Fifty Grand

The eyes twinkle in the moonlight as he sips the martini.

“Yech,” he says. “Local gin.”

When we were younger, people used to say we resembled each other, but not anymore. He’s grown prettier and I’ve grown duller. Although perhaps tonight because he’s just gotten off a flight and I’ve put on eye makeup and my best clothes we are like siblings once again.

“The mojitos are ok,” I tell him.

“A mojito?” he says as if I’ve just suggested human flesh.

It makes me laugh and he laughs. Because of his good looks and the fact that he works for the Cuba Times and the YCP magazine, everyone assumes that he’s gay. For years he wheeled a few girls around and tried to beard them but when he saw that it wasn’t going to hurt his career he quietly let the girls go. He’s not “out” like some of the famous Havana queens, but I’ve met his sometime boyfriend, a captain in the MININT-the Ministry of the Interior-and almost everyone knows. One time a low-level chivato (a paid informer) tried to blackmail him about his cosmopolitan tendencies, but the chivato ended up losing his job and being moved to Manzanillo.

He swallows the last of his martini, orders a Cuba Libre, and eats most of the food before he even thinks about having a conversation. Ricky’s one of those men who can eat anything without it ever showing. If he weren’t my brother I’d probably hate him. No, if he weren’t my brother we would never have met in the first place. His circles are kilometers above mine.

“I’m surprised they can still pull it together,” he says, munching on something that yesterday was swimming happily in the Florida Strait. “I would never have eaten here in a million years but it’s not bad.”

I let him nibble at two more side dishes before I press him.

“So what did you find out?” I ask with a trace of impatience.

“In a minute. Let’s do you first. You arrested a waiter?”

Typical Ricky, always looking for a story.

“Yeah. One of the head waiters.”

“The head waiter? What did he do?”

“He was a murderer.”

“You don’t say. Who did he kill?” he asks, affecting casualness.

“Killed a lot of people. Real nutcase. Poisoned them.”

Ricky looks at his empty plate of tapas.

“Poisoned them? Are you serious?”

“Yeah, a dozen victims at least.”

Ricky pales, but then I wink at him and he laughs.

“You’re wasted in the goon squad,” he says.

“I like the goon squad.”

“That’s why you’re so weird, big sister.”

“So. Tell me. What did you find out?”

He reaches into the messenger bag and hands me a folder full of typed sheets, drawings, and photographs.

“You wrote a report? Where did you get the time?”

“It was easier to write it out on the computer. I can type at a hundred words a minute, you know.”

I look through his notes. They’re clear and well organized and give me everything I need to get started.

“What’s your conclusion?” I ask.

“Hey, do you like my bag? I got this in Manhattan, it’s the latest thing,” he says, trying to be frivolous.

“You’re not going to distract me. What did you find out, Ricky?”

He shakes his head. “My conclusion, dear sister, is that your suspicions are probably correct,” he says with deliberate caution.

“I’m right?”

“I think so.”

We both consider this for a moment.

“You went to the garage?”

“Yes, I went to the garage.”

“What did you learn there?” I ask.

“It’s all in the notes.”

“What did you learn, Ricky?”

“There were two accidents that day. That means two suspects: one of them’s an old lady, one’s a Hollywood type.”

“A Hollywood type? What are you talking about?” I ask.

“Didn’t I tell you? Fairview is full of Hollywood types. Tom Cruise moved there, and around his sun lesser planets revolve. It’s where the elite go to ski now that Aspen and Vail are full of the hoi polloi. I met some of them. I got invited to a party.”

“You didn’t!”

“I did. I met a charming young man with whom I had a meeting of minds.”

“I hope you were careful.”

“I’m always careful, darling.”

“How did you get all this stuff through airport security?” I ask.

Cuba was one of the few countries in the world that put you through a metal detector and scanner and searched you after you got off the plane. It was so that they could seize any contraband such as banned books, newspapers, magazines. The agents must have read Ricky’s typewritten notes and asked him questions about it.

Ricky sighs as if this is a stupid question. “They’re not very bright. I did a cover page about the conference, made it really boring. I knew they’d only glance at the first few lines, which were full of praise for the brothers.”

“Smart,” I say and examine the photographs. A motel, a mountain, a lonely mountain road. A Range Rover with a dent on the left front.

“This is amazing. This is more than I’d hoped for. You did really well, Ricky,” I tell him with genuine affection.

“Yeah, I’m good,” he says and lights a postmeal cigarette. American one.

“Tell me about the Range Rover in the photograph.”