I pinched the skin between my thumb and index finger to keep from jumping out of my chair. “What exactly is Omega-12?”
Carlos took his time, fully aware that I considered that torture. “It’s a right-wing, Cuban paramilitary group. I’ve heard rumors they’re still active. You must have stumbled upon two of their members.”
“This is the group that trains out in the Glades?” I asked.
Carlos gave a silent nod, his way of letting me know I was going to have to work for any information.
“What kind of weapons do they have?”
Carlos gave a self-satisfied smile. “The sky’s the limit.”
“Where do they get their supplies from?” I wondered how much information he really had, and what he might not be disclosing.
“That’s something that nobody seems to know,” Carlos responded.
I threw down my last card.
“Have you ever heard of Elena and Ramon Vallardes?” I asked.
Carlos studied me unblinkingly as he took a deep puff on his cigar and blew a smoke ring in the shape of a noose.
Long pauses laden with silence drive me round-the-bend crazy. Forget water torture. Just put me in a room with someone who won’t talk, and I’ll do almost anything to fill the void. Usually it consists of a gibbering song-and-dance routine, before drowning them in my life story.
Okay, I’d start it and get the ball rolling. “They were close friends of Alberto Dominguez.” I paused for a moment. “They all grew up together as children,” was the next tidbit I threw out. “Alberto was over at their place all the time.” I stopped and waited. Still no response. “For god sakes! They’re very prominent in the Cuban community. How could you not know who they are?”
Carlos threw me the band off his cigar. “Of course I know of the Vallardes: Puffin is where I buy my cigars. Remind me never to send you into enemy territory. You’d give them our attack plans in no time, and then probably cook them dinner.”
I silently acknowledged the lesson: I’d handed him all my information without receiving anything in return. “How naive do you think I am? I haven’t told you the best part yet,” I bluffed.
Carlos obviously felt confident enough to go for the bait. “Which is?”
I smiled. “I’ve given you plenty. How about giving me something in return as a show of good faith?”
Carlos clasped his hands behind his head and smiled, amused at the game. “All right. Here’s something I bet you don’t know. Their father, Tito Vallardes, was one of the original founders of Omega-12, along with Alberto’s father, Jorge Dominguez.”
The information hit me like a one-two punch. I scurried to keep my wits before Carlos decided to pull the plug on Information Central. “Are they still active with the group?”
Carlos hesitated, and I jumped in with both feet. “Come on. Fair is fair. I’ve given you plenty so far.”
He munched on the end of his cigar, attacking the spongy shreds of tobacco as if he were noshing on a hot pastrami sandwich. I could almost hear the wheels of his brain grinding, carefully weighing what information to hand me.
“What I’ve got is reeeally good,” I added temptingly.
Carlos sighed in admission that I’d won him over. “Jorge died in Miami from too much of the good life a few years back,” he disclosed. “As for Tito? He’s a prisoner of Castro’s hospitality.”
I kept a damper on any outward sign of excitement. “How long has he been there?”
“Let’s see…” Carlos closed his eyes, pondering. “I’d say it’s been about eighteen years now. The son of a bitch was caught hauling rockets over to anti-Castro groups that still exist within Cuba.”
“Rockets!” Oops—it was too late to cover up my astonishment.
Carlos grinned, as if he’d known it was just a matter of time before I tripped over my own enthusiasm. “That’s right. In fact, Omega-12 claims Tito was doing it undercover at the request of the U.S. government.”
“Is that possible?” I asked in amazement.
Carlos gave a small shrug. “The U.S. government tried its best to overthrow Castro for thirty years. I don’t see why Omega-12 wouldn’t be telling the truth. But there’s something much more interesting about Omega-12’s background.” He chuckled.
I bit my tongue, curling my toes and fingers into tight little knots in a show of overwhelming patience.
Carlos took several quick puffs on his cigar. “You’ve heard of the Cuban-American United Stand Foundation?”
I nodded. “They’re a lobbying organization.”
“Not just any lobbying organization,” Carlos corrected. “One of the most powerful lobbying organizations in the U.S. They’ve raised more than one million dollars for both Republicans and Democrats.”
