by Alex Segura
“What can you tell me about Menocal?” Pete asked.
“He came from a well-known family,” she said. “He studied art from some of the best Cuban artists at the time, including Miguel Melero. After a time, he went to Spain and studied under another great painter, Francisco Jover. He also became part of the culture there—hobnobbing with major players in the arts in Spain. He exhibited his work and was generating a great buzz, if that was even a word back then. After a while, he returned to his homeland and joined Cuba’s battle for independence from Spain. Once the war ended, he went back to painting, and to teaching art. His work is well known—he’s not some obscure nobody, mind you. His art can be seen in the Presidential Palace, Havana’s Municipal Building, and more places that I can’t recall off the top of my head. Suffice to say, he left his mark.”
“Do you think the painting might be a fake?”
Caldera laughed. “First, I want to know who owns this painting,” she said. “Then I’d like to see it. Then I’ll decide whether it’s real or not.”
“My client would prefer to remain anonymous,” Pete said, not without a bit of shame. “So, I don’t think I can be helpful there.”
Caldera’s eyes squinted slightly, the smile remaining on her face long after the laugh ended. She didn’t need Pete to tell her anything. “It’s Mujica, isn’t it?”
“I can’t say,” Pete said, his tone soft enough that he might as well have exclaimed “Bingo!”
“You know, I’m surprised, because usually Eddie doesn’t get fooled,” Caldera said. “He’s smart. He has a few galleries. I ran into him from time to time over my few decades in the business.”
“What was he like as an art dealer?”
“The worst kind,” she said, no malice in her voice. Stating a fact. “He knew what he liked, and he didn’t care about the market or building up an artist’s career. If he liked something, he’d gobble them all up.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?”
“Not if you want to build a name for yourself,” Caldera said. “Not if you want people to talk about your work and bid on it and create a sense of a movement. It’d be like someone buying every Sinatra record and locking them away so no one could hear them—only, maybe, hear about them.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Eddie didn’t care about the business, or about ethics, or about helping artists,” she said. “He cared about himself, and if a painting was worth ten thousand and he could flip it by neutering the rest of the artist’s work, he’d do it. He’d bury someone to make a buck. It’s part of the reason he’s not as active in the art world anymore. He’s got a bad rep.”
Caldera looked at her slim watch. “I think it’s time I took a nap,” she said. “But if you do decide to let someone look at this painting, if and when you get it back, I’d love to discover a ‘lost’ Menocal. At least long enough to know it’s a fraud.”
Pete started to get up, but hesitated. “Is there anyone else I should speak to about this? Who might be able to help?”
“Well, I guess I should be humble and note that I am not the be-all, end-all on Cuban art,” she said, looking out the large window, letting the hot Miami sun coat her aging face. “Susana can give you a few contacts—just some gallery owners that might be able to assess the veracity of this claim. And, honestly, we may all be wrong. Stranger things have happened. But call me dubious and wary.”
Pete shook the woman’s hand. “Thanks for your time,” he said. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“Be careful with Mujica,” Caldera said. “He’s a shark. He plays the part of the mamey farmer very well, and Eddie is adept at giving him great cloud cover—he’s often the bad cop in these situations. But make no mistake—Mujica’s in charge. Every move Eddie makes comes from his boss. Eddie’s just along for the ride, wherever Mujica’s going.”
LE CHAT NOIR was a cramped, two-level jazz club in downtown Miami. Its black and red exterior seemed out of place in the blazing Miami sun, but Pete soon found himself grateful for the dim lighting, blasting air conditioning and soothing sounds that embraced them as he and Kathy stepped inside. Aside from the bartender, the place was empty.
The main area of Le Chat Noir was like many restaurants in the area trying to maximize their space. The big difference was a small, compact stage at the far corner of the first floor, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling shelves loaded with wine bottles, giving the place a claustrophobic, musky vibe.
“Do you think they play jazz here?” Kathy said, wiping at her brow.
