"Yes, don't worry. He's expecting you." Anthony glanced around, then noticed Elena. "Elenita, see if you can find Carlos and tell him Ms. Connor is here, will you?"
"Sure." She smiled at Gail.
Gail couldn't hold back a delighted laugh as Anthony escorted her through the crowd with a hand lightly on her waist. "Do you know, I've never been to a Cuban party before?"
"No?"
"I've missed a lot."
"You see." He wagged a finger at her. "Too much time in that office of yours."
Anthony picked up his jacket from the back of a chair in the hall. "Perhaps you can stay after the meeting." He straightened his cuffs. "You might like to hear the band, taste some of the cooking." He smiled. "It wasn't catered from Yuca, but I admit—it's pretty good."
In Ernesto Pedrosa's study at the opposite end of the house, the music seemed to come from far away. Gail walked slowly across the room, whose dark corners were illuminated only by a silk-shaded floor lamp. Anthony flipped a switch and two other lamps came on at either end of a sofa upholstered in brown leather, cracked from age. She smelled expensive cigars and musty books.
Directly in front of her was the desk, not as big as she had expected. Its right end came out further into the room than the left.
"Haven't you ever wanted to ..." Gail made a pushing motion with her hand.
"I did once, for fun, and he chased me through the house with his belt." Anthony turned on the brass desk lamp.
"Did he catch you?"
"Unfortunately, yes."
Her eyes lifted to the flag, a red triangle and white star on the left, three blue and two white stripes across. The lower right edge of the flag was tattered and stained. There were, indeed, several holes in it.
She glanced at Anthony. He shrugged.
On another wall a washed-out blue banner bore the numbers 2506 in faded yellow. A black and white photograph hung beside it, a formation of men in Army fatigues, the same banner flying behind them.
"What is this?"
"Brigada 2506 invaded Cuba at the Bay of Pigs in 1961," Anthony said. "They meet here from time to time. Those who are left."
Gail walked past a bookcase crammed with papers and heavy books, then to an illuminated glass case. Inside, a faded red ribbon had been draped across an open book of poetry. Versos Sencillos. The pages were yellowed, the stanzas written in Spanish. Beside the book was a photograph of a man with a high forehead and small mustache. He wore a black coat and wing collar.
"José Martí," she announced.
"Very good."
"There. I know something about Cuban culture." She studied the paintings on the wall. Old Havana. Varadero Beach. Hills and oxcarts and palm trees. She glanced at Anthony. "And you grew up in this house."
"Yes. The Pedrosa Museum of Cuban History."
He took her briefcase and put it beside one of the chairs facing the desk. When he turned back around his eyes went toward the door. He made an almost imperceptible bow.
' 'Señor, buenas noches. ' '
Ernesto Pedrosa came in, leaning a little on his cane. He wore a long-sleeved white linen shirt with four pockets—a guayabera intricately pleated and stitched.
Gail could see now where Anthony had gotten his height. Pedrosa was even taller, a slender man with a gray mustache. Now he was looking at her through his heavy, black-framed glasses.
Anthony said, "Abuelo, may I present la señora Gail Connor. My grandfather, Ernesto Pedrosa Masvidal."
She held out her hand. His was cool and dry, a big hand that enveloped hers completely.
' 'Mucho gusto en conocerle, señor. ' ' Gail had learned that from Miriam before leaving the office today. She must have pronounced it right, because Pedrosa glanced at Anthony with the pleased surprise of an aging relative for a child who has done something particularly clever.
' 'Que bien ella habla el español. ' '
Gail shook her head. "No, I don't speak it well enough to hold a conversation."
"It doesn't matter." The old man chuckled. Behind the thick glasses were a pair of light blue eyes. "Welcome. Bienvenida a mi casa, doctora."
"Doctora?"
Anthony explained. "Doctora is a term of respect for your profession as a lawyer."
Pedrosa still held her hand. He brought it briefly to his lips. ' 'Sin amor de mujer no hay razón para vivir. ' ' He smiled, then turned toward his desk, walking with a limp around the end further out into the room. "Translate, nieto. These are words for a younger man."
Anthony smiled as if the two of them were sharing a private joke. ''Without the love of a woman there is no reason to live."
