Fifty Grand

by Adrian McKinty

  Our friends from the embassy.

  “Sorry, Hector, rain check, I can’t do it tonight.”

  “Tell her, Díaz,” Hector says.

  “She doesn’t want to go,” Díaz replies.

  “Can’t do it, I’m meeting my brother, he’s flying in from America.”

  A long pause before Hector decides it’s not worth it. “Ok, well, if you change your mind you’ll know where we’ll be.”

  “I will, thanks, guys. And Díaz, please don’t let him tell any jokes—you two on a bender with embassy people has ‘international incident’ written all over it.”

  I hear them chuckle and they flash the lights on the Yugo and wave as they drive past. No obscene gestures this time.

  I finish the mojito and look about for a waiter. I suppose I should tell the manager that I’ve just arrested their—

  A pair of hands covers my eyes.

  Too clean and presumptuous to be the boy beggar.

  “Ricky.”

  He laughs and kisses me on the cheek. He puts a chic black bicycle messenger bag on the table and sits in Felipe’s seat.

  “I thought they’d never go. Fucking cops,” he says.

  “Hey—”

  “Present company excepted. Jesus, we’re the youngest people here. Why did you want to meet in this cemetery?” he asks.

  “I like it here.”

  He shakes his head, takes off his raincoat, and as an antitheft device wraps the strap of his messenger bag under his chair.

  “How was your flight?” I ask.

  “It was fine. I came direct.”

  “Really? Didn’t know you could come direct.”

  “Yeah, you can. Two flights a week from Miami to Havana. Shit, I really could do with a . . . Have you seen a . . . Jesus. Pretty slow service in here, no?”

  “I just arrested the head waiter.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “No.”

  “Did he grab your ass or something?”

  “No.”

  “What did—oh, wait, here’s one finally . . .”

  A harassed-looking kid shows up, seemingly dragooned from the kitchen.

  Ricky orders half a dozen things off the tapas menu and a martini. He looks good. He’s fit and handsome, with a mop of black hair that hangs over his left eyebrow in a fey, Englishy sort of way. He’s almost too handsome, with none of Dad’s flat, jovial peasant charm or Mother’s fleshy good looks. He’s angular and trim. His teeth are American white and his smile broad. The only thing we share are the dark green eyes from Mom’s side of the family.

  The eyes twinkle in the moonlight as he sips the martini.

  “Yech,” he says. “Local gin.”

  When we were younger, people used to say we resembled each other, but not anymore. He’s grown prettier and I’ve grown duller. Although perhaps tonight because he’s just gotten off a flight and I’ve put on eye makeup and my best clothes we are like siblings once again.

  “The mojitos are ok,” I tell him.

  “A mojito?” he says as if I’ve just suggested human flesh.

  It makes me laugh and he laughs. Because of his good looks and the fact that he works for the Cuba Times and the YCP magazine, everyone assumes that he’s gay. For years he wheeled a few girls around and tried to beard them but when he saw that it wasn’t going to hurt his career he quietly let the girls go. He’s not “out” like some of the famous Havana queens, but I’ve met his sometime boyfriend, a captain in the MININT—the Ministry of the Interior—and almost everyone knows. One time a low-level chivato (a paid informer) tried to blackmail him about his cosmopolitan tendencies, but the chivato ended up losing his job and being moved to Manzanillo.

  He swallows the last of his martini, orders a Cuba Libre, and eats most of the food before he even thinks about having a conversation. Ricky’s one of those men who can eat anything without it ever showing. If he weren’t my brother I’d probably hate him. No, if he weren’t my brother we would never have met in the first place. His circles are kilometers above mine.

  “I’m surprised they can still pull it together,” he says, munching on something that yesterday was swimming happily in the Florida Strait. “I would never have eaten here in a million years but it’s not bad.”

  I let him nibble at two more side dishes before I press him.

  “So what did you find out?” I ask with a trace of impatience.

