Beyond Blue (8 page)

“You home?”

“Yeah, Paul. We went to Irv Jerome's office today, and we ran into a little situation.”

Gorman closed his eyes and leaned back in his office chair. He had heard too many stories that started that way, and they never ended well. “What sort of situation, Stone?”

“Some guys interrupted our search. Obvious mob muscle.”

“Oh God,” Gorman moaned. “That wacko partner of
yours didn't kill anybody, did he?”

“Relax, Paul, we never even drew on these guys. Just had to rough them up some. I'm sure they think they interrupted burglars from a rival gang of bad guys. The monkey wrench in the gears is, Jerome's secretary came in while we were there. She'd have taken the heat for our break-in, so we couldn't just leave her there.”

In the background Gorman heard a flurry of rapid-fire conversation, beginning with one woman snapping “Sam!” and another saying “So I'm a monkey wrench now?”

Now Gorman's voice rumbled in a low chuckle. “So, you took her to your place. Sherry must love that. And your dog's playing with her?”

“Not with her. She's got a kid.”

Now Gorman was laughing out loud. He could picture the scene, and it was priceless. “A kid? Sherry must reeeeeally like that!”

“The good news is, if we can keep the girl alive I think she's got some information that can help us bust this case, and maybe bring down the guys Jerome works for, now that we know for sure that he's mobbed up.”

Behind Mason's voice, Gorman now heard “Sam. Rickard. Come to dinner.” That would be Sherry, very good indeed at lining up the troops.

“Hey, Paul, I got to go,” Mason said.

“I'm sure you do,” Gorman replied. “Have a good dinner. Think I'll be heading for the house myself.”

Gorman spun his chair to see the odd purplish layer that hangs on the New York horizon some days just as night falls. As he reached to cut the connection on his call, a new button began flashing on his phone.

The intercom said, “That's Sanchez,” in that voice Gunny often used that sounded just like “Here comes trouble.” Gorman punched the button.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Don't get your panties in a knot, white boy,” Ruby said. “If you must know I'm sitting on the toilet in a nice Mexican
restaurant trying not to get
my
panties in a knot.”

“Do you suppose you could be a little more specific?” Gorman asked.

“Well, it's a thong actually. They get twisted up so easy when you…”

“I meant about your location, smart-ass,” Gorman snapped. Why did he even talk to this woman?

“I'm in a place called Maria's in Brooklyn, having dinner with the mark. You want me to turn on that homing dingus you gave me?”

“It would be nice to have the telemetry, but it's up to you if you think you're safe. Are you making any progress with this guy, what's his name?” Gorman heard the muffled cantina music, at least confident that Ruby was giving him the straight story.

“Rafael Sandoval. Colombian immigrant who is helping a whole passel of his countrymen join him in the good old

U. S. of A. Of course, he doesn't know I know that bit. Boss, I just know this guy's a player, and I think I can get him to open up to me if I just give him enough rope. Whatever his smuggling deal is, it's got me stumped. If he don't tell us, I don't think we'll ever find out.”

Gorman slid Ruby's folder closer to himself. “Did you get a read with a different set of dogs?”

“Shee-it, you think I'm stupid as your white boy detectives? Got them to switch out the mutts this afternoon. New hounds wasn't no different from the old hounds. He must have found something the dogs can't smell through.”

“No such thing,” Gorman said, pulling a Bic pen from a crowded holder on his desk and making a note in the folder. “So, you think he'll talk to you, huh?”

“By the time I'm through charming this boy, he'll be ready to take me home to his mama.” Just then, Gorman pulled the phone away from his ear at the sound of gushing water. The toilet flushing sound echoed in the stall, giving it very full reverberations through the cell phone.

“Jesus, Sanchez, don't you have any sense of pride at all?” Gorman asked.

“When did you become such a tight ass? Everybody got to piss. Ain't it good to know I at least flush the toilet after?”

“Look, go back to your date and just check in with me in the morning, okay? I want to get out of this office.”

“You just hoping if you get home soon enough, your wife will give you some, like she didn't figure out you ain't got nothing going on this morning.”

