by Lia Matera
Don shook his hand, introducing him to me as Conner. Without giving me a chance to say hello, he said, “What do you have? Any activity the last twelve hours?”
“Plenty.” Conner handed him a stack of papers. They were handwritten sheets, some with Polaroid pictures paper-clipped to them. “There were folks coming and going all evening, till midnight or so. The last one never came out.”
I looked up at balcony doors of the second-story apartment. Beige curtains were drawn across the plate glass.
Surgelato scooted closer to me, clicking on a penlight. “I don’t want to turn on the interior light. Can you see okay?”
“Yes.”
He aimed the thin beam at a very bad snapshot of three people entering the building. One was Ernesto. The others were familiar only because the San Diego police (or perhaps the FBI) had shown me copies of their passport photos. Garrett Jamieson was a small, slender man with pinched lips and a long, flaring nose. Angela Travolta looked several years older, with a puffy face and overratted hair.
“They started getting visitors around eight o’clock,” Conner continued.
With Don leaning close, I looked at the other pictures, each clipped to a sheet showing arrival and departure times.
They were taken from too great a distance to show facial detail. They were of a well-dressed woman and a short, bowlegged man. They could have been any of thousands of Mexicans in this city.
Then I reached a photo of someone I recognized. The quality was poor, so I had to squint at it for a minute. But standing beneath the porch light, looking rather nervous, was the receptionist of Martin Marules’s newspaper, the woman to whom I’d handed my note to Marules.
I told Don. He nodded. “Good. Keep going.”
The next picture on the stack made me gasp. “It’s Pirí, the customs agent, the one who was so friendly to Agosto. The one who gave him the Instamatic photo of Lidia Gomez.”
Don stared down at it. “This is the guy who’s still up there?”
“Right,” Conner confirmed.
“What did you tell the FBI and State about this character?” Don wanted to know.
“I described what happened. I described him. I gave the name I heard Agosto call him. Apparently it’s a nickname, though. There’s no one there with that last name.”
“I wonder, did they even follow up?” Don shifted to face Conner. “Find out for us tomorrow.”
“Okay. Let me get a few hours’ sleep. I’ll try to be back on it by noon. You want me to leave this stuff with you?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Should I finish out this shift? Or you guys taking it from here?”
I was relieved to hear Don say, “No, I want you to go in with me as soon as your relief shows up. I want Price out here as backup. You get that gun for me?”
“Yeah. Hold on.”
He left our rental car, returning to the Beetle.
“You’re going in armed?” I asked Don.
“Don’t worry about it.” A twinge crossed his face. He’d taken a gun to a rendezvous on my account once before, and it hadn’t turned out very well.
Conner returned with a bundle, handing it to Don through the car window. Then he trotted back to the Beetle and slumped in the seat so you could hardly tell he was there.
I watched Don unwrap the gun—square and chrome and not much bigger than his hand—and check it. He stuck it into his waistband just behind his hip. He slid what must have been an extra clip of bullets into his pants pocket.
“Nice and comfy,” he murmured. “All we need is the obligatory bottle of wine, and we’re ready to go pay a call.” Then, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t joke.”
Shouldn’t joke. Jesus, he’d flown us a couple of thousand miles on his dime to try to find my mother, whom he didn’t even like. As far as I was concerned, he could do any damn thing he pleased.
“You’re okay?” he asked.
I nodded. “I’m going in with you, right?”
“You’re up for it?”
“Unless you speak Spanish.”
“Just enough to order food. But, yeah, it’s better if you come in. You find out what they’ve got to say, and I’ll knock heads if I have to. Conner will back us up, and Price will be out here if we need him.” He bent closer. “But if you’re nervous about this …”
“I’m not a wimp.” Well, technically, I might be. But if it helped find my mother, I’d go in, nervous or not.
He spoke what seemed to be a nonsense syllable under his breath, then he put his arms around me and kissed me. We’d kissed once before, years ago, and it had messed me up for a long time. Now I remembered why.
