Suspicion of Deceit

by Barbara Parker

  "Are you angry? It was so long ago, I don't think about it anymore."

  "I'm not angry, I'm just wondering what's going on. You pretended not to know Rebecca Dixon. And then Seth said you called him over the weekend, as if you had to get your stories straight."

  "Honey—" Anthony was shaking his head. He slid a hand down her arm, then held onto her wrist. "I called Seth to say hello, to catch up on the last twenty years. Then I said, 'You know, I never told Gail about our time in Nicaragua. I should do that.' All right. Seth and I went there to help build a school in a town in a rural area of Jinotega province. Rebecca worked in the clinic. It wasn't a safe place to be. Sandinistas were in the area, and government troops came through looking for them. We saw dead people in the fields. I think for the first time in our lives, we were afraid. It was a complicated experience. I wasn't consciously trying to keep it from you."

  She put her arms around him. "Okay. I just wanted to know. You can tell me about it someday. I'd like to hear what happened."

  "When we haye time."

  "Time? I wish. That's in awfully short supply lately."

  He hugged her and whispered, "After the party on Saturday, I'm going to kidnap you to my house and carry you upstairs."

  "I'll be screaming all the way."

  "Come on." He took her hand. "Let's see the master suite before we go downstairs."

  They found it at the end of the hall. Light leaked through heavy curtains drawn over a wall of windows that would otherwise look out to the bay. Indentations in the plush cream-colored carpet marked the position of furniture. A chandelier in the shape of a fireworks explosion hung over a raised platform designed to hold a king-size water bed. The wall behind the bed was painted black, and the wall opposite was mirrored.

  Gail stared into it, watching Anthony's reaction to all this. He stepped onto the platform where the bed used to be, looked through a crack in the curtains, then came down again.

  She said, "Why do I have a sudden urge to tell you to take off your clothes?"

  His image was behind her, hardly more than a silhouette. His face disappearing to a curve of forehead and nose when he lowered his mouth to her neck. Hands and the edge of white shirt cuffs moving over her dress. His voice at her ear. "Come into the bathroom with me."

  "You're crazy."

  "Now. Hurry up."

  Their footsteps echoed on the tile floor. He pushed the door shut. There was a huge bathtub with water jets and gold fixtures. A separate shower room, a long marble vanity with two basins.

  Anthony set her on the edge of it. They were both laughing. He told her to be quiet. She clung to his neck. Her purse fell off the counter and spilled open. Things clattered and rolled.

  Going down the staircase, they could see Karen by the seawall examining the lines that would lift a small boat out of the water. They crossed the cavernous living room and slid open one of the glass doors. Mrs. Sanchez, who had been sitting by the pool conducting other business on her portable phone, concluded her call, then escorted them along the paved walkways.

  She pointed out the security fence. The sprinkler system. The flowers, the fruit trees, the tropical plants that grew in lush green profusion, even now, in winter. The property was on a canal, much better than being right on the bay, in case of storm surges. Anthony agreed. He wanted security more than the view.

  The sun had moved behind the poinciana tree, leaving the thick grass dappled with patches of light. He told Gail that by late spring the tree would be heavy with red-orange flowers. He used the Spanish word. Framboyán.

  Karen was walking along the seawall, and Anthony went over to make sure she didn't fall in. No chance of that. She was as surefooted as a cat. The wind played with his tie and flipped the edge of his jacket.

  Already he owned this place in his mind. Not the house. It was ridiculous, and he knew it. If only they could bring in a huge helicopter crane, hook the house to cables, and drop it into the bay for an artificial reef. He wanted the framboyán tree, the electric gate, and the burglar alarm. No one could come in and by force or trickery take him away.

  Several months ago they had been taking a walk after dinner, and he had told her about his childhood in Camaguey. How idyllic he had made it sound. An Eden—but it had not been his own sin that expelled him, but a mother's desire for her child. And a grandfather's power.

