Lonesome Point (9 page)

“Gloria Morales.”

“Mrs. Morales is under investigation by the election commission. This we know for sure.”

“So it’s official now. Still, we shouldn’t have anything to fear. She has no reason to talk. If she talks, she doesn’t get her next severance check, she knows that.”

“They’re turning the screws on her. They must know she was only a small part. She’s naming names. Already they’re threatening to interview some of your campaign staff.” Oscar motioned for them to veer left, into a breezeway. “We’ll go around to the back. I want to show you the barbershop.”

Patrick stopped, looked at Oscar nonchalantly puffing his cigar. “How come it’s only now I’m hearing about all this? About Massani and the extent of this fucking Morales investigation?”

Oscar turned, lowering the cigar. All traces of good humor gone. “Listen to me. Will you listen to me?”

“I’m listening, Oscar, but you’re truly not telling me squat.”

Patrick started walking again. Oscar touched him on the shoulder. “Do not worry. We are on the case.”

“You’ve been keeping me in the dark. I don’t appreciate that. When did you find out the probe went south?”

“A few days ago. But I’m on the case,
mi amigo
, believe me.”

“I need to know absolutely everything about my campaign so I don’t feel blindsided, which is what’s happening now. If you knew about this Morales thing days ago, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Would have served no purpose to worry you, especially since, and I keep saying this, Patrick, I’m working to resolve this thing.”

“Yeah? But you still haven’t told me just who the hell Massani is.”

They passed a nail salon, a shoe store, a liquor store, came out the other end of the breezeway, and turned left, storefronts on one side, parking lot on the other.

“All right, here it is,” Oscar said, and they stopped, faced each other. “Gloria Morales was the campaign office contact and Herman Massani was our man in the field. He works in the barbershop and people come to him when they need something done. Like I said, Massani knows everybody, county and city commissioners, school board members, the mayor, you name it. He helps clients sometimes as a favor, most times for a fee. The man knows people, and because he knows all types of people, we hired him. We need votes, he finds voters. If they’re not in the city, say for instance they live in Hialeah? He finds a city residence, like Little Havana, the heart of your old district. On paper, that is. All this, only on paper. You know that game, Patrick. If we want voters, he finds a legitimate city address, moves names of people he knows to that city address, and
bam
, we’ve acquired some votes through absentee ballots, which as you know are harder to track. Not much about this is
unfamiliar to you. What I’m sharing with you today is the identity of the man behind it: Herman Massani. Our fixer.”

“And you’re worried Gloria Morales fingered him and he’s going to talk. Not to mention, Freddy Robinson is looking for him. And we have no idea who that scumbag is working for. That’s just awesome, Oscar.”

Oscar raised a hand. “Patience,
mi amigo
. ” They continued past the back door of the Cuban restaurant, two Dumpsters some yards away, a whiff of garbage. Oscar puffed on his Monte-cristo. “Let’s go this way, to the front.” They stepped up onto the sidewalk, passed a women’s boutique, a UPS Store, and a jewelry shop, Patrick thinking through the mess he was in. He felt it, afraid of this moment, finally asking the big question: “So I take it Massani has actually started to talk?”

“Seems that way. And when we found out and tried to get hold of him, he disappeared. We reached out to his doctor, a certain Alfredo Garrido, but the doctor had conveniently vanished. But not before admitting Massani into a hospital.
That’s
why he’s at Jefferson.”

“Jesus, I don’t have to tell you how far this can go, the damage this can cause. This is awful, this, this is a bombshell.” Patrick tilted his head back and looked up at the sky. “And of all the fucking places he gets admitted into it’s the one where my brother works; I mean, that’s just ridiculous.”

“Well, you see, that is how Garrido messed up. Massani was in Pine Glade first, up in Boca Raton, and our understanding is something spooked them, probably they learned we had tracked Massani, because we did, and so Garrido moved him. A hospital-
to-hospital transfer. Probably they thought that the last place anyone would check is a facility for indigents.”

