by Tom Wolfe
She reaches the car… crouches way down beside it… the door! ::::::Get in! Lock it!::::::… she starts to put her hand into—and a terrible heat begins rising up into her cranial cavity, burning the lining of her skull… she doesn’t have her handbag! In her wild rush to escape, she left it in the examination room… her car keys and the remote and her key to the apartment… her credit cards… cash… cell phone… driver’s license!—her only ID in this world except for her passport, but that’s in the apartment, and he has the key now! He has it all, even her makeup… She doesn’t dare stay here crouched beside her car… he knows the car! What if he—
—scurried hunched over until she finally saw the exit on the far side… Even then she didn’t dare walk through upright… People were looking at her, a young nurse in white scurrying out of a parking lot… hunched way over like that… Look at her! So young, and she’s out to lunch or she’s having a stroke! That girl needs a lot of help… and who’s going to give it to her?… Don’t look at me.
Noon on yet another identical Miami day, the sky a pale-blue white-hot dome radiating ferocious heat and blinding light down upon all the shoppers on Collins Avenue and giving them stumpy shadows on the sidewalk… which they can scarcely even notice, their macular-degeneration-defying glasses are so dark… when something makes them want to open their eyes and see. A young man wearing some sort of white sport shirt and blue jeans has just sidled up to a building, whose shadow at noon is all of eighteen inches wide. He’s carrying a big CVS shopping bag. Hurriedly, there in the stingy shade, he lifts the CVS bag and holds it upside down and starts to pull it over his head. Now the gawkers can see that there is another shopping bag stuffed inside the first… that and a white towel that wants to fall out. Hurriedly he pulls the towel out and puts it on top of his head so that it drapes his face, his ears, everything down to his shoulders, in fact, and then he pulls the shopping bags, one inside the other, down over the towel, and now the gawkers can barely see a couple of inches of the towel sticking out of the bags. They can’t see his head at all. Then they see him pull a cell phone out of his blue-jeans pocket and slip it under the bags and the towel. What is this?… a nutcase—nobody can figure it out.
Under the towel and inside the bags the cell phone rings, “¡Caliente! Caliente baby… Got plenty fuego in yo’ caja china…” and the man inside the bag says, “Camacho.”
“Where are you?” says the voice of Sergeant Hernandez. “Underneath a mattress?”
“Hey, Jorge,” says Nestor, “thank God it’s you! Wait a second. Let me take all this shit off… This better?”
“Yeah, you sound halfway normal now. I can hear traffic. Where the hell are you?”
“Down on Collins Avenue. I put all this shit over my… my…” ::::::I’m not going to say “head.” He’ll think that’s very weird:::::: “over the phone so they won’t know I’m not at home.”
“Gotcha,” said Hernandez. “I do sort of the same thing—but they must know nobody has a landline anymore, just a cell phone—but never mind. Have you heard the news?”
“No… and do I even want to? I remember the last time you called me with ‘the news.’ ”
“This time maybe you do want to, I don’t know—anyway, they just let our crack dealers off! The grand jury wouldn’t indict them!”
“You’re kidding!”
“It just happened, Nestor, maybe half an hour ago. It’s all over the internet.”
“Wouldn’t indict them—why not?”
“Take a wild guess, Nestor.”
Nestor wanted to say, Because of you and your jungle bunny shit, but he caught himself. “You and me?” was all he said.
“You got it. First try. How the hell can they indict two nice young gentlemen from Overtown when the two arresting officers are racists? Right? They didn’t even call us as witnesses, Nestor, and it was our case!”
Silence. Nestor was baffled. He couldn’t figure out the consequences. Finally he said, “This means there won’t be any trial. Right?”
“Right,” said Hernandez. “And if you wanna know what I think, I say thank God for that much. I wasn’t looking forward to being on the stand, and some suit is asking me, ‘So, Sergeant Hernandez, how racist would you say you are? Just a little bit or a lot or somewhere in the middle?”
“But how’s the Department gonna take it?”
“Oh, they’re gonna say, ‘Well, that makes it official. The jury has spoken. These two walking bigots cost us a case. Who needs a couple of parasites like them?’ Without us they wouldna had a case in the first place. But you know about how much they’re gonna take that into consideration.”
“I thought grand jury proceedings are supposed to be secret.”
“The are… supposed to be. The only opinions they’re supposed to give are ‘indict’ and ‘not indict.’ But you watch TV and the radio and whoever puts this stuff on the internet—the grand jury, they’re not supposed to, but they’ll talk to the bastards. It sounds like they already have. If you ask me, we’re fucked.”
“Has anybody called you, anybody from the Department, like the zone captain or somebody?”
“Not yet, but they will… they will…”
“I don’t know about you,” said Nestor, “but I can’t just stand around waiting for the axe to fall. We’ve gotta do something.”
“Okay, tell me what. Tell me one thing we can do that won’t make it worse.”
