Night of the Jaguar (25 page)

He stared at her and saw her eyes were brimful of tears, one of which now dripped unregarded down her cheek.
His
eyes, his daughter’s, too.

He dropped back in his seat and let out a sigh. “All right. Guilty. There was no call to take my sad story out on you. It was decent of you to come see me. So was that all, the apology, or am I mentioned in the will?”

She ignored the sarcasm. “No, and I wasn’t either. Besides a trust to take care of Mom, he left everything to Juan, Jonni we call him.”

“Lucky Jonni. Is he going to be stinking rich?”

“That remains to be seen. My…our father was something of a gambler. He started this project on the Gulf Coast, way bigger than anything we ever did before, something to bring us into the big leagues. He was an admirer of Trump, if that gives you a clue. Anyway, it’s a bet-the-company deal, and everything is mortgaged to the hilt. My brother is a nice kid, but business is not his thing. He just about knows how to sign the back of a check. After the funeral, I managed to convince him to give me an absolute power of attorney in exchange for a substantial increase in his allowance.”

“So you’re the big boss now.”

“On paper. As you can imagine, Dad didn’t staff his company with men who enjoy taking orders from a woman.” She paused and performed a motion, perhaps unconscious, that Paz had seen innumerable times during his tenure with the cops, a slight flicking of the eyes toward the side, a stiffening of the body, and then a glance in the opposite direction. It meant a dangerous secret was about to emerge.

“There’s something else,” she said. “Why I came. I realize it’s ridiculous, I mean, after everything that’s happened, why should you care? But I had to try; honestly, I have nowhere else to go.”

“I’m listening.”

“All right,” she said, and told him the story, some of which he already knew from other sources: the Consuela partnership, the death of Fuentes, the vandalism in the night, the peculiar nature of the guards in her house, and the details of what had happened the night Calderón had died. And the matter of the funny money in JXF Calderón Inc.’s balance sheet.

“That’s an interesting story,” said Paz when she’d finished.

“Yeah, but the problem is how to interpret it. The police think
Dad was involved with gangsters. They think he was borrowing money from them, maybe all of them were, all the Consuela partners. They think it’s one of those situations where first they lend money and then they take over the businesses, and if the owners resist, they kill them.”

“And you agree with that? You think that’s what happened to Fuentes and your father? Sorry, our father. You think dear old dad was mobbed up?”

“Maybe. I know the men at my house weren’t Cubans.”

“How do you know that?”

“They had foul mouths, cursing all the time, and they didn’t use
joder
for
fuck
. They used
tirar
.”

“That’s Colombian.”

“I know. I think they were all Colombians. Detective Finnegan thinks it was either a hit by a rival gang or that the men at my house weren’t guarding us from someone else, they were holding us hostage, and for some reason they decided to kill Dad.”

“This is Matt Finnegan at MDPD?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“Yeah, a little. A good cop. How does he explain the dead guard?”

“Not very well. Either the other gang got him or Dad got him. But Dad’s gun was never fired. And there’s the giant-cat business.”

At this Paz felt the hairs prickle on his arms, on the back of his neck. He suppressed an actual shiver. “The giant cat.”

“Yes. There were cat prints in the study where he was killed and on the walk outside. And claw marks on the wall under the window. It’s nonsense, of course.”

“Of course. I take it you’re sticking with the gangster theory.”

“I don’t know. Yes, I think Dad was connecting with some bad characters, but…I saw what they did to him. What was the point of all that…carnage? It had to be something more personal, something we’re not understanding.”

“For example…”

“I don’t know!”
This was delivered in a suppressed shriek. Victoria closed her eyes and a shiver ran through her upper body. “I’m sorry. This whole thing…I’m hanging on by my fingernails here. But the
thing is, if it’s a mob killing, then the police aren’t going to do anything. Whoever did it is in Colombia by now. And if it’s not, if it was personal or, I don’t know, some horrible maniac, then they won’t find him either, because they’re not looking in that direction. I mean, they’ll try, God knows, two important Cuban businessmen killed, I imagine they’ll pull out all the stops, but, well, I have to spend all my time and energy holding the business together. The idea that JXFC is in with gangsters is going to send all our creditors running. The only thing that will stabilize things is if the killers are found and all this goes away. That’s why I came to see you.”

