The Good Assassin

by Paul Vidich

  Mueller smiled tolerantly. “Where did you get this information?”

  “You don’t believe it?”

  “That’s not my question. Let’s say it’s true, and I’m willing to believe it is, I’m curious how Pryce got hold of it—and why he gave it to you.”

  “I said I asked for it. That’s why. A man shows up in your home. Takes an interest in your wife. Wouldn’t you be curious who he is?”

  Jack added a few other things about Graham he’d picked up from men who worked on the ranch and dealt with squatters. Mueller assumed they were the embellishments of ranch hands eager to give a false account to please Jack. Mueller had heard some of the talk, but he knew Graham well enough to discern the exaggerations that attached themselves to a fact and slowly, but inevitably, the original truth took on a distorted life. People repeated scandalous stories because the malicious untruths made for good gossip, and when the stories were about a person you didn’t care for, or others had a grudge against, it was the gossip that you preferred to hear.

  “He’s out there being a do-gooder,” Jack said. “He says he’s making a difference here, giving away sacks of rice from his jeep. Handing out cigarettes to kids. It’s all show. An act.” Jack looked at Liz. “You’ve fallen for it.”

  “Fallen for what?”

  “He’s trying to impress you with the alms he hands out. You think a man like Toby Graham has a good bone in his body?”

  Liz stared. “You are a horrible cynic, aren’t you? No good deed goes unquestioned, does it. You insult people to feel better about yourself. He wouldn’t go around your back to dig up dirt on you. He has manners.”

  “Manners?” Jack glared. “Is that what you call his interest in you? Tracking you down. Renting a house in Vedado that looks into your bedroom.”

  Liz blanched. Her lips parted slightly, then closed. She looked off at the flat ribbon of highway, then suddenly she faced Jack. Her lips quivered and her whole body seemed to tremble in a way she sought to control. She spoke in a whispery voice. “Who are you to judge me?”

  Mueller knew she’d always been able to put on a brave front, but she’d gone cold. She didn’t seem to care anymore—to care about her charade. Something liberated her, freed her, from the pattern of accommodating Jack. Husband and wife sat a few feet apart, but the distance between them had widened to a gulf.

  Jack looked at Mueller. “She won’t leave me. Where is she going to go?”

  No one spoke. Mueller felt the profound quiet among them, and everyone was struck dumb. Mueller heard the question repeat in his mind—Where is she going to go?—and Mueller felt the terrible weight of an answer. He felt displaced in time as they sped along to the promised seaside luncheon, and he worried about what lay ahead.

  Mueller found distraction in the passing landscape, the guajiros in oxcarts, or cane cutters working fields. He saw too a young woman who stood at the concrete kilometer marker, alone, with a leather-handled suitcase. Her parasol was protection against the molten sun. She suddenly stood and waved down the speeding Land Rover. Mueller was startled to see her come right toward the vehicle, and then the Land Rover swerved and sped past. Jack had avoided her, pulling into the left lane and then glancing in the rearview mirror.

  The woman waved energetically. It was an urgent, astonished wave—the wave of a startled acquaintance.

  Mueller saw her as the Land Rover sped by, and then he looked back to make certain. It was Jack’s girl. Mueller hadn’t recognized her at first. The scarf, a long, loose pleated dress, and her sandals were nothing like the high heels she wore onstage. Mueller saw her step into the middle of the road and stare at the caravan as it sped away.

  • • •

  The answer to Jack’s question came two hours later at the seaside restaurant. Mueller heard Jack’s elaborate compliment of the outdoor restaurant, and he’d gotten over his surprise that it was just two wood tables, a few chairs, and a shack with an outdoor kitchen. A thatched umbrella covered the dirt floor and beyond the shade, an open pit of embers still burned fat off a spitted pig. Chickens scraped the ground and nearby hogs ate from a pile of kitchen scraps. The view of the pounding surf was magnificent, as promised, and the food was good, or at least fresh, and they sat with a breeze that kept mosquitoes away. Roast pig and fish had been served by the fisherman’s wife, a heavy, toothless woman with muscular hands that poured small portions of a rum from unlabeled bottles. Lunch had been pleasant, quiet, broken by news of the war, and a few concerns about Katie’s flight, which had been canceled, so her effort to leave was thwarted and she kept herself busy staying away from public view in Camagüey. Graham offered to get her out on one of the DC-3s.

