An Absence of Light

by David Lindsey

  He pushed open the door and stepped inside. La Cita had never been much of a place, but it had been a good cafe. Now the once warmly lighted interior that had smelled of Greek and Mexican food was a gloomy twilight of neon beer signs, and the air was a bad breath of stale bodies, dead cigarettes, and rancid grease. Behind the bar a heavy Mexican woman was huddled under a small, goose-neck lamp reading a magazine. There were a few dark visages in the corners, but he walked past them to the back door and stepped out into the patio where strings of low-wattage, colored lights were draped back and forth above the stained concrete dance floor. Here everything was the same, the cinder-block walk that formed the sides and, across the back, a series of low-arched openings through which he could see the slow-drifting lights of ships moving through the channel. And the chunky wooden tables that randomly bordered the edges of the patio were still there too. But on this hot summer night only three or four of them were occupied by a few men and women who looked as though they had never had a chance at anything or, worse, had thrown it away and never had learned to forgive themselves.

  Walking to an empty table toward the back corner, Graver sat so that he could see the door that opened onto the patio from the tavern. Behind him, through one of the arches, he could hear a tug grumbling softly past the wharves. He ordered a bottle of beer from a young man who had one side of his chest caved-in, causing a shoulder to sag and making him walk crab-like as though always having to correct a drift He distinguished himself in this shabby setting, however, not by his deformity, but by having an immaculate haircut which he had combed to perfection. He also wore a dazzling white waiter’s apron which, in this setting, undoubtedly was considered a foppish flair.

  As Graver drank his beer, a wraith of a man in his early thirties got up from where he had been sitting alone and put some coins in the jukebox on the far side of the dance floor. He returned to his table, and in a moment the accordions and cornets of a conjunto began playing while the man lighted a cigarette. As if by request, two worn prostitutes wearing tight dresses that barely reached past their crotches and accented their obtruding stomachs, left their male companions at their table, stepped onto the dance floor, embraced, and began dancing. Seemingly oblivious to the sprightly rhythm of the conjunto, they moved mournfully about the floor, the calves of their thin legs knotted tightly as they crane-stepped on high heels that scratched across the gritty concrete floor, stomach to stomach, the arms of each draped over the other’s shoulders, their foreheads together in unsmiling partnership.

  Graver watched them, as did their companions and the wraith. Nearby a man and woman ignored them and shared a thick joint of marijuana in a sweet, mauve haze. When the music stopped the women returned to their companions, and Graver finished his beer.

  Five minutes later Victor Last walked out the back door of the cafe, looked quickly around the courtyard, and started toward Graver, passing through the patches of colored lights in his casual, loose gait with which Graver was so familiar. He was wearing straw-colored, full-cut linen trousers with pleats, a blousy and wrinkled long-sleeved silk shirt, and a light tan, soft-shouldered sport coat with patch pockets. His dun hair was stylishly long, though barbered around the ears and neck, and combed back with a lock falling carelessly over his forehead.

  He smiled modestly as he approached Graver who stood, and the two of them shook hands.

  “Sit down,” Graver said, motioning to the chair across from him.

  Last nodded and sat down. Graver could see him better now and was surprised to see that Last must have had some hard years. Though he still was lean and had a good tan—the sun had streaked his dun hair with blond strands —his face was incredibly wrinkled, his eyes pinched with crow’s feet and the corners of his mouth beginning to pucker. He looked like he had suffered a lot of sun and had given in to the rum and tequila of former days. Whatever he had been doing in the last eight years, he had done it with a vengeance.

  Last grinned at him from across the table, slumped back rakishly in his chair with his legs crossed at the knees. Graver noticed his teeth were still white and even.

  “You don’t look any differently, Graver,” Last said. “You must’ve made a bargain with the Deevil himself.”

  “You know I don’t make bargains, Victor,” Graver said. “The Devil will have to stand in line like everybody else.”

  “Shit” Last grinned broadly. That was all he ever did. He didn’t laugh. There were only small grins or large ones. No laugh.

  Graver noticed that Last’s nose had suffered a severe break. It had not been flattened; it still had a strong narrow bridge, but it was seriously out of line. Graver guessed that as far as women were concerned, it hadn’t hurt his looks at all.

  “Well, I’m glad to see you,” Last said.

  And Graver believed him. Eight years earlier Last had been Graver’s key informant in Graver’s final and largest case as a CID investigator. They had worked closely together for nearly a year and had, indeed, become friends, though Graver thought that Last’s definition of the term was probably much more fluid than his own. Graver noticed that Last’s Masonic ring with its garnet stone, of which he was so proud, was missing from his ring finger.

  “Can I buy you a beer?” Graver asked, motioning to the crooked waiter.

  “Absolutely.” Last reached into his coat pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. He looked at Graver. “You still don’t smoke?”

  Graver shook his head.

  Graver ordered himself another beer and one for Last, and Last watched the crooked waiter drift away toward the outside bar.

  “Jesus,” Last said, and sucked hard on his newly lighted cigarette. He turned back to Graver. “El capitán, huh?” Another grin, a small one.

