For a Song

by Morales, Rodney;

  My jaw ached as if I were the one jabbering.

  “Furthermore,” Richards said, “the guy was not only insatiable, fucker was reckless. And it would not surprise me if there was some weirdo love triangle. Tyler Jr. might have been schtupping Geary’s wife when she and he rendezvoused in Macau last month, when he went there with his winnings. You see, when Kamana, Blankenship, and his boys went to Vegas for the De La Hoya–Mayweather fight, Junior was with them. An’ he was the only one smart enough to put all his money on Mayweather. Fucker won a shitload of cash. Everybody else was betting on the Mexican, but not Junior. Probably got to his head. I’ve heard that Kamana and company were already sick of him, knew he was nothing but trouble, but they couldn’t do shit. Not with the daddy connection.”

  “So Blankenship is innocent.”

  “Well, he’s no killer. Smart crooks don’t need to kill to get what they want.”

  Detective Richards came even closer to me, and said very softly: “Had to be at least two other people there, the mystery shooter and the one who didn’t have powder burns.”

  The latter would be me.

  Thank you, Curtis. I felt a wash of mixed emotions: gratitude, anger, frustration, all anchored by a deep sadness. Must be the drugs.

  Richards leaned over to my ear and whispered, “Just tell me something.”

  “What?”

  “Whatever went down at that Portlock house, was it for the greater good?”

  I didn’t say anything for a solid minute. I tried to see the ramifications of a response, any response, but my emotions were having the best of me and I couldn’t think straight. Richards wanted an answer, so I finally said, “Yeah. The greater good.”

  “Good. Now I can go on vacation.” He swung an imaginary golf club. “Oh, by the way, your ex, Ms. Park, she was here all afternoon yesterday, waiting for you to get up.”

  “What day is this?”

  “Monday.”

  Shit. Missed an entire weekend.

  • • •

  Janine Lee, aka Mrs. Andrew Geary, had to know that if she talked, she’d be toast. She had to know that she had nothing to gain by telling the Feds what went down. If she kept her mouth shut, then it would play out the way Richards had just described. She’d get all of Andy’s ill-gotten money and could go on spending sprees the rest of her days.

  I wanted to see her.

  If only I could move. I was hooked up to machines; nurses and attendants were checking my vitals every half hour.

  Brenda and Ted came by in the evening. I used my wired-up jaw as an excuse to say next to nothing. I told them where I had left the Acura. They said they had picked it up already, that Detective Richards had told them that the police found it on Kahala Avenue, near Triangle Park.

  That’s not where I had left it.

  They also said the paramedics had removed my wet wallet, my keys, and some coins and put them in Ziploc bags. These were in the drawer next to my hospital bed.

  Brenda handed me my cell phone. “This was in the car. The stuff in the trunk—”

  “Thanks …,” I managed to say, before turning to my side. I just wanted to sleep.

  58

  (Day 23—Tuesday, June 12) Richards came by the next morning, apparently not on vacation yet.

  “Your car’s back at the harbor.”

  “All shiny and new, I hope.”

  “You’re dreaming.”

  “That’s all I do nowadays….” When I had finally gotten past the delirium, I asked the nurse for a paper clip. Though the request puzzled her, she went and got one for me. I used it to pinch the IV tube, to stem the flow of whatever it was they were shooting into me. “I’d like to see Mrs. Geary,” I told Richards. “Think you could arrange it?”

  “Need to conspire?”

  “Yeah, we gotta get our stories straight.”

  I learned that federal agents were guarding her door. Richards stepped out and made a few calls. After a while, just when lunch was being brought in he came in with a wheelchair and said, “Let’s go.” I sat up, told him I’d like to walk.

  “Sorry. Hospital regs.”

  “Cut me loose,” I told the attendant. The young man complied, removing the IV from my wrist vein. Seems he was going to do it anyway.

  Richards brought the wheelchair closer. “Hop in.”

  We caught an elevator to another floor. When the elevator door opened, two floors above mine, Richards wheeled me toward the guarded door. The agent there frisked both me and Richards. Then Richards wheeled me in, saying, “You got two minutes.” He stepped outside.

  Her bed was set in the sitting position. She held a remote and was clicking through channels. She turned to look at me and shut the TV off.

  “You saved my life.” She was looking at the blank screen. “I should be grateful.”

  “Curtis wouldn’t have shot you.”

  She chuckled grimly. “I don’t know about that.”

  “Sorry about Andy.”

  “Me too. He meant well, you know?” She looked at me.

  “He worked with others to set me up. He would have let them kill me.” I could not get past that.

  “When he asked that dirty cop for the gun, to shoot you. He wouldn’t have. He would have shot the cop. I know this.” There was a quiver in her voice. “I know him.”

  “How are your wounds?” I asked.

  “They’ll heal. I was lucky.” She grimaced. “No organ damage.”

  “Sucks to be injured.”

  She suddenly teared up. I stood up and reached for her hand. Just don’t start singing.

  We held hands for a good half-minute. Then I heard the door opening. It was Richards. He looked at me and nodded. “I gotta go,” I said to Janine.