He murmured something in my ear. “Don’t stop till they’re past.” Another kiss.
Through his caressing fingers, I could see a couple walking by the car. I could hear the woman’s hard-soled shoes click on the pavement.
I felt myself stiffen with embarrassment. I hadn’t seen the couple, hadn’t known this was a ruse. For me, it had been real.
I backed up just enough to look at Don’s face, expecting to find his eyes on them. But he was looking at me, his lips still parted. He put a finger under my chin and leaned in again.
Then he shifted in his seat, looking up at the balcony window. “Did you see them go in?”
I swallowed. “No.”
“I’m pretty sure they did. That makes six people up there now. You didn’t recognize them?”
“No. But I didn’t get a good look.”
“They weren’t anyone I’ve seen pictures of.” He squinted up at the window. A minute later, he said, “Did you see those flashes?” “No.”
He frowned. “Passport pictures? Couple goes up there, gets photographed, your customs official Pirí is there. If I’m right, the three of them will be back down here before long.”
“That’ll leave Jamieson, Travolta, and Ernesto. Just three of them.”
“Better odds,” he agreed. “I hope I’ve got time—”
He opened the door, and moved quickly to the car ahead. He murmured something to Conner. Then he returned, getting in and shutting the door just seconds before the couple emerged from the building, followed by Pirí.
Don slid me down so he was half on top of me, his arms circling me. He was so wide and muscular—and god help me, I love heft. I could hear the woman’s shoes on the pavement. I didn’t know how long this kiss might last, or if it would ever happen again, so I went with it. Hardly the action of a wimp.
We didn’t unclench until the threesome was surely out of sight. When we sat up, I saw that the Beetle was gone.
“I told him to follow them,” Don explained. “I don’t want any evidence walking away.” He checked his wristwatch, a thin sliver of silver. “Backup’s late.” He looked at me intently. “We should wait for Price.”
“What if more people come? Or they take off? If they scatter now, we could lose Ernesto.” I was doing my best to sound macha. “Let’s just go.” Unless you’re scared, gringo.
He hesitated.
“I know cops believe in having backup and not putting civilians at risk,” I said. “But it’s my mother.”
“I wish I didn’t have to— But you’re right, we’ve got them together.” He shook his head. “Hopefully Price will get here.”
“Will he know we’re inside?”
“He’ll know something’s up when he doesn’t find Conner out front. It’s just a matter of getting his attention. Anything goes wrong, go to the window and wave like crazy.”
We got out of the rental car and walked to the row of doorbells. He rang the one labeled “Jamieson.”
There was no reply. He pressed it again, leaving his finger on the buzzer.
Finally, a man’s voice said, “We hear you! Who is it?”
Don turned away and said, “Pirí.” Hi
s accent was Italian, not Spanish.
Apparently, through the tinny speaker, it was close enough. The buzzer sounded, and we pushed the door open.
Don went up the carpeted stairs at a run, two steps at a time. I jogged after him.
When the door began to open, he hurled himself against it like the football star he’d once been. He was barking out orders by the time I reached him. I stepped through the door a few seconds later, closing it behind me.
Don had bullied Jamieson over to the couch, where Mrs. Travolta was bent over some kind of scrapbook, reader’s half-glasses on her nose. He was waving his badge as if it meant something here.
But my attention was focused on Ernesto, standing near the balcony doors in pressed linen pants and a tasteful blue shirt. His eyes widened at the sight of me.
I wanted to walk up to him and hit him. Slap him for the long, scary bike ride whose purpose must have been to lose me or lead me into harm. I wanted to slap him for the lies he’d told me. For trying to lure me away with the promise of taking me to Cindy and Dennis.
Don was saying, “We’ve identified this Cuban as a key player in a passport scam. We can prove he killed three Americans there.”
I probably flinched. Ernesto didn’t.
