by Robert Lane
“Yes, sir.” She said it with a tone that even the table understood. Mendis let out a chuckle. Olivia left, and for a moment no one spoke.
Mendis consumed a fish taco in three bites. He wiped his mouth with one of the yellow cloth napkins with stitched white egrets that Sophia had just purchased. Escobar recalled how she had sprung the napkins from the shopping bag with unbridled excitement and proudly displayed them to him. Who gets excited over napkins? Now Mendis’s drool covered the napkin, and it disturbed the hell out of him. Mendis leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs.
“Why’s he worried?” Escobar asked in a nonchalant tone.
“Why is he worried?” Mendis let it out in half time. “Nice of you to be so burdened with our problems. His visitor had the ‘YOLO’ photo on his phone. His visitor did simple math and figured the photo was worth an interchange. His visitor claimed that you had a letter that Uncle Sam wanted back and that you were—fucking unbelievable as this sounds, Raydel—holding it ransom for IRS forgiveness.
“His visitor, some guy named Travis who Kittredge said made a splash at your fund-raiser, claimed to represent some shadow government association. He politely indicated that if you surrender the letter, the government wouldn’t do everything in its power to screw my life.” Mendis leaned in across the table. “Now, what am I supposed to do with that? Don’t you fuckin’ look away from me.”
Escobar didn’t know that time could freeze on such a warm day. The houses, the air, his thoughts were motionless while he left his body and observed from a distance, unable to formulate action or words. He glanced out to see if he could take some comfort from the water, but it mocked him with indifference. His eyes came back and caught Mendis’s dirty napkin that looked like a Hieronymus Bosch print. The stitched white egret already sported drool, spit, and stain. The shit she doing, Escobar thought, buying napkins that look so nice?
Elvis appeared and placed a drink in front of each man. Henriques picked his up as if he had just come in from the cotton fields. Mendis leaned back in his chair and his eyes locked on Escobar as if no one else in the world existed.
My move, Escobar thought.
“Just tell me, Raydel,” Mendis said.
Travis, the guy pressing me at the fund-raiser, fast chess boy, Raydel thought. I’ll kill the son of a bitch. No matter how it ends, I’ll make the next-to-last mistake.
“Raydel.” Mendis said it as a statement, not a question.
“We were having drinks one night when Alejo, my old Cuban gardener, told me a story,” Escobar said. He was relieved and surprised that he was going straight into it. He had no choice. He couldn’t see, try as he could in his frozen world, the crooked paths that various lies would lead him down.
“You ever see this guy before?” Mendis asked after Escobar was done.
“Who?”
“Travis. Who the fuck you think I’m asking about?”
“No. He was a last-minute entry to the fund-raiser. Showed up with some looker.”
“Don’t make me earn this, Raydel.”
“Nothing, Walter. He poked around, likes games, that’s all. Seemed a little suspicious, but nothing to indicate—”
“Why didn’t you come to me?”
“It was seven mill. I thought I could figure—”
“Not the fuckin’ money. I know about that. The letter.”
“Why would I?”
“Say that again.”
“Why, when—”
“Why?” Mendis said. “Because you don’t know how to handle it, and now you’ve jeopardized me. I don’t like it when other people create difficulties for me.”
“Hell, I called the IRS on a whim. I had no idea that envelope was so loaded. How could I? I certainly had no way of knowing it would come back to you.”
Raydel liked the apologetic and conciliatory sound of his voice. That’s my plan, he thought, stick my tail between my legs and buy time to figure out my next move. He felt order and reason return to his world. No rush. Buy time.
Henriques said, “We know that. We’re not accusing you of purposely setting this in motion.” Escobar thought that Henriques was talking just to pretend that he had some say in the matter. As if his boney frame carried some weight. It didn’t. It was Mendis’s show.
