The Informant

by Marc Olden

  Tonight he wore all white: long-sleeved silk shirt, cotton pants, leather boots. A double-edged razor blade of solid gold hung from his neck on a thin gold chain. As usual, he carried a carved black African walking stick and kept the grin in place on his seemingly friendly North Caroline country-boy face.

  The grin rarely had anything to do with what was actually on Lonnie Conquest’s mind. He spoke slowly, with a strong black Southern accent, which along with his grin often caused people to underestimate him. That was a mistake.

  At six feet three and a half, and only a hundred and eighty pounds, his street name was Lonnie Too Tall.

  Tonight he seemed pleased to have accidentally run into Lydia Constanza in a Cuban nightclub on Algeria Street in Miami’s Little Havana, that section of the city that began at West Eighth Street. Miami was officially a bilingual city, with a Spanish-speaking population of over five hundred thousand. In Little Havana you could live and die without once speaking English.

  Lonnie had greeted Lydia warmly, hugging her, then letting his good left hand slide down to her ass. Now he sat at a table with her and Jorge Dávila. Lonnie held Lydia’s hand in an almost old-fashioned, courtly manner.

  “Pretty one, you are on tonight. Lookin’ good. Lookin’ and cookin’.” He winked at Jorge Dávila, who smiled quickly and lifted a glass of red wine in a friendly toast. Jorge, a neat, small Cuban in his mid-forties, pudgy in a dark blue pinstripe suit and two-hundred-dollar handmade alligator shoes, sipped wine, then patted his thick mustache with a green cloth napkin. The black, Jorge observed, was deceptively friendly.

  Jorge Dávila had been around long enough to sense when somebody was trouble. Mr. Withered Arm was dangerous.

  As for Lydia, she seemed attractive, sexy, a nice person, and probably hot enough to burn the sheets in bed. Jorge wondered if he should … No, better not. Leave the bureau’s informants alone. If he parried with her and New York found out, it could mean trouble.

  Just do the clubs and bars with her on the bureau’s money. And keep his eyes and ears open.

  Lonnie Too Tall turned, waved to his own table several feet away, then again faced Lydia and Jorge. As usual, he aimed one eye at them, talking in one direction while staring in another.

  “Lydia say you two be doin’ somethin’. That’s why she boogied all the way down here to his niiiiice Florida sunshine.”

  Jorge had played his role before and enjoyed it. Informing was having power over people. “Yes, we have something going.” No need to say more.

  Lonnie Too Tall nodded. He understood. “Well, ain’t we all some ver’ busy peee-pull? Lid-ja, Lid-ja, Lid-ja. Ain’t seen you lookin’ this fine in I don’t know when. Now you done gon’ and got yo’self some dude wif heavy cakes to pay all dem bills, no doubt?”

  “Now, Lonnie, you know a lady never tells.” Lydia smiled, pulling her hand from under his.

  “What if I make you a better offer?” he said. “How ’bout that? I ain’t zackly po’ white trash, you understand?”

  Lydia took a deep breath, blinked, exhaled. “Bad Red says he’s doing a deal with you and Julius.” She forced herself to smile.

  Jorge Dávila watched the musicians file through a door to the right and prepare to play again. They unfolded musical scores and spread them out on stands. They shifted chairs around and began tuning instruments.

  Lonnie Too Tall snorted, gently scratching his chin with the baseball-size knob on one end of his walking stick. There was contempt in his voice.

  “She-it. Red a jive nigger. Always broadcastin’ ’bout what he got goin’. He a chump. I see you and whitey wif him, and I say, godddd-damn! Red, he dumb. You understand dumb? That’s that sucker. He try takin’ off people every now and then, mostly white people. He goin’ ’round tellin’ ’bout he got this goin’ wif that one, got that goin’ wif this one. Ain’t got cat piss on a fork. Me and my boon coon, Mr. J., we the pee-pull of the future. We climbin’ like a rocket to the moon. Your white man, he want somethin’, you tell him to come to where the flavor is. He got the cakes, we got the stuff that will deee-light him and his peee-pull.”

  He parted his thick pink lips, showing large white teeth interrupted by three large gold ones.