“Pirí,” Don continued, “is being followed right now, along with his new friends. They’ll be in custody soon. They’ll be asked to give information against you in exchange for leniency.” He leaned in close to Jamieson. “You don’t know it yet, but I’m a friend of yours. I’m here to help you. I’m going to let you tell us about it, nice and friendly. And if you tell me the truth, I’ll walk out of here, and I’ll give you time to do the same. The alternative is, the men outside will come in and baby-sit you till you explain the whole thing to the Mexican police, the FBI, the U.S. State Department, and the San Diego Homicide Division.” He pointed a finger at Ernesto. “Tell them I’m not kidding. Tell them who this woman is.”
I would have translated, but Ernesto’s sneer told me he understood. He just stood there, arms folded.
I approached him with the fascination of a visitor at a zoo. In Cuba, looking undernourished and scruffy, his face had seemed angelic with its high cheekbones and wide smile, its look of wonderment and longing. Now, with his curls gelled and his fine clothes, he looked like any young man who doted on himself. He looked like a real American.
Jamieson said, “May we examine your identification?” He spoke a drawling Yale English. “For more than a—”
I turned to see that Don had drawn his gun. “Don’t threaten me.” His voice was cold, and his face looked like a stone carving.
Mrs. Travolta, her voice more cultivated than her bad dye job would have led me to expect, said, “We have no idea what you’re talking about. This young man is our guest. His visa is in perfect order.”
“So when we pull him in for murder and passport fraud, we won’t be able to get him for visa problems? Gee, that’s disappointing.” Don’s voice was low and humorless. “Or do you mean we should just take him away, and not bother you about it? You’re pretty sure, I guess, that he’ll keep zipped about what you’ve been doing. And Pirí, too, he’s a loyal guy. He’ll protect you at any cost to himself.”
Jamieson put his hand on the couch cushion between himself and Travolta. She slipped a wrinkled hand over his. But they looked stoic, not scared. I turned back to Ernesto.
“Where’s my mother?” I asked him. “Where are Dennis and Cindy? If you tell us …” I looked over my shoulder at Don. He’d taken on both the good-cop and bad-cop roles. I wasn’t sure what that made me. Sidekick? Designated wimp? “We’ll leave you alone.”
Ernesto’s eyes showed a flash of feeling, but he said nothing.
“Dennis and Cindy?” Jamieson sounded surprised. “Is that who you’re looking for? We’ve never actually met them, you know. We just sublet our apartment to them.”
Don made an exasperated sound. “And it’s just a hell of a coincidence that your friend here ran into them in Cuba.”
Jamieson’s lips pursed as if he were considering the nature of coincidences.
Don leaned in closer. “Let me be as clear as I can. I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to photograph everyone who’s been in and out of this apartment, and to document what’s been going on here. We’ve got police artist sketches of this Cuban dated months ago, with full transcripts of statements about what he was up to in Havana. Just me alone, I’ve got documentation enough to make sure you end up in a Mexican prison. And the FBI and the State Department, they’ve got a hell of a lot more. So if you do bribe your way out of jail some year, you can talk to them, too. I’m not just a jerk with a gun, believe me.”
Jamieson said, “Whether I believe you or not, the gun is understandably my concern at the moment.”
“Well, that’s why I brought it,” Don said. “It makes people more willing to listen to me. I just want you to know that it’s not my real weapon. My big guns, so to speak, are tailing Pirí and his friends. My big guns are stacked in police and FBI filing cabinets.”
I continued watching Ernesto. If there was something we could say to scare information out of him, he hadn’t heard it yet. “While I’m in a confessional mood, let me add one more thing,” Don continued. “If I were to shoot you and drop this gun, it would never be traced back to me because it’s not mine.”
“Well, bully for you,” Jamieson said crossly. “But you won’t find who you’re looking for, will you?”
“I was thinking I’d shoot you just to get Ernesto’s attention.” He glanced at the young man. “If that’s your name.”
“Ernest Hemingway,” the boy said in English. His accent owed as much to London as to Havana. “And you?”
