The Consummata (13 page)

“Right....”

“So he’ll probably buy it, and let it go like that. Particularly if there’s a nice tip involved. Besides, attempted break-ins around here aren’t all that unusual. Now, let’s have your car keys. I need to borrow your wheels.”

This was all moving a little fast for her. “Well, okay....”

“Tomorrow I’ll tell you where to pick your buggy up. Cool?”

But she didn’t say, “Cool.” She just handed over the keys silently, watched me a moment, then said, “It’s more than just Jaimie Halaquez, isn’t it, Morgan?”

She was right, but she didn’t need to know that.

So I just shrugged and said, “I don’t know what the hell else it could be.”

“It could be that forty million bucks they say you hijacked.”

“Is that all you girls think about?” I asked. “Money?”

I reached out, gave a half-turn to the bulb in the wall bracket that had been unscrewed and let light flood the area.

The dead guy seemed to look up at me, eyes half open. The knife was in so hard, there was no blood showing around the wound at all. He looked a little silly like that. Death can be so goddamned undignified. The saving grace is, when you’re dead, you don’t really give much of a shit.

I heard Bunny suck her breath in, then she turned toward the stairway.

I called out to her: “Two things!”

She looked back at me like she was risking getting turned into a pillar of salt. “Yes?”

“I want you to call our mutual friend Pedro over in Little Havana for me, and give him a message.”

She listened, then nodded and said, “What’s the other thing?”

“Bring me down an old sheet, would you? I have to wrap this boy up. Might not be necessary if you didn’t drive a station wagon, but I don’t have a trunk to stuff him in, so....”

She shivered as she nodded, then ran up the stairs, came back quickly with a sheet, and without a word ran back up again.

Leaving me to do what I had to do.

They say criminals return to the scene of the crime, if for no other reason than to check for evidence left in the sloppy heat of the moment.

But there’s another reason, too—sometimes the scene of the crime is the one place nobody thinks to look for you.

Little Havana wasn’t the scene of any crime of mine, not exactly; but nobody figures you’ll go back to somewhere you fled. The sprawling neighborhood just west of downtown stretched west from the Miami River for a mile or more. Near midnight, bustling Calle Ocho—Eighth Street, the area between Seventeenth and Twenty-seventh Avenues—lacked some of its robust flavor, though enough coffee shops and cigar stores remained open after midnight for their pungent aromas to add even more spice to the rhythmic sounds of Latin music pulsing behind barroom windows.

The block where I wound up wasn’t lively, not right now, no packs of
muchachos
on the loose, to help or hinder, the restaurants and other mom-and-pop shops closed. Still, I only had to knock once at the doorway next to the
bodega
before I got service—Pedro Navarro was right there, waiting.

If he’d been sleeping when Bunny called to tell him I was coming, he was wide awake and alert now, still just a funny little guy with a
bandito
mustache. He looked stiff and proper
in his pale yellow pleated button-down shirt and loose tan trousers and leather sandals, his smile forced as it fought back worry.

Soon we were all at the kitchen table in the Navarro living quarters above the grocery store, sharing small cups of hot black Cuban coffee—Pedro, his wife Maria, and Luis Saladar—the latter summoned by the man of the house, at my request.

They sat across the table from me, their faces drawn in concentration, the nervous movement of their hands the only evidence of their fear.

I’d already filled them in about the now-deceased visitor who’d come looking for me at Bunny’s apartment house.

Pedro said, “
Señor
Morgan, what of the...the remains of this
asesino
? Do you require help in his...
its
...disposal?”

I waved that off. “Naw, buddy, but thanks. I dumped him in Domino Park on my way here.”

All of their eyes widened, even those of Saladar, who had been around such things.

“Don’t worry,
amigos
,” I said, and sipped at the little cup. Strong as it was hot. “That stretch of street was deserted, and the park wasn’t exactly busy—no old men playing checkers this time of night.”

They didn’t seem to know what to say.

Finally Saladar managed, “But why would such a person search you out,
Señor
Morgan?”

