Exposure (13 page)

P
AUL
F
AUSTINO BLUFFED
his way out through the fiendish glass doors by concealing himself inside a small knot of other employees, and to celebrate this small triumph, he lit a cigarette, hunching his shoulders over the flame. A chilly evening wind eddied around the patio; the ornamental trees dipped and shook their heads. A plastic bag wallowed through the air like a jellyfish. Something attached itself to his ankle: a flier for the New Conservative Party, bearing the slogan
A CLEANER TOMORROW
. Faustino flipped it off, although, usefully, it reminded him that
his
cleaner hadn’t shown up yesterday. He went down the steps to get into the lee of the wind and saw Bush slooshing his wash bucket into the gutter.

The kid had been out of sorts lately. Nothing that Faustino could put his finger on, but something like a shadow had settled over the boy. He hadn’t been quite the same since he’d disappeared for three days a while back. The smile and the eagerness were still there, but somehow less authentic than they used to be. And now, when he looked up and saw Faustino, his greeting was flat.

“Maestro.”

“How’re you doing, Bush?”

“Pretty good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Kinda cold today, though.”

“Well, maybe you should be wearing more than just that T-shirt, you know? Don’t you have something else you could put on?”

“It wasn’ so cold when I come out this morning.”

It was an answer of sorts. But Faustino felt stranded. Bush held on to his bucket, shuffling his feet a bit, glancing right and left.

“Hey, c’mon, Bush. What’s up?”

The boy shrugged.

“And don’t just do that shruggy thing.”

“Well, you know, Maestro. Woman problems.”

Faustino laughed. He couldn’t help himself. “What, all your girls fighting over you?”

“Not exackly.”

Faustino could not tell from the boy’s body language whether he was anxious to go or had something he wanted to talk about. Possibly both, or neither. With an awkward jocularity, he said, “So, d’you have a girlfriend, Bush? I bet you do.”

“Nah. A sister an’, uh, like another girl with us. Tha’s trouble enough.”

Faustino had wondered, of course, about the boy’s life. Whether he was alone, where he slept at night, what he did with his paltry earnings. He knew that street kids often formed themselves into small clans, established territories, protected each other, operated a harsh kind of communism whereby they shared whatever they could steal or scavenge. Memories of his own childhood — a suburban childhood that had been solitary and frequently anxious, but ordered and comfortable — could not help him to imagine such a way of life. And, in truth, he shied away from imagining it, just as he avoided actually seeing it. He knew that he was not strong enough to cope with his helplessness in the face of it.

For some reason he did not think that Bush was a member of a clan. The boy seemed too . . .
independent,
was that the word? Or was it
unprotected
? But the mention of a sister and another girl was a glimpse into his life. A kind of offering.

“So, uh, you look after them, do you? Your sister and the other girl?”

“Kind of. Mostly they look after each other.”

“Right.” Not knowing what to say next, Faustino dropped his cigarette butt and ground it under his foot.

“Time to go,” Bush observed. “Things to meet, people to do.”

Faustino smiled. “Yeah. You could say that.”

Bush’s skin looked grayish and puckered. Faustino realized that the boy’s restlessness, his fidgeting, was a way of concealing the fact that he was shivering. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out his wallet. He found a twenty, folded it lengthwise, and held it out. Bush looked at it but didn’t move.

“Take it. Buy yourself a sweatshirt or a hoodie or something, okay? Something warm.”

Bush pulled his gaze from the bank note and glanced toward the avenue. A woman walking to her car grimaced and turned her face away.

“Bush?”

“You wan’ me to get in your car with you?”

“What?”

The boy looked back at Faustino but did not meet his eyes. “For the twenny. You wan’ me to come to your car with you?”

It took perhaps three seconds for Faustino to understand the question; then his hurt was so deep, so shocking, that before he could think of anything to say, he had already hit the boy. The slap made a wet sound that was audible above the noise of the traffic; Faustino’s hand registered the shape of teeth through the flesh of the boy’s cheek.

