She shook her head. “What good would that do?” she said softly.
He nodded glumly. “It wouldn’t do any good,” he said, and laid his cheek against her hand. “It’d just make some of us feel better.”
“Oh, Deal,” she said then, and began to stroke his head. “We just have to go on now, don’t you see? We have to accept what’s happened and go forward.”
“Sure,” he said. And let her stroke him until her hand went quiet and her breathing fell away into sleep.
Chapter 27
Torreno flipped through the document quickly, then held it up, testing its weight in his hand. It felt substantial, promising everything that its language professed. He scanned the title page, noticed the official seal embossed in the lower corner: an eagle, a clutch of arrows in one talon, the familiar Latin inscribed across the ribbon in its hooked beak. That’s what it was, he decided, rubbing the cover sheet between his thumb and forefinger: money. The document felt like money in his hands.
“Articles Pursuant to the Orderly Transition of Power,” he said, reading some of the typescript aloud. Besides Coco, who sat in a distant corner, apparently intent upon a tiny television wired into his ear, there were two men in the office with him. One was one of the agricultural officials who had met with him at the restaurant in Belle Vista. The other was a heavyset man whose status had not been clearly defined.
Torreno noticed, however, that the man he knew was clearly deferential to the stranger. “Show him the paperwork, Claude,” the big man had said, with scarcely a pleasantry beforehand, and Claude had practically torn the snaps off his briefcase to get the document out.
“A lot of what you’ll see in there is boilerplate,” the big man said now. “We’ve had to set up contingency plans in a number of areas: casinos, banking, utilities. We can’t trust that any of the existing infrastructure will be operational once we get that bearded asshole out of the palace, excuse my French.” He gave Torreno a wisp of a smile.
“Because of the tariff and treaty implications, yours is a bit more complex, of course, but…” There was a dull thump from outside and he broke off then, glancing out the window that gave on to a view over the rear of Torreno’s South Dade estate.
“What the fuck is that?” the big man said. Claude too stared over Torreno’s shoulder, his face reflecting shock.
Torreno turned, saw what they were staring at. The creature had escaped from the fenced compound and made its way up to the house. It had leapt up onto the outer window ledge and now stood there on its haunches, pawing at the glass, its whiskered snout twitching inquisitively.
“Agouti,” Torreno said, smiling as he swung his chair back to face them. “They are quite harmless.”
“That’s the biggest goddamned rat I ever saw,” the big man said. Claude remained silent, but his face seemed pale.
Torreno shoved his chair backward, rapped sharply on the glass with his knuckles. The agouti sprang off the window ledge and scuttled away.
Torreno waved his hand toward the lake and the surrounding expanse of land in the distance. “It is a passion of mine, to collect certain species—many of them hunted and trapped to extinction in my country,” he said. “I intend to reintroduce them to our island.”
The big man lifted an eyebrow. “I was your island, I’d be happy to leave well enough alone on that score.”
Torreno shrugged, reappraising this man. He was almost certainly an attorney, wore an expensive suit, had his hair expertly cut, his hands carefully manicured, and yet he spoke like a longshoreman. An unusual representative from the halls of power, to be sure.
“There are many more striking creatures on the grounds,” Torreno said, nodding. He waved a hand at Coco, who stood up from his television watching, instantly alert. “I would be glad to show you about.”
Claude’s face showed alarm. The big man waved his hand. “Some other time, Mr. Torreno. We’ve got to get on back up north.”
Torreno nodded. He made a gesture and Coco sank back into his chair. The sun was going down now, and the light in the room was dim. Coco’s gaunt face reflected the flickering of the screen.
“So,” the big man said, turning his attention back to the document, “what you’ll find in there is more or less what you and Claude hammered out.”
“More or less?” Torreno said.
The big man smiled again. “Don’t worry, Mr. Torreno. You’ve got what amounts to a five-year monopoly on sugar production in Cuba and a guaranteed favored-nation status for your dealings with the U.S. and the European markets we control. As it makes clear in the document, this is to ensure an orderly transition to a free economy. We don’t want any goddamned free-for-all down there once Castro’s gone. We want to make sure we have a nice, well-managed, capitalistic country. After the five years is up, you’ll be faced with a free-market system, of course.”
“Of course,” Torreno said.
“Though you’ll certainly have a decided competitive advantage,” Claude added.
The big man turned and stared at Claude. “I think the man can understand that for himself, Claude.”
Claude ducked his head behind the lid of his briefcase and began fumbling with some papers. The big man turned back to Torreno. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how sensitive these arrangements are, Mr. Torreno. It’s not that much different from conducting biological weapons research. We all know it’s necessary, but it’s not the kind of thing we like to put in the public eye.
“Besides,” he added with his phantom smile, “there are quite a few people in the sugar industry in this country would love to be in your shoes. If word on this issue were to get out, we’d have a mess on our hands. We don’t need a lot of haggling. We’re just trying to provide for a smooth process.”