  Lydia exhaled, her heart beating faster. Excitement exploded inside her, and she wanted to leap out of her chair and go running back to New York and tell Neil. Bad Red definitely was planning a rip. When she reached for her glass of red wine, she almost knocked it over, catching it quickly before spilling more than a spoonful.

  A virgin, thought Jorge Dávila. But he knew how she felt. She had come up with something, and for an informant, there was no bigger thrill. Gently he pushed her hands back and patted the dark stain now slowly widening on the green tablecloth.

  He thought: Later I’ll tell her that informing is a game of no nerves and no mistakes.

  In the small, crowded club, Lonnie Too Tall again looked over his shoulder at his table, where nine people waited for him. Two were black men; the rest seemed to be Cuban men and women.

  “Me and my man Mr. J., we gots to get back to gettin’ down. This trip down here done cost me some money, and I ain’t talkin’ ’bout no hoetail. But you gots to invest in order to progress, my daddy say.” He turned back to Lydia, his left eye aimed at her face. She smiled, forcing herself to keep staring at him.

  Jorge Dávila watched the two of them. She’s working fine, he thought. There was something likable about her.

  Lonnie said, “ ’Course, I be makin’ me somethin’, too. That’s gonna be comin’, but I be gettin’ mine. Me and Mr. J.”

  Lydia, attractive in a calf-length pale blue dress and her thick black hair down almost to the small of her back, looked through the crowd at Lonnie’s table. “I see Julius.” She waved. He lifted one hand shoulder high in a wave back, and with the other put part of a roll in his mouth.

  Lonnie looked at his partner and grinned. “Yeah. My man is tryin’ to get through some a this here Cuban food. Eatin’ him some choo-lay-tas dee porko.”

  “Pork chops,” said Jorge Dávila, suppressing a grin at Lonnie’s mispronunciation.

  “Yeah. Poke chops. Country boy love them poke chops.”

  Lydia touched Lonnie’s good hand with hers, placing her elbow on the table and resting her chin in the other hand. Her voice was casual.

  “What’s everybody else eatin’? I mean, I don’t want nobody to get sick on Cuban food, then maybe come back to New York and blame me, you know?”

  Lonnie entwined his long, thin fingers with hers. “King Raymond, he the brother on Julius’ left. He eating yellow rice and ham.”

  “Arroz con jamón,” said Lydia.

  The eight musicians began to play a moderately fast salsa tune, and patrons stood up. In seconds, the tiny dance floor was crowded.

  “Yeah,” said Lonnie Too Tall. “Now, Jewel, he eatin’ baked eggs somethin’. Can’t speak no Spanish.”

  “Huevos a la malagueña?” offered a bemused Jorge Dávila.

  “She-it, Jack, I dunno. One a dem people’s eatin’ ock-toe-puss.” Lonnie made a face. “Cat’s got to be weird, Jim, got to be. Puttin’ that kinda shit in his stomach. I ain’t eatin’ nothin’ that still be movin’ when it come outta the kitchen.”

  Lydia, eyes still on Lonnie’s table, tapped her teeth with a thumbnail. “Who’s the brave one, the octopus freak?”

  “Little cat sittin’ next to the woman in the orange turban and orange dress. Bald head, gray suit, bendin’ over his food like he think somebody gonna steal it offa his plate. Simon Waxler. He a bail bondsman from New York. You ever hear a him?”

  Lydia had. She nodded. Simon Waxler was more than just a bail bondsman. When she reached for her wineglass, she used both hands, gripping it tightly. No more nerves, no more nerves, no more …

  Lonnie Too Tall stood up, tall, lean, graceful, confident. He pulled back his thick pink lips, giving Lydia another look at perfect white and gold teeth.

  “How long you be in town?�
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  She looked at Jorge, again forcing herself to smile. Nerves.

  “Depends.”

  “Yeah, I can dig it. Business first, right? I can dig it. Got me some things to take care of, too, some money to pay out …”

  He leaned over Lydia to say something more intimate. She smelled the heavy sweetness of his cologne, his sweat, saw his large mouth coming at her. She went rigid.

  That’s when Lonnie turned quickly, his left arm still around her chair. Julius Shelton, his partner, was behind him, gently touching his arm. Julius whispered in his ear.

  Lydia, wineglass to her lips, caught two words before both Lonnie and Julius leaned away from her.

