Suspicion of Betrayal

by Barbara Parker

  He tapped a rhythm on the bar, making a final flourish by pointing at her. "This place is going to be a gold mine. On weekends, with the steel band, you can't find a parking place. I even had Jimmy Buffett drop in here last weekend."

  "Fantastic." With a little jolt of surprise, Gail realized she was smiling. She looked away from him and picked up the menu again. "Old Island Club. Catchy."

  Dave nodded toward the map of the Caribbean in a rope-trimmed frame on the back wall. "See that? The original Old Island Club is at Sapphire Beach on St. Thomas. It's got white sand beaches and a good harbor—the yachties love it. They've got a big-screen TV for sports, and they take coconuts right off the trees and make a rum drink called the Green Flash. People party all night. If you sail in that area, you've been there."

  "How can you get away with using their name?" Gail asked.

  Dave grinned. "I bought the name. I traded the Princess for it."

  "That was a hundred-thousand-dollar boat!"

  "It was a bargain, believe me."

  The waitress reappeared. "Dave? Excuse me. Can I get you anything?" Her wing-shaped brows lifted in expectation.

  "Gail, you still like Red Stripe? On the house, old times' sake."

  "No, I really can't stay." She reached for the small black purse on the counter.

  He laid his hand on her arm. "Five minutes. I can't stay either, I've got to take Karen for her tennis lesson. Vicki, one Red Stripe and two mugs from the freezer."

  "Sure." The woman made a smile, standard waitress-friendly. She went away to find the mugs, but she glanced back at Dave before the screen door to the kitchen banged shut. She was not unattractive.

  Gail reconsidered. "Is there something going on between you two?"

  "Me and Vicki? Naah. Not really."

  "Sort of?"

  "Not anymore. We went out a few times, but I've got Karen to think of. It has to be the right person."

  There might have been an accusation there, but Gail let it slide. "Dave ..."

  He had blue eyes with pale lashes. The sun had sketched lines at the corners.

  "Can I ask you something? Why ... do you think I'm such a terrible mother? Is that what you really think?"

  He turned around and leaned against the bar. "I never said that." For a while he watched a little ketch with furled sails coming into the inlet, bumping gently against the dock. "Where is it written that the mother always gets the child? I've read books that say a girl can do just as well with her father. Look, you work fifty, sixty hours a week. You've got Karen at summer camp till late in the afternoon. I can pick her up at four—"

  "And you're running a restaurant, Dave. This place closes at one a.m. on weekends."

  "I have a manager. I live three blocks from here, and I know what my priorities are, okay? My daughter." He faced her. "I spent a lot of nights alone out there at sea, looking up at that empty sky. There was plenty of time to contemplate what's really important in life."

  "Really. I thought you and your girlfriend were staying at the Caribe Hilton in San Juan in exchange for your services as a tennis pro."

  The waitress—Vicki—arrived with the beer. No one spoke while she poured it into two frosted glass mugs. "Enjoy," she said, smiling again. She went to tend to a customer.

  Gail dropped her forehead onto her palm. "I apologize. This is driving me crazy."

  Dave pushed a mug toward her. "You're not the only one. I wish we could work it out." He laughed. "Goddamn lawyer's eating up all my profits. Cheers." He clinked his mug to hers.

  They sat for a minute in silence. He said, "You really do look good, though. Money agrees with you."

  "I'm not sure I should consider that a compliment," she said, "since you place so little value on it."

  He smiled. "Relatively speaking, Gail."

  "Of course."

  Dave set down his mug and turned it on its coaster. "Money. Everybody's after the long green." "But you're doing all right."

  "Great." His smile deepened the lines around his eyes. "And better to come. In fact"—he leaned so close she could feel the warmth of his shoulder on her bare upper arm—"there's a company—very big— interested in a franchise. We're still working out the details, so I don't want to jinx it by saying too much."

  "Be careful," she said. "Make sure they show you the money before you sign anything."

  "Don't worry about that. This deal is golden." His forearms lay on the counter. His hands were blunt with muscular palms. The right was callused from holding a racquet. A dive watch was strapped to his left wrist. He wore no jewelry.