  She tried to lean toward me, but it hurt too much. She gasped.

  I leaned toward her, trying to manage an awkward embrace. Painful as it was, I felt obligated.

  As I pressed my cheek against hers she grabbed my arm and whispered: “I saw her. The one you were looking for. The girl.”

  59

  GUADALAJARA

  I got off the bus and walked toward El Plaza de los Mariachis. My Spanish was perfect. I stopped at a cybercafé, ordered birria and café con crema, then sat down. Paid for it with the only thing I had in my pocket, a green-edged casino chip. I sat in a corner and opened my laptop and began reading the online Diario Amanecer. The feature article was an exposé on the Tijuana Cartel. I got caught up reading about how it had been reduced to a small group of scattered cells since the arrest of one Eleazar Caballero.

  A child skateboarded by my table and dropped a matchbook by my sandaled feet. I opened it. Nothing. I was about to toss it, but as I swung the matchbook by my nose I got the faintest whiff of lemon juice. I looked around, then lit its only match, then held it up to the matchbook cover and saw the words emerge: an address. I placed my laptop in my backpack and stepped outside. I wandered about the deserted street, asking the occasional passerby the location of Calle Ramón López Velarde. I kept getting strange looks. I finally found myself on an unpaved road gazing up at adobe walled apartments, each a different color—amarillo, verde, roja, morado-gris … then a row of coral, director-pink houses. These walls were covered with graffiti that struck me as psychedelic cryptograms.

  Solve them and you solve your case.

  I saw her walking down the street carrying laundry. She looked straight at me, tense, waiting for me to make my move.

  “Tu madre mi envió,” I said, just loud enough for her to hear.

  “Yo no tengo madre.”

  “OK then … tu papa mi envió.”

  “Mi papa está muerto.”

  Matthew came running.

  No, it wasn’t Matthew.

  It was Gael García Bernal, dressed up as Ethan Daniels. He wore priestly black.

  I held my hands up to try to ease or contain his sense of urgency. Fell to my knees. “Lo siento,” I began, and the world started spinning. I turned from my aching
side and faced up. I saw that I was again connected to an IV. The paper clip had been removed. Someone else was in the room, but I couldn’t make him out.

  What happened to my contact lenses?

  I turned to my side.

  I was back in Mexico.

  “They told us to lay low,” Kay was saying as she picked up the spilled laundry from the dusty road.

  I heard wicked merengue rhythms, haunting background voices singing lay low lie over and over “Who told you? Who! God-dammit!”

  She began to fade. “Who?” I reached for her and felt a jolt in my ribs.

  “Mi corazón.” Did she say corazón, or for a song?

  When she spoke again she had a man’s voice: “Man, what did they give you?”

  Man, what did they give you?

  Man, what did they….

  ¿Lo que te dieron …?

  • • •

  Gotta get outta here.

  Sitting up was difficult, but necessary. In the chilly room I opened the bedside cabinet’s top drawer. My contacts were there, in a case, along with my wallet, placed in a Ziploc bag. My keys were there, minus the ones for the Acura. My cell phone was there too.

  I grabbed the bag containing my wallet. My wallet was still damp. I began pulling out the credit cards and bills and pieces of paper with numbers on them and laid them out on the desktop, thinking they’d dry faster this way.

  I reached into the drawer again and yanked out my cell phone.

  There was a voicemail and a text.

  I punched in my voicemail code and heard Minerva’s voice:

  Just got the call. Caroline and Matt are doing fine. Caroline said you were injured in your rescue attempt. I’ ll come by and see you as soon as I can. Thank you. Thank you so much.

  It was followed by a second voice mail. Same source:

  I almost forgot. Please send me the bill for what I owe you. Thank you again.

  What the fuck is going on?

  I looked at the text from Orse:

  Check out the afternoon paper.

  Which afternoon? Doesn’t he know I’m in the hospital? The guy who knows everything?

  I know where I am.

  I know this isn’t Mexico.

  Or is it?

  The young male attendant brought my lunch. Then a female nurse came in to check my vitals and to see how we were doing today. I told her we were fine. Asked her when are we going to be released. She skirted the question, talking instead about a round of antibiotics, about the doctor wanting to make sure there were no infections. She said swimming in the ocean with open wounds was not a good idea. When are we going to be released, I asked again. She left and came back, with a form, and asked for my current address.

  Oh yeah, for the billing.

  “If I pay now, could I leave?”

  “Doctor said another day or two.”

  I offered her a damp dollar bill. “Could you get me today’s Star-Gazette?”

  She frowned and walked away. Within a minute she returned with a newspaper. “It’s free for patients,” she said. “You need to lie down.”

  “Love you too,” I said as she was leaving.

  I opened up the folded newspaper and saw the lead story:

  Honolulu Star-Gazette—Tuesday, June 12, 2007

  GENARO BLANKENSHIP INDICTED!

  Yesterday the city prosecutor’s office moved forward in its indictment of the state Senate’s Director of Communications, Genaro Blankenship, and his daughter, Lisa Fortescue, head of United Medical Directive, a company that has facilitated union sponsorship of the health insurance plan for the Taxi & Limousine Drivers Union workers as well as for government unions. Blankenship, former head of that union, is charged with 72 felony counts, including mail fraud and embezzlement. His daughter, who used to manage the TLDU union insurance fund, is accused of money laundering and faces 67 criminal counts.