  He had lived in a small house outside Cascorro with his father and sister. There had been a garden and chickens to tend. He made his own toys out of wood. His first girlfriend had lived down the road. Yolanda. He had not mentioned much more than her name. No reason. The rudderless conversation had simply drifted to a story about working one summer in the orange groves with the other boys. A young blond Russian with a permanent sunburn forced them to sing songs as they rode back to camp in carts pulled behind tractors. They made up obscene verses, falling over themselves with laughter while the Russian screamed at them to shut up. A happy childhood.

  Now Gail found herself thinking about the girl. Yolanda. She would have been pretty. He might have walked her to school on the road alongside the fields, then over the wooden bridge that crossed the river where his father had taught him to fish—before his father lost his sight in an exile raid and retired from the army. Endless green fields of sugarcane that turned brown before harvest. Palm trees, banana, framboyán ...

  Armásico, aguacate, ciruela, guayaba, mango, mamey. Ceiba, with its thick shining roots that snake over the ground.

  Yolanda has laughing brown eyes. Anthony is tall for his age, and so thin his ribs show, but his face is still rounded and smooth. What do they wear? She's in a yellow cotton dress. No. Coming from school, they would be in uniforms. Gray shorts or skirt, white shirts, red scarves at their necks. Pioneers. Seremos como el Che. We will be like Che. They sit under the tree. He tells her not to worry, no one will see them. The tree catches the sun, red and flaming, with the bluest of skies between the blossoms. Her skin is soft. She smells of earth and perspiration, and underneath is a sweet fragrance, and he presses his nose to her hair. A wind moves the branches, and a few red flowers drift down.

  There are birds. Sinsonte, totí, paloma—

  He says her name, Yolanda, the sounds sliding one into the next, his lips forming a kiss on the first syllable.

  They are late getting to her house, and her father comes through the door with a stick. Get inside, you disgraceful girl! Anthony grabs the stick before her father can hit her. It's my fault, he yells. But I didn't touch her. She's going to be my wife.

  Go on, get out of here before I break your head. The boy does not budge. My name is Anthony Luis Quintana, son of Luis Quintana, a hero of the revolution. I am first in my class at school, and I will go to the university and graduate, then Yolanda and I can get married.

  This outburst is so unexpected that the father can only stare, then look around at Yolanda's mother, who stands in the doorway hiding a smile behind her hand. Anthony asks permission to see their daughter at home. The father consents, but only one day a week, and right here, under supervision. And no more walking home by themselves. Understood? Yolanda is blushing with pleasure. Anthony nods. Thank you, sir.

  A month or two later he tells her that he is going to visit his mother in Miami. She cries. You'll never come back. Of course I will, he scoffs. I have to come back to take care of my father. He's blind. They can't keep me if I don't want to stay. I promise you, I'll be back. And you must promise to wait for me.

  Gail leaned her cheek on Anthony's shoulder. "I like the backyard."

  "You're right. This house won't do."

  "We'll find one that will."

  They walked across the lawn. Karen had disappeared inside, and Mrs. Sanchez waited on the terrace, giving them privacy while they made their decision.

  "Do you want me to check out Thomas Nolan's story?" Anthony asked.

  Gail smiled at him. "Thank you. What are you going to do, go down there yourself?"

  "No. I have an investigator wi
th contacts in Havana."

  "I keep seeing us at your grandfather's birthday party next weekend, and somebody turns on the news, and there's a video of Thomas Nolan shaking hands with Fidel Castro. Then your grandfather points to the door. Out, out."

  Anthony waved the idea way. "No. He'd let you eat first, before he told you to leave. My grandmother doesn't allow anything to interfere with a family dinner."

  "Please say you're making a joke."

  "Yes, Gail."

  Oh, by the way, I heard Octavio Reyes this morning on the radio at my office." Anthony's smile vanished.

  " 'The arts have no right to support a dictatorship.' I didn't hear all of it." They reached the edge of the patio. "Have you considered, sweetheart, that your brother-in-law could use this issue to stab you in the back?"

  "Yes, I have considered that."

  "Then perhaps you should tell the investigator to hurry."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  They stopped at a Chinese takeout on the way to Gail's house. Anthony told her to go in and order, he would be right there. And take Karen with her. With some grumbling, Karen got out of the car.