  “Yeah, about four years ago,” Graver said. He was watching Last closely.

  “I understand… I gather… you must’ve divorced.”

  Last’s expression had changed to one of sympathy. Graver thought it odd that he would bring this up. Everyone was “gathering” that. The gossip columns had kept the masses appraised of Dore’s imminent remarriage.

  “He’s ‘socially prominent,’ then? Must’ve been painful.”

  “I didn’t much like it,” Graver said. What was Last trying to do?

  “Well, I’m sorry,” Last said.

  The crooked waiter brought the beers, and Last wiped the mouth of the bottle and held it up for a toast. Graver raised his bottle also, and they clinked them together.

  “To the good old yesterdays,” Last said, “and better tomorrows.”

  Last drank the cold beer like it was a glass of water, glubbing down throatfuls. When he lowered the bottle to the table it was more than half empty. He pursed his mouth, savoring the aftertaste, and looked around the dance floor.

  “Place hasn’t completely gone to piss.” He dragged on the cigarette. He studied the women. “Whores used to be better ladies than these, though.”

  “Nothing’s changed here, Victor. Maybe your taste is improving,” Graver said.

  Last smiled at this and turned to Graver again and smoked his cigarette. Victor Last was an unusual informant In fact, he was an unusual man. He had a university background in the fine arts and when his criminal tendencies kicked in to gear they did so with a distinctly arty flair. His entire criminal history consisted of two years spent in a minimum security unit of the Texas Prison System for selling rare books and botanical prints and engravings that had been stolen from British libraries, museums, and private collections.

  By the time Graver came across him, Last had served his sentence and had drifted back into the business, only now the danger of his game had gone up several notches. He had spent almost a decade as an “exporter” from Mexico with a sideline trade selling stolen pre-Columbian artifacts. And he was dabbling in forgeries of historical eighteenth-century colonial documents. Graver pegged him as raw material for a first-class informant, which he became. Graver looked the other way regarding some of Last’s rumored
involvements, and within a year an appreciative Last had put Graver onto a network of illegal arms dealers which developed into one of the largest gun-running operations on which the CID had ever tracked information.

  As it turned out, Last liked the nature of the game. He liked the matching of wits involved in being a “spy,” and he even liked the spurt of adrenaline that accompanied the edge of danger inherent in all high-dollar criminal schemes. Victor Last was indeed a gentleman adventurer, as at home in the jungles of Central America as in the mansions of Houston’s wealthiest residents who collected the artifacts that he “acquired.”

  “Okay,” Graver said, setting down his bottle, “what happened to you?”

  Last nodded and slowly swallowed his mouthful of beer. He smiled almost apologetically.

  “Dropped out of sight, didn’t I?” He pulled on the cigarette again, looking across the concrete dance floor washed in patches of soft colors. “I overplayed my hand a little on that last one, Graver. It was time for a sabbatical. Went to Oaxaca first. Got back into the exporting business. But it wasn’t what it used to be. I’d heard there was a new market opening up in Hispanic colonial documents. I checked into it; it was indeed a coming field. I moved to Madrid and spent a year combing the archives there. Fantastic archives. God, cavern-sized museums and extensive private collections. Some of the museums don’t even know what they’ve got. Hell, some of those places don’t even know how much they’ve got, let alone the value of it. Wonderful places.”

  He paused and polished off his beer. He held the bottle up and waved it at the crooked waiter across the patio. The waiter held up two fingers with a questioning look, but Graver shook his head.

  Last ground out his cigarette in the tin ashtray on the table. The muggy night was stifling now in the early hours of the morning and beads of perspiration began to show up on Last’s forehead and upper lip. He took a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and dabbed at his face, at his upper lip.

  “Was in Spain, what, almost two years,” Last continued, stuffing the handkerchief back into his pocket, deftly leaving a puff of it showing. “Made a bit of money, some good contacts. But all in all I preferred dear old Mexico. It’s got a more ‘entrepreneurial’ quality about it” He smiled. “So back I came. Mexico City. I started working with private photographic archives. Surprisingly lots of them there. You know, all that European influence during the Porfiriato, before the Revolution. Some of the older families who have these big mansions in the grand parts of the city, they’ve got all kinds of things stuck away in those dowdy old places.”

  The crooked waiter brought Last’s beer and took away their empty bottles. Last picked it up, the cold amber bottle already beaded with condensation, and held it to his forehead and temples. Then he took several big swigs.

  “I got into some trouble in Mexico City,” he continued. “They have finicky laws there about archives and things… historical artifacts… I don’t particularly have anything against their legal system… you know, based on the Napoleonic Code… but you add to that all the corruption and it’s hard to make a buck down there. Legitimately.” He shrugged, looked at the people around the patio. “Even so, I kept at it for a couple of years.”

  He reached into the side pocket of his jacket again and took out another cigarette and lighted it He tilted his head back and blew the smoke up into the still night.