Patrick kept thinking that something else was bothering him, but he couldn’t identify it. “Do you know how much Massani has talked?”

“We don’t know for sure. Our source on the election commission would only say that Massani has acknowledged there may be some voter fraud and he may know a thing or two about it. Sounds like he’s laying the groundwork for a plea deal.”

“And who else would want to get ahold of him? I mean to say, who is Freddy Robinson working for, did you find that out? Talk to me, Oscar. Bobby Parra is in prison, but what about Carlos and the other brothers, other family members? Do they know anything about Massani?”

“Slow down and listen to what you’re saying, Patrick. Carlos Parra? Carlos is one of
us
, one of the dedicated group of men that’s working to put you in the mayor’s office. He is the only Parra who knows we’re looking for Massani, and he’s one of your biggest supporters.”

“Okay, so Freddy Robinson working for him wouldn’t make any sense, but …”

“Carlos says Freddy Robinson used to work for his father and his brother, Bobby, but Carlos says he hasn’t had any contact with Freddy Robinson. Doesn’t even know where to find him. Unless Carlos is lying, but him being involved? It would be like he was trying to sabotage himself. Still, there are a couple other brothers and a few other cousins and nephews and business
partners. So what I’m saying is, Freddy Robinson could be working for any of these people associated with the Parra family.”

“So Carlos Parra, the common denominator, doesn’t know who Freddy Robinson is working for.”

“That’s what he says, and he also says he’s very worried about his investment in you.”

“So it’s one of my opponents in the race? One of my political enemies? Whoever it is, Oscar, it’s these connections—the Parra family, Freddy Robinson, this man Massani—that I’m very uncomfortable about.”

“Speaking of connections: What is that something about your past that Robinson purports to know? Are we ever going to talk about that?”

Patrick ignored him. “This is straight coercion what they’re doing here.”

“And who do you think
they
are?”

“Hell, since I’ve been on the commission the list of people I’ve pissed off is lengthy, and growing.”

“Yes, yes,” Oscar said, examining the long ash at the end of his cigar. Tapping it off and staring into the distance. “The list may be endless but it’s getting late in the game and we can’t wait for whoever
they
are to show their faces. You understand? We have to act swiftly, eradicate this cancer. I want you to grasp that.”

“Of course, Oscar.” Patrick felt tension pushing down on the back of his head. Then he placed it, the other reason for the anxiety that was eating away at him. “Freddy will return with his threats soon. I told my brother to play for time, but we can’t
wait forever. Tell me what you plan to do about this Massani situation, Oscar.”

Oscar drew the cigar from his mouth. “Call your brother as soon as possible, Patrick. Tell him he must keep on waiting, he has to stall, no matter what this Freddy Robinson says. We have a plan in place already, a man who will help us, but we need to keep Massani at that hospital—until we’re ready.”

Patrick rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. “Christ, I need another martini.” He exhaled hard and pulled his cell phone from a pants pocket. “I hope my brother’s awake. He works nights, sleeps all day.”

Oscar said, “I tell you what. I need to make an appointment for a straight-razor shave tomorrow morning. Why don’t you meet me inside after you’ve finished, we’ll put our heads together, find out who else might want a piece of Massani? And then afterwards, I’ll tell you about this person at the hospital who’ll help us. But keep calling your brother until you get through to him.” He clapped Patrick on the shoulder and walked off.

Patrick punched in the numbers and lifted the phone to his ear. Waiting for the connection, he said, “Hey, Oscar, I’m wondering about something else.”

Oscar turned around and lowered his cigar.

“Investigators must know Massani doesn’t really have mental issues, right?”

Oscar smiled. “Everybody knows that. Except the hospital.”

Patrick listened to the ring tone, watching Oscar walk away trailing blue-gray smoke. Patrick paced. C’mon, Leo, answer the fucking phone. Turning around, he caught his reflection in the
storefront glass and saw his father. It was the phone at the ear, the erect posture, the shadows under the eyes. The resemblance fascinated him. Saddened him, too.

