Lonesome Point (13 page)

Bernard interrupted, “On the right-hand side, you said?” Bernard searching for Leo’s face in the rearview.

“Uh-huh.”

Freddy stared hard at the back of Bernard’s head. “Bernard don’t like hearing this, you know? Can’t even share my adventures with him. Dude’s a family man, don’t want to hear none a that. Bernard don’t even drink, Lee. You still don’t drink, Bernard?”

Bernard shook his head. “I drink water.”

“Don’t drink, don’t smoke, don’t do drugs. Hey,” Freddy said to Leo, “think you could find out where I might hook up a batch
a roofies, you work in a hospital and all this? Bernard had connections but the man cut me off.”

Leo edged forward on the seat. “You can pull up right here at the curb.” Without looking at Freddy, he said, “Rohypnol is illegal. They don’t make it in the U.S.”

“You sure? I hear it’s illegal
without
a prescription.”

“No. You can’t buy it here. So you’re asking me if I could get it at the hospital, the answer’s no. Other than that, I wouldn’t know how to hook you up.”

Freddy stared at him.

Leo pitched the handkerchief on the seat and reached his good hand over to open the door.

“You beginning to sound like your brother,” Freddy said, “a real fucking know-it-all.”

The car rolled up the curving trauma center sidewalk, people in green or mauve scrubs hustling by, a couple of black and Hispanic women holding babies sitting on a bench outside the emergency room. He opened the door and stepped out, Freddy saying something he couldn’t hear, but he refused to turn around. Freddy shouted his name and said, “Cooperation, that’s the key word … ,” and something else, but Leo had already blocked Freddy out and the words disappeared in the voices and footsteps on the sidewalk and car horns and an ambulance racing up—and his mad heart hammering in his ears.

Going through the automatic doors to the emergency room, he met the orderly who had wheeled him off the annex that morning. He was pushing an old lady in a wheelchair. “You all right, player?” he said, looking Leo up and down. “Day-um, what happened to your hand?”

Leo straightened his shoulders and tried to relax the grimace. “Another rough day at the office. I was pressing down too hard with a pen and broke a couple digits,” and he raised his left hand, getting his first good look at the twisted fingers.

He walked into the lobby, holding the hand loosely. It was already crowded in there. Waiting to see the nurse, he started trembling again. Feeling like he could kill somebody.

T
HE BEST SHAVE IN TOWN, trust me on this,” Oscar said as the barber reclined the chair.

Patrick’s barber did the same to his and lathered his face with warm shaving soap from a white bowl, swirling it on in circular motions with the badger brush. Then he picked up a gleaming straight razor and whipped it back and forth on a strop hanging off the chair arm. Patrick and Oscar could see each other in the mirror, barbers’ capes tucked under necks, the clock on the wall behind them, the front door locked because the shop was temporarily closed to other customers.

Oscar said to his barber, an old Cuban, “I’ve been waiting all morning for this. This is a day’s growth.”

“Is perfect. Thick is good, the shave is closer.”

The other barber, a younger, dapper guy in a black smock, tipped Patrick’s head back gently with a finger under the chin and leaned in with the straight razor. Starting from the sideburns, the barber scraped downward, pausing to wipe the blade on a towel, continuing along the jawline and the chin. Patrick had gone to an expensive shop in Bal Harbour for a shave once, a men’s boutique they called it, but this experience was superior, what with the hot towels they’d begun the process with, the shaving oil massaged in to lubricate and warm the skin, and
that badger brush and real old-fashioned shaving bowl; you couldn’t make it any more satisfying.

He was enjoying the lull before the meeting. Oscar was in heaven over there, eyes closed, a little smile. He said something to the barber in Spanish, then said to Patrick, “Fourteen strokes. A professional shave, fourteen give or take a few.” Peering sideways at the barber, “
Verdad
, Lazaro?”

Lazaro nodded. None of the barbers had said much. They had opened the place an hour early, locked it again, fixed a pot of Cuban coffee, and served it in espresso cups. A special service that was expected.