Torreno returned his smile, placing the document on his desk. The phrase did have a solid, reassuring ring to it. He would return to his country in a position he could scarcely have dreamed of only months before, before a certain friendly senator had explained these matters to him in exchange for an astronomical campaign contribution—the largest in the history of congressional politics, if his sources were to be believed. “We’d dearly love to involve a Spaniard in all this,” the senator had drawled. “’Course they’d have to have an oar in the sugar industry in this country already,” he’d added with a wink.
And now Torreno had his oars in, all right. He laid his palm flat across the papers and leaned toward the big man in a display of sincerity. “I am not only the holder of the largest block of sugar-producing land in this country, but I am also one of the few Hispanics involved in the industry. I find our agreement a testament to the political sensitivity of our leaders. You can trust my discretion.”
The big man nodded. “I’ll pass your sentiments along,” he said. “Now you go ahead and give us your John Hancock, we’ll get the papers back to Washington.”
Torreno stared at him, uncertain, then glanced down at the document before him. “You’ll provide me with a copy?” he asked.
The big man made a snorting sound at that. “Not just yet,” he said, his affability wearing thin. “Once you indicate your agreement, everything is reviewed and countersigned at the top. You’ll hear from us by and by.”
Torreno shook his head, held up the document. “But I thought that was the purpose of this meeting, to confirm the arrangement.”
The big man gave Claude his bemused look, glanced out the window again. When he turned back to Torreno, his smile had grown into something approaching true amusement. “It’s confirmed, all right. It’s just going to stay off the record. What did you think, Mr. Torreno? That the President was going to come down here and play with your agouti?”
Torreno felt himself flush. His gaze flickered away to Coco, whose face glittered and shifted in the light from his tiny set. If the man before him was not crucial to the fortune of a lifetime, they would go play with the agouti, all right.…
He flipped the
document open, found the signature page, and withdrew his pen. When he had finished, he stared at the page for a moment, fixing the reality of it in his mind: his own name in bold script beside a blank line that would soon bear that of the President. One simple signature that would eventually catapult him to the very top.
He looked up at the big man then, closed the document, and slid it across the burnished surface of his desk, smiling. He would allow nothing to disturb him, to alter this course of events. Absolutely nothing.
The big man barely seemed to touch the document before Claude was tucking it into his briefcase. “There now,” the big man said, nodding at the briefcase. “This’ll all be taken care of inside a couple of weeks. Then all you’ll have to do is wait for Uncle Fee-dell to come to his senses and step down.”
Torreno lifted his eyebrows. “As you say, everything is just a matter of time.”
The big man chuckled at that. He rose and motioned to Claude. “Let’s get that chopper revved up.”
As Claude made for the door, followed by Coco, the big man leaned forward and extended his hand. Torreno rose and took it.
The big man spoke quickly, in a voice too low for anyone else to hear. “You’ve got yourself a sweet, sweet deal, my friend.” Torreno felt the pressure of the man’s grip increase and he looked up into the intensity of his gaze. “Now don’t you go and fuck it up.”
***
Torreno stood with Coco at the fringe of the helicopter pad, watching the machine lift off into the darkening sky. The air was crystalline, the evening star already bright. He waited until the roar of the props had faded, until the warning lights of the craft were tiny dots beneath the star, then turned to take Coco’s arm. “We have arrived at a most sensitive time, Coco.”
Coco looked down at him, his eyes inquisitive, his gaunt face otherwise impassive. “We have unfinished business,” Torreno continued. “Matters that, left untended, might disturb these most delicate negotiations.”
He waved his hand in the direction of the departing helicopter. Coco nodded, following his gesture.
“That man,” Coco said thoughtfully. “He is an important one, no?”
Torreno nodded.
“Still,” Coco said. “I would like to have him.”
Torreno patted him on the shoulder. “Forget that man,” he said. “We have other things to deal with.”
Coco nodded. The tiny earphones that connected him to his set bobbed at his neck like strange jewelry. Though his expression had not changed, Torreno saw the readiness in his pose. He would be happy to go back to work. Television and murder. It was surely a simpler life, having only two passions, Torreno thought.
The sound of the helicopter was gone now, replaced by the sounds of the nocturnal menagerie that surrounded them. The two of them stood that way for a while, listening as the howling grew.
Chapter 28
Deal let Driscoll guide him across the hospital parking lot to the white Ford, which was parked, ticketless, on the grass beside the pickup. “Are you going to tell me what this is about?” he said.
“It’s a long story,” Driscoll said, motioning for him to get inside the car. He wiped at his brow with a handkerchief. Although the sun had fallen below the trees, the heat seemed to have only intensified. “Let’s get in the air conditioning.”
Deal got in and managed to get his seat belt fastened as Driscoll took them straight across the grass and over the curb onto the street.
“Is this an emergency?” Deal said, holding on to the door handle as they swerved onto Le Jeune Road.
Driscoll shrugged. “You go out the right way, you have to pay your parking tab.”
Deal stared at him.
“Hey, I’m living on a pension now,” Driscoll said. “I got to watch my cash flow.”
“Maybe you need a wealthier client,” Deal said.
“Hah. This is pro bono work, son. All for the public interest.” He’d turned his attention to his driving.
Deal studied him for a moment. “You really must be desperate.”