Silence. “Give me a little time. I’ll think of something.” All he could think of at that very moment was Ghislaine. Ghislaine Ghislaine Ghislaine… He wasn’t even thinking of what she might conceivably do for him as a witness who might back him up by testifying that whatever he had said about that big side a beef in the crack house came in the heat of a life-or-death battle. No, he was thinking solely of her lovely pale fair face.
“I’m gonna find whoever made that cell phone video and get hold of the first half of it and show what really happened.”
“Yeah,” Hernandez was saying, “but you’ve already tried that.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll try again, Jorge. I’m gonna pull together an entire defense.”
“Bueee-no, muy bueee-no,” said Hernandez in a tone that identified Nestor as a hopelessly naive kid. “But you check with me… okay? You gotta be careful what you pull on when you do all this pulling together. You understand what I’m saying? Look at it this way. In a way we’re better off. The fucking case is over. We don’t have to sit there in some courtroom and be called every goddamned thing in the world—and then get thrown off the force. You see what I mean?”
“Yeah…” said Nestor in a flat tone, all the while thinking, ::::::Spoken like a true veteran bullshitter. Maybe that’s a consolation for you because you’re the one who actually said all that stuff. I don’t feel like jumping into your grave with you.:::::: For no reason that he could have possibly explained, he thought of Ghislaine again. He could see her lovely lissome legs crossed the way they were at Starbucks… the lithe, slim, somehow French look of the calf of the leg whose bent knee lay atop the knee of the other… but he did not think about the mysteries of her loamy loins… He didn’t think of her that way… Finally he said aloud, “To tell the truth, Jorge, I don’t see what you mean. It’s no consolation to me, not going through a trial. Me, I wish to hell there was going to be a trial. I’d like to lay the whole goddamn thing out on the table, and some way I’m gonna do that.”
“Don’t you see how little difference it’s gonna make to ‘lay the whole thing out on the table’?” said Hernandez. “It could just as easy make things worse.”
Nestor said, “Yeah, well, you could be right… but I can’t just sit here… because it’s worse than that. I feel like I’m strapped into the electric chair, wondering when they’re gonna throw the switch. I’ve gotta do something, Jorge!”
“Okaaaay, amigo, but—”
“I’ll let you know,” said Nestor. “Right now I gotta go.” Not even so much as a goodbye.
&n
bsp; 16
Humiliation One
Amélia sat slumped back, caved in, all but submerged in the pillowy billows of the only easy chair in their apartment… with her legs crossed, forcing her skirt… which was about this long to begin with… up so far that when Magdalena came in, she wondered, at first, if it were a skirt or a shirt… She was disappointed to find Amélia in such a dejected state… disappointed to the edge of resentful. ::::::What have you got to be acting so self-absorbed about?:::::: Magdalena was counting on Amélia’s ever-cheerful, ever-clearheaded self to listen to her problems. She assumed a pose of her own. She perched herself in shorts and a T-shirt on the seat of a dinner table chair with a straight back. She unconsciously dramatized her superior claim to sympathy by jackknifing one leg and lifting it high enough to put the heel on the edge of the seat and hugging the knee with both arms as if it were the only friend she had left.
“No, that’s not true,” said Amélia. “We’re not in the same boat. You left him. He left me. You’re happy. I’m not.”
“I’m not happy!” said Magdalena. “I’m scared to death! If you had seen his face—I mean, mygod!”
Amélia shrugged with her eyebrows in a way that as much as said, “You’re trying to blow nothing up into something.”
“But his face—it was like some kind of—of—of—some kind of fiend’s! The way he started calling me ‘Bitch!—you bitch!’—to say that’s what he said doesn’t begin to—”
Amélia broke in, “And you’re so devastated, I guess you’re not going out with your ‘oligarch’ friend tonight?… Give me a break… Reggie didn’t even care enough to raise his voice with me. He was more like some boss calling in an employee and saying, ‘I’m sorry, but you’re just not the right fit for our organization. It’s not your fault, but we’re going to have to let you go.’ That’s the way Reggie put it. ‘I’m going to have to let you go. This just isn’t working out.’ Those were his actual words, ‘This just isn’t working out.’ After almost two years ‘this just isn’t working out.’ What the hell is ‘this,’ I’d like to know, and what is ‘working out’ supposed to mean? He also said, ‘It’s not your fault.’ Awww… geeee… that made me feel so much better. You know? After two years he comes to the conclusion that ‘this is not working out’ and it’s ‘not my fault.’ ”
::::::Damn it! The whole world doesn’t revolve around you, Amélia.::::::
Magdalena tried to put it back into orbit around herself. “And another thing, Amélia, I’m broke! He’s got my credit cards, my checkbook, my cash, my driver’s license—everything! I was lucky to have enough cash tucked away here to pay the locksmith. Cost a fortune!”
“What do you think he’s going to do—buy thousands of dollars’ worth of stuff with your credit card? Take the keys and steal your car? Break in here in the middle of the night? You already changed the lock. You think he’s so wild about you he’ll ruin his career just to get revenge? You’re pretty hot, but I haven’t noticed—” She dropped her thought. “So, anyway, who’s your oligarch friend tonight?”
