by John Lutz
“Now’s your chance,” Tilda said. “Here, I have a fresh shirt for you.”
“You expect me to change here?”
“Nobody’s looking at you. Wherever Ruy is, everybody looks at him.”
Ava pulled her sweaty polo shirt over her head. She emerged from its folds to find her cousin leaning over her, about to apply an ice cube from her drink to Ava’s bra.
“What are you doing?”
“Pointy nipples will get Ruy’s attention.”
“Absolutely not, coz. Give me that shirt.”
Tilda handed it over and stepped out of the cart as Ava pulled the shirt over her head. “Get over there. Ruy hates to walk.”
Ava switched seats, handed Tilda her vodka tonic, and set off, maneuvering around the jolly crowd. After a few minutes, she passed the caddy, trudging along with the bag of clubs slung over his shoulder, bent putter in one hand, dead cigar in the other. Morales was a hundred paces ahead, stamping along the fairway with head down and arms swinging.
She pulled up beside him and said, “Can I give you a lift?”
He looked over at her, and his glower melted at once into a smile. Well, a leer. He ran his eye over her, which made her feel as if she were being licked by an over-friendly dog. Her skin would be sticky afterward. At least his expression rewarded the efforts of the staffs at her cousin’s favorite boutique and spa. She was wearing a golf skirt of a length more appropriate for skating. Her long legs were waxed to perfect smoothness and tanned to a rich hue of caramel. Her sleeveless V-necked top revealed more tan skin. A pale redhead, Ava generally stayed out of the sun, but Tilda had literally pushed her down on the tanning bed. Her teeth, to which dental veneer had been applied, must be blinding Morales with their whiteness. To increase the effect, she raised eyebrows whose point and arch had been enhanced with dying and waxing. The technicians at the spa had also lengthened and thickened her eyelashes. Every time she blinked she could feel the added weight.
Morales’s step was lighter as he came around the cart and got in beside her. He smelled unpleasantly of sweat and cigar. She gave him a minute to thank her or introduce himself, but neither was forthcoming, so she said, “I’m going back to the clubhouse.”
“No, make it the pool pavilion. I have a lunch meeting.” He glanced at his watch. “Let’s get going. I’m late.”
Ava obeyed. She supposed that was what people did.
“Haven’t seen you around the club before,” he said.
“I’ve just come down with my cousin.”
“Who is?”
“Tilda North.”
“Oh! Is your name North, too?”
“Yes. First name Ava.”
“I know Senator Chuck North. Terrific guy. Big help to me in opening my Tulsa hotel. And Secretary Allegra North. Very helpful to me in cutting through the red tape at her department. And Ella North-Beckham, the media consultant. Keeps trying to persuade me to run for office. Says a Florida senatorial seat is mine for the taking, and that’ll be only the beginning.”
This went on as the green-and-white striped pool pavilion came in sight. Morales seemed to be trying to show her that he knew more of her relatives than she did.
At last she stopped the cart at the pavilion entrance and Morales got out. He turned to give her another head-to-toe scan. “Come for a swim. I’ll buy you a suit . . . if you let me pick it out.”
He actually waggled his eyebrows. Ava cringed. “But you have a meeting.”
“It’ll only be three, four hours. Just relax poolside. Tell ’em to put your drinks on my tab.”
So much for her status as a North. He couldn’t even be bothered to ply her with drinks before bedding her. He expected her to get drunk on her own. “Sorry, my cousin’s waiting back at the clubhouse.”
“Come on.”
“Sorry.”
The plump-lipped mouth went pouty again. But only for a minute. Then he said, “Tell you what. There’s a big charity do at my house tomorrow. Bring your cousin. I’ll tell the guys at the gate to let you in.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned away.
* * *
“I’d have to call today a disappointment,” said Tilda.
“Don’t tell me you think I should’ve waited for him poolside.”
“No, of course not. He’d have mauled you. And once Ruy sleeps with a woman, he loses all interest in her. You’ll have to keep resisting him.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“But it is frustrating to miss the big charity do. I happen to know what the occasion is. You could have found out a lot.”
