Rolando raised and lowered his shoulders at least three times. Each time he was about to speak, he hesitated. He took a deep breath and then another, drawing strength from the sea air. “She liked men.”
“I don’t know. She was discreet.”
Byczek scribbled in his notebook. “That’s all?”
“I own a restaurant. All night I’m busy. That left her with free time.”
“Yes,” he said. “I suppose it would. Could she have been mixed up with characters who sold drugs or something?”
“Men were her drug. She didn’t have the patience for anything else.”
I needed ten minutes to start the scooter. Then I drove Rolando home in silence—we were both out of words. I offered to accompany him inside, but he said he wanted to be alone. I didn’t argue. I was merely thankful Rolando disappeared inside his building before my eyes teared up. I didn’t try to wipe my cheeks nor did I pay attention to other drivers who might have noticed.
I hadn’t thought to bring sunglasses, so my eyes stung by the time I reached my apartment. I lay down in vain: my legs wouldn’t stay still, light invaded the room, and the very bed I squirmed in was where I’d slept next to the first young person I’d ever seen dead. I migrated to the couch and turned on the TV, but all the channels showed commercials.
When I woke up, the newscaster had already covered the previous day’s main events. He was winding down with the little stuff. A festival in San Juan Capistrano. Near record highs. Suddenly a familiar building appeared on the screen. I rubbed my eyes while I listened: “Nothing is yet known about the California man found dead Friday morning at Grand View Hotel in Las Vegas. Robbery is the presumed motive.” The newscaster stood to the side of the hotel so that the photographer could get a straight shot of the ninth floor.
I turned off the set as if it were rational to kill the messenger. Then I turned it back on, thinking I must be hearing things in my dazed stupor, but by then the program was detailing women’s basketball in the L.A. area.
I called the operator and paid the extra charge to be put straight through. “Grand View Hotel,” beamed the receptionist. I could imagine her in a uniform and slot machine pin.
“Listen, that man in Room 929—”
“Oh, yes. Terrible thing. But we don’t know the details about it. If you have information, you’ll have to inform the police. There’s an officer here right now if you’d like to speak to him.”
“No thanks,” I said. “I was merely wondering.”
I slammed down the phone, punishing it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I spent my next afternoons watching the waves in Huntington Beach a few feet north of the mounds of sand that had cradled Yiolanda. The waves told me nothing. They displayed ups and downs, ripples of discontent I felt through my core. I replayed the afternoon at Mrs. Sfirakis’ over and over in my mind, imagining different scenarios, better reactions on my part. Most often I imagined going to the door, admitting Yiolanda into my apartment, listening to her story, and letting her stay as long as she liked. “Help me! I’m in danger!” Her words shouted through my mind.
Stefani had called, wanting to accompany me to the funeral mass. “I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Why is that?”
I tried to explain that I had all I could do to help Rolando, but she cut me off.
“You want to mourn your dead lover alone, don’t you?”
I didn’t even protest that Yiolanda hadn’t been my lover. I was tired of trying to figure out why I didn’t want to date Stefani. I couldn’t explain it to myself, let alone to her.
“You don’t have anything to say for yourself?”
When I didn’t answer, she hung up. I wished I had a way to explain that I hadn’t acted badly on purpose.
The funeral mass had been a horrible, solemn occasion. The family friends, including Lyle Deeds, filled St. Barbara’s with muffled, weeping noises while the priest, in dusty black robes, promised heaven. Rolando and I were as nonreligious as Yiolanda had been. Liliana, who’d flown up from San Carlos and held Rolando’s hand throughout the entire mass, had to pray for us all.
Yiolanda’s mother, a spry, healthy seventy-year-old, scowled at Rolando every chance she got so that he would be sure to know she blamed him for what happened. Had she known about her daughter’s affairs, she would have blamed Rolando for those as well. She didn’t accuse him verbally. She merely stared at him with mascara-filled eyes that dared him to explain. I was glad I’d never called on her in Vegas. The interview would have gone poorly because I wouldn’t have known to have been aggressive until it was too late.