  “Satin wants …”

  In a quick good night to both Lydia and Jorge Dávila, Lonnie excused himself, and without going to his table, both he and Julius Shelton left the club.

  Lydia felt a hand on her wrist and almost screamed.

  Jorge Dávila.

  “Let’s dance.” He spoke in Spanish.

  Lydia’s eyes were wide with excitement. “No, no! We’ve got to leave, got to talk to Neil, to Marty Rees!”

  Jorge Dávila held on tightly to her wrist, forcing her out of her chair. His voice was a low hiss.

  “You want to die?”

  “No. Why—?”

  “Keep quiet. Just listen. We’re supposed to be out for a good time. Dancing, drinking. So let’s do it. You don’t know who’s here, who’s watching you. There are people, in here who are in dope, in guns, in politics. Half are for Castro, half hate him. These are people you must always be careful around. So we dance, you understand?”

  His eyes held hers, and he squeezed her wrist, causing pain.

  “Play the role, Lydia. Play the role and stay alive.”

  On the dance floor, he held her tight, whispering into her ear.

  “That was nice. That business about the food. Gave you names. How did you think of that?”

  She spoke into his neck. “Came to me.” She leaned her head back, looked at him, and smiled nervously. “Thanks. I mean, for what you said before.”

  The small pudgy man smiled back. “Somebody had to tell me. I’m just passing it on.” She was a nice person, maybe in over her head. She’d find out soon enough.

  He said, “I make cabinets, tables. A hobby. I’m good with my hands. I love making things out of wood. Shall I send you something in New York?”

  “I’d like that.”

  They danced three numbers, then ate dinner. An excited Lydia forced herself to chew and swallow.

  They left an hour later; the people at Lonnie’s table got up to leave at the same time. Jorge Dávila held on to Lydia’s elbow, pulling her back, letting those people get ahead of them.

  Outside, in the humid darkness, Jorge and Lydia watched Lonnie’s Cubans pile into two cars, leaving Simon Waxler, the bald bail bondsman, alone on the sidewalk. He wasn’t there for long.

  Another car came out of the humid darkness, pulled in front of the Cubans’ cars, and stopped, its motor running. The back door opened, and Simon Waxler got in. The car sped away quickly, tires squealing. It passed in front of Jorge Dávila and Lydia, turned a corner, and was gone.

  Lydia touched Jorge’s arm. “Anyone you know in that car?”

  The pudgy little man frowned, unbuttoning his suit jacket in the night heat. He used a finger to trace the outline of his lips as he stared after the car in silent thought for long seconds.

  An excited, restless Lydia wanted to leave quickly, to tell someone what she had found out tonight. She pulled gently on Jorge’s elbow, ignoring whistles and comments aimed at her by three Cuban teenage boys walking by.

  “Jorge? Somethin’ wrong?”

  “First car. Somebody …”

  “Who?”

  “Works for John-John Paco. John-John’s one of the biggest distributors in Miami. Deals white, Mexican brown, coke. Gets a lot from Mas Betancourt in New York. …”

  Jorge snapped his fingers in sudden recognition. “Carlos el Indio! That’s it! Carlos the Indian. Those slanted eyes, dark skin. He’s one of John-John’s boys. Likes to use a knife on people. Strange thing. I think there was this priest sitting next to him.”

  He turned to look at Lydia. “A bail bondsman I can understand. El Indio is nobody’s saint.” Jorge shuddered, frowning. “But a priest? Why is a priest with Indio and a bail bondsman?”

  Lydia pressed her lips together in one thin line. Nerves. She had to speak to Neil. Had to.

  “The priest. Are you sure it was a priest?”

  “Yes. Well, I’m pretty sure. This weather … I mean, it was almost ninety today. Still over eighty tonight. The priest did not have a jacket on. No hat, either. But I saw the Roman collar.” He touched his own throat. “Roman collar. Just saw the priest quickly, but that face, you know? You don’t forget it. Ugly, sad, real long. Like a sad dog. You know him?”

  Lydia dug her nails into Jorge Dávila’s arm. The excitement, the power. It hit her like the rush from a fix of heroin. Yes, that was it! Tonight was like being high. It was a trip.

  Around her, the lights, smells, sounds of the crowded street in Little Havana faded away, erased by the strong sense of achievement she felt.

  So much to tell Neil.