  Gail hesitated, then said, "Dave, are you angry at me because we split up? Do you blame me?"

  His smile faded. "You think I want Karen for revenge? That I'd put myself through this pain to even the score? No." Once again they were on opposite sides. "No, Gail. I love my daughter. Period. I want a way of life for her that she's not going to get living with you and"—it was as though Dave couldn't bring himself to say the name—"and that joker you're engaged to."

  "Way of life? What—"

  His forefinger hit the counter, accenting his words, which came out in a heated whisper. "A basic, simple, decent American lifestyle. Hard to find these days. It's getting damn near impossible in Miami. But that's what I want for Karen, and I will do my best to make sure she has it. You want to marry Quintana, go ahead. But you're not taking Karen with you. No. He is too slick and too damned shady. Any guy who would make his living defending dope dealers and cold-blooded killers—"

  "Oh, for God's sake."

  "Ask yourself: Who's his family? Did you read that article in the Herald last month? They investigated city contracts and found Pedrosa Construction Company in bed with the head of building and zoning. The reporter nearly got shot!"

  "That has nothing to do with Anthony!"

  Dave looked at her, then shook his head. "You just don't see it, do you, Gail? You, Ms. Independent, marrying a Cuban? It won't last."

  "You are so wrong," Gail said.

  He glanced around. The quick thump of sneakers was approaching from behind them. He said to Gail, "Yeah, I wish I were, for her sake." Dave pivoted on the stool. "Hey, princess. What've you got there?"

  "A shell. Vicki gave it to me. What kind is it?"

  "Well, let's see." Dave drew Karen closer. The cone-shaped, brown-spotted shell had spines radiating out from the opening, which was tinted with delicate pink.

  "Oh, these are all over the Caymans. The water is clear as glass. I'll take you some day, princess."

  Gail glanced at her watch. "I have to go." She said to Karen, "Be good. See you Sunday. Give me a kiss."

  "Bye, Mom." Karen tilted her face sideways to be kissed, then turned the shell over and wondered aloud what the spines were for.

  Dave said, "I'll call you about the appointment." For a long moment their eyes were locked over Karen's head.

  Gail nodded, then turned and walked out.

  FOUR

  Shadows were lengthening by the time Gail arrived at the Pedrosa house, and the row of lamps along the wall had been lit. She drove through the open iron gates and spotted Anthony's Eldorado among the cars parked in the circular driveway. She pulled in behind it, then grabbed her purse and hurried toward the entrance, set back under a portico draped with bougain-villea. Water splashed in a fountain.

  A few moments after she pressed the bell, the housekeeper swung back the heavy door. "Buenas noches, señora."

  "Gracias." Gail gave the woman a smile as she came inside. There was a wide opening to her left, and the living room was beyond. She heard conversation and laughter.

  Anthony stepped into the hall, saw who was there, and held out a hand to pull her close. His expression was a mix of relief and annoyance. "Why didn't you call? I was worried."

  "Is everyone starving? I'm so sorry. My phone was in my other purse. I had to talk to Dave, and the traffic—"

  He kissed her cheek. "It's all right. We're having appetizers. Relax."


  Inside the living room there were more kisses and greetings for everyone, as if she had not seen most of them just last weekend for the christening of the newest great-grandson. Family dinners were frequent, usually based on a special occasion. Tonight was somebody's birthday. A great-aunt, Gail thought. She had a moment of panic before remembering that Anthony had said he would take care of the gift.

  The matriarch of the family, Digna Maria Betan-court de Pedrosa, in a chic silk dress and pearl earrings, reached up from the sofa when Gail bent to kiss her. From behind his thick glasses Anthony's grandfather gave her a wink. "Anthony, y a ella está hecha una cubana." She's Cuban already—a reference to her tardiness. Gail winked back. This man was fluent in English, but spoke it less and less. In the 1940s he had ridden for the Cuban equestrian team. Now he sat in a wheelchair. He had fought against this indignity— being pushed through his own house like an invalid— but after one too many falls Digna had insisted.