“Safe bet,” Pete said. He didn’t let his arms rest on the bar. Didn’t let his body lean into it, or his eyes wander the far wall, which boasted every kind of vodka, gin, and scotch. The obsession had, in some form, been lifted. But you don’t poke the bear.
“Help you?” the bartender asked. The dark-haired woman’s skin was eerily pale, with no makeup to speak of and a wary, defensive look. She probably wasn’t used to seeing patrons this early.
“I’m Pete, this is my partner Kathy. We wanted to know if we could talk to someone about Javier Mujica?”
The bartender paused, her eyes scanning Pete again before she shook his hand. “Annie,” she said. “And, uh, our owner’s not here. So I’m not sure what I can say.”
“We’re not reporters,” Kathy said, moving closer to the bar. ‘We’re private investigators.”
“I recognize you both,” Annie said. “You were caught up in that cult thing last year. Thought you were dead.”
“He was,” Kathy said.
“I got better.”
“Well, nice, but I still don’t know what you want from me.”
“We’re trying to find someone,” Pete said. “They were close to Javier.”
“Javi was a sweet guy,” Annie said. “I liked him a lot. We were all torn up when he died. But I dunno if I can say more. I’m not, like, an official spokesperson for the club.”
“No one wants to quote you,” Pete said. “We just need to talk to people who knew Javi. To get a sense of him, you know? We can meet you later, too.”
Pete took out his card and slid it over the bar. The eggshell white cardboard was plain and direct: Pete Fernandez, Bookseller: 305-226-6851.
“You sell books, too?” Annie said.
“He’s a man of many talents,” Kathy said, her delivery flat.
“My friend and I are going to grab a bite at …” Pete turned to Kathy.
“Balans is good,” she said. “I can drink there, too.”
“At Balans, on Brickell,” Pete said. “Swing by. We’ll be there for a few hours. We just want to chat.”
Annie looked around the empty bar. “Let’s just talk here,” she said. “I can’t leave my post, or whatever. Want a drink?”
“Yes, please,” Kathy said. “Vodka tonic with a lime.”
Annie looked at Pete, eyebrows raised.
“Club soda.”
She poured seltzer into a large glass from the bar’s beverage gun and slid it over to Pete. She started mixing Kathy’s drink and motioned for them to take the two seats facing her.
“This way, if my boss does decide to show, I’m just serving two lushes.”
“Why would he care if you were talking about Javier?” Pete asked.
“My boss, Larry, he was getting a lot of flak,” Annie said, sliding a small straw into Kathy’s drink and handing it to her. “Over Javi, you know? Letting him play here.”
“Why?” Kathy asked. “From whom?”
“He wouldn’t say,” Annie said. “Just that someone wanted him off the bill. Which would’ve sucked, because Javi was really, really good—when he wanted to be.”
“What do you mean?” Pete asked.
“Javi had problems,” Annie said. “He partied too hard. Drank too much. Had some major drama with his partner, wife, whatever she is. If he showed up halfway sober, the set would be amazing. If he was fucked up, it’d still be okay, but if you knew his music—if you were a fan—you’d be bumme
d. You came to see Oscar Peterson and ended up getting Oscar the Grouch. People would be asking for refunds. There was only one bad, really bad night—the only time he fell apart while playing. He just zonked out, fell asleep at the piano. It was sad.”
“Any journalists come out?” Pete asked. “You know, to review the sets?”
Annie paused for a second. “Not really, no,” she said. “There was one guy, Albert or Angel, older. Cuban. Was a big fan. Did radio, I think?”
“Menendez?” Pete asked.
“Yeah, that’s him. Javi was excited when he’d show up. It meant some good buzz. He’d get so excited. It was cute.”
“You cared about him,” Pete said.
“Yeah, of course,” she said. “He was my friend. I mean, not like, extremely close or anything, but a lot of times it was just me and him sitting at the bar, talking about life, after closing.”
“Were you together?” Kathy said after a long pull from her drink.
“What? No way.”
“Why no way?” Kathy said. “He was a handsome guy, talented. You’re pretty and smart. You obviously had time and opportunity.”
