The Informant (17 page)

Lydia had. She nodded. Simon Waxler was more than just a bail bondsman. When she reached for her wineglass, she used both hands, gripping it tightly. No more nerves, no more nerves, no more …

Lonnie Too Tall stood up, tall, lean, graceful, confident. He pulled back his thick pink lips, giving Lydia another look at perfect white and gold teeth.

“How long you be in town?”

She looked at Jorge, again forcing herself to smile. Nerves.

“Depends.”

“Yeah, I can dig it. Business first, right? I can dig it. Got me some things to take care of, too, some money to pay out …”

He leaned over Lydia to say something more intimate. She smelled the heavy sweetness of his cologne, his sweat, saw his large mouth coming at her. She went rigid.

That’s when Lonnie turned quickly, his left arm still around her chair. Julius Shelton, his partner, was behind him, gently touching his arm. Julius whispered in his ear.

Lydia, wineglass to her lips, caught two words before both Lonnie and Julius leaned away from her.

“
Satin wants
…”

In a quick good night to both Lydia and Jorge Dávila, Lonnie excused himself, and without going to his table, both he and Julius Shelton left the club.

Lydia felt a hand on her wrist and almost screamed.

Jorge Dávila.

“Let’s dance.” He spoke in Spanish.

Lydia’s eyes were wide with excitement. “No, no! We’ve got to leave, got to talk to Neil, to Marty Rees!”

Jorge Dávila held on tightly to her wrist, forcing her out of her chair. His voice was a low hiss.

“You want to die?”

“No. Why—?”

“Keep quiet. Just listen. We’re supposed to be out for a good time. Dancing, drinking. So let’s do it. You don’t know who’s here, who’s watching you. There are people, in here who are in dope, in guns, in politics. Half are for Castro, half hate him. These are people you must always be careful around. So we dance, you understand?”

His eyes held hers, and he squeezed her wrist, causing pain.

“
Play the role, Lydia. Play the role and stay alive
.”

On the dance floor, he held her tight, whispering into her ear.

“That was nice. That business about the food. Gave you names. How did you think of that?”

She spoke into his neck. “Came to me.” She leaned her head back, looked at him, and smiled nervously. “Thanks. I mean, for what you said before.”

The small pudgy man smiled back. “Somebody had to tell me. I’m just passing it on.” She was a nice person, maybe in over her head. She’d find out soon enough.

He said, “I make cabinets, tables. A hobby. I’m good with my hands. I love making things out of wood. Shall I send you something in New York?”

“I’d like that.”

They danced three numbers, then ate dinner. An excited Lydia forced herself to chew and swallow.

They left an hour later; the people at Lonnie’s table got up to leave at the same time. Jorge Dávila held on to Lydia’s elbow, pulling her back, letting
those
people get ahead of them.

Outside, in the humid darkness, Jorge and Lydia watched Lonnie’s Cubans pile into two cars, leaving Simon Waxler, the bald bail bondsman, alone on the sidewalk. He wasn’t there for long.

Another car came out of the humid darkness, pulled in front of the Cubans’ cars, and stopped, its motor running. The back door opened, and Simon Waxler got in. The car sped away quickly, tires squealing. It passed in front of Jorge Dávila and Lydia, turned a corner, and was gone.

Lydia touched Jorge’s arm. “Anyone you know in that car?”

The pudgy little man frowned, unbuttoning his suit jacket in the night heat. He used a finger to trace the outline of his lips as he stared after the car in silent thought for long seconds.

An excited, restless Lydia wanted to leave quickly, to tell someone what she had found out tonight. She pulled gently on Jorge’s elbow, ignoring whistles and comments aimed at her by three Cuban teenage boys walking by.

“Jorge? Somethin’ wrong?”

“First car. Somebody …”

“Who?”

“Works for John-John Paco. John-John’s one of the biggest distributors in Miami. Deals white, Mexican brown, coke. Gets a lot from Mas Betancourt in New York. …”

Jorge snapped his fingers in sudden recognition. “Carlos el Indio! That’s it! Carlos the Indian. Those slanted eyes, dark skin. He’s one of John-John’s boys. Likes to use a knife on people. Strange thing. I think there was this priest sitting next to him.”