“Well, it’s not the militia. They’d just as soon catch me breathing.” I sipped more coffee. “Bunny thinks the dead guy worked for Halaquez.”

Maria, alarm in both her voice and eyes, said, “How could Halaquez
know
where you would be?”

“Good question.”

Pedro said, “If somehow he did know, he is very capable of sending a man to remove you,
señor
. Halaquez might be afraid that you would find him, and—”

“Maybe,” I said, cutting off my host. I watched his face closely. “But why send somebody before I’ve even begun the hunt? After all, you people didn’t hire me to
kill
this clown. It’s a straight retrieval job.”

Pedro squinted in thought. “I do not follow,
señor
....”

“Seventy-five thousand bucks,” I said, “is real money, I’ll grant you. But it doesn’t justify sending an assassin to take me out.”

“Perhaps not,
señor
,” Saladar said. “But if one considers the
reputation
of Morgan the Raider, it might well seem
prudent
.”

“Doubtful.” I let a few seconds of silence sink in, then added, “Could it be something else? Could it be more than the money?”

In turn, they looked at each other, their puzzlement palpable.

Pedro said, “I am sorry,
Señor
Morgan, but I do not understand.”

“Never mind.” I grunted. “Tell me about Gaita.”

Mildly defensive, Pedro said, “We trust her with our lives,
señor
.”

“That’s your choice. But trusting her with
mine
is my call. I want chapter and verse.”

“
Señor?
”

“I want the whole damn dossier.”

This also confused Pedro, but Luis Saladar knew exactly what I meant.

The trimly bearded man leaned back in his chair—again he wore a dignified white suit with a bolo tie—and his eyes focused on me steadily, rarely blinking as he spoke.

“My friend, this young woman’s parents were killed by Castro’s men before her eyes. With the bodies of her mother and papa nearby, several of these soldiers...they had their way with her.”

“They raped her.”

“They raped her,
señor
, yes. She was but a child of twelve or perhaps thirteen, you understand...yet what they did to her, she understood, and she learned at this age how to hate—how to hate very well.”

“Makes sense.”

“She came to this country aboard a small boat with six others. Two died of malnourishment before finally the Coast Guard towed them ashore. She was an independent child...true, she made her living by becoming a...”

He couldn’t make himself say it, and found other words.

“...by
catering
to the needs of men. But like all of us, she deals with whatever commodity she has available. And her work for the cause, it has been exemplary.”

I nodded. “
Novios?
”

But it was Maria who took the liberty of answering: “No sweethearts,
Señor
Morgan. No boys, no men. Since Gaita’s experience at the hands of Castro’s pigs that awful night, so
many years ago? She has little to do with the male sex.”

“Unless she’s charging a male
for
sex, you mean?”

She took no offense and seemed utterly unembarrassed as she said, “That is business,
señor
. One must survive.”

“Maybe so, but she made me a free offer the other night.”

Now it was Saladar who replied: “That is because you are different. She said as much to me. She said, ‘This Morgan—he is a
real
man.’ ”

“Yeah, well, that’s swell...but maybe that’s what she
wants
you to hear, Luis. And wants
me
to hear through you. The question is, can I trust her?”

Saladar’s chin jutted. “As Pedro told you—I would trust her with my life. In fact, I
have
...several times.” His eyes narrowed. “Information she had ferreted out for us, it has proved invaluable.”

“She made the arrangements at the Hotel Amherst,” I reminded him.

“If she had the intentions upon your life,
señor
,” Saladar said quietly, “did she not have ample opportunity to act upon them? When you were in her care, and her trust? Would your death have not come sooner, and in less obvious a fashion than by some bomb? No? As you said yourself, your coming here was most accidental. She could not have foreseen your arrival. None of us could.”

I leaned back in my chair and took a taste of the coffee. The stuff could make your eyes water. I liked it.

“That,” I said, “leaves us with the other hooker—Tami—and that cab driver, whose name I never caught.”

Saladar’s nostrils twitched and he seemed to grow with
the breath he took. “The driver,
señor
, was my nephew. I will vouch for him gladly.”

“Okay. But will you vouch for Tami?”