“It wasn’t like that,” Annie said, wiping down the bar, not meeting their eyes. “I mean, whatever, I understand he was with someone else. But we helped each other. I wasn’t expecting anything else. It was complicated, I guess.”
“Complicated is my middle name,” Kathy said with a warm smile. “So, was it just something where you’d hook up after he played? Or were there sleepovers? Did his wife find out?”
Annie leaned on the bar, her shoulders hunching over, giving her the look of someone trying to excise something deeply buried.
“I don’t know, I don’t care,” she said. “He didn’t want to be with her anymore. She was driving him nuts. I don’t think he wanted to be with me, you know, like in the end. But he wanted a change. He felt really confined. He wanted to work on his music, move to New York or somewhere else, with a better jazz scene. Away from his father.”
“What did he say about his dad?” Pete asked.
“He hated him,” Annie said, looking up at Pete. “His dad’s a gangster. He pulls this BS where he’s some kind of mamey farmer, but the guy’s a killer. One of the OG Cocaine Cowboys, you know? Bolitero, whatever. He didn’t want Javi to play music. Hated that he was a drunk and a junkie, a flawed person. Wanted to keep him under his roof and watch. Javi didn’t want that. So he married this woman, moved out here, started playing in the club as often as he could, and kept living off daddy’s money. It was his form of protest, maybe.”
“What about this woman?” Pete asked. “What can you tell us about his wife?”
“Ah, the mysterious Beatriz,” Annie said, a frown forming on her thin face. “I met her once. She hardly ever came to hear him play. Didn’t seem Hispanic, honestly. I don’t know how PC that is, but fuck it. I didn’t really even know it was her until Javi pointed her out. I mean, look, everyone here knew we had a thing going, so I could sidle up to him, be affectionate. Not all couple-y, but more than strangers. So, my point, he came up to me first thing and introduced her—kind of winking, like, hey, turn it down, Annie, be cool.”
“What was she like?” Kathy asked.
“A frigid bitch, if I’m being honest,” Annie said. “Barely said hi.”
“What did she look like?” Pete asked, trying to steer things away from Annie’s jealousy.
“She was attractive, in a cliché, Pretty Little Liars way,” Annie said. “Thin, blond hair, nice lips, good body. She was older, like your age—”
“How old are you?” Kathy asked.
“Twenty-seven.”
“So she was in her mid-to-late thirties?” Pete asked, trying to keep things going.
“Yeah, she looked good for her age, like you do,” she said, nodding at Kathy. “No offense.”
“Plenty taken,” Kathy said before finishing off her drink. “You owe me one.”
Annie nodded and started prepping Kathy’s refill.
“Anyway, that was the one time I met her,” she said. “Beatriz just sat near the stage, listened to Javi’s set, and left on her own after the first part. Which, honestly, was a huge fucking relief because fuck that bitch. She treated him badly, and I don’t think he even wanted to marry her.”
“It is pretty weird how that stuff is forced on men these days,” Kathy said, accepting the next round.
Kathy’s joke flew over Annie’s head.
“Any idea where Javi lived?” Pete asked. “Anything else that stands out that might be helpful to us?” Pete stood up.
Kathy downed the rest of her drink.
“Nah, I never went to his place. It never got to that point, honestly. I’m trying to think of anything—I mean, this is probably nothing, but it sticks with me for some reason,” Annie said. “It was a few nights before he—before he died. We were in the back, he was taking a break before his next set, and ... we were just messing around, you know? He was fucked up. High, definitely. Drunk, too. We’re back there, kissing and stuff, and he stops, like he was struck by lightning, and looks at me—eyes all wide—and says, ‘They got to her, Annie, they got to her and she’s gone now, all gone.’”
“YOU DIDN’T TELL me this case would require us entering the hellmouth,” Kathy said as Pete pulled into the large parking lot in Doral.