He turned to look at Lydia. “A bail bondsman I can understand. El Indio is nobody’s saint.” Jorge shuddered, frowning. “But a priest? Why is a priest with Indio and a bail bondsman?”

Lydia pressed her lips together in one thin line. Nerves. She had to speak to Neil.
Had to.

“The priest. Are you sure it was a priest?”

“Yes. Well, I’m pretty sure. This weather … I mean, it was almost ninety today. Still over eighty tonight. The priest did not have a jacket on. No hat, either. But I saw the Roman collar.” He touched his own throat. “Roman collar. Just saw the priest quickly, but that face, you know? You don’t forget it. Ugly, sad, real long. Like a sad dog. You know him?”

Lydia dug her nails into Jorge Dávila’s arm. The excitement, the power. It hit her like the rush from a fix of heroin. Yes, that was it! Tonight was like being high. It was a trip.

Around her, the lights, smells, sounds of the crowded street in Little Havana faded away, erased by the strong sense of achievement she felt.

So much to tell Neil.

Bad Red; Lonnie Too Tall Conquest; King Raymond; Simon Waxler, the Manhattan bail bondsman.

And the priest, Rolando. Had to be him.

Except for Bad Red, all were in Miami to meet somebody. Lydia Constanza knew who.

“Satin says …”

Black Satin was Kelly Lorenzo’s street name.

It had been a busy night for Rolando. But it wasn’t over. Not yet.

During the drive to Miami International Airport, where Simon Waxler had to catch a night flight back to New York, there had been talk of couriers to be used next year to bring in the five hundred kilos of white. The bail bondsman was in a position to know the kind of people Mas Betancourt and Rolando would be interested in.

Simon Waxler was also investing two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in the deal, with the guarantee of receiving at least three keys uncut. With his contacts in narcotics, he was sure he could double, perhaps triple his investment. The bail bondsman was a financier, investing money in dope deals, but running no risks, touching no dope.

When he received his three keys, he wouldn’t be the one to physically handle it. Someone else would. Someone else would cut it, be the mule if necessary, and bring back the cash. Financiers always had soft hands and clean fingernails.

During the drive, the bail bondsman had sucked his teeth and talked fast in a high voice, hanging on to a car strap and punching the air with a tiny fist to make his point.

“I can check my mules out only so far, but that’s it. Can’t be responsible if they get into trouble after that, understand?”

Rolando, weary with the heat, sat up front fanning himself with his hat. “I know that you should be careful, Simon, that you should only give us people you are absolutely sure of.”

“I know what you’re saying. It’s my money, too, remember? Remember?”

An echo with bad breath, thought Rolando. Simon Waxler’s obsession with protecting his money had made him repeat himself. He needed constant assurance that the world was not composed of bail jumpers.

The car made a right on West Eighth, went several blocks, then turned left on Le Jeune Road, leaving Little Havana behind. It was now on Forty-second Avenue and heading directly to Miami International.

Simon Waxler wanted to get back to New York immediately. In the morning, he had money to protect in several New York courtrooms. In addition to coming to Miami to talk to Rolando about money and mules, the bail bondsman had also come to open his second office in the city. Like the first, it was under another name with someone else fronting.

Simon Waxler was a cautious man.

He said, “Everything else is coming along fine? Fine?” He made more sucking noises with tongue and teeth.

“Yes.” Rolando sighed. The heat was obscene. “We serve our ambition as best we can.”

Simon Waxler narrowed his eyes at the back of Rolando’s neck. “Can’t figure you out. I know you’re smart, I know you’re smart. But sometimes, like it ’pears to me you don’t give a rat’s ass about anything. Anything.”

“Does it, now? Perhaps I should throw confetti in the air each time we meet. Would that remove the appearance of ennui?”

“What I’m sayin’ is, this thing …” Simon looked right at the Cuban sitting in the darkness beside him, then front at the flat-faced dark man driving. Caution. It was natural with him. Caution and suspicion.

“What I’m sayin’ is, you’re a pretty cool customer.”

Rolando snorted. “Cool. The operative word tonight.”

“Uh, I get the impression you got more things to do tonight.”

Rolando nodded. “It would seem.” He spoke softly. “Law cannot persuade where it cannot punish.” He turned to Simon Waxler. “Forgive me. A quote from Thomas Fuller.”

And a reminder of tonight’s final task. Eternal rest for Mr. and Mrs. Cruz Real.