“Coz, didn’t you hear me? We’re invited. He’s going to tell his guards to expect us.”
“Ruy never remembers to do things like that. And we won’t be able to talk our way in. This is the benefit for Saved from the Deep, the charity that helps newly arrived migrants from Cuba. The event of the year for the Cuban-American exile community. Security is always ultra-tight.”
“Oh,” said Ava. “I would’ve liked to get into that.”
“Missed opportunity, I’m afraid.”
It was evening, and they were sipping cocktails in the living room of Tilda’s house. She’d always hated The Hive, as she called the family mansion in Palm Beach, because it had so many bedrooms, containing so many Norths. She had her own place in South Miami Beach, an art deco house of pale stucco highlighted by pink and azure panels and curvaceous balconies. The slats of the Venetian blinds of the living room’s wide windows were open, striping the opposite wall with golden light from the setting sun. Ceiling fans revolved lazily over the cousins’ heads.
A car with a powerful engine could be heard coming down the street. The noise stopped abruptly. Tilda got up and looked out.
“He’s parked right in front of the house,” she said. “But I don’t know the car.”
“It’s a Lancia, an old one, I think from the ’50s.” Ava had recognized the triangular shield on the slotted grille. She wasn’t much interested in cars, but keeping company with Laker, she couldn’t help picking up a thing or two.
“It’s handsome,” Tilda said.
The door opened and the driver got out. It was Arturo Carlucci. He tossed his flat driving cap on the seat. The sun shone on his bald head. As he walked up the front path, he was taking off his calfskin driving gloves. He did it with deliberation, tugging on each fingertip in turn. He passed from their view. The doorbell rang. Tilda gave Ava a wide-eyed look. Saying nothing, she turned and went into the front hall. Ava didn’t follow. She was rooted to the spot.
“Good evening, Ms. North. Nice to see you again.” The voice was soft, unaccented.
“Hello,” said Tilda, sounding strained.
“I won’t ask to come in. Just dropping off something for you. And your cousin. Is she here?”
Ava lurched unwillingly into motion. Walked into the hall to stand beside Tilda. Carlucci smiled at her. Below his smooth hairless pate, his forehead was deeply scored. There were crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes, radiating across his temples and halfway down his lean cheeks. Parentheses from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth. She’d never seen a face marked by so many wrinkles.
She noticed that the left sidepiece of his sunglasses was taped to his face with a Band-Aid and remembered that the ear on that side had no top to rest it on.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Ms. North.”
She managed a nod.
“Mr. Morales mentioned inviting you to the party tomorrow. I thought you should have invitations.” He took two stiff envelopes from the pocket of his white linen shirt.
“Very kind of you,” said Tilda, who still didn’t sound like herself, as he handed her one envelope.
“You’ll have to show these at the gatehouse, and they’ll have to have your names on them. Sorry.” He unhurriedly took out a stout fountain pen, a Mont Blanc, and unscrewed its cap. “May I have your first name, Ms. North? Ruy forgot. Sorry again.”
“Ava.�
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“Start with an E, or an A?”
“A.”
He wrote the name on the envelope, in a large, ornate hand. “Anything else? I mean, a ‘Rep.’ before, or an ‘Esq.’ after?”
“No.”
“With a North, there’s usually something else.”
“I’m just a civil servant. Or was. Now I’m looking for some fun in the sun.” She gave a nervous laugh.
“You’ve come to the right place. Look forward to seeing you both tomorrow.”
He handed her the envelope, nodded, and walked away.
Tilda shut the door and leaned her back against it. “He’s going to have his people in D.C. check you out.”
“If they dig deep enough, they’ll find out my paychecks came from the Department of Defense.”
“Not the NSA?”
“No way. That information is very closely held.”
Tilda was tapping the invitation envelope nervously on her thumbnail.
“Cheer up, coz,” Ava said. “Now we can get in Morales’s house.”