  Gail told the cashier what they wanted, then went over to the window and looked past the printed menu taped to the glass. Anthony had a new black Eldorado, so shiny that the lights from inside seemed to float on its hood. She could see him talking on his cellular telephone. She and Karen were carrying bags and cartons out of the restaurant when Anthony finally hung up. He hurried to help put the food in beside Karen.

  "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I was talking to the investigator. He says to come to his house tonight, but I have time to eat with you and Karen first." He started the car, glanced over his shoulder, and backed up. "Tell me everything you know about the singer, including what he said in your meeting today. Felix wants to know."

  "You plan to go alone?"

  "Yes. You don't need to be there." Anthony added, "It's too late for Karen to be out. She probably has homework."

  A voice came from the backseat. "I already did my homework."

  "It's still too late for you to be out."

  Gail looked at him for another moment, then turned in her seat. "Sweetie?"

  Karen rolled her eyes. "I know. You want Gramma to come over and babysit."

  "Ay, Dios. Gail, you don't have to go."

  "This is my case, remember?" When Anthony finally agreed that it was, Gail said, "Tell me about the investigator."

  The streetlights moved over Anthony's face. "Felix Castillo. You might not like him, but you can trust him. He's absolutely reliable. Don't bother asking him questions, because he doesn't like to talk about himself. He came to the U.S. in 1980, the Mariel boatlift. He's forty-nine, I believe. Two fingers of his left hand are missing. He lives with his girlfriend. I tell you this so you won't ask if she's his daughter." Anthony paused, his eyes going to the rearview mirror. "Karen. What are you doing?"

  "Nothing."

  Gail looked around. Paper crackled as Karen slid an egg roll back into the bag. Her lips were shiny with grease. "No eating in the car. We'll be home in a minute."

  "I'll tell you more on the way to Felix's," Anthony said.

  Karen asked, "What happened to his fingers?"

  There was a hesitation just long enough to tell Gail not to believe whatever came next. "An accident at work."

  Felix Castillo lived east of Coral Gables just south of Eighth Street, an area of small stucco houses and three- or four-story apartment buildings. A car went by booming Spanish rap music. Gail assumed the neighborhood was safe because Anthony left his pistol in the glove compartment instead of putting it on the seat.

  He told her that Castillo had lost his fingers to a machete. He'd been making love to his mistress when her old boyfriend came out of nowhere. Castillo had gotten to his gun in time to prevent the next blow. He always carried a gun. In Cuba he had been in state security. When Anthony told her what branch, Gail asked, "What is that? Haydo?"

  He pronounced it in English. "G-two. In Spanish it's hay-dos. It's the equivalent of the CIA. Don't bring it up tonight." Anthony looked at the street signs and turned at the next corner.

  "He was a Cuban spy?"

  "More or less. He quit, and they threw him in jail, then about a year later, the port of Mariel opened, and they put him on a boat. He came here with the hundred and twenty-five thousand others who got out. He told immigration he used to be a mechanic. He started his life over again, and he wants to forget anything that happened before 1980."

  "Does he ever talk about it?"

  "Not with strangers."

  "I didn't even think to ask you what he charges," Gail said.

  "No, no. Consider it my gift—my anonymous donation—to the opera." Anthony turned another corner, slowed his car, then pulled off the street under the thick canopy of a banyan tree, letting the engine idle and leaving the parking lights on.

  The house to Gail's right was completely dark. "Is this where he lives?"

  "No, it's just ahead, but I think you should know something else about Felix. When I went to Nicaragua, Felix was there as an advisor. That's where I met him." The dashboard lights barely illuminated Anthony's face.

  Gail said, "An advisor. Could you be a little more specific?"

  "He was . . . helping the local Sandinistas with tactics and weapons."

  "Anthony, my God, what were you doing?"

  "Nothing. It was a small town, and people get to know each other. I met Felix, found out he was from Cuba, and we became friends. He had a cover—fixing engines in farm equipment—but in that area, they didn't have many tractors. After leaving Nicaragua, I never expected to see him again. Then two years later I was in New York, and my mother called asking if I knew a Felix Castillo, who claimed to be a friend of mine from Camagüey. She was skeptical because I'd left at thirteen. Felix had called my grandfather's house from a camp in Miami where Immigration put everybody till they had sponsors. So I said yes, I remember Felix, ask my grandfather to find him a job. I think he worked in the car dealership for a while. What he did after that, I don't know. When I moved back to Miami, he was working as a private investigator. He's very good. I chose him for this job because nobody could do it better than Felix. But Seth and Rebecca—I don't think they know he's here. I'll call them in the morning."