Rafe's eyes were on Ruby when she reached the door, and he stood to pull her chair back before she reached it. As he seated her he whispered in her ear, “You smell as fresh as a summer sun shower.”

Actually, she smelled like Emporio Armani White, but his remark made her smile. He was trying so hard. He snapped his fingers and the girl came toward the table again. Ruby couldn't imagine what he wanted now. Bowls of chips and salsa were already on the table, and something else she couldn't name. Being Ruby, she immediately dipped a chip into it.

“So what's good here?” Ruby asked, just before shoving the chip into her mouth. “Mmm, and what's this spicy stuff.”

“Sautéed mussels,” Rafe said. “I wasn't sure what your favorite dipping was.”

Damn, he had nice eyes. She stared into them for a second before turning to the waitress. She expected a menu, but was not offered one. Instead the girl placed a crock on a nearby table and began mashing and mixing avocados.

“I know I'm going to want some of that fresh guac,” Ruby said. “But I'm ready for some real food. What's good here?”

“I've taken the liberty of ordering for both of us,” Rafe said through his dazzling smile. “I hope you don't mind.”

The waitress placed the crock of guacamole on the table and withdrew. “I'll tell you when the real food gets here,” Ruby said. “You are too smooth to be just any old
businessman, Rafe. You gonna tell me what you really do?”

“Well, that depends, chica,” Rafe said. “I don't want to bore you with business details. You are an intelligent lady. In fact, too smart to be a simple airport baggage handler. How long have you been doing that?”

Ruby shoved a chip full of green goodness into her mouth, silently cautioning herself to be careful with this man. He was slicker than he let on. “Long enough to know it's a bullshit job. But I got to help the family, you know? My mama needed help with my nine sisters, so I never made it to college. Took the first job I could find and it's hard to get unstuck from that groove.” She was happy with that mix of fact and fiction, the only falsehood being her getting stuck in low paying jobs. “Why, you looking to hire me?”

“Women who can be both charming and direct are in short supply,” Rafe said, sampling the salsa. “You could find a place in my business perhaps. But I'd rather have you in my life in a more personal way.”

The talk stayed small until steaming plates arrived. Ruby had to admit that Rafe had read her well. While he had ordered cocoa-spiced grilled chicken mole for himself, he figured Ruby for the simple stuff. So she was delighted to sink her fork into some gooey cheese-stuffed poblano rellenos. Her eyes scrunched up when she tasted the stuffed poblano chilies. They were spiced to perfection and fried up just right, and she considered what a drag it would be to put such a good judge of food in the joint.

“You were going to tell me what you do?” Ruby said between bites. “Now I'm guessing you're a food critic for the New York Times. How else would you know how good this was?”

“Actually, I'm a placement professional,” Rafe said. “You see, a lot of Colombians want to come to this country, but to get in to stay, you have to have a job. I arrange for them to find employment so they can immigrate.”

“I see,” Ruby said. She took a big sip from her mojito.
The mint and lime disguised the rum's bite, but she still felt it rush to her head. “That's why you meet so many people at the airport. You take them to interviews and stuff, right?”

“You see, that's just what I mean. You are very observant for a baggage handler.”

“And you are a sweet talking fool,” Ruby said, letting her compliment float on the soft but bouncing music. “Your momma must be proud of you. Is she here in the States?”

“My mother is actually mayor of our little town in Colombia. Yours?”

“Fortune teller,” Ruby said. “And I grew up in Bed-Stuy, right here in The City. Never seen South America, so saying Colombia to me is just like saying Cuba or Puerto Rico.” While she spoke she mixed beans in with her rice and scooped them up with the poblano rellenos, then shoving the resulting mushy mass of flavors into her mouth.

After dinner, they strolled toward Rafe's car. Ruby had pulled her coat on, but she enjoyed the cool breeze teasing her face. The few visible stars seemed unusually bright that night, and the breeze brought her the scent of human living, which was sweeter than most nights. Walking slowly, Ruby let Rafe take her arm. She thought she might let him take a bit more, but she had to stay focused on the mission.