Bush stumbled backward. He dropped the plastic bucket, made as if to retrieve it but did not; the wind tumbled it away. Then he was gone, running awkwardly, an erratic shadow in front of the oncoming headlights. The fallen twenty-dollar bill was plucked up by invisible fingers, dangled briefly above Faustino’s head, and then thrown into the slipstream of the hurtling cars. The cry of pain that seemed to linger in the air was not the boy’s. It was Faustino’s.

D
ESMERELDA IS SITTING
upright in bed with her phone in one hand and the TV remote in the other. Every now and again she says, “Oh, my God.” Several newspapers are spread-eagled over the sheets. The headlines are pretty much the same:

OTELLO BODYGUARD ARRESTED

DEZI’S BODYGUARD IN SAVAGE
ATTACK ON FORMER RIALTO STAR

OTELLO BODYGUARD AND LUIS
MONTANO IN NIGHTCLUB BRAWL

OTELLO AND MONTANO: THE GLOVES COME OFF

Several of the photographs are of Desmerelda herself attending some function with Michael close to her. Or of Otello with a stern-looking Michael watching his back. Other pictures show a disheveled Michael being manhandled toward a police van by half a dozen cops. Or Luis Montano, bloody-faced, being helped into an ambulance. (It has not occurred to her, yet, to wonder why so many photographers were on hand to witness the incident.) The television is yabbering commentary at her over footage of Michael emerging from a downtown police station. He looks terrible. Stunned, like someone who has suffered a great loss. The only good thing she sees is Diego, who is trying to shield Michael from the cameras, ushering him into a car. She hears Diego’s voice, blurred and broken by background noise, saying something like, “Misunderstanding . . . no . . . absolutely not. Nothing to do with that. No. No further comment.” She switches channels, and her own face appears on the screen. She presses the mute button.

In the breakfast room, Otello is speaking to Diego’s voicemail. For the ninth time. He slams down the phone and goes through to the bedroom. He leans against the door frame with his arms folded, gazing grimly at the screen. “Anything?”

“I just saw Diego. Seems he’s bailed Michael out of police custody. I guess he’s taken him home. Isn’t he answering his phone?”

“Nope.”

The phone rings.

“Capitano?”

“Diego. What’s going on? Where are you?”

“Outside Michael’s place.”

“How is he?”

“Kind of rough.”

“I should hope so. Look, Diego, get over here now, will you? I’ll call him.”

“I wouldn’t bother, Capitano. I made him go to bed and told him to turn his phone off.”

“Right. I guess that’s sensible.”

“And from the look of him, I’d be surprised if he’s not already dead to the world.”

“Okay. I’ll leave it.”

“Yeah. He won’t be going anywhere. I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

In his suburban hacienda, Nestor Brabanta smiles and turns the TV off. His morning has improved. Earlier, while brushing his teeth, he had experienced again that little spasm of pain behind his right ear. Like a distant flicker of lightning that has gone before you can focus on it. As on previous occasions, it was followed by a slight blurring of the vision in his right eye and a touch of nausea. His doctor is of the opinion that the source of the problem — the root of it, so to speak, ha, ha — is a diseased tooth in his upper jaw. Brabanta has not done anything about it because he has a morbid fear of dentistry. Of the awful vulnerability of it, lying under the blinding lamps with your mouth open while a masked man uses steel tools on the inside of your head. But the images of Otello’s hired oaf being dragged out of a nightclub have restored him completely.

He gets up out of the armchair and goes to his study. It will not be difficult to ensure that the story stays in the news. First he will call the two TV stations and the two tabloid newspapers that he has shares in. Then that slug Mateo Campos.

“Coffee?”

“God, yes. Black, please.”

Diego leans his elbow on the table and massages his forehead with the heel of his hand. He is evidently tired, despite his appearance being as immaculate as ever. When Desmerelda comes into the kitchen, her hair still damp from the shower, he starts to get to his feet but she shoves him down and kisses his cheek.

“Okay,” Otello says, “what the hell happened? Did Michael tell you?”

“He didn’t have to tell me. I was there.”

“What?
You
were at El Capricho as well?”

Diego sighs heavily. “Yes. I guess maybe this whole thing is my fault. I suppose I should have known that Michael . . . Well.”

“Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Are you saying that you went there
with
Michael?”