Gail said softly, "What a charming man." But this old charmer, she recalled, had helped launch armed raids on Cuba and bomb a Little Havana radio station.
Anthony touched her elbow. "Come sit down."
Pedrosa hooked his cane on the edge of his desk and eased himself into his chair. Beside the lamp was a tray of crystal liqueur glasses and a bottle. "Anthony, por favor. My hands are stiff tonight. May I offer you a glass of cognac, Señora Connor?"
"Yes, thank you."
Anthony loosened the cork, which squeaked a little as he turned it.
"That's enough," his grandfather said, and pulled it out the rest of the way. It was a short, heavy bottle with an ornate gold label. Gran Duque de Alba. Pedrosa filled three glasses, then hesitated.
"Where is Carlito?"
"He is coming."
Pedrosa filled a fourth.
Anthony gave Gail a glass, took one for himself, then sat down to her left.
Pedrosa tapped the cork back into the bottle with the heel of one hand. "I hope you will forgive me, señora, if I desert you after we talk. The day has been very long." He sighed, smiling at her. "Do you know that we had a stable of horses when I was a young man. Yes. I fell off so many times I surprise myself still to be alive. You don't think of breaking your neck when you are young."
The door opened. Pedrosa looked across his office. ' 'Entra. ' '
Carlos went around the desk to his grandfather. "Abuelito, ¿cómo estás? You're looking good tonight." He put his arm around Pedrosa's shoulders and kissed him on the cheek.
Pedrosa gestured toward the remaining glass of cognac. Carlos took it then nodded at Gail.
"Hi, glad to see you again." He pulled a chair closer to the desk, completing the semicircle facing the old man, Gail in the middle.
Pedrosa raised his glass. ' 'Salud, dinero, y amor. ' ' He smiled at Gail. "Health, wealth, and love."
The cognac was sweet, rich, sublimely smooth.
Pedrosa said, "Do you have children, señora?”
"I have a daughter, nine years old."
He professed amazement. "Nine! You are so young."
Gail made a noncommittal smile. She would allow this old man his opinions. "You are very gracious, Señor Pedrosa. And your family as well. I met Elena . . . your granddaughter?"
"One of several." He cleared his throat, sipped his cognac. "I have two daughters living, four granddaughters. Eleven great-grandchildren. And two grandsons, whom you see here." He motioned to them, then said, "I had a son. He died at Playa Girón. You call it the Bay of Pigs."
Carlos leaned on the arm of his chair, closer to Gail. "That was my father. Tomás Pedrosa Betancourt. I never knew him."
Gail remembered what Anthony had told her: His own father was still in Cuba. She glanced at him. He sat casually, legs crossed, holding his glass of cognac on his knee.
Carlos said, "We never got his body back. Someday, si Dios quiere, I'll put flowers on the place where he died."
Pedrosa raised his glass. ' 'Si Dios quiere. ' ' He turned to Gail. "My sympathy for your sister, señora."
"Thank you," Gail said, surprised. "Did you know her?"
"I met her once," the old man said, and did not elaborate. He said, "Carlos has told me that Judge Benjamin Strickland is your relative."
"My mother's cousin."
Pedrosa nodded. "I
have not met him, but I have heard of him. And of your family, of course. The Stricklands, an old family in Miami. Now we may do business together."
Gail took this as her cue to begin. "I hope that we can. Carlos wants Pedrosa Development to have an option on three hundred acres of Judge Strickland's property in southwest Dade County. If you wish, we can discuss the specific terms."
"No, I am familiar with them. But my other grandson disagrees with the purchase on any terms. Perhaps he will explain this." The old man turned his gaze to Anthony.
"I do disagree," Anthony said. "Never until now have you purchased land without a clear idea of what is to be done with it. There are no subdivision plans even sketched out, no discussion with the architects—"
Carlos interrupted. "Where did you get this information?"
"From your office," Anthony said, then went on. "The price per acre is reasonable, but three hundred acres is a lot of money. The company is presently holding more land than cash." He smiled slightly at Carlos. "According to your own financial statements."
"You know as well as I do what they prove."
Gail could see Pedrosa's eyes move to her, then away. She took a sip from her glass. Carlos had just admitted shading financial statements.