Think of a nondescript, generic corporate headquarters and you’re probably imagining an area that resembles Doral, a municipality that’s bookended by the Florida Turnpike and Palmetto Expressway. Cookie-cutter housing projects pepper the landscape, crowding around parks and bland-looking business centers. This was where journalism had come to die. The Miami Times was not the place Kathy and Pete had left behind years before. The original building, nestled in downtown and overlooking Miami Beach, was gone—sold off to real estate developers a few years back. Now, the paper did most of its editing—the actual page design was outsourced to the Times’s parent company in Baltimore—in a compact, three-story building that looked more like a medical office than a grizzled haven of enterprising journalism. But life, like the newspaper landscape, was ever changing, and the Times had hit on some hard, well, times. Dropping ad revenues, competing online outlets, and buyouts had left the staff depleted, inexperienced, and overworked. If you asked Pete, the newspaper wasn’t on life support per se, but closer to hospice care.
They got out of the car and walked toward the peach building, the parking lot half-empty. Over the entrance hung a massive sign—THE MIAMI TIMES MEDIA COMPANY.
“Even they don’t want to claim to be a newspaper anymore,” Kathy said.
Pete chuckled, but he wasn’t in a good mood. He didn’t want to be here either. Despite his acrimonious end with the Times—his boss, Steve Vance, had let him go after a final bit of insubordination—he still held the place in some regard. Journalism mattered. It pained him to see the paper in exile like this, and he knew it was still staffed by some good, talented people. He figured Kathy was going through the same speed cycle of grief.
“Why are we here again?” Kathy asked. “It’s late. I’d like to get some food and wine in me.”
“The Times also owns a public radio station, WLRZ,” Pete said as they reached the door. “One of their shows focuses on jazz—‘Late Night Jazz.’ The host is an old friend of mine.”
“So you want to pick their brain about our friend Javi?”
Before Pete could continue, they were intercepted by a slim, clean-shaven older man, his gray hair slicked back to reveal a smooth and unblemished face. He was wearing a light blue polo and khakis.
“Pete Fernandez,” the man said. “Never thought I’d see you here again.” Steve Vance extended his hand.
Pete shook it, the man’s grip limp and brief. Vance, if Pete’s info was up-to-date, was the paper’s managing editor of special projects. A fancy title that could mean anything. He was also the man who had fired Pete a little over five years ago, a final move made after Pete’s excessive tard
iness, mistakes, and general inability to handle his duties. He’d had been drinking heavily around the time Vance fired him, spinning out before crashing hard and reaching his bottom. At the time, Pete had come to hate Vance. Now, even though the man was probably just as obnoxious as he’d been back then, Pete understood why he’d pulled the plug on Pete’s journalism career.
“Steve, hey,” Pete said. “How’s it going?”
“Not too bad,” Vance said, looking over Pete’s shoulder. A glimmer of recognition in his eyes. “Well, I guess it’s old home week here. Kathy?”
“Hi, Steve,” Kathy said, a dry smile on her face.
“I hear you’re doing some good work for the New Tropic these days,” Vance said, sliding his hands into his pockets and leaning back. “Would love to see if we could get you back here. Your dad, despite how things ended, left a pretty big legacy.”
“I’m not sure I could suppress the clutching nausea I feel each time I get close to this office enough to do it every day, Steve,” she said with a straight face. “But thank you for the offer.”
Vance nodded, the smug smile still on his face. “Well, I gotta run,” he said, shaking Pete’s hand again. “But it was good to see you. Glad you landed on your feet.”
Pete held on to Vance’s hand for a second longer than the man expected. “Steve, I’m actually glad to see you.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, this may sound ... strange,” Pete said. “But I wanted to thank you, for what you did.”
“For letting you go?” Vance said, a look of bafflement on his face. “Son, don’t think I did that with any gusto—”
“No, no, it’s not that. I just needed the wake-up call. I was angry with you for a long time. But now I know it was the right thing.”
Vance, still perplexed, nodded to himself. “Well, okay,” he said, looking as if he expected a surprise or gag of some kind to kick in. “I’m glad you got your life together. It seems like we’re all doing well.”