These words and their implication struck Paz like a slap on the ear. He stared at her. “Wait, you want
me
to find these guys?”

“Yes.”

“Because what, I’m the
son
? I have to avenge my father?”

“Yes. I don’t care what he did to you, how he treated you,
un padre es un padre para siempre
.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” cried Paz, who had heard a similar sentiment expressed in the same language many many times, with the substitution of the female parent as subject. “First of all, I’m not a cop anymore. Second of all, what gives you the idea that I’d be any better at it than Matt Finnegan with all the resources of the police behind him?”

“You’ll have a personal interest. And you’re better than they are. You caught the Voodoo Killer. That’s when I found out who you were. I was just a kid, watching the news with my Aunt Eugenia, the story about when you caught him. Every Cuban in town was watching because of what he did to that Vargas girl. I mean, we
knew
them, that whole family. And you came on and said something, and my aunt said, Do you know who that is? And then she told me, and said that I should never let my dad know that I knew. After that I looked up stories about you in the papers in the library. And I was proud that you were my brother.”

But not proud enough to look me up until you needed something, thought Paz, but said, “The answer is no. I’m sorry, I’d like to help you out, but I…I’m just not set up for something like that. I’m a guy runs a restaurant, for crying out loud….”

He noticed that Victoria was no longer staring at him but at a point
beyond his shoulder. He turned and saw his daughter standing there, regarding them both with interest.

Victoria said, “Hi, what’s your name?”

Amelia stepped closer and looked down at her silver name tag, holding it a little away from her dress.

“Amelia? That’s a pretty name. I’m happy to finally meet you. I’m your Aunt Victoria. Your half aunt.”

“Where’s the other half?” asked Amelia after some consideration. She was not entirely sure what an aunt was. She had an uncle, her mother’s brother, she knew, who lived in New York and who went through aunts at a rapid clip. She had friends who had aunts, though, invariably associated with birthday and Christmas presents (“my Aunt Julie gave me this”), to which Amelia had not until now had any response. A half aunt, she supposed, was better than no aunt at all.

“There’s no other half. It’s just an expression,” said Victoria.

“Uh-huh, but if you gave me a Christmas present it would be the
whole
present, wouldn’t it?”

“Amelia, don’t hustle,” said Paz. “And I think you need to go help Brenda fold napkins.”

“Daddy, I will, but I’m talking to my
aunt
now. Would it?”

Victoria said, “Yes, it would. What were you thinking of?”

“I don’t know yet, because I just got you. Is that a make-believe diamond bracelet or a really real one?”

“It’s really real. Would you like to try it on?”

“Yeah!” Pause. “I mean yes, please.”

Some preening occurred, the child lifting the glittering thing up to see it catch and throw back the lights of the room. Paz watched this with confused and painful emotions, thinking about blood and the way it told.

Amelia handed the diamonds back with obvious reluctance. Victoria asked, “How old are you now?”

“Almost seven.”

“Well, then, in eight years you will have your
quinceañero,
and I’ll give you this bracelet as a gift, how would you like that.”

Amelia gaped. “For real?”

“Yes. But now your father and I have grown-up things to talk
about, and you have work to do. It was very nice meeting you. Now run along.”

To Paz’s surprise she did just that.

“She’s adorable,” said Victoria.

“If you like the type,” said Paz. “I hope you were serious about the bracelet. She doesn’t forget.”

“I was. I should have done this years ago, finding you, but I was shit scared of Dad. Embarrassing, but true. Again, I’m sorry.”

“Hey, I knew about you, too, and I didn’t make a move, and I didn’t even have your excuse.”

They regarded each other silently for a moment, a silence she broke with “So, Jimmy, what’s the story? Are you going to be a belated big brother and help me out?”

