"Ay, cuidado. " Anthony laughed and held onto her.
"Smoking. Shame on you. Is that a Cuban cigar?"
"Don't tell the old man." He swiveled the chair to reach the ashtray, then took a last pull on the cigar and tapped the embers till it went out. He exhaled to the side, then smiled at the woman sitting in his lap. "Well. Look who dropped out of the sky."
Her legs hung over the broad arm of the chair. "Are you about finished?"
"It's going to take at least another hour. Did Hector find you?"
"Yes, he did, and no, I don't want him taking Karen to her father's. Let me borrow your car."
"If you can wait, I'll take you."
"Nothing's going to happen to us. Your car has tinted, shatterproof windows, for God's sake."
"You don't feel safer with Hector?"
"Frankly, no."
Anthony grinned. "Think of him as the family rottweiler. He won't bite you."
"I'm not family—not yet." Gail said, "Hector believes I'm after your money."
That brought a laugh. "No, he doesn't. I have to fight you to take it."
She played with the collar of his knit shirt, a deep burgundy one that brought out the warmth of his skin. "What is it with Hector? You said he used to shine shoes as a kid, and your grandfather brought him to Miami with the family. That isn't enough to turn anybody into a rottweiler."
"It was enough for Hector. In Cuba, both his parents were dead, and the aunt who took care of him was a whore. We were all he had. He promised my grandfather he would be of service someday." Anthony spoke softly. "There's a story, which you shouldn't repeat. My Uncle Tomás died at Playa Girón, as you know. He was among those captured. Because of his rank, they interrogated him, but all he would say was, Viva Cuba libre, abajo Fidel. One of the soldiers cut out his tongue and beat him to death in front of the others. The rest were eventually released, and when my grandfather found out what had happened, he wished the same fate on whoever had killed his only son. Twenty years later that same guard came over in the Mariel boatlift. And a few weeks after that . . . Hector brought my grandfather a small box."
A chill went down Gail's spine. "Was it a surprise package? Or did your grandfather ask him to do it?"
Anthony shook his head. "I don't know. And maybe it doesn't matter. That was a long time ago."
"Would you have done it for him?"
"No. Come on, what do you think I am?"
She swung her legs off the arm of the chair and sat on his thigh. The desk was covered with papers, stacks of documents, lists of figures. "What are you working on?"
"We're making an offer on a building in Fort Lauderdale. I'm going over the leases."
"We? Meaning you and . . . who?"
"Not me. Grandfather. His management company." From behind, Anthony put his chin on her shoulder. "Yes, Gail. I'm going to be helping him out for a little longer. His health is better. He's going to be around for a while, but ... I don't know, he's not the same. He seems to have lost interest."
"Now that he has you, why not? Are you going to put a cot in the corner or sleep in your old room?"
"Gail." Anthony made a noise with his tongue. "How can I say no to him?"
"Be careful, will you? Too much of this, and there goes your law practice." She looked at him. "Anthony, does the rest of the family want you here? I get conflicting signals, especially from Elena."
"They do, they don't." He laughed softly. "They know that at the moment, at least, I'm in Ernesto's good graces. They want to know whose side I'm on, and I don't necessarily enlighten them. Xiomara and Bernardo want to divide up the businesses into separate companies. Elena and Jose want a family directorship. Humberto, Alex, Graciela, the others all have their opinions. Nobody talks about it openly."
"Whose side are you on?" Gail asked. "Be honest, Anthony. What do you want?"
He looked at her for a long time, perhaps not trusting how she would respond to his answer.
She said, "Tell me. I want you to be happy. Not to be another Ernesto Pedrosa, or to do things in the way he has done them, but if you honestly feel this is where you need to be—"
"And you'd be with me?"
Her heart picked up speed, pushed by a rush of emotion. "Here?"
"Not now, but ... I don't know. Someday. Perhaps."
She nodded slowly. "As long as you don't change who you are."