Walter Mendis left his drink on the table, stood, and strolled out toward the Gulf. Paulo Henriques turned his tumbler around in his hand, never losing contact with it. Mendis kept his back to them for a few minutes and then reclaimed his seat.
“You’re blackmailing the US government,” Mendis said. “You—”
“I had no idea that—”
“You interrupt me?”
“No—”
“Don’t interrupt me. I’m going to get you out of this, Raydel.”
“Can I get you guys another round?” Elvis asked. Escobar hadn’t seen him approach. Elvis looked at Escobar. I helped Elvis, Escobar thought, now Mendis will help me. Then he will own me. Maybe that’s how these things evolve. Associations.
“Thanks. All around,” Escobar said even though the previous ones were still half full.
“Not for me,” Mendis said without looking at Elvis. “What’s your house worth, Raydel?”
“Eight. Nine.”
“This market?”
“Seven.”
“Screw your head on.”
“Six?”
“Free?”
“All cash.”
Mendis said, “I got a banker in Palm Beach, I own him. He’ll give you half. I’ll float you two, and the bank and I will split the deed on your house. You’ll deed over your carpet business, warehouse and retail stores, as well as the strip clubs to me. You tell the IRS you’ll pay them full in three years. Kittredge can procure you an extension, and you better thank him. You give the letter back to this guy, Travis.”
“I’m two short. Two from you and three from the house. How do I make that up over three years?”
“You got anything saved?”
“Not really. I—”
“Unbelievable. Dump the Carver. I don’t care what you paid, write it down and cash out. Fuck you need that for, anyways? Probably haven’t even turned the engines in three months. What, half a million, three quarters? That leaves you one point five, tops. Work out a schedule with the IRS, and every penny you make from carpet and clubs goes to them until they forget that you’re even alive. We split the business and the clubs around fifty-fifty even after your note is paid off. That’s the interest charge on my two mill. The letter goes to the government. You avoid incarceration.”
Escobar tried to do the math on what he would make after the IRS was out of the picture. The carpet business was picking up monthly with the housing recovery and the clubs were a cash business. Not many gentlemen wanted to leave a credit card trail. He wondered if Mendis would insist on putting one of his men in each location.
That’s it. Mendis wants his man collecting the cash.
“By the way, next shipment of rugs is slightly modified. A little higher profit margin.”
“At my house again?”
“No time for another point.”
“I thought that my house—”
“I thought I had a business partner that put his cards on the table. You just do your job. Don’t worry. Just a few more times here. And Raydel?” He stopped talking, making Escobar respond like an admonished schoolboy.
“Yeah.”
“Fork over the damn letter. Kittredge will be calling me after his visitor says the heat’s off. I’m expecting a calm conversation. Your liability is not going to pressure my life. You understand that?”
Escobar wasn’t sure if that was a question that warranted an answer.
“Do you understand that?” Mendis repeated.
“I got it.”
“What’s it say?”
“What does what say?”
Mendis blew his breath out and took a slow sip. “The letter, Raydel. What on God’s green motherfucking earth do you t
hink we’re talking about?”
“Never opened it; the envelope had names. Dulles, Rusk, and McNamara. I looked them up. They were big—”
“I know who they were. Those guys left the arena long ago. Dump it, understand?”
“I got it, Walter.”
Escobar thought Mendis might want to see the letter, but instead Mendis leaned back.
“Now, where are those cigars Paulo tells me about?” Mendis asked.
Escobar started to get up, but saw Elvis coming with the cigars. Elvis had already cut them, and the men passed around the torch lighter.
“Smooth as a virgin’s belly,” Mendis said as leaned back and blew smoke into the air. “Who we listening to now?”
“Dusty Springfield,” Escobar said, thankful that the conversation had taken a turn.
“Who?” Mendis asked. “Oh yeah. I remember her. Goddamn, I’d storm a beach for a woman with a name like that.”
