“But let’s see,” Rafi said, his sad eyes moving to the girl. “Loret? Tell him who you are.”
The girl looked at Rafi and immediately her expression clouded, her lower lip came out and her chin seemed to tremble. Rafi gave a small nod toward Moran. The girl turned to him, raising her head proudly.
“I am the sister of Luci Palma.”
Moran said, “Well, I’ll be.” The girl looked nothing like the Luci Palma he remembered. He said, “You’re a lot younger.”
“Yes, twelve years,” the girl said.
“Well, how is Luci these days? Where does she live?”
“She’s dead,” the girl said. She seemed to glance at Rafi before placing her glass of Coca-Cola on the ground and covering her face with her hands.
Moran heard muffled sobs. He looked at Rafi.
“She’s dead?”
Rafi nodded. “I found it out the day you left. I spoke to someone who told me of Loret and I went to see her.”
“How did she die? Was she ill?”
Rafi looked at the girl. “Loret, tell him how she died.”
Her hands came away from her face; her eyes seemed glazed now, red with sorrow.
“She was kill.”
“She was killed,” Rafi said. “Shot to death.”
Moran said, “During the war?”
“Loret,” Rafi said, “he asks when she was killed.”
“Four years ago,” the girl said, “but I think it was yesterday. She was so good to me. I live with her and she send me to school, but now I got nothing. I live in a terrible place by the Ozama River. It’s very terrible.”
“Loret,” Rafi said. “Tell him how she was killed.”
“Yes,” the girl said, “they took her from the house at night, beating her and put her in an automobile and took her away.”
“Tell him who did this,” Rafi said.
“The men of the government. Like soldiers.”
“Regular soldiers?”
“The bad ones, the det squad.”
“The death squad,” Rafi said. “Continue.”
“They took her out in the country and shot her twenty times. She was like my mother . . .”
“Someone found her and told you?” Rafi said.
“Yes, and then I went out there and she was dead. They rape her too. It was like I loss my mother. Now I’m alone.”
“Tell him why . . .” Rafi began.
“They kill her because she was, she belong to the New Revolutionary Party . . .”
“The NPR,” Rafi said.
“. . . which she join because she want to do something for the poor people, but they kill her and do terrible things to her.” Loret’s chin trembled. “She was my sister. I love her and miss her so much I don’t know what to do.”
Moran watched her cover her face again and begin to sob. He reached over to touch her shoulder. He wanted to say something, but felt Rafi watching him and wondered what he would say if Rafi—frowning, shaking his head in sympathy—wasn’t here.
“She misses Luci very much,” Rafi said. “Their mother died and Luci became the mother for her. But Luci”—Rafi sighed—”you know how she was, the spirit she had as well as kindness. When the revolution failed she began again, working for the new party . . . She wanted to go to Nicaragua.” Rafi shrugged, weary. “It’s a shame, a fine girl with spirit.”
“Was she married?” Moran asked.
“Loret,” Rafi said.
“No, she never get married,” the girl said.
“Do you know why?” Rafi asked.
Loret paused. Then looked at Moran. “She never marry because, well, I believe she was always in love with you.”
Moran said, “What? Come on—I hardly knew her.”
“She told me,” Loret said to Rafi, who gestured toward Moran with a quick movement of his head. “She told me,” Loret said, now to Moran, “she had a feeling for you in her heart. She want to write to you but was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?” Moran asked.
“I think she didn’t want to bother you. You happy living in the United States with everything you want. You don’t need a poor girl to be crying to you.”
She began to sob and Rafi gave her the handkerchief from his breast pocket. He said to Moran, “She becomes very upset with the reminding of it.”
Moran was silent. He wanted to put his arm around the girl, comfort her, wipe the eye makeup smudged on her cheeks. She reminded him of a little girl playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes . . . Except for those breasts that seemed to have a life of their own. And except for Rafi sitting in his business suit prompting, making sure she told it all, holding his drink in his left hand, sipping, taking small hesitant sips in the presence of sorrow.