  Envelopes with cash, said to be a common practice in the insurance industry (see “Indictment of Union Head” on A-8),

  The article made no mention of his confederate, Josiah Kamana, a guy who got his start in the insurance business. Did he skirt this shitstorm? I remembered Orse telling me, during one of those poker games a few years ago, right before he flipped over an ace of diamonds and reached for the pot, Keep in mind that Kamana has LAYERS of protection. Others have to fall first. Dominoes, a house of cards, pyramid. Pick your schematic.

  I turned to page A-8 and my eyes jumped to these words near the end:

  Attorney Chauncey Derego, replacing the recently deceased Andrew Geary, will be representing Blankenship.

  Sal walked in.

  I tossed the newspaper to the side. “Get me outta here.”

  • • •

  It took another hour, an hour in which I behaved and ate my lunch of pureed something or other and the fortified matcha green tea smoothie Sal had thoughtfully brought me; an hour in which I got the aide to help me put in my contact lenses; an hour in which I learned that they’d eased up on the painkillers and electrolytes; an hour marked by several phone calls—before there was any movement. My favorite nurse came back in and snapped on an elastic brace around my midsection and I instantly felt better.

  At the end of that hour, Sal came in with a wheelchair. “You ready to go?”

  I was, but didn’t feel like getting into that four-wheeled apparatus.

  “Regulations,” he said.

  I hopped in.

  Sal wheeled me to the front, where I learned I was being picked up by none other than Norm McMichaels, driving a—no joke—Chrysler Sebring.

  I gingerly climbed into the front passenger seat. Sal went to return the wheelchair.

  “How’s your parents?” I asked Norm when I settled in.

  “My mom just got out of the hospital. My dad’s in a skilled nursing facility.”

  “And I thought I had problems.”

  “Those aren’t problems. Besides, my kids flew in from the West Coast. They’re happy to be with the old folks. Shit, I got way more time than I’m used to.”

  Sal slunk into the back seat.

  “Where we going?”

  “Want to show you something.” Norm hit the gas.

  “Just take me to an ATM machine, then to my boat.”

  “Not just yet,” Norm said.

  “You almost died, you shit,” Sal said. “Give it a rest.”

  “Just tell me what the fuck is going on.”

  “Nothing’s going on. Anything going on, Norm?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Last time I rode with two cops, I was a suspect.”

  That roused Sal. “Look. I’m not a cop and I’m the one sitting in the back.”

  They drove down on Ward, turned left on Ala Moana Boulevard. It was a sweltery June afternoon and I couldn’t wait to get back into the swing of things. My jaw didn’t hurt so much, the swelling had gone down, and all those scrapes on my arms and legs had scabbed over. The ocean … well, the ocean was what it was.

  Whenever I took a deep breath my ribs hurt. A dull ache. Ten weeks, the doctor had said, ten weeks and you’ ll be fine.

  Who the fuck has ten weeks?

  And then we were at the Ilikai Hotel.

  “Get out,” Norm said.

  I was within walking distance of my boat, so I was glad to get out.

  Sal also stepped out of the car. “I’m your escort.”

  “To where?”

  He led me to the revolving door.

  60

  FIVE-0

  If i didn’t put stress on my left knee, if I didn’t try to take a deep breath, I was OK. Sal took me through the lobby. Tourists in their tribal beach gear were everywhere; male hotel employees wore uniforms and suits.

  We took the elevator to the twelfth floor.

  When we got to room 1205 Sal turned to me and said, “These guys want to talk to you. In a few minutes you’ll see why we played it this way.”

  Yes, I thought, it’s all been a play. And I’m the
only one who never knew when he was an actor in the drama, and when he was part of the audience. Never even saw the script.

  Sal hit the door with a coded knock.

  The door opened. I saw two guys in suits. Had to be Feds.

  “I’ll be outside,” Sal said and he left.

  “Sorry ’bout the timing,” the man who opened the door said, “but it’s really important we debrief you.” He stood tall, at least 6′2′′, and appeared quite lean. He tie was loosened and his inch-and-a-half-long hair looked finger-combed back.

  “I’m being debriefed?”

  “Siddown. Relax,” he said.

  I sat on the armrest of a lounging chair.

  “How about relaxing over here?” the other guy said. He was on the phone, but talking to me. His side-combed brown hair was thinning out, but he was a few years away from a comb-over. “He’s here,” he said into the phone, then shut it.

  I moved to the cushy sofa. The two men sat across from me, in chairs. Between us lay a coffee table covered with materials—files, folders, magazines, scraps of paper—and circular stains.

  “You should take a look at this report.” The taller agent was pointing to a pamphlet on the table.

  “I get a headache when I read. Can you just tell me what this is about?”

  He crossed his arms. “OK. If you wish. We’ll talk it through.”

  “Are you familiar with Operation Shave Ice,” the other agent said.

  “October, twenty-o-three.”