  “In a minute. Let’s do you first. You arrested a waiter?”

  Typical Ricky, always looking for a story.

  “Yeah. One of the head waiters.”

  “The head waiter? What did he do?”

  “He was a murderer.”

  “You don’t say. Who did he kill?” he asks, affecting casualness.

  “Killed a lot of people. Real nutcase. Poisoned them.”

  Ricky looks at his empty plate of tapas.

  “Poisoned them? Are you serious?”

  “Yeah, a dozen victims at least.”

  Ricky pales, but then I wink at him and he laughs.

  “You’re wasted in the goon squad,” he says.

  “I like the goon squad.”

  “That’s why you’re so weird, big sister.”

  “So. Tell me. What did you find out?”

  He reaches into the messenger bag and hands me a folder full of typed sheets, drawings, and photographs.

  “You wrote a report? Where did you get the time?”

  “It was easier to write it out on the computer. I can type at a hundred words a minute, you know.”

  I look through his notes. They’re clear and well organized and give me everything I need to get started.

  “What’s your conclusion?” I ask.

  “Hey, do you like my bag? I got this in Manhattan, it’s the latest thing,” he says, trying to be frivolous.

  “You’re not going to distract me. What did you find out, Ricky?”

  He shakes his head. “My conclusion, dear sister, is that your suspicions are probably correct,” he says with deliberate caution.

  “I’m right?”

  “I think so.”

  We both consider this for a moment.

  “You went to the garage?”

  “Yes, I went to the garage.”

  “What did you learn there?” I ask.

  “It’s all in the notes.”

  “What did you learn, Ricky?”

  “There were two accidents that day. That means two suspects: one of them’s an old lady, one’s a Hollywood type.”

  “A Hollywood type? What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “Didn’t I tell you? Fairview is full of Hollywood types. Tom Cruise moved there, and around his sun lesser planets revolve. It’s where the elite go to ski now that Aspen and Vail are full of the hoi polloi. I met some of them. I got invited to a party.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “I did. I met a charming young man with whom I had a meeting of minds.”

  “I hope you were careful.”

  “I’m always careful, darling.”

  “How did you get all this stuff through airport security?” I ask.

  Cuba was one of the few countries in the world that put you through a metal detector and scanner and searched you after you got off the plane. It was so that they could seize any contraband such as banned books, newspapers, magazines. The agents must have read Ricky’s typewritten notes and asked him questions about it.

  Ricky sighs as if this is a stupid question. “They’re not very bright. I did a cover page about the conference, made it really boring. I knew they’d only glance at the first few lines, which were full of praise for the brothers.”

  “Smart,” I say and examine the photographs. A motel, a mountain, a lonely mountain road. A Range Rover with a dent on the left front.

  “This is amazing. This is more than I’d hoped for. You did really well, Ricky,” I tell him with genuine affection.

  “Yeah, I’m good,” he says and lights a postmeal cigar
ette. American one.

  “Tell me about the Range Rover in the photograph.”

  “Oh, that’s a man called Esteban, a bear, straight, second-gen Mex, he did not bring his car into the garage for repair but he seems to have damaged it at around the same time. Apparently he hit a deer. It’s only a small dent, but I knew you’d be intrigued.”

  “Why isn’t he one of your suspects?”

  “I don’t know if anyone would have the cojones to kill a man and drive around with his blood and DNA on his car for half a year.”

  “Hmmm, you might be right about that. Who’s this Jack Tyrone character?” I ask, skimming his conclusions.

  “He’s the movie star I was talking about.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “No, he’s an up-and-comer. I met him at the party, talked to him, also straight as they come, alas.”

  “Ricky! You’ve got him down as a suspect!”

  “Secondary suspect. I suppose someone might be covering for him but his alibi seems watertight. He was in L.A. at the time of the accident. He was ok, but, like I say, straight as the fucking gate. At least he didn’t try to get me to attend a Scientologist meeting like my charming new friend did the next morning.”