Carlos removed the cigar from his mouth and held it reverently. His fingers firmly tapped its burning end, sending smoldering ashes to the ground in a flurry of fairy dust. “CAUSF likes to spread their money around. That means they wield enormous political power, no matter which party holds the reins at any given time. It’s due to the influence of CAUSF that there’s been no loosening of the economic embargo against Cuba.”
Carlos gave a dramatic pause, allowing just enough time for my pinpricks of anticipation to spread until my whole body tingled deliciously.
“Now that I’ve told you all that, do you have any idea who the founder of CAUSF is?” Carlos’s eyes twinkled and his mustache twitched.
I shook my head, barely daring to breathe.
“It’s Frederico Vallardes. Tito’s brother,” he revealed.
“Elena and Ramon’s uncle?” I marveled, beginning to wonder where this was all leading. “But CAUSF advocates only a nonviolent approach to bringing about Castro’s downfall.”
“That’s right,” Carlos agreed. “Publicly, that’s exactly what CAUSF espouses.” He played with the end of his mustache, letting the information sink in. “But, privately, just how do you think Omega-12 got started? Both Frederico and Tito Vallardes, as well as Jorge Dominguez, fought in the Bay of Pigs together. Bonds like that are never broken.”
“So CAUSF is the nonviolent, political front, and Omega-12 is their underground paramilitary offshoot?” I ventured.
Carlos barely arched an eyebrow. “I suppose some would say that’s possible. After all, not many people know of their connection.” He pulled his chair forward and leaned in toward me. “Okay. I’ve given you plenty. Now tell me the rest of what you’ve got.”
“Huh?” I was caught off-guard, too busy absorbing all I’d been told to have any idea what he was talking about.
“We had a deal,” he reminded me. “Now it’s time for you to put the rest of your cards on the table.”
Uh, oh. I’d forgotten about that part. Then it hit me.
“Hey, wait a minute. That was a great history lesson on Cuban-American politics, but what does it have to do with my case on birds?” I challenged.
Carlos gave a sly smile, letting me know who was still master when it came to the art of game playing. “I never said it did. You asked what I knew about Elena and Ramon, and that’s exactly what I told you.” He gave a satisfied chomp on his cigar, and cracked his knuckles one by one. “You may not be a rookie, Porter, but you’re still not a seasoned agent. You forgot all about your real objective here. Wasn’t it to learn more about the illegal bird trade in Miami?” He pointed his cigar at me. “Don’t let perps steer you off course so easily, or your curiosity and enthusiasm will be your downfall. Now I’ll hear the rest of your information.”
My stomach churned. I was pretty well full-up when it came to receiving lessons. But one good turn deserved another.
“I think Bambi Weed has hold of an illegal Cuban Amazon,” I blithely announced.
We both knew what that information amounted to. It was about as helpful as knowing there was a group of fanatics target-practicing out in the Everglades.
Carlos looked disdainfully at Willy’s three passports, and the hyacinth feather.
“So, that’s it then? This is all you’ve managed to get on this big case of yours so far?” He waved a dismissive hand across the meager evidence, scornful of the space it was taking up.
“It’s more than enough to start with,” I jumped to my defense.
“Sure, if I want to let you lead us on a wild-goose chase again,” Carlos shot back.
It was at times like this that I commiserated with fed-up postal workers who bypassed Hallmark Cards when expressing their feelings. “But you said yourself that you believed me about this one!” There was no way in hell I would let Carlos compare this to the sixty-egg fiasco.
Carlos matched my glare. “Listen, Porter. There’s nothing earth-shattering about what you’ve told me so far. Let me sum it up for you.” He picked up the passport closest to him and stood it on the table. “Dominguez was pipelining in hyacinths and Cuban Amazons.” He scooped up the second passport, waved it at me, and set it upright next to the first. “Dominguez was killed.” Carlos reached for the final passport and placed it next to its two companions. “But you think some of his Cuban partners might still be carrying on the trade.”