Rolando withdrew from everyone. He closed the restaurant for three nights after Yiolanda’s death as a sign of mourning, then explained he needed time to himself and put me in charge. He told me to call if I needed help with anything. Instead I felt the kindest thing I could do was to give him space, so Corinna and Dennis and I took care of details however we could, making kitchen decisions and logging reservations. After work each evening we sat around feeling bad about all the times we’d bad-mouthed the dead woman.
During Rolando’s absence, I was a terrible musician. I’d lost my focus. Usually the responsibility of being the leader was enough to bring me back from whatever personal problems I’d brought in from the day, but in the two weeks after Yiolanda’s death, I didn’t care about the audience. I couldn’t help but place the lion’s share of the musical work on my companions. For the first time ever, the line from Por un amor where the singer claimed to be crying drops of blood did not seem impossibly sappy.
Joey met me every day for lunch. More than once, as his secretary curtly informed me afterwards, he’d cancelled appointments with clients so he could spend time with me. Joey hadn’t shared the scope of the problem with his secretary, though. While Mrs. Harris thought I was pining over lost love, she couldn’t realize how complicated the loss—or the guilt—had been.
I was desperate to get out of Squid Bay because as soon as I left Noche Azul, I became the town’s prisoner, walking empty black streets because I couldn’t stand to sit still. Most nights I had nowhere to go. Sitting alone in my apartment was worse because I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep until the morning’s distant traffic started gurgling, as if the noise reassured me of a new day, and a few hours later the morning’s uncomfortable heat would wake me up again. Daily highs had put the whole city on edge; I was merely an extreme example.
Several afternoons I took my nieces to the park. They were the best kind of therapy; their cheerful laughter bought me moments when I didn’t feel bad about how I’d failed Yiolanda. I needed a way outside California and outside myself. After a week of sleepless nights, I returned Rachel’s call and invited myself to come visit. If a small Greek island wasn’t far enough away, nothing would be.
“For the tenth time, it’s not your fault,” Joey told me one night after we'd drunk uncounted amounts of Presidente. “Besides, she tried to have you killed.”
“I don’t know that for sure.”
“Sure you do.”
“It’s not her fault. She was being watched.” I cleared my throat long enough to cough. I’d smoked non-stop since her death, so by now my whole chest hurt. I lit another cigarette so I could feel the pain.
“You had to protect yourself. There was no way to know she might have been telling the truth. She chose her destruction. You didn’t choose it for her.”
“If I’d let her in that night—”
“The police would have been pulling bullet holes out of your walls. As they cuffed you, they’d have wondered why another man’s wife had drawn her last breath in your bed. You should be thankful.”
I felt too culpable to be thankful, and I worried about ways I could be implicated. I might not have seen any of the neighbors the times I’d visited Rolando’s building, but that didn’t mean no one had seen me. Since I had high visibility as a musician, people I couldn’t remember knew who I was. Also, Rolando’s nosy neighbor m
ight turn out to be clever. During the funeral mass, Maria Theresa had sat at the back with a silent husband. As we left the church, I locked Pablo into conversation to avoid her eyes.
Byczek sent his men to the restaurant to interview us, but they didn’t have many questions. The crime scene had yielded few clues, and what little we knew bored them. They interviewed us separately, hoping Rolando would prove to be the most likely suspect, but he’d been at the restaurant in plain sight all night. Nobody could remember him speaking harshly to or about Yiolanda. On the other hand, we each reported that Yiolanda sought male company on a regular basis. The officers easily agreed that on this one occasion, she’d chosen a dangerous playmate.
They had no right to be so satisfied. Answers lurked just beneath our noses. We had plenty of repeat customers; someone must have seen something. I started inquiring, but my every question led to a dead end. It was bad enough that the customers didn’t care one way or another, but neither did the staff. In my spare moments I hounded them one by one. Certainly Corinna had noticed something. She was our best gossip, but her lips were tightly sealed.