Fourteen strokes. Just like Oscar to know some arcane fact like that. He approached matters mathematically, with a cool head, you had to give the man his due, whipping out a legal pad last night in his office in Coral Gables, drawing lines down a page and saying, “Common factors. You’re thinking what I’m thinking, I hope. Let’s examine the links.”

Patrick saying, “All right, then. We have Freddy Robinson, Herman Massani, and me and … Mr. or Mrs. X.”

Oscar wrote each name in a separate column. “But this X must be a known quantity. I’ve spoken to all the Parras, every brother, cousin, sister, nephew, aunt, and such who was in any way associated with old Alejandro’s businesses and who, it’s reasonable to believe, would know of Freddy Robinson, and I must say, I keep coming back to one name, the only logical connection but which doesn’t add up.”

“And that’s … ?”

“Carlos Parra.”

“My biggest booster.”

“And the only one who knows you and Herman Massani and has any kind of connection to Freddy Robinson. But, yes, it doesn’t make sense. He says he knows Freddy Robinson but has had no personal dealings with him. I tried not to push, didn’t want to alarm him, didn’t want to reveal too much of what’s happening, of course, in the event he really has nothing to do with this.”

“You believe him?”

Oscar sighed, put the pen down. “I don’t know. That’s the problem. Carlos isn’t like the rest of his family. You know him, low profile, Harvard grad, cerebral guy. But, ah, my instincts tell me to take the simplest, most obvious possibility and try to suss out the answers later, so that would mean …” He picked up the pen and scribbled fast.

Patrick read off the page, “Carlos Parra is Mr. X.”

Oscar sat back and stared at the names on the page. “What are you thinking, tell me. I can feel you thinking.”

“Here’s my question: Could it be someone who knows all the names here, knows me? Doesn’t like me, perhaps has a major problem with me? A political enemy?”

Oscar’s pen hovered over the page. “Who? Who, of all the people who’ve had major disagreements with you, knows all three of these other names?”

Patrick shifted in his chair and gazed out the window at the lamplit circular driveway. “There’s … No, he doesn’t know Freddy… .”

“A business competitor, another lawyer, maybe?”

Patrick nodded. “Possibly… .” He sat forward. “Listen, Car-los’s company, Seacrest Developments, who are the partners?”

Oscar tapped the pen on the page. “I believe it’s only one person, a man named Rocha, Silvero Rocha.”

“Rocha? As in the Rocha family that owns those condos on Brickell Avenue?”

“One of the sons, but this one used to develop business parks, I understand.”

“Interesting that he doesn’t work with his family.”

“He can’t. They sold the business a few years ago. A company called Pitts and Newberg, he was with Pitts before they went belly-up.”

“Pitts folded?” Patrick sat back. “About two years ago Pitts came before the commission wanting to put a business park off U.S. 1, backing up to this residential neighborhood. Had the residents all up in arms. The rezoning request went to a vote on the planning and rezoning board; I was on the board. I basically didn’t like the idea from the start, everybody knew that. I made sure my constituents knew that. I argued against the request, changed some minds on the board. We voted to turn the request down. Now you’re saying this is the same Pitts and New-berg Rocha worked with?”

Oscar leaned back in his chair and smiled.

Patrick stood and went to the window. “And Rocha is Carlos’s business partner,” he said to himself. He turned around. “Then he is the one. Silvero Rocha is the one we need to talk to.”

Oscar circled Rocha’s name and drew an array of lines from Carlos Parra to Silvero Rocha, Freddy Robinson, and Herman Massani. He sat back and admired the web. “Right here in
black and white. See how easy that was? Let’s give Mr. Rocha a call.”

HE ARRIVED at twelve-thirty, like he said he would. A heavy-set bodyguard with a smoothly shaved head followed him into the barbershop. Rocha was a small man with rimless glasses and a neatly trimmed gray beard that lent him an air of distinction. His style was all business, dark brown striped suit over light brown shirt, chocolate tie. A gold Rolex jangled on his wrist when he moved, or more like swaggered. Flashy, bantam rooster—these were the words that came to mind when Patrick shook his hand. Greetings exchanged all around, stiff smiles, the bodyguard standing off to one side.