  “What’s a Scientologist meeting?” I ask innocently.

  “Oh, my God, sister. Don’t you read the Yuma magazines?”

  Yuma was street slang for anything Yankee, and of course you could get the magazines but why anyone would pay hard currency for a copy of People or Vogue was beyond me.

  “I need my money for things like food and electricity,” I say.

  “Oh, boo hoo, the poor, starving public servant.”

  “Shut up.”

  He shakes his head as if I’m hopelessly uncool.

  “Oh, speaking of Scientologists. One other thing I put in there at the end. The same night as the accident, one of them apparently crashed a golf cart on Pearl Street. I don’t think it’s anything to do with us but you might want to check it.”

  I put the notes back in the folder and grin at him. “Well, I’m impressed, you’ve done really well here, Ricky.”

  “I risked a lot.”

  “I know.”

  “I was proud of the photographs. Thought they might help.”

  “Did you talk to Karen?”

  He conceals his distaste in a comic pretense of distaste. “No. That little chore I will leave to you. If you go.”

  “When I go.”

  “Oh, the one thing I couldn’t get was the sheriff’s report. They told me I could file a Freedom of Information request—if I were a U.S. citizen.”

  I look at him. “They said it like that?”

  “Yeah, they said it like that.”

  Ricky waves at a friend walking past the Ambos.

  “Well, I guess I’m going too, then,” I say.

  Ricky leans back in his chair. “Not necessarily, sweetie. We have an interests section at the Mexican consulate in Denver. Maybe we could do something through them,” he suggests.

  “No, Ricky, my mind’s made up. I don’t want a snow job. I want to do it myself.”

  “And of course you’re the only one who can do it, right?”

  I note the sarcasm in his voice but I don’t want to make an issue out of it.

  “I’ve decided, Ricky.”

  He says nothing, blows a smoke ring, and waves hello to yet another friend.

  I tap the folder. “Seriously, thank you for this.”

  “You’re very welcome,” he replies and flutters his eyelashes.

  A long silence.

  This is always what it’s been like between us. What’s not said is just as important as the dialogue.

  “So when are you thinking about popping off?” he asks, in English, his brows knitting.

  “Soon. Next week. I’ve put in for a leave of absence.”

  “Next week? I’ve got an article coming out in El País. Big break for me. I’m having a party.”

  “And I would have been invited?”

  “Of course. But you wouldn’t have come.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because you feel out of place around my coke-snorting, bisexual, decadent contra-revolutionary pals.”

  “Yeah, I wonder why. What’s the piece?”

  “Feature article in the magazine on the new Cuba. All sorts of rumors coming down from the MININT.”

  “El País. Dad would have been proud.”

  “You think?” he asks dubiously.

  “Of course, Ricky.”

  He nods but doesn’t answer.

  His face assumes a dark expression and he reaches his fingers across the table.

  “Hands,” he says.

  I put my hand in his.

  He clears his throat.

  “Oh no, Ricky, you’re not going to give me a lecture, are you?”

  He ignores this crack and says what he’s going to say: “Listen, sweetie, I know you’re two years older than me but in some ways I’ve always felt that you were my little sister and I should be looking out for you,” he intones very seriously.

  “Don’t do this, Ricky,” I say and wriggle my hand free from his grip.

  He shrugs, reaches into his jacket pocket for another cigarillo, lights it, takes a puff. “Ok, sis, I’ll cut it short, but I’m going to say it and you’re going to listen. That way if anything happens to you, my conscience will be clear. I’m doing it for me, not you. What do you think?”

  “Ok,” I mutter.

  “All right, I’ll give you a précis of the big speech I was going to hit you with. Basically it’s this: There’s no point at all risking your life and your career for Dad. Dad didn’t give a fuck about us. Not one letter, not one dollar in all those years. Dad was a selfish bastard and although I’m sorry he’s dead, that’s about all I feel. We don’t owe him a thing. And furthermore, he probably was drunk that night, and although I’m upset that he went the way he went, it’s nothing to do with us.”