“She was born Mary Isobel Catherine Bernadette O’Brien,” Escobar said and instantly regretted his remark, trying to play up to these guys, one who just informed him he would be holding a note on his home and possibly his clubs. Escobar caught that Mendis left the deal with the clubs a little vague and figured his goal was to muscle in on that business. Around fifty-fifty.
“You don’t say,” Mendis said as he leaned in and flicked a glance at Henriques. “You know your stuff, don’t you?” He reclined and laughed. “What a world if those record pricks can make Dusty Springfield out of that fucking mess. After a night with that name, I’d have to do a ball check in the morning.”
Henriques tossed out a sidekick laugh, then got in on the act. “Hey, Raydel, she dead or alive?”
“The White Queen of Soul,” Escobar said and blew smoke into the air, not giving a rat’s ass what they thought. What Travis told him was taking hold. “But she’s gone, Paulo, just like the name.”
“Just like your boys Dulles, Rusk, and McNamara,” Mendis said. “In the end, none of it means shit.”
Then why, Escobar thought, is someone trying to tear that letter away from me? And why would I willingly depart with such an object?
CHAPTER 15
Escobar
Escobar and Elvis watched the black Mercedes with tinted glass shielding Mendis and Henriques blend into the night and then reclaimed their spot on the patio. Olivia was clearing the table of the drink glasses, dessert plates, and napkins.
“Get this stuff off of here,” Escobar said angrily at her while gesturing toward the table.
She stopped, placed her hands on her hips, and punched him with a hard stare. “What do you think I’m—”
“Get this shit out of here!” Escobar shouted and swiped a dirty napkin at her. Olivia’s jaw tightened and she scurried to collect the rest of the debris.
“You heard the plan?” Escobar asked Elvis. He glanced up at Olivia as she practically ran away and caught the tremble of her shoulders.
“I think I got it. He’s taking a note on the carpet and clubs.”
Escobar mulled the possibility that Mendis was also buying time until he put a contract on him. He wasn’t sure who mattered the most to Mendis, he or Kittredge. Mendis ending up with fifty percent of the clubs and carpet business was a game changer. He had no debt on the clubs and thought if he liquidated everything he just might come up with the seven million. Then I’d be penniless and on the streets, he thought. Still, that might be better than working for Walter Mendis.
“And another shipment,” Escobar said.
“What did Mendis mean by ‘slightly modified’?”
“Haven’t a clue. Call Ramon and find out when.”
“OK.”
“Now. Go.”
Elvis extracted his cell from his pocket and headed toward the outdoor kitchen. Escobar tried to think of all the mistakes he could make and realized that if he were good at that, he wouldn’t be in his current position.
“Two nights,” Elvis said when he returned. “What about Sophia? She can’t be here.”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“What about the letter? You going to give it up?”
Escobar assumed that Elvis overheard the conversation. He blew smoke into the air. “I’m still thinking on that.”
“We should keep the letter and use it however we can to keep Mendis from moving in on the clubs. They spit out pure cash.”
“I said I’m still thinking.”
“I’ve been thinking too. You know I found your father’s old typewriter and envelopes—”
“Later. I’ve had enough for today.” Escobar rose and walked away.
Sophia was in bed leaning back on her pillows and reading chick lit when Escobar entered the double doors of their bedroom. She closed her book and delicately placed it on the pale yellow sheet she had drawn up tight around her neck.
“How are the boys?”
“Just business stuff.”
“It always is, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. After tomorrow I’m going down to Naples to visit my sister for a few days.”
“I thought Dwight made you sick. Last time you went you could hardly stand to see her with him and you came back a day early. You’re always telling me that she could have done so much better.” Not bad timing, though, he thought. She won’t be here for the shipment.
“She could have.” Sophia placed her book on the bed stand and reached up and turned off the light. “And so could I.”
Judas Priest, like I’ve got time for this, Escobar thought. “Why are you saying that, baby?” He sat on the bed and reached over to kiss her, but she stayed on her side with her back to him. He settled for her cheek.