Lazaro the barber asked would
Señor Rocha quiere un cafecito?
Rocha said no thanks and addressed the big man. “Bernard? Coffee and a shave?”

Bernard passed a hand over his jaw, smiling. “You saying I need one, Mr. Rocha?”

Rocha smiled back and waved it off.

Bernard picked up a magazine and moved to take a seat. “My wife says I’m handsome just like this, better not risk it.”

Patrick watched the man’s too-loose short-sleeve shirt that would have been tucked if not for the firearm on his right hip it was concealing, Patrick discerning the outline of the gun, a full-sized pistol, maybe a Glock, like all these black guys.

Oscar said, “Let’s convene in the back, gentlemen,” leading the way past the restroom on the right and down a narrow hallway past a storage room. They entered a windowless room with a long conference table and plush leather chairs. Off to one side
behind swing doors was a kitchenette. “Before we begin,” Oscar said, “can I get anyone a drink?”

“I’m quite all right,” Rocha said. He unbuttoned his suit with a flourish and sat down. At the head of the table.

Patrick sat to his left. Oscar returned from the kitchen with two bottled waters, handed one to Patrick.

“So.” Oscar sat across from Patrick.

“So, Oscar.” Rocha grinned, teeth bleach-white.

“We have business to discuss.”

“We do indeed. I was wondering how long you were going to take to reach out to me.”

Oscar twisted the cap off his bottle. “You could’ve revealed yourself earlier. Just a thought.” He drank some water.

“Now, that wouldn’t be a smart way to negotiate. A man like you, I don’t have to remind you about strategy.”

Oscar capped his bottle and said, “All due respect, Silvero, you and me, we might know the same people but we never had the pleasure of doing business. How would you know what kind of man I am?”

Rocha leaned his forearms on the table, making a show of looking at both men. “We are businessmen. Aren’t we businessmen? Of course we are. We understand self-interest. Capitalism. Politics,” a smile Patrick’s way. “We all want a piece of the pie, a fair piece. That’s better for everyone. Nothing too big, but an adequate piece nonetheless.”

“There are some,” Oscar said, rotating his chair slowly, “who might say, considering what has brought us together today, that you haven’t played fair, sir, that you’re siding in. Obviously, it’s through your business partner that you came to know about Her
man Massani and his relation to us. Question is, does Carlos know what you’re doing? You’re putting yourself in a tight spot. You’re squeezing into an agreement between friends.”

Rocha shook his head. “Friends. That word has caused businessmen more grief than any word in the English language. I didn’t come here to discuss friendship. I came to discuss business. We want something from each other. Let’s put our ideas to work and hammer out a deal. Like businessmen.”

Oscar studied Rocha, eyes traveling from the fine cut of the suit to the neat beard. “If it weren’t for the fact you may be right, I’d consider that absolutely lacking in respect. How can you be so certain that we’re not the kind of men to see to it you pay dearly for the shit you’re trying to pull?”

Rocha said, “If I didn’t know the men I was dealing with, I’d consider that a threat, Oscar.”

Patrick raised a hand and leaned in. “Please, let’s all calm down here.”

“But we are calm,” Rocha said, all cool, folding his hands in his lap.

“Can we take a couple steps back and consider what we’re saying here?”

“And what are we saying, Mr. Varela?” Rocha’s level gaze on him.

Patrick stared back at the man. “That we’re businessmen. Engaged in a transaction.”

Rocha looked at Oscar. “You see, I like the way Mr. Varela’s thinking.” He pointed at Patrick. “Straight to the point, that’s admirable.”

Patrick said, “What is it you want?”

Rocha kept nodding. Business frown on, he returned his elbows to the table. “The county will be putting out bids for the airport construction, after the election. I want some of the action there. In the past my projects have met with, let’s call it resistance, from certain commissioners. Mainly you. I want you to understand, I intend to throw a lot of support behind you now, monetary and however else you might see fit, help you become mayor.”