  Ricky smiles grimly and takes a long draw on the cigarillo.

  I can see his point of view, but it’s not mine.

  “Who else is going to do anything about it?” I ask him.

  “That’s not the issue.”

  “What is the issue, Ricky?”

  “The point is that this isn’t how grown-ups do things,” he says.

  “How do grown-ups do things?” I say with a trace of anger. Sometimes his condescension is hard to take.

  “Not like this. This is the way people behave in comic books or TV shows. It’s preposterous. It’s a throwback. It’s theatrical.”

  “I’m theatrical?”

  “Yes. You’re pretending. You’re acting. Look at you. You’re someone with a promising career, a cheap apartment, a new promotion. And you want to throw all that away? For what?”

  “I’m not throwing anything away. I’m taking a week’s vacation, I’ve planned it all out in adv—”

  “Planned what out? How dumb do you think they are in the DGI? If you don’t defect when you get there, if you really do come back, you’re going to be spending the next ten years in some plantation prison.”

  “I told you. I’m not defecting. I’ll be back, I’ve got a plan all worked out.”

  “Fuck the plan. The DGI, the DGSE, the Interior Ministry are always one step ahead. It took me all day to lose my tail in New York.”

  “But you lost him.”

  “Yeah, I did, I’ve done it before. You never have.”

  “I’m a cop, I know when I’m being followed.”

  “Ojalá,” Ricky mumbles, looks at the stars, and shakes his head.

  Another long silence. Jiniteros and jiniteras start filtering back into the street. The boy beggar resumes his perch. The piano player at the Ambos breaks into the “Moonlight Sonata.”

  “What does Hector think about all this?” Ricky asks.

  “I wouldn’t tell him. I don’t trust him. Why do you mention Hector?” I ask.

  “You�
��re screwing him, aren’t you?” he says.

  “Mother of God, what makes you think that?”

  “Well, because he promoted you to detective and because you always talk about him.”

  “I’m not screwing him. I got promoted because I’m good at my job, Ricky.”

  Ricky orders another rum and Coke. He looks at his watch. Obviously I’m only the first of several appointments in his busy evening. I smile gently. “Look, Ricky, I know you’ve risked a lot, slipping out of Manhattan, going to Colorado, but I can take care of myself too.”

  He nods slowly and sinks back into the chair. His shoulders slump as if all the life has been sucked out of him, as if I’ve just told him I’ve got terminal cancer. He starts to say something and stops. “You’ve never been out of Cuba,” he says.

  “No, but I can speak English as well as you and I’m a damn fine cop.”

  Before he can respond the beggar boy pulls at his arm. Really pushing his luck, this one.

  “It’s your turn,” I tell Ricky.

  Ricky reaches into his pocket and gives the kid a few pesos. The kid takes it to one of the jiniteras, who might be his mother.

  Ricky looks at me, beams me that get-out-of-jail smile. “Ah, fuck it, it’s your decision, if you want to go, you go.”

  “Thanks for the permission. Now let’s end this. You know I’ve made up my mind. And once it’s made, it’s made.”

  “I like your outfit,” he says.

  “Shut up. I didn’t want to look like a cop.”

  “You don’t.”

  The street has completely filled now. Whores back under the streetlamps, pimps playing craps against alley walls. A CDR man I know shooting dice with the pimps. Ricky finishes the cigarillo. “I suppose it should be me. The only son,” he says.

  I hide the surprise on my face. “You’ve done enough,” I tell him.

  “It should be the son. It’s my responsibility. I owe it to Mom, to you.”

  I shuffle my chair next to him and put my arm around him. I kiss him on the cheek.

  “No.”

  He blinks, turns his head away. “It should be me,” he continues. “I thought about it when I was up there, but then—well, then I knew I wasn’t going to do anything.”

  “You did what I asked you to do.”

  He nods. “It wouldn’t be justice. It would be murder.”