  Mueller saw all this with his observer’s eye and thought how well things were getting along. Surprisingly well. They had the lightheartedness of people willing themselves to have a good time. He felt it. Catalogued it.

  “What new topic should we pick to enliven things?” Katie said. “Everyone’s so down. We came out here to get away from the gloom.” Katie looked at Liz and then at the others, who picked at the food. The crisped head of the roast pig was a centerpiece on the table. “Gloom, gloom, gloom. Sun in the sky, clouds on your faces.”

  “You’re leaving soon,” Liz said. “We’ll still be here waiting for the end to come.”

  “Let’s dance,” Katie said. “There’s a guitar.” She looked at Mueller. “Will you dance?”

  He waved her off. “Two left feet.”

  Katie stood and performed a two-step cha-cha-cha for the group, first flirting with Callingwood, who seemed astonished by the invitation, and then she dragged Liz from her chair. She protested, and resisted, but finally allowed herself to be led to the clear area and reluctantly made a few dance steps, but she gave in to the Latin rhythms when the fisherman’s wife took up the guitar and strummed a song, singing with a magnificent voice. The fisherman joined in with a percussive up-tempo beat on the maracas, making whooping calls. Katie led Liz through orchestrated steps and suddenly the music stopped and they were beside themselves, giddy with embarrassment. They danced a mambo, following the makeshift band, and then another and another.

  “You’ve stopped,” Katie said to Liz.

  “My legs are tired. It’s hot.” She sank in her chair and drank from a coconut husk that sprouted a straw topped with a tiny Cuban flag.

  It was then that Mueller saw discord raise its quarrelsome head.

  Jack had angled his legs straight out and shifted his eyes from the pig head. Jack fixed his gaze on Graham. From time to time Jack looked away, or added rum to his empty glass, or moved his bulk in a contorted way, but each time he came back and his eyes settled on Graham.

  “Toby,” Jack said, raising his voice to draw attention. “I understand you were a war hero,” he said sarcastically. “You earned a medal for some dangerous shenanigans.”

  “Medal?” Graham said. “Dangerous shenanigans? Everyone in the war took risks. I got a medal. Others didn’t. Luck of the draw.”

  “You got a medal and then they took it away from you. What do you call that? Unluck of the draw? Or maybe it’s called insubordination. You were shit-canned.”

  Jack’s agitation deepened and his voice had risen to an insulting vibrato. The worst in Jack emerged with alcohol and Mueller had counted four rum and Cokes when Jack made his remark. All pretense of a fun afternoon over a pleasant meal was gone.

  “I wasn’t shit-canned,” Graham said. “I was relieved of my duties by an incompetent captain who later was removed from his command when it became clear he was wrong.”

  “You think you can come here—like you did in Naples—and bully your way around. Thinking you have permission. That’s your style, I see.”

  Mueller put a restraining hand on Jack’s shoulder.

  “Stay out of this, George,” Jack said. To Graham, “I think you’re a moocher who has taken advantage of our hospitality. Pretending to be one kind of man when you’re actually another—a liar, a connive
r, a houseguest who covets my wife.”

  Appalled silence fell like a curtain on the small group.

  “I think you should leave,” Jack said. “Don’t show up again at our place.”

  Graham leaned forward to shorten the distance to Jack. He leveled his eyes and looked to speak, but didn’t.

  “Did you hear me?”

  Graham nodded. His whole body rose slightly and he spoke defiantly. “Liz is unhappy. Your marriage is over.” Graham took Liz’s hand protectively to soften the suddenness of his declaration. “Liz and I will be leaving together.”

  Liz withdrew her hand. She stood and turned away from both men, horrified.

  “Sit,” Jack commanded. “What’s this all about? Liz unhappy?” He almost laughed.

  “Liz is fed up with you,” Graham said. “You haven’t been good to her. You’re a scoundrel.”

  “Toby,” Liz snapped.

  “No,” Jack said, “I want to hear this.”

