Suspicion of Betrayal (41 page)

"I didn't have much hope for it," she said.

"Their lawyer told me yesterday. I don't know how I'm going to pay you back."

"Don't worry about it for now. I'm all right." Gail folded her sunglasses and set them on the table. "Do you have any idea what happened?"

"Nope. They were hot for the idea a week ago, and all of a sudden they backed off. Barlow admitted he can't get a clear answer. I thought of suing them, but I have no money for a lawyer, and like you said, there's all that fine print in the contract."

"Do they want the eighty thousand back that they gave you?"

Laughing, Dave made a gesture of defiance—fist up, other palm on his bicep. "Good luck, guys. Stand in line."

The waiter brought the beer, and Dave poured half into Gail's mug, the rest into his. "Cheers." Behind them the Jamaicans started to play around on the steel drums—bell-like music chiming in scraps of melody, pattering like rain.

"I'll stick around till about four, then split for Del-ray Beach. My manager can handle the party tonight. I ought to be here, but to be honest with you, I don't have the heart."

Gail said, "Let me tell you about the conversation I just had with Michael Novick. I talked to him because I had to know if we should bring Karen home yet. Some of the things he had said on Wednesday night bothered me. Today I don't feel much better about it."

She told Dave what they had discussed—the evidence and the oddities. He listened without comment, but a skeptical frown appeared. He finished his beer.

"I don't know what to do, Dave. I'm nervous about this."

"Sure, anybody would be if they'd seen what you saw—walking into Karen's room, that pervert lying there with his brains blown out. Novick is making too much out of this. No, I say Karen's coming home. I wouldn't bring her back if I thought she was in danger, I swear to God. She wants to come home, and I want the time with her." He added, "I'm leaving Miami."

"You are? Where are you going?"

"I have a job on St. John, managing a restaurant at a resort in Cruz Bay. It pays pretty well. A friend of a friend called me about it. I don't know the guy, but he heard about me and they needed someone, and there it is."

"St. John. That's so far away."

"I have nothing here, Gail. My credit is shot to hell. Down there I get a place to stay. I don't need a car. It's a decent life, no stress, no traffic, no hassles. The drawback is, I won't see Karen as much. And that's hard. That is very hard. We had these big plans, Karen and me, going around to see all the Island Clubs. She was so excited. I heard her bragging about it to the kids in the building. I don't know what the hell to say to her."

"When are you leaving?"

"In a couple of weeks. When the rent on my apartment runs out. Say, you wouldn't like a good deal on a big-screen TV, would you?"

Sensing someone's presence, Gail looked around.

The dark-haired waitress with the short shorts— Vicki—was pretending Gail wasn't there. "Dave? The liquor distributor needs to talk to you about the order for the party."

"Tell Pete to handle it."

"He's not here yet."

"Then you do it." Dave held out his arm. "I grant you my authority and permission to sign my name to whatever order for however much he will give us. Go for it."

Vicki's eyes shifted to the restaurant, then back at Dave. "Okay."

"And bring us a couple more beers. Gail? You want one?"

"Why not?"

"Now all we need is the steel drum version of 'Nearer My God to Thee.' " He gave Vicki the empty bottle of Red Stripe. "Go see if they know that tune."

"Oh, come on." With a roll of her eyes, Vicki left.

"Does she know you're leaving?"

"No one does yet. I guess I don't want to believe it myself. I wish you and Karen were going with me. Why don't we do that? Let's all run away to St. John." He took her hand and held it to his cheek. "You know, Gail, we came close. We almost made it, didn't we?" His face emptied, and he looked out toward the bay. He seemed to struggle for words, then said, "I've got a lot of nerve to ask you this. I'd like to bring Karen down there for a week before school starts, but I don't have enough right now for the airline ticket. You think you could lend me the money? I could pay you back. I mean, three or four hundred bucks is not impossible." His eyes closed. "I'm so sorry, Gail. So damned sorry."