“His name is Sergei Korolyov.”
“What’s he do?”
“I think he… ‘invests’? Is that the word? I don’t really know. But I know he collects art. He gave the Miami Museum of Art seventy million dollars’ worth of paintings and they changed its name to the Korolyov Museum of Art. Do you remember that? There was a lot about it on TV.”
She regretted laying it on that thick. Here’s Amélia in a state of shock about Reggie—and she has to tell her about what a star she has a date with in a couple of hours.
“I think I remember something about it,” said Amélia.
Silence… then Magdalena couldn’t resist, and so she went ahead and said, “Do you remember the night I was going to Chez Toi, and you lent me your bustier? Well, that was the night I met Sergei—or that was the night he asked me for my phone number. I met him once before… you know, along with all these other people… I guess that bustier wasn’t a bad idea! Don’t worry. I’m not going to ask you for it again. I mean, I don’t want him to think that’s what I wear every night, a bustier. But I could use your advice again.”
Amélia looked off in a distracted way. Obviously, she wasn’t going to jump at the idea of playing couturiere for Magdalena for some dazzling date again. Finally, without looking squarely at Magdalena, she said, “Where’s he taking you?”
“It’s a big party on—I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never seen it—you know Star Island? At somebody’s house.”
Amélia smiled… sardonically… “You’re too much, Magdalena. You just happen to go to dinner at a restaurant you never heard of called Chez Toi. Then you just happen to go to a big party at some place called Star Island at somebody’s big house. That’s only the most expensive real estate in Miami. Maybe Fisher Island—but there’s not much difference.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Magdalena.
Amélia stared at her for a moment. It was the sort of look Magdalena couldn’t interpret one way or the other. It was just a… steady stare. Finally Amélia spoke:
“Do you plan to give him some papaya tonight?”
This gave Magdalena such a jolt, she let go of her loving knee and put the foot on the floor just like the other one, as if preparing for fight or flight.
“Amélia!” she said. “What kind of question is that?!”
“It’s a practical question,” said Amélia. “Past a certain—when guys reach a certain age they just assume that’s part of a pleasant first date. ‘Aflojate, baby! Give it up!’ When I think of all the times I just did things because that was what Reggie expected… That’s what’s called a ‘relationship.’ When I hear that stupid word, I want to stick my fingers down my throat.”
“I’ve never seen you… so down like this before, Amélia.”
“I don’t know,” said Amélia. “I’ve never had anything like this happen before. That bastard!—but no, he’s not a bastard. Reggie, I would have gladly married him. I hope it never happens to you.”
By now, tears were beginning to roll down her cheeks, and her lips were trembling. Amélia—who had always been the strong and steady one around here! Magdalena was beginning to find the whole thing embarrassing. Sure, Amélia had been hurt ::::::I wonder what actually happened with her and Reggie?:::::: but she had always had too much going for her to cave in and pity herself like this. If she started actually crying, blubbering, boo-hooing, Magdalena wasn’t going to be able to take it. To just sit here and watch Amélia come to pieces—she had always admired Amélia too much for that. She was older, and better educated and more sophisticated.
Amélia snuffled back a lot of tears and pulled herself together. Her eyes were still leaking a bit, but she smiled in a perfectly natural way and said, “I’m sorry, Magdalena.” Tears welled up in her eyes again. ::::::Please hold on to yourself, Amélia!:::::: which she did, thank God. She smiled an only slightly teary smile and said, “This hasn’t been my best day, for some reason.” She gave a little laugh. “Listen, of course I’ll help you… if I can… In fact, why don’t you go look in my closet. I have this new black dress with a neckline like—” With her hands she pantomimed a V that began on either side of her neck and plunged to her waist. “It’s a little too tight for me, but it’ll fit you perfectly.”
Such weightlessness! Such extra-environmental vision! Such astral projection! Such bliss!
Not that Magdalena knew the terms extra-environmental vision and astral projection, but these were the two main components of the otherworldly exhilaration she felt. She had the feeling—but it was more than a feeling to her, it was very real—that she was sitting here in the creamy tan leather passenger seat of this glamorous sports car… and at the same time she was floating above the scene… having been astrally projected up here this high… and observing the incredible turn of Fate that now had Magdalena Otero, formerly of Hialeah, sitting this close to a man too dashing, too handsome, too rich, too much of a celebrity to ha
ve called her up and asked her out—but he had! He, Sergei Korolyov, the Russian oligarch who had given seventy million dollars’ worth of paintings to the Miami Museum of Art, he who had given the swellest dinner party she had ever been to, at the socially swellest restaurant in all of Miami, Chez Toi… he who was driving this car, which looked so expensive, and no doubt was so expensive—he was right next to her, at the wheel! She could see him and herself both from up here. She could see right through the roof. She looked all around… how many people were watching this, watching Magdalena Otero sitting in this hot car that looked like it was going eighty miles an hour just parked at the curb?
Well… not many, unfortunately. Nobody knew who she was. Here, Drexel Avenue, was her official address, but how many times had she actually slept here?