The leather in the old man's chair creaked. "Anthony is my blood, Carlos, as you are. I will listen to what he has to say." He held up his hand. "And we will not discuss the company."
After a moment Anthony said, "This property isn't technically wetlands—I asked about that, too—but close enough to require an environmental study. They may not allow us to build anything on it."
Carlos stared. "Us?" He looked back at his grandfather. "Tony never wanted any part of the business. Now it's us"
"Wait." Pedrosa said to Gail, "What is your opinion, señora? Is the judge selling swampland?" He smiled, but Gail knew he could not have found it amusing.
"Part of the property is low-lying, true. It could be filled if you get the permits, but you might not. We've discussed this with Carlos. Developers used to be able to get whatever they wanted, but not anymore, at least not easily. The contract would have no warranty as to zoning."
Pedrosa took another swallow of cognac.
Carlos said quickly, "People are moving in that direction. If we can get the land cheaply, I say do it. This isn't a contract to purchase, it's an option. We're not required to buy anything. We're going to do a survey. An option gives us a chance to decide if we want to go through with the deal."
Gail heard Anthony's breath come through his teeth.
"Yes, Carlos. We all know what an option is. We also know it is foolish to gamble any amount on these odds. Consider what to do with the land before the contract is signed. Why rush into this?"
“I am not a gambler," Pedrosa said. His big hand tapped a slow rhythm on his desk.
Above the beard, Carlos's cheeks were hot. "The real estate market is coming back and we have to be ready." He sat stiffly on the front of his chair. "Abuelito, I've worked for you for eight years. I proved myself. Ever since you had your stroke, if you notice, other people have been showing up a lot. Excuse me, but that's the way I see it."
Anthony spoke softly. "Carlos. Después." Later.
Gail wanted to slip out of the room. No, she admitted to herself, she wanted to hear what these men would say if she weren't here. Except that it would be in Spanish. Only politeness had kept the conversation in English so far. She focused on the flag behind the tilted desk.
Pedrosa wiggled the cork out of the bottle. "Señora?" When she declined, he refilled his own glass.
Finally he said, 4 'I am not opposed to any of my family taking part in my business, if that is what they want to do. There is a place."
Gail sensed the tension in Anthony's body. She said, "Señor Pedrosa, if you need more time to decide about the purchase, I can speak to my cousin."
He appeared to be considering that.
Carlos stood up, took the bottle of cognac and twisted the cork out. "Tony's a good lawyer. If he wants to give that up, start in the business . . . Okay with me. But I wouldn't put him somewhere really visible. People know he's got ties to Cuba. Some of them might not like that."
"Ties? My father and sister are in Cuba. Everyone knows it."
Carlos watched the cognac gurgling into his glass. "I heard you were just down there last month. What did you do? Did Marta take you to Havana for another talk with the Ministry of Trade? She wants you to invest down there, right?"
Gail had never seen Anthony's eyes so dark. "No voy a discutirlo contigo. ' ' Not going to talk to you about it. ' 'Es mi asunto— ' '
Pedrosa's angry, astonished voice broke in. "¿Fuiste otra vez? ¿A santo de que?" You went again? For what?
Gail's eyes flew to Anthony's face.
"¡Son mi familia, mi sangre!" My family, my blood. "No permito que ellos sufran—" I won't let them suffer. . . . Gail lost the rest of it.
The old man's fist came down on the desk so hard the brass lamp bounced. "¡Malagradecido! ¡Te salvé de eses asesinos y así me pagas! ' ' I saved you from those murderers and you repay me like this.
Anthony sat as if carved from stone. Carlos sipped his cognac.
Then Pedrosa smiled tensely at Gail as if suddenly remembering she was there. There were spots of red high on his cheeks. “Señora. I hope you will pardon us. If you have the contract . . ." He gestured toward the door. "Carlos. Tell Digna to come in." To Gail he said, "Digna is my wife. She is secretary of Pedrosa Development Corporation."
Gail nodded and reached into her briefcase. For an instant her eyes met Anthony's. She laid the two-page option and an extra copy on the desk.