  “She doesn’t want to stay with you. It’s that simple. You don’t see it, do you?”

  Jack didn’t take his eyes off Graham, and he pulled his body up from its slump, rising like a man thrown off a horse. “Who are you to tell me my wife is leaving me? Here at this table. You think Liz is done with our marriage? Is that right? You think that somehow, in an imaginary world of your own, that she wants you. Well, she hardly knows you. And I doubt she knows your work.”

  Graham spoke calmly. “Liz can speak for herself.”

  “Liz. Well?”

  Everyone turned to Liz and an unwanted spotlight fell on her. She turned away from the view of the beach. A black fly alighted on the Cuban flag sprouting from her cocktail. Its hint of celebration mocked her startled expression and she continued to stare at the fly, hoping for rescue.

  She looked up. “I wish you wouldn’t ask that question. Not here. Not now. Not among all of us.” Her eyes darted among the faces at the table. She stared at Jack. “We don’t’ have to have this conversation now. I’m sorry you’ve brought it up again. You’ve spoiled the afternoon, haven’t you!”

  Jack looked at Graham. “We were doing okay before you showed up. You were wrong to come here. A stranger, showing up uninvited.”

  “I’m not a stranger to Liz.”

  Mueller saw Jack’s lip curl and Mueller again put his hand on Jack’s shoulder.

  Jack stared at Graham. “Who are you to judge us?” He paused. “She gave you a couple of days of her life and took some pleasure from you. That doesn’t give you a claim on our life. And it doesn’t mean that she’s leaving me.”

  Liz groaned. She put her hands over her ears and when she looked again at Jack her eyes had reddened. “Stop,” she said. “Stop,” she shouted. “Stop it. This day is ruined. You’ve ruined it.”

  Liz had a look of pity on her face. She calmed and looked at Jack. She spoke through red eyes in a measured voice. “You let the garden of our marriage go to seed. There were flowers we planted to remind us who we used to be, but they’ve withered. Dried up here in this place. All our sunshine days of memory are not enough to let us ignore the weeds. It’s over. It’s been over a long time. I’m sorry, Jack. I can’t do this anymore.”

  Liz allowed Graham to take her hand, but then she pushed it away. Liz stood. She looked at Mueller. “Will you come with me? Drive with me home?” She looked at Jack with furious pity. “The keys, please.”

  She walked alone toward the Land Rover. Katie ran after her. They escaped from the feeling of catastrophe that remained at the table. The six of them had come in two vehicles and the group had to divide themselves for the return, and there came a moment when the loyalty to husband and wife was to be tested.

  Callingwood was the last to choose, and by the time he did, the other three had already divided up. Liz got in the driver’s seat of the Land Rover. She looked back at Graham, who stood at one table. “Will you come with us?”

  Katie took the passenger seat. Graham removed Liz from behind the wheel and relieved her from the responsibility to navigate home in the dark in her heightened state.

  Mueller saw how Liz’s invitation to Graham confirmed the answer to the question Jack had posed. Her choice of companion for the ride home was a declaration. Mueller didn’t want to leave Jack by himself. Mueller had a sense of loyalty and he also felt that it would be unwise to abandon Jack.

  “Don’t stick around for me,” Jack said. “I don’t need my hand held. Go ahead, George, join them. I see you want to. Go ahead. I won’t be alone. I’ve got him for company.” He nodded carelessly at Callingwood.

  Mueller joined the others in the Land Rover. He looked back. Jack was alone with an Englishman he didn’t like. Mueller saw a lonely figure, but not a defeated man. A proud and confused man.

  10

  * * *

  ACCIDENT

  MUELLER SAT beside Liz in the rear of the Land Rover. The backseat had been lowered flat to accommodate the wood crate, and Mueller and Liz sat on it, making it as comfortable as they could. The Land Rover bounced on the rough road and Mueller found Liz thrown into his lap when the vehicle swerved to avoid a rut.

  Mueller saw Graham hunched forward on the steering wheel, eyes trying to make out the perils. Headlights tunneled the darkness and narrowed their world to the arc of the headlamps.