It gave Moran a strange feeling, to be moved by the girl’s performance while knowing it was part of Rafi’s scam. The two of them working so hard but so obvious about it; amateur night at the Coconut Palms.
He asked Rafi, “Where’re you staying?”
“We have no place yet. We came from the airport.”
“Well, you’ve got a place now.”
“No, I have friends in Miami if I can find them,” Rafi said. “I don’t want to inconvenience you.”
Moran said, “How can you inconvenience a motel? We’re not the Fontainebleu, but . . .”
“No, you’re not,” Rafi said.
Moran called Mary at 10:30. She answered and he said, “Can we talk?”
“The great stone face went out in his boat. He takes business people out, entertains them.”
“Do you ever go?”
“No, I think he entertains with girls. I’m hoping he falls in love with one of them . . . How did it go?”
He told her Loret’s story, the way Loret recited and Rafi prompted. “But I really felt sorry for her.”
“Do you cry in movies, George?”
“I choke up now and then.”
“Where are they now?”
“Well, I told them they might as well stay here. Rafi wants to look up some old friends in Miami. I still don’t know what he does for a living.”
“Are you charging them?”
“Well, the place’s empty anyway.”
“You already bought him dinner. But that was for shooting him, right?”
“If I shot him. I bought another dinner tonight and found out Loret doesn’t like Italian.”
“That’s a shame,” Mary said. “Has Rafi made a pitch yet?”
“He’s working up to it. But you know what?”
“You feel sorry for him.”
“In a way, yeah.”
“He’s gonna try to take you, George.”
“I know . . . but the poor guy, he’s working his ass off and you can see it coming a mile away.”
“Well, have fun. Are you gonna show them the sights tomorrow . . . while cute little Loret shows you hers?”
“No, I was planning on being at the Holiday Inn in Coral Gables at one. I feel horny.”
“God love you,” Mary said. “Stay that way.”
Moran was watching the late news when Nolen stumbled at the door and almost came through the screen. Moran said, “Wait and I’ll open it, it’s easier.”
Nolen made himself comfortable and Moran handed him a beer. Nolen said, “Well, if you insist.” He drank the can down about a third and said, “That broad in the pool ain’t from Fort Wayne or Findlay, Ohio, I know that much. She’s got a pair of lungs on her she could float across the ocean on ’em.”
“That’s Loret,” Moran said. “I didn’t know she was a swimmer.”
“She isn’t, she’s a floater. Fernando Lamas was nervous, kept telling her to get out, but she wouldn’t. I think she told him to get fucked in Spanish.”
“That’s Rafi Amado.”
“Yeah, he says you shot him one time. He showed me.”
“What’d it look like to you?”
“It looked like he had one tit.”
“The scar.”
>
“It looked like somebody cut him.”
“Yeah, and I hit him lower. You hit somebody at about thirty meters you remember it. You can play it back and look at it.”
“What’s he want?”
“He comes all this way—I don’t think just so I can meet cute little Loret. He tell you about her?”
“I wasn’t paying much attention; I was watching her float. She’s the sister of the girl you went down there looking for and life’s been dumping on her and he thinks you’re a swell guy. Something like that. What else?”
“I’m waiting for the rest of it.”
“So you don’t trust this boy.”
“Not too far.”
“There’s somebody doesn’t trust you either,” Nolen said, giving Moran a sly look. “The old Cat Chaser.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Gimme another beer I’ll tell you.”
“You got one.”
“Time you pop another it’ll be gone.”
Moran walked around the counter into the kitchen and got the beer rather than take Nolen by the throat and choke him. It seemed easier; the man was half in the bag and had something he wanted to tell. Moran came over with the can of Bud to where Nolen was sprawled on the sofa, neck bent against the cushion, his legs sticking straight out. He was wearing a pair of old curl-toed cowboy boots. Nolen handed Moran his empty and took the full one.