“Just so we can get out of it.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Rodrigo Morales’s house in north Miami Beach was a sprawling mansion of white stucco, with a long row of round arches along the front and a red tile roof. It faced the bay and the downtown Miami skyline. Palm trees, tall, graceful, evenly spaced, enhanced the extensive grounds. The black iron fence was maybe a little too high, security having trumped esthetics, and the twisty spikes topping the bars looked downright menacing. Ava had plenty of time to admire the property. They were the last in a line of cars, inching along the fence toward the gates.
Tilda had a beautiful car. Laker would have loved it. It was a well-preserved 1963 Studebaker Avanti convertible. Its gleaming paintwork was deep bronze, with a tan pinstripe picking up the tan interior and wire wheels. The top was down despite the hot sun. Tilda said she enjoyed the wind in her hair, and made fun of Ava, who wore a broad-brimmed hat whenever she was outdoors.
When they got close enough to the gate, Ava saw that no cars were being allowed in. Valets were taking them away, while guards checked the invitations and IDs of guests and ran handheld metal detectors over them.
“Is all the security unusual?” she asked.
“It’s like this at every big gathering of the exile community,” Tilda replied.
“Are they worried about saboteurs from Havana?”
“No. About each other. There are factions and feuds. Insults are hurled via the radio or the internet. Sometimes it escalates to threats and brawls. Sometimes bombs are thrown. Literally. Miami was a combat zone in the ’80s and ’90s. Then it calmed down. But with the Castros gone, quarrels are heating up again between the hard-liners and the dialogueros—the people who want to negotiate with the current Havana regime.”
Ava remembered what Uncle Chuck had told her. “The Moraleses were always hard-liners. But now Ruy’s a dialoguero. How’s he managing that?”
Tilda laughed. “Everybody wonders.”
So, Ava thought, Morales was walking a tightrope over the yawning gap in the Miami exile community. The success of his billion-dollar resort project in Cuba was on the line. If Ken Brydon had discovered some secret that could hurt him with one side or the other, that might have been reason enough to murder him.
Tilda looked over and her eyebrows arched above her sunglasses as she guessed Ava’s thoughts. She waved a hand at the Morales mansion.
“Are you going to sneak inside and search the place?”
“That would take an army.”
“What are you going to do, then?”
“Use my eyes and ears.”
Reaching the gates at last, they left the car and passed through security. Guards were stationed along the driveway to direct them to the backyard, where the party was taking place. It was more informally landscaped, with bougainvillea, jacaranda, and other lush tropical plants.
They passed a spreading live oak tree. From its limbs hung piñatas, being whacked with sticks by enthusiastic children as their parents stood around sipping drinks and shouting encouragement in English and Spanish.
“I thought piñatas were Mexican,” Ava said.
“All kids love them. Dakota and Carolina certainly did. I always had them for their birthdays.” Tilda smiled at the memory.
Looking more closely at the nearest piñata, Ava saw that its bulbous form was in green army fatigues, and had a bearded face. “That’s Fidel Castro.”
“And that’s Raúl.”
“Seems like the third one is attracting the most whacks. Is it Che Guevara?”
As they drew closer, she saw that the piñata was wearing a gray business suit. It had a handsome, grinning face and a head of chestnut hair. “Oh my God—it’s JFK! What do they have against him?”
“He failed to send the U.S. Air Force to cover the Bay of Pigs invasion. And he nixed various CIA plans to assassinate Fidel with exploding cigars and such.”
A lusty blow cracked JFK at the waistline. His halves parted to gush treats on the delighted children.
Loudspeakers on poles were playing “Guantanamera.” The tune was abruptly cut off, and a booming voice welcomed guests to the fund-raiser. It was coming from a tiny gray-headed man standing on a faraway platform, facing sun-bathed rows of chairs. The more dutiful guests trooped over and sat down, while the others remained in the shade of the mimosa trees, drinking their mojitos and daiquiris.
“Oh, don’t those look good?” said Tilda. “Let’s head for the bar.”