  He found himself wanting to tell Graham to slow down, but each time the Land Rover swerved and the impulse to caution Graham rose in him, the Land Rover slowed, and Mueller thought it unnecessary to speak. Mueller didn’t want to challenge Graham. There was an ominous mood in the car that stilled them, quieted them. A declaration had been made. A line crossed. It weighed heavily. No one spoke. Mueller succumbed to fatigue. He didn’t have the will, or desire, to ask Graham to be cautious. Mueller felt Liz beside him and he tried to imagine her devastation.

  • • •

  Mueller was asleep when the accident happened. He got the details of the death later from Katie, who had been awake at the moment the Land Rover took the sharp curve by the river and struck the woman.

  Graham had been going fast when he entered the curve. Headlights illuminated the road, but beyond the light it was hard to discern the shapes that appeared and receded with hypnotic rhythm. Coming through the sharp turn the road divided. One fork led to the airport and the other went over the bridge, and it was there that the woman leapt from the culvert. She put herself in the path of the Land Rover, Katie said. She had waved her arm and run into the road like a ghost, her face paled by the bright headlights. She seemed to want the car to stop. “She waved her arms at us. Waved and waved.” But Katie admitted this conclusion only came to her afterward. In the moment her appearance on the road was unexpected, sudden, frightening, and her first thought was of rebels.

  “I felt the brakes lock. There was a skid and then I heard a terrible cry that was cut short when we struck her. It was a horrible scream,” Katie said. “A terrible cry.”

  • • •

  Mueller stood over the body. The young woman lay by the roadside culvert where she’d been thrown. One leg was twisted under her back, her arms were flung to either side, frozen in death. Her face was ashen, eyes wide and unfocused, and there was a scarlet stream on her neck flowing from a wet spot in her dark hair. Her head scarf was bloodied. Her broken parasol lay at her side.

  Mueller recognized her, but it took a moment for him to remember her name—and not think of her, as he always had, as Jack’s girl. That shorthand didn’t adequately describe the young woman. It felt wrong to see her whole being through the narrow lens of her scandalous association.

  “Ofelia,” he said. “That’s her name.”

  “I will come back for her,” Graham said. “I’ll drop everyone at the house and I’ll return for her.”

  No one objected to his suggestion. He made it confidently and the paralysis of shock made it easy to acquiesce in his decision.

  Later, when they were at Hacienda Madrigal, Mueller wondered about the suggestion. Mueller had
accompanied Liz and Katie inside, and when he was confident they were settled, he returned to the driveway. The Land Rover pulled up, Graham at the wheel, and Mueller knew he’d driven back to the scene of the accident, as he said he would.

  Mueller opened the rear door to retrieve Liz’s shawl, and it was then that he saw the wood crate was gone. Mueller stared at Graham, trying not to judge the man—for certainly the death was an accident—but Graham had had the presence of mind and calculating intelligence to hide the thing that would compromise him.

  The two men faced each other. Graham brushed dust from his dirtied hands and wiped clotted mud from his boot. When he spoke his voice had no distress, no regret, no hint of the evening’s catastrophe. He had the calm bearing of a man accustomed to turning unexpected jeopardy to a manageable outcome.

  “There was a suitcase roadside. She’d packed her things for a long trip.” He paused. “She came out of nowhere. There was no way to stop.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I told the police there was a body by the side of the road. Hit-and-run. Filed a report. They wanted the details. No, I didn’t say it was us. I didn’t want to get Jack in trouble. He doesn’t need to answer questions about this. It was an accident. She’s dead. We don’t need to complicate things.” His irritation showed.

  One hour later, Mueller sat on the verandah after the household settled for the evening. When Jack arrived he was given the news, but no one gave him the name—he seemed to guess. Everyone left unsaid most of what they knew, and they went about their evening in stunned, shocked quiet.

  Mueller pondered the easy way Graham sloughed responsibility for the accident and dressed himself in the suit of a righteous protector. Graham’s odd summary and misleading comments were the product of a mind schooled by years of self-preservation. How’s Liz taking it? Graham had asked. Mueller remembered the question because it seemed to come from a genuine place. Mueller thought about the question as he sat on the verandah, and he began to make connections. He came to understand Graham a little better. He came to see how Toby Graham carried the terrible burden of a man at war with himself.