Cleopatra Gold

by William Caunitz

  His terrace door was open, and the fresh smell of rain blew across his darkened living room. Out on the terrace, he breathed deeply, then looked down at the breakfast dishes, hoping that the woman Joanne did not think too badly of him. He gathered up the dishes, went into the kitchen, and washed them, leaving them on the drainboard to dry.

  He crossed the living room, closed the terrace door, drew the curtains, and switched off the lights, then sat on the sofa. Stacks of books he was using in his research on Cleopatra were on the stone-topped coffee table. Running his finger over their spines in the dim morning light, he thought, Queen Cleopatra, what would you do now?

  He looked down at his wristwatch, saw it was 5:22 A.M., and went over to his breakfront. He picked up the turquoise-shell head of the Aztec warrior, its plumed headdress decorated with the visage of the god of war, and carried it into his bedroom.

  He went into the bathroom and closed the door. Sitting on the toilet seat, he counted the shells on the bottom row below the left ear; when he came to the twelfth one, he turned it counterclockwise until a concealed door on the base sprang open and a small bundle wrapped in plastic fell into his waiting hand. He snapped a towel off the rack, placed it on the bottom of the tub, and carefully set the Aztec head on its side.

  Inside the plastic was a pocketbook-size satellite radio with burst transmission capabilities and a collapsible dish antenna fifteen inches in diameter. He unfolded the antenna and plugged it into the radio. A tiny green light glowed when he turned on the unit. He began whispering into the handset. He described Hector Pizzaro and said that he matched exactly the man seen leaving the scene of the Levi-DeLeo homicide. He went on to give a succinct report of their conversation, adding that Pizzaro was ex-Bolivian army intelligence and possibly high in the Cleopatra counterintelligence network. He warned Seaver that the banker in Road Town should be told to be on the lookout for unwelcome strangers. Finally he mentioned Pizzaro’s veiled threat against his family and requested that Seaver give them “eyes and ears.”

  As he spoke, his thirty-second message was encoded automatically inside the radio. He looked at his watch: 5:28. There were two minutes to his assigned window of transmission. He got up, switched off the bathroom light, and, standing on the toilet seat, lowered the frosted window. Orienting the antenna to the southeast, he waited until the second hand had swept around to 5:30, then pushed the burgundy button on the front panel, causing his thirty-second message to be compressed into a burst less than a second of transmission time. His signal bounced off a joint CIA/DEA law enforcement satellite orbiting high above the earth’s atmosphere.

  Chilebean’s transmission was picked up by the satellite’s antenna, filtered through an encryption device, and burst back to earth, where it was snagged by one of the huge dish antennas of the CIA Counter-Narcotics Center’s secret communication compound sixty miles northwest of Knoxville, Tennessee.

  At nine o’clock that Friday morning a woman wearing a kerchief on her head pushed a baby carriage into Yeshiva Beth Chaim’s school yard.

  A Brownsville detective slam-dunked one into the net.

  The woman with the baby carriage made three walk-arounds of the yard before one of the secretaries from the Board of Education’s Manhattan Maintenance Unit stepped out to grab a smoke. The secretary played with the cooing baby. The women exchanged pleasantries, agreeing that it had turned into a beautiful day.

  Eleven minutes after the woman with the baby carriage walked out of the school yard, Deputy Chief Joseph Romano was sitting alone inside the Room, smoking a cigarette and reading the CNC flash transmission that had been passed by CIA’s morning courier in the school yard. He looked up from the flash message when he heard the beeps of someone accessing the cipher lock.

  Andy Seaver tugged open the heavy door and stepped inside. Grinding out his cigarette in the battered ashtray, Joey-the-G-Man said, “He’s in play, and we need protection for his mother and sister.”

  “Shit!” Mother Hen said, angrily grabbing the back of a chair.

  13

  Detective Bob Tobin of the Tenth Narcotics District arrived at 14 Cornelia Street around ten o’clock Friday night wearing the uniform of an air force major.