“Forget about Yiolanda,” she told me. “We’re better off without her.”
Dennis was even worse. “That woman was a menace,” he claimed. “Be glad she’s gone. And hope Rolando stays single.”
I didn’t stop with them. I grilled my fellow players. The busboys. The bartender. Rolando called three times to suggest it was time to lay off, but I couldn’t help myself. Joey told me the same thing, but I didn't listen to him either. Someone needed to pay. Stubbornly, I kept making inquiries. No matter the pain, I wanted answers.
No, what I really wanted was Yiolanda.
***
A gaunt Rolando returned to the restaurant two weeks after Yiolanda’s death. When he walked in, a hush fell over us. The wait staff moved about mechanically while Pablo and Sergio and Hernando and I sang like parrots. Unconsciously we’d signed on to share Rolando’s pain, so he had the job of pulling us back together. He walked around greeting diners and reassuring the wait staff. He came to talk to us after we’d played a few songs. “Am I paying you to dampen everyone’s spirits?” he asked. “Concentrate on the customers. Look happy. That’s the only way we’ll be able to go on.” We obliged by resorting to fake smiles, but the audience responded with genuine ones, and slowly, slowly, we did our best to entertain.
I dared hope things were going all right until I saw Rolando stop Pablo on his way back from the john, sequestering him by leading him to the bar. Despite their short exchange, by the time Pablo returned to the stage, his demeanor had changed. He couldn’t try to be cheerful.
Sergio stood. “Want something from the bar?”
“How about a soda?” I asked.
Pablo shook his head. “Better have something stronger.”
“Right,” I said slowly, watching Pablo’s expression. “Brandy sounds good.”
Pablo waited until Sergio was out of hearing. “I think he knows. He’s been looking at you funny all night.”
My temple turned into fire, and my leg twitched. “What did you tell him?”
“Nothing.”
“I saw him corner you.”
“He asked if Yiolanda had given you any trouble.”
“And?”
“I said I didn’t know. But there’s a funny look in his eye.”
Rolando didn’t need to make a leap of faith to imagine me with his wife. Yiolanda might have said something herself.
“Now what?” I asked.
“Hope for the best. Blame everything on Yiolanda.”
“She’s dead.”
“Exactly my point.”
The rest of the night was a slow torture. When I was singing, I couldn’t keep track of where I was, so I mixed up verses and made false entrances. Every song reminded me of Yiolanda. I asked to sing Por un amor and almost cried myself. While we were cleaning off our instruments, Rolando came over. “Got a minute?” he asked me.
“Sure.”
“Come on upstairs when you’re done counting up tips.” Rolando turned away before I could reply.
“Do you know any group that could use another violin player?” I asked Pablo.
“Not right off.”
When I extended my hand, he shook it firmly, but he avoided looking me in the eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
In the office, Dennis and Corinna were at the table sorting receipts while Rolando fingered the calculator.
“Have a seat, Andy.”
I did so, smiling weakly at Dennis and Corinna as they straightened their piles.
“You all did great work in my absence,” Rolando said. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate it. Everybody came through for me. Now, if you’ll take me through step by step.”
Corinna explained the usual kitchen orders. She’d run out of salad and fruit. They were overstocked on beef. Stray cats had sneaked into the kitchen and chewed through four bags of extra bread; we needed to repair the window before they sneaked in again. Dennis went through the reservation book, explaining his scrawls and rough tallies. We had several busloads of tourists booked for the following week, so perhaps we could open half an hour earlier. Rolando nodded, uninterested.
I took my key chain from my pocket to have something to do with my hands. I fingered the pads of the miniature soccer ball as I imagined useful lies. Why had Yiolanda bought me a ticket to Vegas?
I was desperate to visit a sick friend but out of cash. Why had I visited the Díaz condo? Yiolanda wanted advice about redesigning the living room, so she’d invited my brother, not me, to prepare an estimate. For anything else, I’d have to improvise.