“So, how'd you get into the job placement business, sugar?”

“My momma wanted me to better myself,” Rafe said in a softer voice than she had heard from him before. “She sent me to the U.S. to help others. I think I did okay. I think she's kind of proud of me.”

“And all these people coming in, are they grateful?” Ruby asked in her squeaky falsetto as they approached the car. “Do they ever bring you nice gifts or anything like that?”

“Oh, no,” Rafe said. “I expect nothing from them. Besides, they'd have to declare everything they brought in,
so the less the better.” His car beeped when he hit the remote device to unlock it, and he opened the passenger door for Ruby. When he settled in the driver's seat and started the car, she turned toward him with a big smile.

“Look here, sugar, you said you like a woman to be direct.”

“Of course,” Rafe said, pulling away from the curb. “What did you want to tell me, chica?”

“Look, it's a beautiful night and dinner was lovely. Now I know you're hoping for a little something-something, but it's way too soon for me. So you can take me for some dancing and a couple more drinks, or you can just take my ass home.”

Rafe had a warm and genuine laugh. He stopped at a light and turned to look into Ruby's eyes. “You misjudge me, chica. I was headed for a certain dance spot I know where we can dance to Caribbean music all night. But I have no other plans for this evening beyond that. Now tomorrow, tomorrow I have special plans.”

“Like what?”

“Tomorrow,” Rafe said, “I will pick you up at your place in the morning, yes? And I will take you on a date to a place no man has ever taken you.”

“You think so, huh?”

“If I am right, will you consider leaving tomorrow night to me as well?”

Ruby reached to squeeze Rafe's shoulder. “If you really do manage to take me someplace in this city nobody's ever taken me, and if it's fun, then I think I just might do that.”

The music was too loud for Gunny's tastes, but maybe that was a good thing. He had closed up the office and left when Gorman did, but never told his boss he had business of his own to attend to. Now he sat in the club waiting for that morning's mysterious caller.

The place was called S.O.B's, in SoHo, what the natives call that part of lower Manhattan. Probably all of guidebooks tell you the source of that nickname, that this is the part of the island South of Houston. He also thought the average New Yorker would just stare at you if you asked them. Gunny figured that among Manhattan residents, only he would remember. No, Gorham probably knew. The man knew everything.

Well, he might not know that S.O.B stood for Sound Of Brazil. Gunny thought the band on stage right then sounded a lot like Kid Creole and the Coconuts, and he wondered if that guy was still playing somewhere. Anyway, the announcer had called it Haitian music, so he supposed the Coconuts didn't play this stuff after all. The dance floor was packed with writhing bodies, moving to a beat that he felt more than heard, even in his remote table in a dark corner. He was pleased to see he wasn't too out of place in his dark work suit. He saw every imaginable mode of dress in the place, although a healthy number of party folks were in some sort of Latin garb, and a surprising number wore zoot suit based clothing. All Gunny really had to do was open his top button and pull his tie down an inch to fit right in.

He was holding his second dark rum when he spotted the man. Gunny had been scanning the crowd, looking for anyone who could be a hard man, a real tough guy, out on the town. When he spotted his man, he quickly tossed back his drink, feeling the fire trail down his throat. There was still space in the world for surprises.

Did he want everyone to think he was Mafia or something? The big fellow making a beeline for Gunny's table had gone to Quentin Tarantino for his wardrobe. Black from head to toe with that skinny tie and slick hair people only wear in the movies. And the shades only made it worse.

“Mr. Robinson? Recognized you from your description,” the newcomer said, sitting. When he wasn't trying to
disguise his voice, he had a good rich tone. He could sing a nice baritone under Gunny's sweet tenor if he ever wanted to join a barbershop quartet.

“Yeah, I'm hard to miss. And you are?”

“The same fellow you spoke to this morning.”

“Come on,” Gunny said. “You know it don't work that way. You want help, you got to trust somebody. I trusted you by coming here, blind. And you should have warned me it was “Late Night French Caribbean Dance Party” night. Now who the hell are you, and why are we here?”