  Tobin had been working a day duty when the Whip called him into his office to inform him that Intelligence had a party going down that evening, and that he had been selected as one of the players. “Your name is gonna be Jeff Scott on this playbill,” the Whip had said.

  A tall handsome man in his mid-forties, with deep blue eyes and sandy hair, Tobin had just walked into the vestibule of the Cornelia Street tenement when he saw the shadow of a man looming under the staircase.

  Retired police captain Frankie “No Chin” Vitalie, who had spent his thirty years in the Job working in the Land of Trick Mirrors, and who had retired in 1986 to devote all his time to his budding real estate business, stepped out into the light.

  No Chin’s umbilical cord to the Job had never been severed. He was now high on the Land of Trick Mirrors list of “special friends” who could be counted on to “do the right thing” and then amnesia it. Vitalie provided safe houses and legend apartments for the Special Operations Section.

  “You had a couple of visitors,” Vitalie said to the man in the air force uniform. “Two dopers oozing Penzoil outta every pore came ’round checking on your legend.”

  “Did ‘Jeff Scott’ hold up?”

  Vitalie spread his arms in self-praise, exposing a mouthful of capped teeth, and said, “I’m still the greatest.”

  “I picked up a tail when I left Bush Terminal tonight. They’re parked down the block.”

  “They’re sniffing out your legend. Any idea what’s going down?”

  “Haven’t a clue. I’ve only got a walk-on in this one. But if you want to catch a few laughs, get over to the Palm Tree. We’re going to put on a floor show for our friends.”

  The Palm Tree, a tastefully decorated cabaret with plants filling its windows, was located on Grove Street, a pebble’s throw from Sheridan Square. It was after eleven o’clock when “Jeff Scott” walked in, dressed in khaki slacks with a dark green webbed belt and a lime green polo shirt snug around his trim body.

  Men huddled together on the banquettes and crowded around the bar. A drag queen was holding court with two fag hags, one of whom was talking loudly in an exaggerated French accent. They were sitting in one of the corner booths. Tonga, the Palm Tree’s pet chimpanzee, was perched on the branch of a large indoor tree above the fag hags, looking down at them, intrigued by the strange accent. Streisand was singing “Evergreen” over the stereo system.

  No Chin Vitalie had squeezed into one of the booths and was sipping at his drink and watching Jeff Scott make his way through the crowd over to the bar.

  Detective Hank Johnston, from the Major Case Squad, sat at the bar, drinking dark rum and Coke. He wore canvas shoes, no socks, white chinos, and a sleeveless tropical shirt with its tails out. He was in his early thirties and had one of those nondescript faces that no one ever bothered to notice.

  “Hi, Hank,” Jeff Scott said, edging up to him. He called out to the bartender, “Jack and soda.”

  The bartender, a wide-shouldered man, picked up a water glass, tossed in ice cubes, poured in a long stream of Jack Daniel’s bourbon, added a splash of soda, and set the glass on a pink bar napkin in front of Scott.

  Sipping the strong drink, Scott said, “This’ll blow your skirt up.”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  They smiled and touched glasses.

  Two dopers swaggered into the Palm Tree. They were short men, both wearing raffish shirts open low with gold medallions, diamond-studded nugget wristwatches, and gray plastic shoes. They had just gotten past the entrance when they froze in place, taking in their new surroundings, their eyes growing wide and their mouths falling open at the sight of men shuffling around the dance floor in close embrace, kissing, and others at the bar, holding hands, laughing. They looked at each other with open
surprise and uneasiness.

  No Chin Vitalie sipped his drink, relishing the unfolding scene.

  The dopers slowly made their way over to the bar but were unable to bring themselves to push through the crowd for dread of brushing up against one of them and catching whatever it was that made them fags. So they remained back of the crowd’s fringe, shooting disgusted looks at Jeff Scott and the other fag.

  Seeing them standing back, Hank Johnston smiled and turned, seeking out the bartender’s eyes and then pointing at the dopers. The bartender caught the signal, looked out over the heads of the crowd, and, seeing the uncomfortable men, shouted, “Make way for my friends.”