The party at the Pedrosa house started around three o'clock and would proceed at seven to the Biltmore Hotel, everyone bringing lawn chairs, blankets, and coolers, to sit on the grass and listen to the military band, after which they would enjoy the fireworks display put on by the city. Then home again for more food and a live salsa band. Elena told Gail, as they stood in line for hamburgers, that every year the decorations were more elaborate and the house more crowded. Rows of American and Cuban flags waved from stanchions in the driveway. Every politician in the county dropped in. Family and friends clogged the hallways and poured onto the grounds. There was a carousel for the little ones and a magic act at four in the living room. Folding chairs had been put in rows, and every one was filled.

Around five o'clock Gail went upstairs to find something for her headache. She lay down on the bed, but teenagers below her window had a boom box playing Spanish rap music. Ernesto had spent most of the afternoon napping, so by default Anthony had been playing host. Gail had not seen much of him, except for the times he had introduced her to this person or that.
Mi novia. Encantada.
Where are you going on your honeymoon? The lake district of Italy, a cottage on a mountain. How romantic.

The air conditioning drifted out onto the terrace, keeping it less torrid than the rest of the yard. People ate at picnic tables with checkered cloths, and the caterers cleaned up behind them. Somebody set off a firecracker, frightening the babies. A radio was tuned to old Spanish ballads, and another played hip-hop.

Wandering back downstairs, Gail spotted Ernesto Pedrosa in his wheelchair across the yard by the goldfish pond. He and some of the younger children were tossing bits of food into the water. He had changed his straw hat for an exquisite white Panama, and an American flag had been stuck at a jaunty angle in the ribbon around the crown.

Gail stood beside his chair. "Are you enjoying the party?"

"I always enjoy parties."

He held out a crust to a toddler, a little girl in a bright red dress. The girl grabbed for the bread, but Pedrosa pulled it away. She shrieked and stamped her feet up and down. He relented and let her have the bread, then chuckled when she ate it instead of throwing it to the fish.

Gail sat on the low, ferny wall of the pond. When the bread ran out, Pedrosa held his hands open to show the children there was nothing left.
"Más. Buscan más."
They ran off to find more. Gail stood up and grasped the handles of his chair.

"Where are we going?"

"For a little walk." She wheeled him along the brick walkway. People smiled and said hello, and he lifted his hand like a monarch in a carriage. She stopped around the corner of the guest house and sat down on a shady bench beside him.

"I heard a story about Hector Mesa—his devotion to this family. Your son, Tomás, was captured in the invasion at Playa Girón. When they questioned him, all he would say was
viva Cuba libre.
One of the Cuban soldiers cut out his tongue and beat him to death. Many years later Hector Mesa brought you that same soldier's tongue in a box. Is this true?"

The old man did not deny it. "Those were difficult times."

"Have you ever heard the name Wendell Sweet?"

He pursed his lips. Spittle had gathered in the corners. "No, I don't know this name."

"He was shot to death, and his body was found in the Miami River."

"Ah. I remember. It was on the news. He was dealing drugs. Those people deserve what they get."

"Hector Mesa left town the morning after Wendell was killed. Do you know why?"

The big, liver-spotted hands went outward in a shrug.

"But he must have told you. You're his
padrón. He
works for you."

Ernesto Pedrosa's eyes shifted slowly to fix on her. They were pale, watery blue, the color of ice. His pink-rimmed lower lids drooped, pulled by shadowy pouches and weighted by the things he had seen in his life. Black pupils fixed on Gail, and as through a chink in a wall, pure lucidity shone out.

"Olvídate de Hector. No me preguntes más."
With a wave of his hand he directed her to take him back to the others, and she did.

Forget about it, Pedrosa had said. Forget about Hector. Don't ask about it again. Gail wondered why he had chosen to be under her balcony today with the gardener. Calling her granddaughter, his pretty
nieta,
making her feel sorry for an old man's infirmities.

She left him with the old people listening to
boleros,
and he rose shakily from his chair to dance a few steps with one of the ladies. Gail walked toward the house. She saw Anthony standing on the terrace, the center of a group of men. He held a cigar. How relaxed he looked, laughing with them. He wore pleated linen pants and a pale blue shirt. A child toddled by and he patted her on the head.

The heat, the noise were too much. Gail felt dizzy from it.

Anthony noticed her and smiled, motioning for her to come there, to join them. The men looked at her.