As they waited in line, Rodrigo Morales was introduced. He mounted the podium. He was one of the few men wearing a suit in the sultry Miami afternoon, a well-tailored tan gabardine. As he raised his arms to acknowledge the applause, dark sweat stains in his armpits were revealed. He stood, smiling and bowing, even though the applause was quickly dying down. Tilda whispered that this crowd, mostly hard-liners, was dubious about Ruy.
He began by giving his family credentials. The wind was against Ava, and only snatches came to her: “My grandfather endured beatings from Castroite thugs . . . our casa confiscated, our family heirlooms lost . . . starting over from nothing in Miami . . . rebuilding his fortune, supporting his family . . . never neglecting the long struggle to stop agents of Soviet imperialism from taking over the Western Hemisphere.”
Tilda handed her a tall cold daiquiri. “Do we have to listen to this? I hate listening to speeches as much of the rest of the Norths love giving them.”
“Yes. Come along, coz.”
By the time they found seats, Morales had moved on to himself. He told how he had kept the Caribbean soccer tournament from using the Orange Bowl stadium last year. During the applause, Tilda whispered an explanation: Cuba had the best team, and the exiles would have been forced to witness a Commie victory. Then Morales boasted of organizing a boycott that drove out of business a music venue that had hosted a Cuban singer.
“But she’s a chart topper, internationally adored,” Ava whispered. “What did she do wrong?”
“She was here on tour—why didn’t she defect? Unforgivable.”
Morales went on in the same vein for some time. And with some effect. The applause went on a little longer as he stepped down from the platform. Aides were standing by to hand him a bottle of water and a towel to mop his brow. Several audience members had come around to talk to him. Their expressions were adamant. As the group moved toward the house, Ava stood and handed her daiquiri to Tilda.
“Where are you going?”
“If they’re holding a meeting, I want to be in on it.”
“Be careful.”
Before the servant holding the door could close it, Ava hurried in. The air-conditioning was delicious. She trotted down the corridor, bringing up the rear of the group trailing Morales. At least she was dressed well enough to blend in to the crowd, in a sleeveless white silk sundress from Prada, imprinted with a giant red hibiscus bloom. She tugged her broad-brimmed hat a bit lower over her eyes
.
Quickening her pace, she drew level with a gray-headed woman in white slacks and striped top. They smiled at each other. Ava said what a nice party this was, in Spanish. It wasn’t one of her stronger languages, but adequate for party chat. She and the woman were still talking as they passed between the uniformed guards on either side of a doorway.
To Ava’s relief, her new friend took a seat on the opposite side of the room from Morales. Ava sat beside her, giving her hat brim another tug. The window curtains were drawn against the strong sun, and she was grateful for the dimness. The guests, about a dozen of them, mostly male and mostly older, were settling into comfortable armchairs and sofas. Morales sank into a button-tufted leather chair and put his feet up on an ottoman. He cut and lit a long cigar. No one else was smoking, but there were no objections. It was his house.
Once the servants had distributed drinks and the door had closed behind the last of them, Morales spoke. “Alfonso.”
An old man with white whiskers and a yellowing seersucker jacket spoke up from the opposite sofa. “Yes?”
“When the FBI wanted to wiretap you after that string of bombings of dialoguero radio stations, the judge refused to sign a court order. And whose judge was that?”
“Your father’s judge, Ruy.”
“Diego.”
“Yes?” said a younger man sitting in an armchair.
“When the police arrested your uncle for firing a bazooka at an East German freighter bound for Havana, whose prosecuting attorney refused to indict him?”
“Your father’s prosecuting attorney, Ruy,” said a younger man in an armchair.
Morales nodded. “That’s why it bothers me when I read criticism from you two in the papers.”
“We are only raising questions about your new project in Cuba,” said Diego.
“And that’s only because you’re so secretive about it.” Alfonso got up and gestured at the mahogany coffee table, which was bare. “We were hoping to see a model of the resort. Some pictures of the construction site.”
Morales exhaled smoke. “All in good time. We’re still almost a year from the grand opening.”