  A path opened, and the dopers, mustering as much machismo as they could, swaggered up to the bar.

  Leaning over the inlaid copper, the bartender puckered his thick lips and asked, “What’ll it be, ladies?”

  “Champagne,” the taller one barked with as much authority as his hoarse voice could muster.

  “A glass or a bottle, dear?” asked the bartender.

  “A fucking bottle,” the shorter one snapped, tossing two hundred onto the bar.

  “Whatever you say, sweet lips,” the bartender said. He turned his back to them and bent to open the small refrigerator under the bar, craning his neck and wiggling his ass. “Now, don’t you boys get fresh and grab my cheeks.”

  The men standing in the immediate area of the dopers turned away, laughing.

  After moving several bottles around inside the refrigerator, the bartender pulled out a bottle of champagne, held it up to his customers, and said, “Extra Brut, you brutes,” and began working off the cork.

  The dopers kept glancing over at their quarry.

  “Here comes the best part,” the bartender singsonged just as the cork popped, sending a geyser of foam shooting out of the bottle.

  “Just pour the damn wine,” the taller one ordered, “and leave the bottle.”

  The dopers guzzled the champagne; they dumped more into their glasses and gulped it down, then dumped in more.

  Tonga had climbed farther down the tree so that she might better hear the strange accent. She was crouched on a branch directly over the laughing French fag hag.

  No Chin Vitalie ordered another drink.

  “Let’s dance,” Scott said to his friend.

  The detectives slid off their stools and, holding hands, made their way onto the dance floor. As they were gliding around the crowded circle, Johnston searched for their backup. He spotted them sitting at one of the cocktail tables scattered around the dance floor.

  The detectives’ eyes met in secret recognition. Johnston nodded to the backups. The two detectives at the cocktail table got up and began edging through the crowd to the dopers. The detectives slid up next to them and waited until they had gulped a mouthful of wine before placing their hands on the dopers’ thighs and asking, “Would you like to dance?”

  The dopers spit out their wine across the bar and began to gag and cough uncontrollably.

  “Honey, you all right?” one of the detectives asked, patting the taller one’s back.

  “Lemme alone,” the taller one gasped, shoving the hand away and rushing out of the bar. His gagging friend followed.

  “Was it something that I said?” one of the detectives shouted after the departing men. At this point Tonga decided that she did not like the French accent and pissed on the fag hag.

  A single sheet wrapped Judith Stern’s body as she lay on the round bed, watching Carlsen admiring himself in the dresser’s mirror. He was wearing his boxer shorts with the monogram JCC on the right leg. “That damn Spick pissed on my leg. I should have smashed him right in his ugly face,” he said, patting down the sides of his layered hair.

  “They’re all animals, darling. Don’t bring yourself down to their level.”

  Looking at her reflection, he asked, “Did you enjoy it?”

  “Need you ask? I’m going to take out a patent on that tongue of yours.” She beckoned him with her arms.

  Smiling smugly, he came to her and sat on the bed. “I love you, Judith.”

  “I love you, too,” she said, pressing his head to her chest. “You make me feel like a complete woman.”

  He kneaded her nipple between his teeth.

  “That’s not fair. You have an eleven A.M. plane to catch, so don’t get me started.”

  “When I come home, I’ll expect to find you waiting right here.”

  “I’ll be here with my engine running.”

  “Good.” He got up, yanked his trousers off the back of the chair, and thrust his leg through.

  She sat up, pulling the sheet up across her chest and tucking it in under her arms. “John, be careful in Road Town. That place is loaded with intelligence people from all sides of the equation.”

  “I know what I’m doing. If Penzer, or that bank, is Agency or DEA, I’ll know it.” The light went out in the lawyer’s eyes. “Hector would kill us if he ever found out about this apartment.”

  “I know. He’s suspicious of everyone. That’s why it’s important that you report directly to me when you get back. Don’t tell anyone else what you found out; don’t telephone, and don’t send a fax.” She looked down at the sheet, noticing how it formed a valley between her legs. “Do you think we’ll ever have a life together, John?”