Releasing a held breath, Anthony rocked back far enough to look at the ceiling. "Of course it goes through my mind. Of course. But if I took over, it would be on my terms, not theirs. My grandfather has stayed too much with tradition. Too Cuban, if I can put it that way. Not part of the larger community. But why should they listen to me? I'm the outsider. They've been working for my grandfather for years, and here I am, coming at the last moment to take it away from them. I don't care if they love me or hate me, but I will have their respect, and I will not be anybody's puppet. You called me that, at the hospital."
"I shouldn't have."
"No one's puppet. Not for my grandfather, or a family directorate, or a committee, or the banks." He brought his gaze down to sweep across the room, over the old books, the yellowed photographs on the wall, the map of Havana, the memorabilia of decades of exile. He said, "There is too much of my father in me. They forget that."
"Luis, the revolutionary hero."
He smiled, then just as quickly narrowed his eyes. The normally slight Spanish accent became comically thick. "Luis Quintana Rodriguez, the son of a Santería priestess who offered blood sacrifices to Chango and Eleggua." Anthony beat a slow, complicated rhythm on Gail's back. "I used to wake in the night and hear drums and chanting." His voice at her ear dropped to a whisper. "My grandmother Fulgencia, she used to twist the head off a chicken with her bare hands and drink the blood."
Gail made a face.
"I used to scare my cousins with stories like that."
"You must have been a terror."
"Let's just say we didn't get along."
"Elena said you and she were close."
"She said that?" Anthony laughed. "No, when my grandfather brought me out of Cuba, the oldest male grandchild—and maybe a substitute for my dead uncle Tomás, who can say?—my cousins hated me. Even Nena had her doubts."
"Digna didn't hate you. I would never believe that."
"No? I was the stain on the family honor. The physical reminder of what her youngest daughter did—not only to get pregnant at age sixteen, but worse, by the illegitimate son of a cane cutter. They could count six generations back to Spain, never a drop of black blood till my father. He was only one quarter, but Nena beat my mother when she found out she was pregnant. I never told you. You think Nena is so refined, such a lady. When I came to Miami, I wouldn't behave, I wanted to go home, let me go back to Cuba, I hate it here. She used to scream at me, your father is a communist, and you are just as bad. My cousins would call me names. Hey, negrito. Who is your father? My skin was as white as theirs, but if I hit them, they would tell our grandfather, and he would come after me with his belt. The funny thing is, my sister Alicia has the same blood as me, but she was never treated that way. You know why? Because she has the Pedrosa eyes—blue."
Gail looked at him wonderingly. "You still resent it, don't you? Almost thirty years, you're still angry." "Not at all."
"Oh, you want to rub their noses in it. Yes. To take over from Ernesto Pedrosa, you, the son of Luis Quintana Rodriguez, married to a blond American lawyer, coming in here to sit at this desk, maybe fire half of them for incompetence and make the others work as hard as you do. Scary."
Smiling, he stared down at the papers, ruffling the edges between thumb and forefinger. "Maybe it's not worth it. I don't know."
Gail shifted on his lap to put her arms around him. "I love you."
He focused on her face. "Y yo te quiero más. I would do anything for you, Gail. Sometimes I don't know where I belong. But there you are."
"Here I am." She smiled and kissed him, each corner of his mou
th, then in the center, where his lips were warm and moist. She murmured, "I want to be good for you. So good."
"We're going to be good together," he said. "Wait and see."
"Anthony, I feel funny about letting you buy me those earrings." When he started to protest, she said, "All right, the dress. But the earrings. I shouldn't—"
"No, no." He nibbled her earlobe. "I like aquamarines. They would be beautiful with your eyes. I'll buy them. But you have to be good."
"Oh, is that how it is?" She struggled to get up, but he held her more tightly. She elbowed him.
"Ow, my head!"
"You deserve it." Laughing, she put her forehead against his. "I'm sorry for being such a pain about our house. My office has been on my mind. If you want to remodel, fine with me, but after the wedding. Maybe even a pool, but of course this means the yard will be a mud pit for months."
"Oh, my God! At last she is being reasonable."
She put her arms around his neck. "Spoil me. Go ahead."