His index finger pushed lightly against the first passport in a game of all-fall-down.
“That’s what you’ve got, Porter. Nothing but a worthless house of cards. You think I don’t know things like that are going on? Here in Miami, they’re a dime a dozen. So what?”
Maybe I was wrong, but I seemed to be missing something here. “Does that mean you simply ignore them?”
“What that means is that without rock-solid proof to go on, all we’re doing is running around looking like a bunch of imbeciles,” Carlos lashed out. “This is the last time I’ll say this: I came to Miami to clean up this office, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you make me the laughingstock of this agency. And while we’re on the subject, don’t let me hear about you poking around in the activities of Cuban exiles, either.”
Carlos pointed a finger in my direction, giving me fair warning that his temper was alive and kicking. I took a deep breath, counted to ten, and turned on what charm I could.
“I’m certain there’s a case here, Carlos. And if we make it, you’re the one who’s going to come out the hero. Just let me have a little more time to nose around. That’s all I’m asking.”
That ought to do it—humble, yet determined, with Carlos cast as the victor.
“And if you don’t make the case, I’m the one who comes out looking like an idiot for letting you run rampant.” The ends of his mustache jerked in a skittish dance. “I’m touched by your concern for my career, but if you don’t mind, I’ll make the decisions around here, Porter.”
Carlos raised his arm like a glowering Moses, with a cigar in his hand instead of a staff. “You see that pile of paperwork in there on your desk? I suggest you get to work on it, because another batch is on its way. Translated into English, that means I don’t care if you have to live here twenty-four hours a day. I want every one of those documents entered into the computer. After that, you can set up a filing system and post past documents in it, as well.”
The way I translated it, Carlos was doing his damnedest to turn my job into that of a glorified secretary. “Then should I assume you don’t plan on looking into the case?” I asked in a parting shot.
Carlos mashed his cigar butt out on the sole of his shoe. “You want to play? Fine. But do it on your own time. Not on mine.” He leaned in closer. “We work for the government here. Like it or not, we’re part of the bureaucracy. And if I have to tie you to your desk with red tape in order to control you, believe me, I will. I don’t need some female running amok in the Hispanic community, causing me nothing but trouble.”
There—that was it. Silly me. The missing piece of the puzzle.
I lined up my twin baby-blue barrels. “This is all because I’m a woman, isn’t it? That’s the bottom line.” I waited for a response, but there was none. “If Phil made the request, you’d have your badge and your gun strapped on, more than happy to work on the case.”
Carlos busied himself at his desk, refusing to meet my gaze. I turned and began to walk out.
“El mejor lugar de una mujer es en la casa.”
I hadn’t let Carlos know that for the past six months, I’d been learning Spanish. This seemed the perfect moment to demonstrate my progress. “So, the best place for the woman is in the house, huh?”
Carlos’s eyes met mine, startled by my response.
“I did get that right, didn’t I?” I asked, flinging daggers of sarcasm straight for his heart.
Carlos held my eyes without flinching as he stood up and grabbed his badge and his gun. I was sure that this was it: he’d finally come round to accept me.
“Real women get married and have children, Porter. Why is it that you never have?”
That bastard! “Does the term ‘gender discrimination’ mean anything to you, Carlos?” I hollered as he stormed out of the office, grumbling about females playing at being agents.
I spent the remainder of the afternoon behind my desk using every curse word I could think of, and placing them in sentences that included the name Carlos. Then I came up with a few more.
My fingers slogged through the papers, entering each dreary detail into the computer. Four cups of badly brewed café Cubano from the local Quik Pik had my nerves doing somersaults. Unfortunately, the caffeine did little for my eyes, which were glazed over from sheer boredom. I’d just begun to make a dent in the paperwork when my fingers slipped and hit a wrong key. I watched helplessly as a black hole swallowed all my newly entered data.
That was it! I didn’t care if Carlos chose to hogtie, quarter, or fire me. I was out of here. I was damned if I’d been assigned to the most notorious port in the country just to sit back and cool my heels.