  Knotting his tie, he turned and looked at her. “That would require a lot of money, Judith. I’ve three children to see through college. Bunny would not leave the marriage empty-handed. Under the law, she is entitled to half my income. I’d come out with almost nothing.”

  “What about Hector’s money?”

  “We wouldn’t be able to count on that, it could stop anytime.”

  She looked up at the highboy on the other side of the room and said softly, “We could take off one of their money warehouses.”

  His jaw fell. “Have you gone crazy? They’d hunt us down and skin us alive, literally, skin us. They slice off a sliver at a time until there’s nothing left.”

  Judith pulled the sheet around her more tightly. “But suppose we could pull it off without them ever knowing about it? Think of it, darling, thirty, forty million dollars in untraceable bills, stored in some musty old warehouse just waiting to be laundered.”

  He shook his head and said in an angry voice, “Do you have any idea how bulky that much money is, and how difficult it would be to transport it away from the warehouse? Not to mention how hard it would be to get our greedy hands on it. The locations of those warehouses are known only to Hector and a few others, and they’re guarded day and night.”

  “We wouldn’t have to launder it, darling. Just spend it!”

  “You’re serious!” He crossed the room, his expression deeply worried. He brushed a tendril of hair from her forehead. “Your mother is dead. Your father is in an old-age home, and you intensely dislike your brothers for dumping him there. I, on the other hand, love my children, I even like Bunny, and I am not about to do anything that will guarantee their deaths, or my own.”

  She gave him a peck on the mouth. “Hurry, darling, you’ll miss your plane.”

  14

  A fluffy white rabbit stole adorned the neck of the life-size cutout of Madonna standing against the stage at Environment. At two o’clock Sunday morning the booming music and swirling colored lights began to fade, and the shimmying dancers rushed up to the darkened stage, chanting, “Alejandro! Alejandro!”

  Che-Che Morales put down his champagne glass.

  A beam of light speared down out of the blackness. The audience cried out in anxious anticipation when Alejandro walked into the circle of light wearing faded blue jeans and a black shirt open at the collar, holding his trademark rose up to his mouth. He remained motionless, his head bowed, accepting their adulation. Women pressed up against the stage, their outstretched arms straining to touch him.

  He brushed the flower’s cold petals across his lips, kissing it good-bye, walked over to the edge of the stage, knelt on one
knee, just beyond the reach of his fans, and tossed the rose to a woman who was shouting her love for him. She snatched the flower out of the air and scrambled on all fours up onto the stage. She threw her arms around him and began kissing him. The audience roared their approval.

  Alejandro tried to break her grip around his neck. The marimba player ran over to help him. Two bouncers joined him and gently led the woman, still clutching her precious rose to her face, off the stage and back to her seat.

  Alejandro backpedaled to the center of the stage, throwing kisses to his fans, then spreading his arms wide. At last he hit the air with his hip and broke into “El Pájaro Chogui,” a raucous song set to a samba-reggae rhythm that propelled him across the stage, his body gyrating to the beat, sending his fans into a hand-waving, dancing frenzy.

  Ninety minutes later, his body soaked with sweat, Alejandro closed with “Quierame Mucho,” and as he always did whenever he sang his theme song, he stared forlornly out into the blackness, searching for a face that was never there.

  Running off stage, he could hear the boisterous demands for an encore but he hurried into his dressing room and got out of his clothes. Standing naked at the sink, he turned on the faucet, waited for the rusty water to clear, lathered a washcloth, and began washing himself.

  After toweling himself dry, he dusted himself with baby powder, stepped into fresh briefs, and tugged on his jeans. After pulling a tan polo shirt over his head, he gathered up his dirty clothes and stuffed them into his canvas overnight bag.

  Looking at his watch, he saw that it was almost four in the morning; Seaver had instructed him to be ready to leave for the Hacienda after the last show. He was curious how Mother Hen planned to sanitize him.

  Combing his hair, he heard someone behind him and turned to see his manager, Josh Budofsky, pushing past the curtains. “You’re up kinda late, Josh,” he said, putting down his comb.