  Gail said nothing for a while, assimilating all this. "Do you catch the irony here? A former Cuban spy helping find out the truth about Thomas Nolan's trip to Havana."

  "Tricky more than ironic. If anyone became aware of his background, it might look bad for the opera. Be discreet, okay?"

  "And I'm not supposed to bring this up with Felix," she said.

  "Don't even think of it." Anthony turned the headlights back on and drove the remaining half block to Felix Castillo's house.

  Like most other houses in this neighborhood, this one had decorative ironwork on the windows. A chain-link fence ran along the cracked sidewalk. Someone had pushed back the gate to the driveway. Anthony pulled in behind a battered gray van, the kind a handyman might drive. There were the usual bumper stickers one saw in Cuban neighborhoods. HERMANOS AL RESCATE. WQBA. NO CREO EN EL MIAMI HERALD. Gail wondered if this was sincerity or camouflage.

  The front door, set back into an alcove, opened before Anthony could rap on the barred security door. A man came out with a key ring. A pair of rubber thongs slapped on the tiles. Felix Castillo was laughing. "Look who's here." He unlocked the dead-bolt. "Come in, come in." He and Anthony embraced. There were some slaps on the back. Castillo was shorter, but muscular and quick.

  "Viejo, ¿qué tal?"

  "Bien, bien. Hace tiempo, mano."

  "Gail, this is Felix Castillo."

  He was bald, except for a close-cropped fringe of gray hair. His mustache drooped below the corners of his mouth, and when he smiled, heavy lines fanned out from his eyes. "Ann, Tony, she's beautiful. I am honored, Gail." He kissed her hand.

  Anthony took two metal cigar tubes from his breast pocket. "F
elix, I've been saving these for you."

  "Oh, my God, look at this. Cohiba corona gorda. You're too much, man. Come sit down." After locking the door he led them through an archway into a living room with white tile on the floor and puffy brown furniture with bases of laminated plastic. In a four-foot high cage, a dozen lovebirds squawked and fluttered. The television was on, and a young black woman who might have been twenty unfolded herself from the sofa. Her breasts wobbled under a fuzzy purple sweater, which had fallen off one shoulder. She gazed at the new arrivals with the sullen expression of someone whose evening had been rudely cut short.

  Castillo introduced her as Daisy, then asked what they wanted to drink. "Café, rum, vodka, scotch, beer?" Gail agreed to a beer. Anthony asked for rum. Castillo told the girl, "Una cerveza, dos ron añejo. Y apague la TV. "

  The television went silent. The birds continued to chirp. Daisy clopped from the room in backless shoes with shiny gold heels. Her legs were slim, her butt like two melons.

  Gail sat down on the sofa, feeling decidedly out of place. Castillo and Anthony remained standing, Spanish flowing so fast she could pick out only a word here and there. They were sniffing the cigars, Castillo telling Anthony to have one, Anthony saying no, no, son para tí, they're for you. Finally giving in. Switching to English, Anthony asked if Gail minded. She shook her head. Castillo raised the miniblinds and cranked open the window. Cool night air drifted into the room. Gail had changed into slacks and a turtleneck, but she felt chilled. She put her tweed jacket on.

  Castillo went over to a bookcase near the front entrance and moved a box of ammunition, looking for something. The cigar clipper. He found it under an ankle holster with Velcro straps. There was a small black pistol inside.

  He held the cigar in his left hand, took a small snip off one end, then lit the other one with a green plastic disposable lighter. His last two fingers were completely gone, and part of his hand was missing. A gold bracelet glittered on his wrist, as if daring anyone to comment. He passed the lighter to Anthony, who turned the cigar slowly, his lean cheeks going hollow. A circle of orange appeared. He let out the smoke in small puffs.