Memories were long and difficult and always lying in wait.

E
ARLY THAT SUMMER after his spring break discovery, the summer the Reverend died, Patrick followed his father two more times. Once to the mystery house on the dark road, and then to a thatch-roof bar on the Western Highway, where the Rev and two Latin teens sat waiting.

Patrick saw the whole meeting from Fonso’s pickup in the parking lot, a ball cap tugged low over his eyes. It was obvious from how close they sat that the Rev was meant to be with one of the boys and his father with the other. They drank beers, laughed, the two boys handsome, with big white teeth, broad faces and lanky black hair. They could have passed for twins. An hour drifted by, two. They drank more beers and shots of something. It was all very cheerful and it turned Patrick’s stomach. Soon they were the only ones in the bar, a string of multicolored lights along the eaves swaying in the breeze.

Around one A.M., they stumbled out and piled into the Rev’s Jag. His father, normally a reserved man, throwing discretion out the window. They took the highway east toward the city and Patrick followed, inky darkness on both sides of the desolate two-lane. Wind blowing into the open windows kept him wide awake.

Patrick had asked Fonso once, a year before, if what they said about the Rev was true, the reason why he left the priesthood
and all that. Fonso said he didn’t know about no reason he left the Jesuits but he knew what he heard from other cops and what he’d seen himself over the years. “But it’s not like the Rev is even trying to hide that shit,” Fonso said. “The man don’t flaunt it, but he don’t go outta his way to cover it up, either.”

Patrick asked him like what did he see, and Fonso said, “You really want to know? Naw, man, you don’t want to know.” Patrick said, Yeah, tell it, modulating the eagerness in his voice. And then Fonso said it. “The Rev likes young boys.” Patrick didn’t say anything then, but Fonso knew he didn’t believe it, and one night he came by Patrick’s house in a Belize City Police Land Rover, Fonso in uniform but on dinner break, telling Patrick to hop in quick, he was going to show him something. They drove over the swing bridge to Southern Foreshore, past the courthouse, cut the lights and parked by the seawall. They got out and Fonso led him down a gravel lane between two warehouses and showed him the Rev’s Jag, parked in the darkness between two lampposts. “Just watch,” Fonso said and they saw two heads in there, one of them smaller. A boy’s. A few minutes later they saw the boy’s head go down and the Rev holding him there. It was obvious even in the dark. Patrick worrying they were too close to the car, while inside the Rev threw his head back with pleasure. You could hear the groans through the open window and the Rev encouraging the boy.
Juega con el, sí, sí!

Patrick was following that Jag now, head filled with dark imaginings of his father and the pretty Latin boys. His heart was an anchor, and more than anything, more than the sadness he felt for his mother, he was ashamed.

In Belize City, the Jag stopped at the Byron Hotel on Regent
Street West and he parked close to the open drain and watched them enter the lobby one by one. He felt like he was in a dream, two o’clock in the morning, alone outside a sleazy hotel on a backstreet observing this betrayal, this crime. These boys were even younger than Leo.

He knew he could never tell Leo. He couldn’t tell his mother, either, even if part of him suspected she might know already. What good would come of that? So who could he tell?

For days he felt like he was going to explode. Leo would talk to him about his graduation parties, how the prom committee was holding prom after graduation so the school couldn’t ban them from serving alcohol, saying, “You could swing by if you want,” and Patrick said, “What … I’m sorry. What you say?” Totally distracted.

He could hardly stand to look at his father. Told the man he was sick and stayed home from helping him at the dealership. It dawned on him that somebody else probably already knew. Somebody like Fonso. Cops see it all, but the city was so rife with bribes and kickbacks and cops looking the other way that many influential people committed crimes both petty and serious and never smelled the dank of a cell. His father, too, had greased some palms in his day.

In the end, Patrick vowed never to tell anyone what he’d seen.