Fifty Grand

The doors close and just like that he’s gone, whisked off into the night as if he’s part of a magician’s trick. I look around the restaurant but the place is so busy no one except the Québecois has noticed any of this. The two widows at the next table are still studying the menu and everyone else is getting quietly hammered on daiquiris.

Only the gamin seems to care. I feel his glare from the semidarkness. His unasked question needs no answer but I give it to him anyway. Gratis. “He killed his girlfriend’s baby. A little girl. Ok?”

The boy looks skeptical. My cell phone vibrates. I stick in the earpiece.

“Hell of a job, hell of job,” Hector says.

“Thank you.”

“Where did you come up with that stuff? ‘María Angela.’ Fantastic. That’s exactly what they would call her, will call her when they find the body. You took a risk, though, no?”

“What risk?”

“You didn’t know it was a girl. What if it had been a baby boy?”

“They wouldn’t have killed it if it had been a baby boy. They would have sold it.”

Hector sighs. “Yes, you’re probably right.”

“I’ve given you enough to go on, right?”

“More than enough. Wow. The things that come from nothing. All we had was a tip from the old lady that she was pregnant and wasn’t pregnant anymore. We didn’t have proof of anything.”

“Well, now you got two losers whose lives are ruined.”

“Always the downside, Mercado. Don’t look at it like that. You did good. You really did good. You broke it open. In about two fucking minutes.”

“Like to take the credit, Hector, but it really wasn’t me. He wanted to talk. He was itching for it. I believe him about the cathedral, by the way, but he probably went there afterward. To ask forgiveness from Our Lady.”

Hector doesn’t want to think about that. “No. You really scored for us. Come on. Put down that glass and let me buy you a real drink. We’ll go to that place on Higüera. Let’s go celebrate.”

I shake my head. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m meeting my brother.”

“Here?”

“Yeah.”

“Why do you want to meet here?”

“I knew I was going to be here.”

“What if Felipe had gone crazy and strangled you or something?” Díaz chips in.

“He wasn’t strangling anybody. He was glad. Relieved.”

“Well. We’re all pleased. You should come…” Hector says, then his voice drops a register. “You should come, Mercado, we’re, uh, we’re meeting our friends from the embassy, uhm, I’d like to introduce you.”

“You should definitely come,” Díaz seconds.

Our friends from the embassy.

Which embassy? The Venezuelan? The Chinese? The Vietnamese? They all have what works in a plutocracy. Money. And Hector wants to introduce me to some of the players. Never done that before. It’s what all ambitious cops want. The way in. The party, the drinks, the jokes, the dollars, an end to the sweatbox on O’Reilly, bigger cases, DGI contacts, maybe even a car.

Our friends from the embassy.

“Sorry, Hector, rain check, I can’t do it tonight.”

“Tell her, Díaz,” Hector says.

“She doesn’t want to go,” Díaz replies.

“Can’t do it, I’m meeting my brother, he’s flying in from America.”

A long pause before Hector decides it’s not worth it. “Ok, well, if you change your mind you’ll know where we’ll be.”

“I will, thanks, guys. And Díaz, please don’t let him tell any jokes-you two on a bender with embassy people has ‘international incident’ written all over it.”

I hear them chuckle and they flash the lights on the Yugo and wave as they drive past. No obscene gestures this time.

I finish the mojito and look about for a waiter. I suppose I should tell the manager that I’ve just arrested their-

A pair of hands covers my eyes.

Too clean and presumptuous to be the boy beggar.

“Ricky.”

He laughs and kisses me on the cheek. He puts a chic black bicycle messenger bag on the table and sits in Felipe’s seat.

“I thought they’d never go. Fucking cops,” he says.

“Hey-”

“Present company excepted. Jesus, we’re the youngest people here. Why did you want to meet in this cemetery?” he asks.

“I like it here.”

He shakes his head, takes off his raincoat, and as an antitheft device wraps the strap of his messenger bag under his chair.

“How was your flight?” I ask.

“It was fine. I came direct.”

“Really? Didn’t know you could come direct.”

“Yeah, you can. Two flights a week from Miami to Havana. Shit, I really could do with a… Have you seen a… Jesus. Pretty slow service in here, no?”

“I just arrested the head waiter.”

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

“Did he grab your ass or something?”

“No.”

“What did-oh, wait, here’s one finally…”

A harassed-looking kid shows up, seemingly dragooned from the kitchen.

Ricky orders half a dozen things off the tapas menu and a martini. He looks good. He’s fit and handsome, with a mop of black hair that hangs over his left eyebrow in a fey, Englishy sort of way. He’s almost too handsome, with none of Dad’s flat, jovial peasant charm or Mother’s fleshy good looks. He’s angular and trim. His teeth are American white and his smile broad. The only thing we share are the dark green eyes from Mom’s side of the family.