  When Señora Pedrosa grasped the handles of her husband's chair, everyone moved toward the dining room. Gail walked with the youngest granddaughter, Betty, who carried her new baby on her shoulder. Anthony escorted Aunt Graciela, his late mother's sister.

  The double doors were open, and a chandelier cast a glow on the polished wood table and the marble floor beneath it. Twenty chairs had been squeezed around the table. Señora Pedrosa wheeled her husband to one end, then took her own seat at the other, host and hostess. Anthony touched Gail's waist. "Come sit here with me." He held a chair, and she sat between Anthony and his cousin Elena's husband. Pepe spoke to Anthony, and the men laughed, then went back and forth in Spanish too fast for her to follow.

  Glancing around the table, Gail counted twelve people who managed one or another facet of a family empire worth close to three hundred million dollars. A bank, a construction company, rental properties, shopping centers. And it was all controlled by Ernesto Pedrosa—who was now over eighty. How much longer could he make decisions? Someone would have to take over. There were three granddaughters and their husbands. There were grand-nephews and nieces. And Anthony.

  But he and his grandfather had been at odds for years, on different sides of an issue that had torn their country apart. Pedrosa had taken his family out of Cuba after Castro seized power, but Anthony and a sister remained with their father, Luis Quintana, a decorated hero of the revolution. When Anthony was thirteen, Pedrosa arranged for him to come visit his mother in Miami, then refused to let him go home. Anthony was forced to go to school in enemy territory, forced to learn a new language. He refused to denounce his father. At twenty he was thrown out of this very house after a raging argument with Pedrosa. Brilliant and rebellious, he had gone north and made his own way through law school.

  Relations between him and his grandfather gradually thawed, then grew to mutual respect. Anthony Quintana managed nothing belonging to Ernesto Pedrosa. Had been given nothing, had asked for nothing. He was Pedrosa's chief irritant and greatest hope. The favorite, and everyone knew it. But he had said no.

  The courses were served, and plates were passed. Puerco asado—pork roasted with garlic and spices. Moros—black beans and rice cooked together. Fried plantains. Boiled yuca con mojo—oil and more garlic. Sometimes there would be chicken, beef, or delicately cooked fish. But always the garlic, the beans and rice, and then—the world would stop otherwise—tiny cups of espresso after dinner.

  Someone told a joke, which was duly translated for Gail. They waited to see if she laughed, and when she did, the laughter went around the table again.

  In Havana the Pedrosas had employed a French cook. Here they could have had whatever they wanted, but even the menu made a political statement: solidarity with the displaced exiles, rich and poor alike. Ernesto Jose Pedrosa Masvidal had decreed that only traditional Cuban food would be served in his house. In Havana he had ordered his shirts from an English tailor, but here he stuck to his four-pocket guayaberas.

  A nicely sun-browned hand with an onyx ring on it deftly poured wine into Gail's empty glass. Anthony. She smiled at him. "Trying to get me drunk?"

  He said quietly, "I apologize for last night. I shouldn't have left you like that."

  "It wasn't your fault," she said. "I was stressed out. Why do you put up with me?"

  His lips parted just enough for her to see him smile. He leaned over as if to kiss her cheek. His breath was warm in her ear. "Porque me gusta tu sabor. "

  Her mind processed the words. Because . . . I like . . . I like the way you taste. Her skin tingled. She spoke with the wineglass in front of her mouth. "When we get home, I am going to tie you to the bed. Open the bottle of love potion. Unzip your pants . .."

  When she didn't go on, he prodded, "And ..."

  "Well, I don't know. If we stay as late as we usually do, I might be too tired."

  "We won't stay. As soon as the old man is asleep, Nena will come downstairs. We'll say good night to her, then leave."

  "No cigars with the guys," Gail said.

  "And you won't get into a long conversation with the women about the wedding," he returned.

  At least the wedding had given her something to talk about. The Pedrosa women were polite. They embraced her and kissed her cheek, but she would always be la americana. Anthony's first wife, a Cuban woman, had fit in better, even though Rosa—they gossiped about her—had been out of his social class, the daughter of a meat packer in Union City, New Jersey. But she had been pretty, and Anthony had been so young. Gail had felt their eyes on her, appraising. She could imagine their thoughts: She's American, but we can overlook that. Her family is prominent, and she will make a good wife.