I peeked into the cubicle that doubled as Phil’s office. He lay with his head on his arms, snoozing away. It being common knowledge that Phil would rather do anything than go out in the field, I filled my arms up with papers, and left them in a nice, neat pile sitting next to him.
Then I split.
Fourteen
“What a putz!” Bonkers screeched as I walked in the door. He hopped onto my shoulder and pulled my ear for good measure. There was no doubt about it, the bird was hanging around with Sophie too much. I was even beginning to detect a slight New York accent.
“I’m a horny boy!” Bonkers squawked, as he ran up and down my arm.
“Great. A lot of good that does me,” I muttered.
I pulled out a spray bottle and misted him lightly with water, and Bonkers trilled with delight, hitting operatic high notes. He spread his wings and bobbed his head up and down in rhythm to whatever music was jiving in his brain, his stubby legs teetering back and forth like a pigeon-toed tightrope artist.
From there, our games became progressively more raucous. Bored with being pushed around on the floor, Bonkers insisted on more creative levels of entertainment. We’d lately struck on a game where he’d steal away to sneak under the sheets of my bed, and I’d pretend to search for him. I’d call his name, drawing closer and closer. Then, lifting the sheet, I’d let out a roar. There you are, Bonkers! You crazy bird!
Bonkers would rush out giggling like a lunatic, to grab at my hair and dash back beneath the covers.
But his favorite game these days was “Old MacDonald.” I’d sing the song, complete with moos, neighs, quacks, and baas, and Bonkers would join in, shrieking his head off. We had just launched into the chorus of “with a quack, quack here” when Terri walked in. He was clad in his favorite red kimono, and the pompommed slippers that resembled Pekingese dogs with a bad dye job. Bonkers immediately charged Terri’s feet. Terri tried to shake him off, but the bird was intent on his mission.
“For God sake! Call your attack bird off before he plucks Liz and Dick clean!” Terri commanded.
I scooped Bonkers up, pulled a few red feathers out of his beak, and placed him on his perch with a slice of papaya.
“Bad bird!” I said, knowing if I were him, I would have done the same thing.
Terri gave me a peck on the cheek. “Taylor and Burton thank you immensely.” He looked over at Bonkers and shook his stylish curls. “I love you, Rach, but trust me on this one: you’ve really got to get yourself a more rewarding life.”
“I thought I already had one,” I said defensively.
“Well, tonight it’s going to get even better: Sophie’s taking us all out to celebrate the start of our yarmulke business. So dress yourself in something hot and spicy, my dear. We’re going to the Havana Club for drinks, dinner, and dancing. Just pop on over whenever you’re ready. You’ve got plenty of time.” Terri snapped his fingers, his feet tapping to the silent strains of a flamenco beat. “I’m going to be busy working on Sophie’s and Lucinda’s makeup for a while.”
He clip-clopped back down the path.
I showered, lathering every inch of my hair and body until any sneaky, lingering germs that might have hitched a ride from Willy’s place had been thoroughly scrubbed off. Between my recent blowups with both Santou and Carlos, a cloud of gloom had been hovering over me. Well, that was about to change. I was determined to let loose and have nothing but pure fun tonight. I took extra pains with my makeup, and gathered my curls into a saucy arrangement on top of my head. Then I pulled out the slinky little blue dress I’d been brave enough to buy but too cowardly to wear, along with a pair of breakneck stilettos. When I checked out my reflection in the mirror, I was pleasantly surprised. My, my… not bad at all!
Then, I held on to every bush and twig I could as I minced over to Sophie’s. Was it possible that the feet of all the chichi South Beach babes I’d envied actually hurt this much?
“Well, you sure as hell aren’t gonna be the wallflower of our group tonight,” Sophie declared as I wobbled through the door. “Is it really you? Or has some alien with a flair for how to dress taken over your body?”
I didn’t say a word as I took in the vision that was Sophie. A gold-lamé dress, capable of lighting up New York during a blackout, clung to her frame. She drank in the attention as if I were a film crew for the eleven o’clock news, slowly twirling around and then extending her left leg to display the thigh-high slit.
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