“Who the fuck is Thomas Fuller? Fuller.”

Rolando sighed and refused to answer. The heat was winning.

Two deaths in the night.

When the car stopped in darkness, Mariana Real turned her frightened, pretty face to the priest sitting in the back seat with her.

“Father?”

Rolando turned to look through the back window. “Back there. He wanted to’see you before he left. When he gets to where he’s going, you’ll hear from him.” He smiled, patting her shoulder. “Go to him. Go, go.”

Her smile was brief, tentative. Then she opened the car door and left it open as she ran along the dark deserted road to the car where her husband now waited for her.

A telephone call from John-John Paco had prepared her. Then the priest had appeared at Mariana Real’s small apartment on Ponce de Leon Boulevard to tell her that Cruz was jumping bail and fleeing the country. If he didn’t, he would go to jail for cocaine possession.

Cruz
had
to leave tonight. He couldn’t take Mariana with him, and he was afraid that their apartment was being watched by federal narcotics agents. The priest would take her to see her husband. After Cruz was settled, he would send for his wife and two children.

Uncle John-John Paco had given Cruz money. Uncle John-John Paco had telephoned to say leave with the priest when he comes.

With the whine of mosquitoes in her ears, Mariana Real ran the several yards in darkness on the dirt road to the second car. There was a man in the back seat. Cruz.

“Cruz! Cruz!”

In the moonlight, her tears were silver streaks on her face. She yanked open the door, her arms reaching out for him, and she screamed hysterically, because his throat was entirely covered with blood, and when she touched him, his head flopped down on his chest.

That’s when Carlos el Indio, who had been lying down on the front seat so that he could not be seen, quickly scrambled over the seat into the back. Straddling Mariana’s slim body, he covered her mouth with his left hand and placed the blade of the hunting knife against the artery on the right side of her neck.

Pressing down hard, he drew the blade from ear to ear in a smooth half-circle, slicing arteries and larynx. Her body stiffened, then jerked several times, and her small hands dropped from his thick wrists. In the moonlight, the blade of the hunting knife was shiny and wet.

N
EIL HADN’T SET OUT
to get drunk.

He wasn’t, as far as he knew. Just semiwrecked, halfway there.

Meaning he was just semi surly to the girl standing in front of him, and as far as Neil knew, she didn’t mind or hadn’t noticed.

Neil and Elaine were at a party thrown by the couple living in the garden apartment in their building. It was a celebration. The woman who lived here had just published a small volume of her poems. Elaine and Neil were two of the few who knew that the woman had paid to have the poems published by a vanity publisher.

Elaine. She and Neil had been arguing a lot since Lydia had gone to Florida. Lydia was still down there, and Neil was on edge about that. Three days, and tomorrow would be the fourth.
His snitch, his career, his chance to score big.
Taken away from him? God, don’t let it happen.

Lydia was still in Miami because somebody wanted to ask her a lot of questions. Cruz Real and his wife had disappeared, and nobody knew if they were dead or in hiding in South America. Neil knew exactly what was going on. He fucking well knew.

What was going on was that someone in Miami saw a chance to score brownie points. So that someone was pumping Lydia to get as much out of her as possible before sending her back to New York. It was also possible that Lydia had seen something of use to the Miami office.

And don’t forget Jorge Dávila, that little prick. He had to take care of himself, too. So maybe he’d told the Miami office that Lydia had information they could use, so squeeze her. In any case, Lydia was overdue in New York. And because of it, Neil Shire was tense, hard to live with.

“Robin,” said the girl.

“Cheep-cheep,” said Neil, giggling. His head felt too warm.

“I’ve heard that one more than once. You just asked me my name for the third time.” She had long dark hair parted in the middle, wore her glasses on top of her head, and had an overbite. She wasn’t pretty, wasn’t ugly, and wore a patched denim skirt and a black turtleneck sweater.

Around Neil, conversation buzzed like flies on rotten meat

“Why did you go into law enforcement?” She sipped a Campari and eyed him as though he were a crippled child trying to tap-dance. Her eyes dared him to amuse her.

Neil leaned against a wall, staring up at a mobile made of bright pink, silver, and black plastic. “I wanted to help mankind. Why did you become a sexual deviate?”

“Oh, parry and thrust, is it?” She inhaled, more interested in him now.