"Should I?" He whispered against her lips, "Show me how good you are." She opened her mouth to him, and his kiss was long and slow and deep, tasting of smoky tobacco and below that, a complicated mix of rich coffee, bourbon, and Anthony himself. He moved under her, and she felt the hardness against her thighs. His hands slid down her back, over her hips. His tongue went deeper. She heard her own low moan. Then gradually realized where they were.
"Anthony." She pushed on his chest. "The door is open."
With a heavy exhalation that turned to a laugh, he said, "You should get up. I need to finish here."
"Do you have to do it now?"
"Unfortunately, yes. Tomorrow I have some cases to prepare, and a hearing on Monday. I'm so far behind. This thing with Karen—"
"Tell me about it. I hardly got anything done yesterday." Gail turned to look at him. "Did you speak to Harry Lasko?"
"What?"
"Anthony, you said you would do it on Friday. Wendell Sweet didn't deliver his documents, I doubt they'll come Monday either, and I really need to talk to Harry. I've only got three more weeks to track down Wendell's money."
"Oh, yes. Okay. I'll call him next week."
"Monday," she said. "And don't forget."
Anthony said patiently, "Look, Gail. Even if you find Wendell's money, your client is out of luck. The Bank of So-and-so might have an account in his name, but they won't let you have it, not even with a court order. Our courts have no jurisdiction—"
"Anthony. Darling. I know how it works. All I want to show is proof. I don't need to take it. Harry said Wendell made a million dollars from the Eagle Beach casino. Does Harry have any proof? Where's the closing statement? If I could show the judge that Wendell made that money, lied about it, and hid it offshore, he's going to award everything else to Jamie. She needs it, Anthony. She's right on the edge."
"All right, I'll talk to Harry and find out what's going on. But I am going to remind you, bonboncita, not to take this into your own hands." When Gail frowned at him, he lifted his brows. "What? What did I say?"
"Don't call me bonboncita when we're discussing legal matters."
"Por Dios. Yes, Ms. Connor, I am so sorry."
"I'm serious."
"You don't look very serious in this position, Ms. Connor." With one arm tightly locking her against her body, he pulled up her skirt.
"Stop it! Anthony!"
"Ms. Connor, where is your dignity?"
"I said, stop it!" She knocked his arm away and twisted out of his grasp to stand up.
For several seconds he looked up at her, both surprised and quizzical. He glanced to one side as if for an answer, then made a slight smile. "What did you do that for?"
She raked her fingers through her hair, smoothing the tangles. "I don't like it. Not in that context."
"Ay, mi madre, me vuelves loco. Let me finish this, then we can go."
Gail smoothed the creases out of her skirt and straightened a sleeve. "I have to take Karen to her father's place. I might as well go now."
"Let Hector take her."
"I don't want him to take Karen. Anyway, Dave wants to talk to me."
"Talk to you about what?"
"The photograph. What we can do. What to tell Karen."
Anthony leaned back in the chair. Color was rising up the planes of his face, and his eyes darkened. "If the photograph was that important to him, he could have come by our house."
"Not with you there. He said it would be awkward."
The chair rocked slowly. "Awkward. An interesting word. Was it his? Or yours?"
"Don't start."
"He doesn't want to see me face to face?"
"No more than you want to see him. I need to borrow your car. Please?"
Anthony sat without moving for a few more seconds, then stood up and reached into his pants pocket. "I don't like you going over there."
"I know you don't."
"Why do you do it when you know I don't like it?"
She held out her hand. "The keys."
He tossed his key ring onto the desk.
She said, "You couldn't have given them to me? You have to throw them at me."
"I didn't throw them at you."
Her hand was still extended. "Give me the damned keys or I will call a taxi."
He hooked the key ring with one finger. The gold-trimmed Cadillac ignition key turned slowly. She reached out. He pulled the keys away before dropping them into her palm.
"I would like you back here within an hour."
Gail slammed the door on her way out of the study.