“Gaita recommended her as a trusted friend.”

But a prostitute. A woman who sold herself for money might not hesitate selling somebody else out. On the other hand, I’d met plenty of whores whose morality was superior to a lot of self-proclaimed good people.

“So if we take Gaita’s word that Tami’s reliable,” I said, “we are still left with a great big leaky hole somewhere.”

Maria gave me a soft smile. “This house,
Señor
Morgan, it is watertight.”

“I’m thinking about
another
house.”

“
Señor
?”

“The Mandor Club.”

Saladar’s eyes were curious now. “This is by the process of elimination,
señor
?”

“In part,” I said. “But mostly it’s because, as Gaita made clear, the Mandor’s a handy little place for picking up tidbits of information you can make pay off. Luis, you said yourself that Gaita has been a top source of information for you...and where did she get that information?”

He shrugged. “The Mandor Club. You are right,
señor
.” Then he shook his head. “But not Gaita, or her friend Tami, either....”

“Still—somebody else could be using it for the same reasons.”

“The businesswoman who runs the Club Mandor,” Saladar said, “you seem to trust her. She passed your message on to
Pedro, and through him to me. But she would have the perfect opportunity to gather such intelligence.”

The military term did not surprise me, coming from this man.

“True,” I said. “She may have every room bugged. Hell, they may have film or video cameras going behind one-way glass. But Bunny didn’t send the man with the knife.”

Saladar’s eyes narrowed and his head tilted to one side. “How can you be sure of this?”

“If Maria will pardon a vulgar American expression—you don’t shit where you eat. She would hardly sanction a killing in the lobby of her own apartment house.”

“Ah,” Saladar said, and nodded, accepting that wisdom.

Pedro and Maria had slightly shell-shocked expressions at all this talk of murder and betrayal.

“Anyway,” I said, “I like Bunny. I believe her, even if she did try to have me killed a couple times, a long while back.”

Once again, they all looked at each other, and tried not to let me know just how crazy they thought their
gringo
guest sounded.

Finally Pedro asked, “This one you killed—”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“Pardon,
señor
?”

“He fell on his own knife.”

“...Yes, I understand. He will not be traced to...to what happened here so recently?” His expression turned woeful, if slightly apologetic. “The militia, they suspect of us of aiding you,
señor
.”

“The hitman had no identification on him. It’s true I
dumped him in Little Havana, but you’re hardly the only Cubans here.”

Pedro nodded, sighed, then asked, “What will you do now?”

“Just give it a little time,” I said, grinning. “You can’t taste the flavor of the stew until it cooks a while.”

Maria nodded, agreeing with that advice in general.

Saladar said, “How else may we be of help in your effort?”

“You can start by telling me something.”

“Certainly.”

“Jaimie Halaquez was a double agent, you said. Who were his contacts in Cuba?”

Saladar shook his head. “That information our
amigo
Jaimie never shared with us. He said that the less we knew, the safer we were—of course, he meant the safer
he
was.”

Pedro perked up. “But one time he
did
mention a name. I remember because it was the kind of name you do not forget—Angel Vesta. He seemed unhappy with himself that he had made this...what do you say? This
slip
, and never mentioned it again.”

I turned to Saladar. “What does that name mean to you, Luis?”

Saladar gave it a few seconds thought, then said, tentatively, “It might be the one called ‘The Angel,’ who was at times used to dispatch Castro’s enemies. But that is not an uncommon name in Cuba,
Señor
Morgan—Angelo.”

“Do you know what this Angel looks like?”

“I do,
señor
. I know also that he is equally adept with the gun and the blade.”

I thought about that.

Then I said, “Luis, how would you like to take a walk?”

“Well...uh, certainly,
señor
. You have somewhere in mind?”

“Yeah, I do.” I pushed away from the table. “Pedro, Maria, please stay here...and thank you for your hospitality.”

Pedro said, “Would you like to stay tonight,
señor
, in the secret place off our bedroom?”

Eyes tight, Saladar said, “It might be wise,
Señor
Morgan. My sources say that this Crowley has distributed your picture to every hotel in Miami.”