The key chain slipped from my hand and slid across the floor. As I bent to retrieve it, I noticed a shiny object under the table. I was about to reach for it when I realized the butt end of a bullet was lodged right into the linoleum.
Rolando tried to offer Corinna and Dennis drinks, but they pleaded they were tired, probably because Rolando looked worn out himself. I stood when they did, but he stopped me. “Please, Andy, stay and have a drink with me. Unless you have someone waiting.” He winked at Corinna and Dennis as if they’d all been talking about me.
“I don’t.”
Dennis and Corinna shut the door behind them, and their steps slowly faded out of earshot. I concentrated on the table to avoid eye contact.
“It’s been a hell of a week.” Rolando poured us both big snifters of brandy. When he lit a cigarette, I did the same, hoping smoke could form a screen. “You kept everything going.” He reached into his back pocket and wiggled out his wallet. “I want to pay you for your extra time.” He tossed five hundred-dollar bills on the table.
“That’s not necessary.”
“Take the money. I know you worked hard so nobody would bother me.” Automatically he scanned the receipt on top of the first pile, punched the total into the calculator, and pushed “return.” The calculator whizzed. “Is that why everyone avoided me tonight?”
The ceiling fan needed lubricant. It squeaked with each revolution, punctuating our words. “None of us knew what to say.”
Rolando punched in the next receipt. “Yiolanda used to run the tallies, you know. But she made a lot of mistakes. I always had to go back and double-check.” He punched in two more.
“I can’t tell you how bad I feel about—about her.”
Rolando kept working. He was faster than Yiolanda was; his fingers fell into a regular pattern. “Pablo said she didn’t give you any trouble. You must have done everything she wanted you to.”
I felt sweat on my forehead and under my arms. With any luck, I might pass out from the heat.
“Everyone has tried to sympathize,” Rolando continued, “but you have to get on with things eventually. Don’t you agree?”
Before I could stop him, he picked up my brandy glass and took a sip. My grandmother had a saying that if you drank from someone’s glass, you automatically knew their secrets. To be on the safe
side, I took a sip from the other glass. As I put it down, I noticed the artwork on the coaster. A cat was meowing at a yellow orb. In the foreground were two words: Moonlit Nights.
Rolando stopped tabulating. “Let’s get down to business.”
I braced myself. He hated me. He had a gun. He wanted to fight a duel. And naturally, I was fired. “Sure, Rolando. Whatever you say.”
“It’s time to lay off the amateur investigation crap. You go to the kitchen for a coffee and interrogate Corinna. You sit at the bar and quiz Johnny. I warned you a couple of times already.”
“But, Rolando, we’ve got to find out who killed your wife!”
“We? No. We don’t need to do anything. You in particular.”
“Don’t you want to know?”
“I can make an educated guess.” Briefly, he smiled.
“Then let’s call Byczek! I have his number right here.”
“Andy. She was trying to kill me. Mentally. Emotionally. Physically. Step by step she was breaking me down.”
The phone chirped. My impulse was to grab it off the desk, but Rolando held out his hand. “Wait. Let’s screen.”
“Hello, Handsome,” said a cheerful female voice. “Mrs. G. here. Say hello to the boys tonight, would you? But listen, I’m planning a party for Saturday. Maybe you’d like to come? Call me.”
Mrs. G.
G for Gutiérrez.
Rolando tabulated. “My number one fan. She even lent me her second cousins, or maybe they’re nephews. Anyway, you can’t believe how popular I am now that Yiolanda is dead. An unexpected fringe benefit. But first, I need a rest.”
He shook his head. “I should have seen it coming. Never fall for a beautiful younger woman. You’ll kick yourself later for being such an imbecile. Yiolanda was too much for me to handle. Maybe I was too old for the challenge.”
“You’re not old.”
“So-so. But she made me feel that way sometimes.”
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