  “About six months ago,” he said, “I went to Veracruz looking for some colonial maritime documents that were rumored to be in the possession of a family whose ancestors had been dockmasters in the port there during the Spanish viceroyalty. I was flush then, having just made a good deal on the sale of a collection of Mexican Revolution photographs, so I treated myself by staying at a very expensive little inn not far from the beach. I met a Houston couple, and during the next three or four days we became acquaintances. About a month after returning to Mexico City, I got an invitation to attend a party at their house in Houston.”

  Last took another drink of beer, and while he was savoring it, his pale eyes stayed on Graver. He was getting to the point of whatever it was.

  “At the party, I met two other couples who interested me. One fellow owned an art gallery, and another was a businessman. Owned a huge business of a certain kind. I know nothing about this kind of business—it’s an innocuous business—so I was just asking questions and this fellow grew very wary, suddenly evasive with his answers. Now this was curious to me because this was like asking questions of a grocer. I mean, it was an innocuous occupation.”

  Last smoked his cigarette.

  “Now, before I go any further than this, let me ask you something.”

  Graver nodded.

  “Have you had any inkling”—Last clenched his teeth and softly sucked air through them—”any inkling of police corruption?” He held up his hand with the cigarette. “On the detective level, I mean.”

  Graver felt his stomach tighten. “In what division?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You know I wouldn’t tell you something like that. Victor.”

  Last nodded understandingly. “Yeah, I know.” He smoked his cigarette and tapped the amber bottle with one of his fingers. He made a face, one of indecision, not knowing what to do.

  “Do you know something?” Graver asked.

  “No,” Last said quickly. “No, I don’t. It’s only a suspicion at something I overheard. I didn’t understand what I was hearing and this was one of the possibilities. There are other possibilities.”

  “And where did you overhear this something?”

  “Here in Houston. At a tony party about three months ago.”

  “Three months?”

  “I had distractions,” Last said, explaining his delay in bringing this to Graver. “But this kept… hanging back there.” He tapped himself on the side of the head. “It was one of those things that I thought if I mentioned to you, you’d know right off if it meant anything or not.”

  “But you haven’t told me anything.”

  “No, but I asked you about a subject, and it doesn’t seem to ring a bell. I think I was wrong.”

  Last suddenly was uncharacteristically ill at ease. His aplomb was a distinguishing feature. It was what made him a good con artist and a good informant. He was one of those men who accepted dares with an easygoing smile and did outrageous things with a sophisticated fearlessness that made good stories for other people to tell years afterward. But just now he was not feeling very sure of himself.

  He began drinking his beer with the clear intent of getting it all down so he could leave. Graver guessed that Last was just now realizing he had miscalculated, that whatever he had stumbled into wasn’t what he had thought it was.

  Down on the wharves a gantry crane started up, whining like something hurt, moving cargo off the docks.

  “Well, I apologize, Graver,” Last said. “Getting you out and all. Really sorry… I, uh, must’ve”—he smiled unsteadily—”really been off course here.”

  “Look,” Graver said, “how can I get in touch with you? Are you living in Houston now or still in Mexico?”

  “Houston,” Last said, putting his cigarette in his mouth as he reached inside his coat pocket for a pen and a small notepad. “More or less,” he added cryptically. Squinting around the smoke of his cigarette, he jotted something on the paper and ripped it off the pad. He handed it to Graver. “You’ll most likely get a woman. Her name is Carney.” He spelled it “She’ll always know how to get in touch with me.”

  Graver didn’t ask any questions about Carney. He nodded.

  “Let me think about this,” he said. “If you have any other thoughts, get in touch with me.”

  Last finished the beer and reached for his wallet inside his coat pocket.

  “No,” Graver said. “I’d rather you owe me.”

  “Ah.” Last nodded once, his roguish smile returning. “Clever police psychology.” He put out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Well, Graver, despite t
he misfire it was good to see you. If ever you need me, call Carney.”

  He stood and reached over, and they shook hands.

  “I’m glad you called, Victor,” Graver said. “Take care of yourself.”

  “Good-bye, Graver.” Last turned and walked back across the dance floor through the pastel patches of colored lights. In a moment he was opening the back door of the shabby little tavern and was gone.

  Graver stood too and took out his wallet and got enough money for the drinks and a good tip for the crooked waiter and put it on the table under Last’s empty beer bottle. Taking one final look around at the doleful patrons of La Cita, he walked across the dance floor, into the rancid tavern, and out the front door into the barrio night. The narrow little street was empty, just as it had been when he arrived. Victor Last was nowhere in sight.

  MONDAY

  Chapter 10

  The Second Day

  When the radio alarm went off, Graver opened his eyes to a muted gray light. Without even moving, he could tell that the muscles in his neck and shoulders were drawn into knots.

  After getting home late, Graver had sat up in bed for another hour trying to make notes for the next morning’s meeting. Though he found it hard to concentrate, he stayed with it until weariness and an aching back forced him to put aside his pencil and pad and turn out the light Then he had lain awake until the early hours of the morning thinking about Last He replayed their conversation, picked at every word Last had spoken, and wondered at his having appeared out of nowhere. Graver cautioned himself. This was no time to start believing in serendipity. Eventually he slipped into a restless sleep and the previous twelve hours melted into dreams of absurdity.