“Yep. It was my idea.” He takes a sip of coffee, needing it. “The thing is, I knew that you two were having a rare night at home together. So Michael would be having the evening off. I also happened to know that it was his birthday.”

“Oh, no,” Desmerelda says. “He never said anything. Oh, man. We’d have come with you if we’d known.”

“It’s just as well you didn’t, as things turned out. Anyway, I thought it would be nice to treat him to dinner.”

“That’s so sweet of you, Diego.” She glances across at Otello and bites her lip. She recognizes the look on his face. As, to his pleasure, does Diego.

“So, I booked a table for two at El Capricho. On account of the food isn’t the best in town, but they are discreet there and the security is sound. Michael turned up a bit late, not much. And it seemed to me he was in a pretty good mood.”

Otello frowns. “What kind of a good mood? D’you think he’d been drinking?”

Diego shrugs. “Couldn’t say. I had no reason to suppose so. Just that he was a bit more talkative than usual.”

“All right. So what happened?”

“Well, we had dinner —”

“What was Michael drinking?”

“You know, those big fruit-juice cocktails they serve there. The ones that look like a rainbow in a glass.”

“Is that all?”

“Yep. While I was with him, anyway.”

“What d’you mean, ‘while I was with him’? Where’d you go?”

“Well,” Diego says, “when we’d finished eating, I went to the men’s room. And who should be in there but Luis Montano. Seems he’d come back home to visit his family and so forth. He was out on the town with various people. His actress girlfriend whose name I can never remember, and that singer, Emilio Parez. Plus a couple of Rialto players.”

“What Rialto players?”

“Well, Roderigo —”

“
What?
Are you telling me that Jaco was involved as well?”

“Capitano, let me just tell it, okay? Then we can talk about the damage. We
have
to talk about the damage.”

“All right.”

“So, I’m in there with Luis, and I know he thinks I’m the evil genius behind his transfer up North. Which I am not, of course. But I managed to get him talking, and eventually he said, ‘Listen, why don’t you come and join the rest of us in the music bar?’ Which I agreed to do. So, later, Michael and I went through. You know what it’s like in there. You have to stand right up against someone and yell if you want to make yourself heard. And usually they don’t listen, because they’re watching the girls up on the dance platforms. My thinking was to give it another half-hour or so and then take Michael somewhere quiet for coffee. I was standing with Montano and his girlfriend, when suddenly there was a major uproar behind us. I turned to look, and Roderigo stumbled past us with the front of his shirt all ripped. And Michael was coming after him.”

“Oh, my God,” Desmerelda says quietly.

“Okay,” Otello says. “So what was that about?”

“I had no idea until this morning, when I talked to Michael in the car. He claims that Roderigo said something about Dezi.”

“Like what?”

“He wouldn’t say. Actually, he says he can’t remember. But obviously something that Michael took exception to. Very serious exception to. Because he was shoving through all the bodies to get at Roderigo again. So I got in front of him and put my arms around him, which is a bit like tackling a charging rhino, as you know. But I stayed on my feet somehow and managed to calm him down a bit. Roderigo had vanished into the crowd by this time; I didn’t see him again after that. The bouncers were taking an interest by then, but I waved them away thinking that was the end of it.

“Unfortunately, it wasn’t. Because Montano, the young idiot, took it into his head to have a go at Michael. Verbally, I mean. Called him a drunken gorilla, polite things like that. Michael stood this for about five seconds and then went off like Vesuvius. He punched Montano on the side of the face, and when the kid fell back against the bar, Michael hit him again and then had him down on the floor. I thought he was going to kill him. It took about ten of us to drag him off. Everyone was screaming and yelling. Then it seemed like just seconds before the police swarmed in.”

Otello has his forehead resting on his hand as he stares down into his empty cup. “How is Luis? Do you know?”

“They took him to Santa Theresa. I called there this morning, talked to the duty sister.”

“And?”

“Well, it could’ve been worse. He lost a couple of teeth, had to have five stitches in his upper lip. Severe bruising all over the place and possibly a fractured rib. Some concussion. They scanned him for a fractured skull but it was okay. He was discharged a couple of hours ago.”

“Jesus.”

“It’ll be a while before he plays again. There is no doubt that his club will sue.”