Gail backed up, turned, and hurried through the crowd, pushing her way, running past the guest house, going faster until she came to the back of the property and the gate in the wall. Anthony's voice came from behind her. She lifted the heavy iron latch and pushed open the gate. The golf course undulated left and right, curling around small lakes and white sand. She walked straight across, then around a dense stand of ficus trees. In the distance she could see the bell tower of the hotel and could hear the band. She went over a rise in the ground, then down, and there was a lake and she could go no farther.

"Gail!"

Annoyed, out of breath, Anthony stood at the top of the berm. "What are you doing? Why did you walk away when I called you? Everyone saw it." When she didn't answer, he let out an exhalation of forbearance and trotted down the slope toward her. The setting sun turned his hair deep copper.

Coming closer, he frowned. "Are you all right? Are you feeling sick? What's the matter?"

"What I saw— You and those men. It was like Ernesto. Exactly."

"Gail, come back to the house with me. I'm going to call the doctor."

"Don't touch me!" She swerved out of his grasp, and he stared at her, stunned. She said, "I'm going to ask you something, and I'd like the truth."

He exhaled, showing his patience. "Okay. Ask me. What do you want to know?"

"Did you talk to Hector Mesa about Wendell Sweet?"

"Por Dios,
what kind of question is that?"

"Did Hector know about the offshore account you're managing for Harry Lasko? Did Hector know about the sale of the casino to Ricardo Molina? Did he know?"

"No. I don't discuss that kind of thing with Hector. Why are you—"

"What about your grandfather? Did you tell him?"

Anthony hesitated. "Yes. We talked about it."

"Did your grandfather ask Hector Mesa to kill Wendell Sweet?"

His mouth opened. "No. Why in the name of God would you think that? Wendell was killed in a drug deal."

"Was he? Wendell knew things that could get you disbarred, if not criminally prosecuted. You have the key to Harry Lasko's offshore account, money that Harry got from a drug trafficker. You're taking the risk because Harry is your friend, but Wendell could have ruined you. Couldn't Hector have solved the problem? Couldn't your grandfather have asked him to? Ernesto is an old man, and you're his life."

"You just accused my grandfather of murder! This is insane."

"Why don't you ask him?"

"I won't ask him that!"

"Of course you can't. What if he said yes? What would you do then? Turn him in? You can't even accuse Hector. He's going to get away with it."

"Let's go back to the house." He grabbed her wrist. "We're not going to discuss this now. We're going to the Biltmore with the family, and you will behave normally. If you can't, then you will stay in our room until I come back."

Laughing, she jerked away. "Oh, my God. Listen to yourself."

He put his hands on his hips. "What do you want me to do? Leave you here? Everyone is wondering what happened. What am I supposed to tell them?"

"I don't give a damn."

"Ay, mi madre, que pena. "

Voices came nearer, and Gail realized the Pedrosa family and their friends were on their way toward the hotel already. She saw them moving through the trees, and gradually they came into view with their chairs and coolers. But not Ernesto. He would watch from the upper floor of the house with his wife and the others who could not make the walk.

Anthony's cousin Bernardo saw the two standing over by the pond and made an exaggerated shrug, asking what was going on. Anthony gave him a dismissive wave.

"Look at that," he said. "They know we're having a fight.
Ay, Diòs mio.
Gail, come on. I'm tired of being out here like this."

"I have one more question."

"Enough questions." He grabbed her elbow. "Do you want me to carry you back? I will do it. Don't think I won't."

Gail planted her feet in the grass. "What did you do to Dave?"

"What?"

"Did you kill his deal with the Old Island Club? Did you do that?"

He laughed. "No. What are you talking about?"

"You're lying. When I told you what I did for Dave, you didn't scream about it. You said we should forget it. Remember? No one has an answer why it fell through. Then miraculously someone offered him a job at a resort on St. John. Harry Lasko is in the business. He would have done you a favor."

Anthony stared at her, and the defiance in his expression told her the truth.

"Oh, God, the irony. I cleaned out my trust account to help Dave with a deal that you had already poisoned. And when I told you— Well, what could you do but pay me the money back?"