''Dame la pluma. ' ' Pedrosa looked up at Anthony and pointed to the pen in the holder at the edge of the desk, out of his reach. ' 'Dámela. ' '
For a long moment, Anthony did not move. Finally he leaned over far enough to remove the pen from its holder and give it to his grandfather. Not looking at him, Pedrosa tilted the papers toward the desk lamp, turning the page for the signature line.
The door opened and Carlos came through it, followed by a plump woman in a dark blue dress. She must have been in her late seventies, but moved as briskly as a girl. Gold filigree earrings swung from her earlobes.
She smiled and nodded at Gail.
Anthony, who had stood respectfully when she entered, sat down again.
Pedrosa opened a drawer and withdrew a chrome-colored seal. "Digna, firma el contrato y ponle el cuño." She put on her glasses, signed, then squeezed the corporate seal over her signature, making a little uumph of effort.
Pedrosa said, "Gracias, mi vida," when she kissed his forehead. She left as quickly as she had arrived. The door quietly closed behind her.
Gail glanced at Carlos. He was finishing off the last of his cognac, putting the empty glass back on the tray.
Ernesto lifted a heavy, leatherbound checkbook out of his top drawer. "Doctora, do you require a certified check?"
"It's not necessary from you, Señor Pedrosa."
When he finished and tore it out of the book, she reached for it reluctantly. Ten thousand dollars, written in a shaky hand, from his personal account.
He said, "You and the judge will take care of the details with Carlos."
"Yes." She folded the check and dropped it into her briefcase along with the signed option.
Pedrosa gripped the arms of his chair. "Now you must excuse me. I am tired. I am going upstairs." He picked up his cane, placing it carefully. Carlos rushed around the desk but Pedrosa waved him away. "Déjame. Estoy vivo." I am still alive.
From the middle of his study, he bowed slightly to Gail. "It was a pleasure, señora. My house is yours. You must come back for dinner anytime. My wife is an excellent cook."
"Good night, Señor Pedrosa."
Anthony had risen from his chair. Pedrosa glanced at him then moved stiffly toward the door, which Carlos opened.
"Buenas noches, abuelito" Carlos said, watching him pass. "
Do you need help getting up the stairs?"
"No."
When he was gone, Carlos smiled at Gail. "Okay. Looks like we're in business. Hey, Tony, don't be like that. Come on, man." He held out his hand. "Come on. It's business. No hard feelings."
Anthony only glared at him until Carlos shrugged.
"Suit yourself." He said to Gail, "So did you get something to eat? A drink?"
Gail shook her head. "Thank you, but I should be getting home." Karen was waiting for her at Irene's.
"Well." Carlos bounced on his toes. "I guess you'll let me know when Ben signs the papers."
"Yes, I will." Gail put her purse over her shoulder. Anthony held the door. "I'm leaving too. I'll go out with you."
Carlos said, "No hard feelings, Tony. I mean it." He had his hands in his pockets this time.
Anthony gave him a blazing look and stalked out of his grandfather's study without a backward glance.
They were beyond the iron gate before he finally stopped walking. The light from the row of lamps along the wall shone dimly through the leaves.
"You shouldn't have been drawn into our family bickering," he said. "I didn't expect it would turn out this way tonight."
"I feel disloyal somehow," Gail said.
"To whom?"
"Perhaps to you. I was on the wrong side."
He shook his head. "No. Your loyalty is to Ben Strickland, only that."
"This may sound odd," she said, "but I think you and your grandfather are very similar."
Anthony looked at her steadily.
"Not in your politics, obviously, but there is that stubborn, aristocratic manner. Carlos doesn't have it. He probably wishes he did."
The music seemed to come from far away now, echoing across the golf course and back again. A car came by, pulling into another driveway.
Gail said, "Well. I should go."
"Where are you parked?"
She laughed and pointed over his shoulder. "About a mile that way."
He finally smiled. "FU drive you." His gray Cadillac was beside the wall.
When he pulled alongside her car, he turned off the engine, leaving the parking lights on. She thought he might be coming around to open her door—unnecessary, but a pleasant courtesy. He turned slightly in his seat to face her. In the semi-darkness she heard the fabric of his jacket sliding against the leather seat.
Suspicion of Innocence Page 19
