Dr. Goodwin’s clinic.

  Dr. Goodwin stopped at one of the doorways and turned to wait for him. She was forty, maybe, maybe forty-five, a tall, handsome woman with a thick mane of sandy hair. He’d expected someone severe, someone in a lab coat and steel glasses who’d shunt his concerns about Tommy aside, get down to business about what he was contributing to his wife’s mental welfare.

  But there hadn’t been a word about Janice. Dr. Goodwin had taken Tommy along and invited Deal to park himself in the waiting room, where he had read through two issues of Elle and one of US without encountering a single thought. Only the entrance of the nail-biter had interrupted the tedium.

  Now Dr. Goodwin turned from the doorway and gave Deal a smile. “Thank Steve Plattner,” she said in her nasal accent. At first he’d thought she was British. Now he suspected Australian. “He piqued my interest.”

  Deal glanced at Dr. Goodwin’s ringless left hand. He could imagine this woman holding her own with Plattner, long weekends in the Keys: skeet shooting to start, flyfishing for bonefish later, martinis at sunset. Doctors in love. He found himself wishing she had brought Janice up.

  “Mind the chairs,” she said. Had she noticed him staring at her? If so, she didn’t let on. “It’s a bit dark in here.”

  Deal stepped inside carefully. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. It was an observation room, the only light coming from a window at the far end. The window allowed a view into another office, a comfortably furnished room where Tommy was sitting in an upholstered recliner chair, his eyes closed, his head resting on a cushion.

  There was another woman in the room with Tommy, a younger woman with dark curling hair, wearing jeans and a polo shirt. She sat in a chair nearby and was in earnest conversation with Tommy, stopping every now and then to jot a note on a pad.

  Deal had learned to read lips when he was a kid, something he’d undertaken on a whim. If he worked at it, he could still catch a phrase, especially if the context was clear, the speaker precise. He could catch some of the weather on a muted TV, read a coach reaming out an official. Once, at a fancy restaurant in the Gables, he had glanced across the room, watched the wife of the mayor smile sweetly, elegantly, and call her husband a pencil dick.

  Now, even straining, he couldn’t pick up anything through the glass. The light was dim, the woman spoke quickly, and as for Tommy, it was hard enough to decipher what he was saying if you could hear him. Deal thought he saw him form the word “mother,” but it could just as well have been “mashed potatoes.”

  “Quite an interesting lad, your Tommy,” Dr. Goodwin said. She’d come to join Deal. They stood before the window together.

  “He feels quite terrible about what happened to your wife,” she continued. “Guilty, in fact.”

  Deal turned to look at her.

  “They can’t see or hear us, you know. One-way glass. Soundproofed.” Dr. Goodwin gestured through the window. She regarded Deal for a few moments. “I’m not certain it’s appropriate for me to discuss Tommy with you,” she said. “But under the circumstances…you are his personal representative…”

  She trailed off, as if waiting for Deal’s confirmation. Deal nodded slowly. Plattner must have done that, given him official status.

  “Guilty?” Deal said. “Why would he feel guilty?”

  Goodwin shrugged. “We were just talking with him, trying to ease him up a bit, chitchat, really, about his job, about you and what you’ve done for him—he’s very grateful, you know—and then he burst out
crying.”

  Deal glanced at Tommy, then back at Goodwin. He shook his head. “I’m not sure I’m following you, Doctor. Tommy…” He broke off, searching for the right way to say it. “I mean, we communicate, but it’s not exactly like conversation.”

  Goodwin nodded. “Yes, well, that’s what I meant about interesting.” She pointed through the glass. “We had the same problem at first, but then there was something about the look of frustration on his face, as if he had things to say that he just couldn’t get out…” She broke off and gave him her quiet smile. “We put him under, you see, and he’s been chattering away like a house afire.…” She broke off again, clapping a hand to her mouth. “Good Lord. I didn’t say that.”

  Deal stared at her. It took him a minute to figure out what she was talking about. “It doesn’t matter,” he said finally. Here was a therapist embarrassed by something she’d said? “What do you mean, ‘put him under’? You drugged him?”

  Goodwin was still coloring from her gaffe. She shook her head. “Hypnosis,” she said, and pointed at the young woman in the other room with Tommy. “Dr. Craig, my associate, specializes in hypnotherapy. It can be an effective aid in working around certain dissociative disorders.”

  “Dissociative disorders? What are you talking about?”

  “A defense mechanism,” Dr. Goodwin said. “Doesn’t matter what you call it. It’s common enough. A patient may want to express something on one level, but then there’s another part of the psyche that just won’t cooperate.” She stared at Deal as if she was wondering how intelligent he was. “Blocking,” she said.

  Deal had begun to revise his opinion of Dr. Goodwin. “Tommy’s brain-damaged,” he said. “He’s been that way since birth.”

  “Whoever told you that?” Goodwin was staring at him in mild surprise.

  “The people who sent him to me,” he said. “At HRS.” He felt a wash of doubt sweep over him suddenly, remembering the morning’s visit to the clinic.

  Goodwin raised her eyes skeptically. “I’d want to see his files, of course, but the perceptions of that man in there, skewed as they may be, are those of a thoroughly functioning adult.”