  Bad Red; Lonnie Too Tall Conquest; King Raymond; Simon Waxler, the Manhattan bail bondsman.

  And the priest, Rolando. Had to be him.

  Except for Bad Red, all were in Miami to meet somebody. Lydia Constanza knew who.

  “Satin says …”

  Black Satin was Kelly Lorenzo’s street name.

  It had been a busy night for Rolando. But it wasn’t over. Not yet.

  During the drive to Miami International Airport, where Simon Waxler had to catch a night flight back to New York, there had been talk of couriers to be used next year to bring in the five hundred kilos of white. The bail bondsman was in a position to know the kind of people Mas Betancourt and Rolando would be interested in.

  Simon Waxler was also investing two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in the deal, with the guarantee of receiving at least three keys uncut. With his contacts in narcotics, he was sure he could double, perhaps triple his investment. The bail bondsman was a financier, investing money in dope deals, but running no risks, touching no dope.

  When he received his three keys, he wouldn’t be the one to physically handle it. Someone else would. Someone else would cut it, be the mule if necessary, and bring back the cash. Financiers always had soft hands and clean fingernails.

  During the drive, the bail bondsman had sucked his teeth and talked fast in a high voice, hanging on to a car strap and punching the air with a tiny fist to make his point.

  “I can check my mules out only so far, but that’s it. Can’t be responsible if they get into trouble after that, understand?”

  Rolando, weary with the heat, sat up front fanning himself with his hat. “I know that you should be careful, Simon, that you should only give us people you are absolutely sure of.”

  “I know what you’re saying. It’s my money, too, remember? Remember?”

  An echo with bad breath, thought Rolando. Simon Waxler’s obsession with protecting his money had made him repeat himself. He needed constant assurance that the world was not composed of bail jumpers.

  The car made a right on West Eighth, went several blocks, then turned left on Le Jeune Road, leaving Little Havana behind. It was now on Forty-second Avenue and heading directly to Miami International.

  Simon Waxler wanted to get back to New York immediately. In the morning, he had money to protect in several New York courtrooms. In addition to coming to Miami to talk to Rolando about money and mules, the bail bondsman had also come to open his second office in the city. Like the first, it was under another name with someone else fronting.

  Simon Waxler was a cautious man.

  He said, “Everything else is coming along fine? Fine?” He made more sucking noises with tongue and teeth.

  “Yes.
” Rolando sighed. The heat was obscene. “We serve our ambition as best we can.”

  Simon Waxler narrowed his eyes at the back of Rolando’s neck. “Can’t figure you out. I know you’re smart, I know you’re smart. But sometimes, like it ’pears to me you don’t give a rat’s ass about anything. Anything.”

  “Does it, now? Perhaps I should throw confetti in the air each time we meet. Would that remove the appearance of ennui?”

  “What I’m sayin’ is, this thing …” Simon looked right at the Cuban sitting in the darkness beside him, then front at the flat-faced dark man driving. Caution. It was natural with him. Caution and suspicion.

  “What I’m sayin’ is, you’re a pretty cool customer.”

  Rolando snorted. “Cool. The operative word tonight.”

  “Uh, I get the impression you got more things to do tonight.”

  Rolando nodded. “It would seem.” He spoke softly. “Law cannot persuade where it cannot punish.” He turned to Simon Waxler. “Forgive me. A quote from Thomas Fuller.”

  And a reminder of tonight’s final task. Eternal rest for Mr. and Mrs. Cruz Real.

  “Who the fuck is Thomas Fuller? Fuller.”

  Rolando sighed and refused to answer. The heat was winning.

  Two deaths in the night.

  When the car stopped in darkness, Mariana Real turned her frightened, pretty face to the priest sitting in the back seat with her.

  “Father?”

  Rolando turned to look through the back window. “Back there. He wanted to’see you before he left. When he gets to where he’s going, you’ll hear from him.” He smiled, patting her shoulder. “Go to him. Go, go.”

  Her smile was brief, tentative. Then she opened the car door and left it open as she ran along the dark deserted road to the car where her husband now waited for her.

  A telephone call from John-John Paco had prepared her. Then the priest had appeared at Mariana Real’s small apartment on Ponce de Leon Boulevard to tell her that Cruz was jumping bail and fleeing the country. If he didn’t, he would go to jail for cocaine possession.