“I can’t believe it,” Desmerelda says. “I mean, Michael —”

Otello interrupts her. “So he was drunk?” It is barely a question.

“Who, Montano?”

Otello slams the flat of his hand down on the table so fiercely that his coffee cup leaps and clatters. Desmerelda flinches.

“No,
Michael,
for Chrissake!”

Diego does not answer immediately. Nor does he look up. It seems he cannot look Otello in the face. Eventually, reluctantly, he says, “He thinks someone spiked his drink.”

“And is that likely?”

“Well,” Diego says, sighing, “it’s maybe possible. But we’re talking about El Capricho, you know? Not some sleaze joint down in Castillo or somewhere.”

“And you say he was drinking fruit juice? Did you see him drink anything else?”

“Well, no, but . . .”

“But what?”

“Nothing. The honest answer is no, I didn’t see him drink anything else.”

Desmerelda says, “So —” but Otello cuts her off.

“Listen, Diego. I pay Michael to protect Dezi and me. I don’t pay
you
to protect
him.
So tell me, no bullshit. In your opinion, was Michael drunk?”

Diego sighs again, more unhappily than before. “I think so. Yes.”

There is a longish silence. Desmerelda’s gaze flicks from one man to the other, then comes to rest on her husband. She has never seen him angry. Or, rather, she has never seen him, sober or otherwise, give vent to anger. As a man who suffers sly kicks, minor assaults, verbal abuse, and professional fouls on a weekly basis, he has had to become extremely good at anger management. He has been red-carded off a soccer field only twice in his career, the last time two years ago. His calmness is one of the things she loves about him. He seems calm now, but — and this comes to her as a cold shock of recognition — he is not. She understands that this stony stillness is the form that his rage takes. His rage, or something worse. She has to summon up courage to speak to him, and that is shocking, too.

“Otello? Honey? What are you thinking?”

Instead of answering her, he walks over to the phone. He scrolls the memory, then thumbs the call button. He waits. Then he says, “Michael? Call me. I don’t give a damn how rough you feel.” He hangs the phone up but doesn’t come back to the table. He leans against the wall and puts his hands in his pockets.

Desmerelda watches him warily. “What are you going to say to him?”

“I’m going to tell him that he’s fired. It’s what he’ll be expecting.”

She clasps her hands together and stares down at them. Diego’s face is expressionless, but his dark eyes are narrowed and moist with expectation. She says, “Baby, don’t you think we should hear Michael’s side of the story before we make a big-time decision like that? I mean, you know, this thing is so out of character. . . .”

“No, it isn’t. Unfortunately, it isn’t.”

“Okay. You know him better than I do. But right now Michael is
my
bodyguard, okay? And he’s good. It feels good having him around. And I just don’t feel right about losing him without knowing exactly what went down last night, you know? I think this is something we should discuss.”

Diego interrupts the proceedings by getting to his feet. “Dezi’s right. You two have issues over this thing that are none of my business. And I’ve got some crisis management to do. Let’s talk later.”

In the elevator down from the penthouse, Diego looks up at the security camera and winks. A small self-indulgence.

Desmerelda goes to make more coffee, but, as usual, the complexities of the machine frustrate her, and she slaps it angrily.

Otello goes over. “I’ll do it.”

She turns and laces her fingers together behind his neck, looking up into his still-impassive face.

“Don’t,” he says. “Don’t plead Michael’s case. Please.”

“But —”

“But nothing.” He pulls her hands away. “Look. Michael Cass and I go back a long way. I know what drink does to him. It’s like there’s this other person inside him, an ugly, violent person, that takes over. He’s been in rehab twice. And we made a deal. He works for me for as long as he likes if he can stay sober. If he can’t, that’s it. Because he’s basically an alcoholic. If he’s started drinking again, he won’t just think,
Okay, that’s it. I had a night of it. Now I’ll stop.
Because he won’t be able to. And what that means is, instead of him watching us, we’ll be watching him. Think about it, Dezi. Like this awards thing we’re supposed to be at on Tuesday. There’ll be as much free booze there as anyone could want. Imagine if we take Michael and he kicks off, in front of the TV cameras and everything. Nightmare.”