“I married a strip club owner. I know what I got. But there’s decency, you know? Courtesy and feelings that people have for each other, and you need to remember that.”
“What are you talking about?” He was going back and forth between the new percentages of the business and what they would look like after the IRS was gone. He wasn’t sure he could trust Mendis, but didn’t see any choice. And the damn letter. Mendis said a guy would come around for it. Travis again? Maybe I should hang onto it. What’s the picture look like if I don’t play their tidy little game?
“And if you can’t have respect, then you remember that if I leave, half of everything you got goes with me.”
“Well, that’s just great. I owe the IRS seven million, Soph, so unless I get out of this pile of shit, I don’t have a dime. Now, it’s been a long day. What are you trying to say?”
She looked at her husband. “What I’m saying is I don’t care if you’re down to a cigar butt. I’m entitled to half and I’ll take it, Raydel, all the way to the ashes in the tray. You need to show respect and have a conscience. I’d never do to you what you’ve done to me.”
“Sophia, I don’t have a clue what—”
“It’s my lipstick. It’s my bed. Don’t you ever bring her in here again.”
She turned her back to him as if she was exhausted by the words, and the implications had stolen something from her.
Fuck a duck, he thought. This just isn’t my day. He saw her shoulders shake and thought of Olivia. Well, at least I’m batting a thousand.
“OK. OK, I’m sorry.” He felt he should say something else, but didn’t know what and suddenly felt small for making her cry. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, baby.” For a few seconds she didn’t say anything, and it just hung out there like hope without a home.
“Then how come you don’t ever remember that?” Sophia Escobar asked with strength as her anger and frustration trumped her tears.
He got up and padded downstairs to the kitchen to get something to eat, but really to get out of the bedroom. He fixed a sandwich and chased it with 800 milligrams of ibuprofen. He thought of her comment about taking half of his cigar ashes and gave an audible chuckle. She’d do it, too. Toughest sweet girl I ever met. Right there in front of me. I wondered how I mis
sed that one?
Damn letter. Don’t know if I’m better off with it or without it. Mendis’s going to give me two million and let me pay it off over years while he sneaks in on the clubs. I doubt he’s being straight with me. Maybe when this washes out, he thought, I’ll unwind it all and get off this high wire. One thing’s for certain, this shit with my boat has got to stop. It’s just not me. I wonder if that’s how he operates—sucks in people like me. But I got to play his game a little longer.
No way, Escobar thought, will I ever be the man with money walking through the door if I take that big step back. What do men with money do? They decide the rules, not someone else.
I’ve got to hold on to that letter.
He went in the downstairs guest bedroom, but didn’t give sleep good odds. He recalled his earlier thought: hold on to the damn letter. It might be the only thing keeping me alive. But it wasn’t the letter that kept his mind racing when sleep failed to arrive. It was an image that flashed over and over. It dropped down from the top of his head and bounced off the sides. No matter how much he tossed and turned it rode him hard like a cowboy on a delirious steer and he couldn’t shake it.
The image was a yellow and white flag blowing like a hurricane warning on a torrid beach. On the flag, a dirty stitched white egret strained to break free, its wings snapping apart and its raw bones grotesquely protruding out from the frantic effort. It grasped an envelope in its claws and then everything disintegrated.
CHAPTER 16
I landed a final high kick on the smiling pink face that hung down from my garage ceiling.
I had already taken a predawn run that shut me down when my searing porcupine lungs refused to provide any more oxygen to my waterlogged legs. After that beating, I had lowered my canvas punching bag with the grin. The art was courtesy of Tiffany, an ex, and her tube of lipstick. I pummeled it until my arms and legs were limp. Tiffany, when she realized that my boat recovery gig often involved real bullets, ran from me with zest and straight into the arms of Northwest Mutual’s Southwest Florida General Agent of the Year. Health, Auto, and Home.