“F. Scott Fitzgerald,” Surgelato said.
“Oh, bother,” Mrs. Travolta said. “If we give you a phone number, will you please dial it?”
Don motioned me to the telephone. I punched in a series of numbers, eleven or twelve of them, as Travolta recited them. I watched Ernesto as the number rang through. How could he look so calm? I could feel everyone else in the room watching me.
“Yes?” came the reply.
“Tell him you’re with us,” Travolta said.
Don nodded. His face had clouded. Some realization had come to him, and he didn’t much like it.
I cleared my throat. “I’m with Mr. Jamieson, Mrs. Travolta, and Ernesto from Cuba,” I said.
“What would they like me to do for you?” The voice was nasal and East Coast.
Mrs. Travolta said, “Ask him his location. That should do it.”
“Tell me where you are.”
He rattled off an address in McLean, Virginia. “We’ll be expecting a callback soon.” He hung up.
Jamieson was staring at Don. “If you don’t know the address …” He shrugged. “If you do, please put the gun down.”
“Shit,” Don said. He lowered the gun.
“What are you doing?” I demanded.
“CIA,” he said. “Your white-jacket guy in Cuba was right. These assholes work for the CIA.”
I gawked at Ernesto. “You, too?”
He nodded.
“And you didn’t hurt Cindy and Dennis?”
“No.”
“Did they really rent bicycles from you?”
“No. I wanted time with you, and you seemed anxious to avoid me. But you needn’t have run away. I was only taking you to a friend’s house. We would have waited there and chatted until you got tired of it. That’s all.”
“Why did you lose me on the bike ride?”
“I wanted you to find the tunnel so you’d tell people—journalists in particular—that you’d seen it. But I didn’t want to be with you when you found it.”
“Why?” I was close to slugging him. “I could have been caught. Arrested.”
“You’d have been
sent home, that’s all. I didn’t want my cover blown.”
For all I knew, I’d killed a man down in the tunnels. The Cubans would have done a hell of a lot more than slap my hand. It made me sick to think how much more.
“So where’s my mother?”
He shook his head.
“Cindy and Dennis?”
“Either in combinado del este”—the prison he’d called “throw away the key”—”or in the AIDS colony. Two places no one gets into on tour and no one gets out of, period.”
Mrs. Travolta rose with a sigh. “Or China. The Cubans may be exporting prison labor in exchange for goods. We’ve heard rumors, though we can’t prove it.”
“No.” I didn’t want to believe it. “Why would Cubans disappear foreign journalists? Of all people?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I couldn’t get used to Ernesto speaking English, especially with a hint of a British accent. “The powers that be—the powers that have been for a very long time—don’t believe Dennis and Cindy were robbed of their passports. They believe they sold them or gave them away.”
“Gave away their passports? Leaving themselves with no way to get home?” It was ridiculous. Did he expect me to believe it?
“You have to think like a Cuban. Not like an average Cuban, but like a ministry official, a faithful Fidelista. Would a Cuban harm a tourist—the country’s lifeblood—in order to steal a passport and flee like a gusano? No, foreign enemies of the revolution must be supplying passports to embarrass El Comandante.” Ernesto shrugged. “It’s deluded and paranoid, of course. Every government action there is.”
“You can hardly blame them for being paranoid about the CIA— you especially,” I pointed out. “And how would you know what it’s like to be a real Cuban?”
“Ah, but I am a Cuban! I was born there. I escaped on Mariel when I was eleven years old. I was adopted by an East Indian family in Miami and taken to London. Later, I returned to the U.S. to go to Yale. I was recruited there. Yes,” he smiled, “I am a young-looking fellow. But I’m pushing thirty, you know. I’ve done more than one stint in Cuba. And when I’m there, I’m as Cuban as anybody could be—everything I told you about the place is true. Except my purpose, which is to find out what American tourists are up to. Especially the ones who sneak in through Mexico, like you did.”