“Who is it doesn’t trust me?”
“Well, Jiggs Scully wants to know—as Jiggs says, ‘Tell me. Your buddy Moran, he working over in Coral Gables at the Holiday Inn there?’ “ Nolen raised his eyes, holding the beer can at his chin. “Sound like him?”
“That’s very good,” Moran said. “What’s he following me for?”
“He isn’t following you, he’s following de Boya’s wife. He sees her go in the Holiday Inn, he sees you go in the Holiday Inn. She comes out, you come out. Scully wants to know if it’s a coincidence or what. He doesn’t know what to tell de Boya.”
Moran stared at Nolen for a moment, Nolen waiting with the sly look, then went to the kitchen and poured himself a scotch with one ice cube. He stood at the counter now looking across the width of the room at Nolen.
“Scully says he’d rather talk to you than de Boya. He doesn’t like de Boya.”
“How much does he want?”
“He’s not shaking you down, he wants to talk.”
“About what?”
“He’s an interesting guy. I think you ought to listen what he has to say.”
“Yeah, about what?”
“I’m not at liberty. At this point it’s strictly between you and him.”
“How long’s he been following Mrs. de Boya?”
Nolen grinned. “We’re very formal, aren’t we? I knew something was going on. Back when the guy’s sister was shacking up with the piano player—the way you mentioned de Boya’s wife, like she was up for canonization, and all the time the old Cat Chaser’s meeting her on the side. Jiggs says you have to have very large balls fool around with the wife of a guy like de Boya. He says you mention Andres de Boya to people that know anything about him it shrivels their balls right up.”
Moran sipped his drink.
Nolen was comfortable, having a good time.
“You’re not saying, uh? Well, I don’t blame you. Afraid you’ll get your laundry scattered all over. But I think you should talk to him, Jiggs. It might be, you find out it’s in your best interest.”
Nolen wouldn’t say any more than that.
Pulling into the Holiday Inn the next day, driving around to the side, to 167 at the rear of the building, Moran didn’t see Jiggs Scully’s two-tone red and white Cadillac or anyone sitting alone in the few cars that were parked here. He pulled in next to Mary’s Mercedes, both cars white, his old Mercedes next to hers giving a before-and-after impression. He hadn’t decided how much to tell her.
And for a while it wouldn’t have mattered if de Boya himself were parked outside; they were together and there wasn’t anything else, only faint street sounds they might have heard but were removed and had nothing to do with them. They lingered, making it last, until the present began to seep back and sounds outside became images of two-tone Cadillacs and limousines; with awareness came apprehension, waiting for something to happen.
She said, “What’s the matter?” When he didn’t answer she said, “We don’t have to do this.”
“Yeah, we do,” Moran said. “We’re way past that. We could say we’re not gonna see each other, but we would.”
She said, “He hasn’t mentioned you since the day we got back. I’ve been rehearsing my lines, I’m almost ready to corner him.” Her tone softened. “I’m not dragging my feet, I’m just scared.”
He said, “I know.”
She said, “You’re off somewhere.”
“No, I’m here. I’m resting.”
“Tell me what’s going on.”
She wanted to know about Loret. He told her the story again in detail and the parts that bothered him: the twelve years difference between Luci and Loret, no mention of brothers and sisters in between; that wasn’t a Dominican family. The revolutionary party Luci joined; he didn’t believe it existed; the political situation there had been quiet for years. And the way Rafi put words in her mouth, prompted so she wouldn’t forget anything.
Mary said, “And are they having fun at the Coconuts?”
He had put them up in oceanfront Number One and Number Two. He told Mary that Jerry said he was crazy, giving them a free ride and now he’d have to get Lula in to clean. Jerry called them “boat people,” like the Cubans from Mariel; pretty soon they’d be taking over.
Mary said, “Bighearted George. Well, as long as you know what you’re doing.”
“But I don’t,” Moran said. “I’m not sure what’s going on. But he makes a pitch I can always say no, right?”