THIRTEEN
Dave's town house was one of a dozen in a U-shaped building, parking lot in the center, patios in back. A metal picket fence and electronic gate gave residents some protection against the urban crime that lurked at the fringes of Coconut Grove.
Karen would be spending the night and going with her father to a tennis tournament in the morning. She had brought her bag and her racquet, and on the short trip from the Pedrosas' house she had taken her hair out of the intricate knot acquired at Lola Benitez, and had brushed it into its usual style, a ponytail.
Gail pressed the buzzer. She had never been past the front door of Dave's apartment. She had seen it only from the walkway, dropping Karen off or picking her up, a glimpse of a tiled entrance and two bicycles.
The front door opened, and Dave held out his arms. "Heyyyy, it's my princess." He kissed Karen, then stood aside to let her pass. To Gail he said quietly, "One of the girls from the restaurant is going to watch her for a while."
The girl was the dark-haired waitress named Vicki, whom Gail had last seen behind the bar at the Old Island Club—there in tropical print shirt, here in a tank top and jogging shorts, glancing at Gail with brown eyes under upward-tilting brows. She picked up her car keys and a fanny pack from the kitchen counter and spun herself off the stool.
Dave told Karen that he and her mom had to talk. They'd go to the marina later, but right now, what about a video at Vicki's apartment? Karen's lack of curiosity told Gail that she had been there before.
"Bye, Mom." She reached up for a hug.
"See you tomorrow, sweetie. Have a good time." Gail watched them go, her daughter and the woman with the tanned, muscular legs. The door clicked shut.
Dave came back in. He said, "Vicki and I aren't sleeping together."
"I didn't ask."
"You were wondering."
Gail lifted a shoulder. "Okay, I was wondering."
"And now you know. You want something to drink? A soda? Beer?"
"Just water. And a couple of pain relievers if you have any."
"Sure." He told her to have a seat. "Sorry for the mess. Things have been crazy at the Club. Welcome to my humble home."
"It's nice."
"I try."
Leaving her purse on the counter, Gail wandered farther into the living room. Past the dining area, which was tiled, the carpet was that neutral berber ubiquitous to rental apartments. Sports
magazines and newspapers littered the coffee table. The brown leather sofa faced the entertainment center, with its enormous television and on either side black glass doors behind which winked the amber lights of a stereo system.
Stairs led to the second floor.
What did he do here? What was his life like, a single man of thirty-six? Gail realized that she knew exactly. She walked over to the patio door and saw the gas grill that she had expected would be there. He would have his friends over to watch sports on TV. He would barbecue some ribs, boiling them first in beer to make them tender. She knew the contents of the refrigerator, and that in the trash she might find a folded pizza box—pepperoni and mushroom.
Two bedrooms upstairs. Gail did not know what Karen's looked like, but about Dave's she had little doubt. If the bed was made at all, the comforter would be pulled up over rumpled sheets. He would probably have some condoms in the nightstand but no sex toys or dirty videos. His two good suits would hang in garment bags in his closet, and slacks and some dress shirts would be in plastic from the dry cleaners. He had dozens of T-shirts, souvenirs of places he'd been or teams he liked. She knew the shape of his shoes, the way his long first toes made a bump in the leather. His closet would have the musty, male smell of clothes tossed back on the shelf, not quite dirty enough to require washing. Gail had complained, then given up. She'd had her own closet, her own dresser, and her own side of the bathroom vanity.
He liked to floss his strong, square teeth in bed while watching the news, then turn it off with the remote and drop the floss in a little pile on the nightstand to be picked up in the morning, if he remembered. Then he'd turn off his lamp. When they'd been married, her lamp would be on longer, and he'd usually be asleep when she put her files away. She learned to ignore the dental floss, and he learned to sleep with the light on. If he was not asleep, he might roll toward her and put a hand on her hip. Are you tired? Toward the end of their marriage the answer had been yes so often he had stopped asking. But before that, when things had been more or less okay, their lovemaking had fallen into a pattern both comforting and predictable. Her attempts at variation had been met with mild embarrassment.
Suspicion of Betrayal Page 18