Driscoll didn’t look at him. He blew his horn at an old woman about to shove a shopping cart across the intersection in front of them. “Old bat,” Driscoll said as they sped past her. “Jaywalking, stealing a Publix cart.” He glanced over finally, gave Deal a smile. “Crime rampant on the streets. How do you figure I’m desperate?”
“Where are we going, Vernon?”
“Answer a question with a question. This is a classic evasive technique. You trying to confuse me or something?”
“I’m trying to make a point. Tell me where we’re going.”
Driscoll sighed. “I talked to that Marquez woman. The one who ran the museum that got blown up.”
Deal nodded. “I figured it would be something like that.”
Driscoll shook his head, puzzled. “She checked out of the hospital against her doctor’s advice, got herself a half-assed hideaway up in Little Haiti. She’s so scared she’s taking voodoo treatments rather than take care of herself properly.”
“What’s the bottom line here, Vernon?”
“She had an interesting theory about why they bombed her place.”
“Let me guess,” Deal said. “Castro did it himself, to discredit his enemies. Either him or little green men.”
Driscoll pulled at the wheel suddenly, swerved over to the curb. He turned to Deal, ignoring the chorus of horns behind them. “Why don’t you just tell me what’s eating your butt?”
Deal stared back at him. “I appreciate your trying to help, Vernon. I really do. But I’m just not a conspiracy-theory type of guy. We had a bad accident, that’s all. You’ve got me involved in Cuban politics somehow. What I know about Castro is this: that’s the name on the daybed in your apartment—Castro Convertibles. Now if that ties me into your theory, I’d be glad to hear about it. Otherwise, I think it’s time for me to stop brooding on what’s past and get on with my life. That’s the way it’s supposed to work, Vernon. You spend a certain amount of time brooding and grieving, and then you have to go on with your life.”
Driscoll took it all in, nodded calmly. They were still idling, blocking the right one-third of the busiest thoroughfare in Coral Gables. Someone in a Cadillac was behind them, leaning on a horn that played a four-note tune.
Driscoll motioned for the guy to pull around with his thumb, then turned back to Deal. “Interesting you should mention conspiracy theory, because the one I got for you is a lulu. Now I could either try to explain it to you myself or I could take you right to the source.”
“The source,” Deal repeated. He felt weary, as if no matter how much time he spent explaining things to Driscoll, it would come to the same end.
“Well, the next thing to the source,” Driscoll continued. “It seems that Ms. Marquez had a publishing venture tied into her other operations. She’d put out fancy catalogues for her shows, commission some academic to write a book on Latin American art, that kind of thing. She never expected to make any money off of it, but then that whole shebang was nothing but a money pit. She did it all out of the love of art.” He waved his hand again, and the Cadillac finally pulled around them with a squeal of tires. Its windows were heavily smoked, its license plate and undercarriage outlined in glowing neon light.
Driscoll shook his head, watching the car speed away. “I remember a time you couldn’t drive through the Gables in a car like that.”
“I’m sure it was a better era,” Deal said.
Driscoll turned back to him, his face bland. “You’re upset, so I’m going to forgive you a lot of things,” he said, continuing before Deal could respond. “Anyways, as things got busier down there at the gallery, she hired a guy to handle the publishing matters, which were mostly matters of course, so she could travel around, recruit new artists and all that.”
Deal glanced out, trying to read the name of the cross street on the tombstonelike street marker nearby. Maybe he could just walk home from here.
How long could it take? Forty-five minutes?
“Then one day she comes back from Brazil or wherever to find her new editor in her office hopping straight up and down, a big thick manuscript in his hands.”
“I know this is going to come to something, Vernon.”
“You’re damn straight it is,” he said. “It turns out this book is not the kind of thing they’re used to publishing at all. But it’s so hot, it’s so tied into the very thing that motivates her to do the things she does, she feels like she’s got to take the opportunity.”
There was a screeching of brakes then, and Deal glanced back to see a step-van sliding to a halt behind them. “Jesus, Vernon. Can’t we move?”
“In a second.” He had pulled a little pad from his shirt pocket, was flipping through the pages. He held it up to the glaring lights of the step-van to see something, then went on, excited.
“This book, see, in addition to being a general diatribe against the politics of the expatriate Cuban community, has got some extremely incriminating stuff in it about the activities of the Patriots’ Freedom Foundation and one of its honchos, Vicente Luis Torreno. According to the stuff in the book, Torreno is tied directly to most of the terrorist activity down here the past few years—which comes under the heading of things we always suspected. But what’s new is, he’s been skimming from the foundation coffers for years, trading on the fervor of his compadres to make himself a rich man. If that came out, we wouldn’t have to prove he was guilty of murder; his own people would tear him to shreds.”
“Who wrote this book?” Deal asked. He was watching out the windows over Driscoll’s shoulder as a guy in a khaki uniform got down out of the step-van and approached the driver’s side of the car.
“A guy name of Valles,” Driscoll said. “He used to be a professor out at the state university until he got a bit too noisy about his ideas. They bumped him from the faculty a couple years ago, and he turned to writing his book.”
Raw Deal Page 21