“I don’t know, George. Can you? You know they want something, but you’re still moved.”
The afternoon went too fast; it always did. Mary slipped into her warmups. They said goodbye, holding onto each other for several minutes and almost went back to bed. Moran waited then by the door as Mary got in her car and drove off. Still no sign of a two-tone Cadillac.
Moran got in his car and drove out toward the front of the Holiday Inn. He saw Mary’s car turn south onto Le Jeune. Then saw a familiar car come out from the portico in front of the building, out of the shade, and turn onto the street after her. An older-model, faded blue Porsche. Nolen Tyner’s car.
Moran followed, seeing faint bursts of colorless smoke coming out of the Porsche’s tailpipe as it accelerated. There was no doubt in his mind it was Nolen. He hung back, keeping the oil burner in sight, then caught the light at Miracle Mile and had to sit there as both cars continued on, disappearing in the southbound traffic.
He took his time now, worked his way over to Granada and followed the road through Coral Gables to the country club to see if she might have turned in there; but there was no sign of either car. He passed the street where he had lived for seven years, drove through caverns of tropical trees to streets that branched off into fingers of coastal land, the houses built on a network of free-form canals and hidden by walls of stone and vegetation, stands of sea grape, hibiscus, jungles of orchids and acacia trees. He came to Arvida Parkway and rolled slowly through the gloom of foliage, catching flashes of Biscayne Bay in the late afternoon sunlight.
The de Boya home stood on a spur of land that curved out a few hundred feet into the bay, the peak of its roof ascending steeply against the sky like a tor, a landmark from the bayside but from inland only glimpses of bleached wood and glass. Moran had called it Polynesian contemporary, the home of a South Seas potentate. Mary said, “If not a very successful cocaine dealer.” She called it bastard modern, neo-nondescript. The entire house, she said, could only be seen from the dock at the edge of the front lawn. Otherwise, and especially from the road, only an idea of its astonishi
ng angles could be seen beyond the iron pickets mounted to the low cement wall and through the forest of poinciana and acacia that sealed off the front of the property.
Stone columns marked an entrance to number 700. The driveway circled into the trees and came out again at another pair of columns up the road, without revealing the front of the house or cars that might be parked there.
All he could do was assume Mary was home now and Nolen had passed this way a few minutes ago. What would happen if he pulled into the driveway? What was he doing there if de Boya came out?
Moran took the freeway north out of Miami thinking of the afternoon motel room and the warm awareness in Mary’s eyes as she called him bighearted George, touching him, understanding him. Good, that part was good. But his own image of a bighearted George was not the bearded guy in the motel room. Or the cement-finisher working in the sun. Or the fire-team leader in the narrow streets of Santo Domingo. Not the fantasized seventeen-year-old lover either. The bighearted George he saw in his own mind was a dreamer, the ideal dumb-guy mark. He caught every light in Pompano Beach going toward the ocean and the bridge raised across the Intracoastal; it was all right, he was patient now as he realized he was out of patience, tired of waiting, accepting, listening to people like Rafi and Nolen, with their angles.
There was no faded blue Porsche parked in front of the Coconut Palms, no sign of Jerry anywhere, no one sitting by the pool. Lula came out of Number One carrying dirty towels and a plastic trash bag. Moran waited for her, looking out at the beach, empty with the sun gone for the day though it was still light.
“That girl in there,” Lula said, “nobody musta taught her to pick up after herself. She got clothes, and they pretty things, all over the place.”
“Leave ’em,” Moran said, “you’re not her maid.”
“She messy. Dirty all the dishes—they been cooking in there. It don’t smell bad but it makes a mess.”
“They’ll be gone soon.”
Lula cocked her head, frowning. “I still got that, like a nightgown the woman left? You can see through it.”
“You want it?”
“Honey, I can’t even get one arm in it, or nobody can I know. It’s hanging in the laundry room.”
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