  Gail pushed a piece of tomato around on her plate, nudging the chunks of pork into a straight line. She had no appetite, and the thought of pork made her queasy.

  "Anthony, I need to see a client of yours, Harry Lasko." Anthony's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "It's about the Sweet case you sent me. Wendell Sweet says he has no money, but he's lying. Harry Lasko knows him and might be able to tell us what he did with his cash. If I don't get some information, Jamie could be in real trouble. And my fees! I've got twenty-two thousand dollars' worth of time in this case. The judge won't rule on it until he knows what Wendell can afford. I've got to talk to Mr. Lasko."

  Anthony shook his head as he finished chewing. "No."

  "What do you mean, no?"

  "N-o. I can't let Harry talk to anyone until I work out a plea with the prosecutors. They could tack on more charges if anything else comes up."

  "Such as?"

  He made a slight shrug. "One never knows."

  Gail was still looking at him. "Give me something about Wendell. Come on."

  Anthony didn't want to get into it, she could see that. Barely moving his lips, he said quietly, "Harry and Wendell had some business dealings on Aruba, and before you ask—yes, they were legitimate. However. Wendell knows some questionable people, and the DEA is interested in who they are. I don't want to open that can of worms, not while I'm trying to persuade the government that poor, bumbling Harry Lasko tripped on his shoelaces and fell over the line—"

  "Wendell is a drug dealer?"

  "Let's say . . . that Wendell has terrible taste in friends."

  "I don't see what all this has to do with a divorce case," Gail said.

  "It doesn't. But if Harry slips up and says more than he should, and you file a list of assets in the Sweet case that shows a connection in any way to Harry Lasko—"

  "Who would see it?"

  "No, Gail."

  "I just want to talk to him. It would be confidential."

  "Sorry."

  "Well, I don't see why not."

  "You don't practice criminal law, bonboncita."

  "Then I defer to your expertise—reluctantly."

  "Thank you." Anthony leaned away to ask Alex for the beans and rice. Alex, favor, los moros— The only place Anthony ever ate Cuban food was here, she had noticed. Otherwise, he preferred pasta or steaks.

 
"Why is Harry pleading guilty?" Gail whispered.

  "That often happens when a client thinks he'll do worse at trial."

  "But you're too good a trial lawyer to give up so easily."

  "Well, the situation is not so simple."

  "What do you mean?"

  Ignoring her question, Anthony tapped vinegar onto the moros. "This is what we'll do. After I work out a plea, you can talk to him. He'll be around for a while. All right?"

  "When are you going to do this?"

  "Probably next week."

  "I don't want to wait too long," Gail said. "Wendell has to comply with an order of discovery, but what if he doesn't? He could drag this out past the report date, and I'd have to go after him on a motion for contempt—"

  "Gail, pass me the bread, will you?"

  The baby fussed, and Digna held out her arms. Betty got up and carried him around to her. He opened his eyes and stared at his great-grandmother, then cooed in, a toothless grin. When everyone broke into laughter, he started to wail. Digna shushed them and cradled the baby on her breast. Ernesto Pedrosa announced that this little machito already knew how to charm the ladies.

  Then Pedrosa tilted his head to focus his glasses on the other end of the table. Anthony was talking about real estate with Xiomara's husband, Bernardo. Pedrosa broke in with a comment in Spanish, and Anthony disagreed. Pedrosa laughed and made a dismissive wave with one large, bony hand. Anthony returned a frosty smile down the length of the table and spun off some figures. The old man's glower turned into a shrug. He acknowledged that his grandson could be right for once. He allowed a smile before snapping his fingers for more puerco asado.

  Gail had noticed the similarities—the physical resemblance, the dry humor, the pride—but they were not the same. Anthony had said so himself. He had a slight accent he couldn't shake, but his ideals, his political views, were not a holdover from fifties Latin America. She was grateful for every difference.

  The conversation veered to houses, then to the one on Clematis Street, which Anthony said they would remodel—probably next year—and eventually, as Gail knew it would, the talk came around to the wedding.