“Can I think about it? It’s going to be a major wrench for me, and other people are involved.”

“Sure,” she said, “I understand.” She slipped a card from her purse and handed it over. It was a JXF Calderón Inc. card and it had Victoria A. Calderón listed as CEO.

“CEO, huh? You’re a fast worker, Sis.”

“I am. I have to be. And not to pressure you, but this, what I asked, has to be quick, too, or there’s no point.” She rose from her chair, and he rose, and she kissed him on the cheek and walked out of the restaurant.

The mother was waiting for him in the kitchen.

“What did she want?” was the first question.

“Mamí, how do you even know who that was?”

“Don’t be stupid, Iago, of course I know who that was. I ask you again, what did she want?”

“She wanted me to find out who killed Yoiyo Calderón. Since you ask.”

“And will you?”

Paz threw up his hand dramatically. “Mamí, what are you talking about? I’m running a restaurant here, I got no resources, I’m not a cop anymore…it’s ridiculous. Not to mention I hated the guy.”

“He was your father. You have an obligation.”

“An obli…this is coming from
you,
after the way he treated us?”

“It doesn’t matter what he was or what he did. He gave you life.
He’s part of you. You should do what you can. And also, my son, I run this restaurant, not you.”

“Thank you, Mamí, I almost forgot. And you forgot to say ‘a father is always a father.’”

At this the mother fixed him with her famous stare, a psychic bazooka that ordinarily would have stripped thirty years off his age and made him mumble and shuffle away. Not this time. Paz was angry now. He was being manipulated into doing something he didn’t want to do, that he didn’t really think could be done, that was going to end badly in some way. Worse, he was getting a shot at detective work again, it was being laid in his lap, and he didn’t know if he could still do it, without a badge in his pocket and a gun on his belt, and also he knew (now the lid was sliding off) that he still lusted after it, that he was designed by nature to do that kind of work, that he was not
really
content to grill meats rather than suspects forever, that he had talked himself into a life that was in some deep way utterly false. So he met the stare, focusing his anger on his mother, and they locked eyes for what seemed like minutes.

And now Paz was appalled to see a tear, slow and fat as glycerin, roll out of his mother’s eye and descend her brown cheek; and then another and a small freshet of them fell. Paz gaped, for he had never in his life seen his mother cry; it was as if she had sprouted a third eye. And her face seemed to have lost its carved-in-mahogany look and become sad and vulnerable. Paz felt a pang of disorienting terror, as he might have in an earthquake, seeing ripples on the solid earth.

“What? What is it?” he asked helplessly, and here she shook her head slowly from side to side, and said in a slow sad voice, creaky with strain, “No, I can’t tell you. I can’t make you. It’s much too late. Here you have to go alone and do what you have to do.” She pulled a fresh hand towel from the pile on the counter and wiped her eyes, then behind this scrim re-formed her face into the accustomed mask of command. “You’ll let me know. It will take some time to replace you on the early shift.” With that she turned and left the kitchen, leaving Paz wondering if he had imagined it all.

But the hand towel was there on the counter where she had flung it. He picked it up and found it was still damp with her tears.

Now Amelia appeared, dressed in her shorts and T-shirt, holding
her hostess gown carefully on its hanger. He inspected her with care. “I hope
you’re
still the same,” he said.

“What?”

“Nothing, sweetie. You about ready to go?”

“Uh-huh, but, Daddy, could we stop at the market and get more little Fritos?”

“More Fritos? I just got you a ten-pack the other day. What’re you, feeding the whole school?”

The child rotated her sneaker toe in a tiny circle and looked into the middle distance. “No, but it’s nice to share snacks. Miss Milliken says.”

“Oh, well,” said Paz in delight at constancy. “If Miss
Milliken
says, then Fritos will flow forth in a never-ending stream.”

“Is all you eat Fritos?” the girl asks. They are high in the tree. It is recess time at Providence Day School. The voices of children at play float up through the rustling leaves.

Moie licks his fingers and impales the little bag on a twig. “No, I eat other things.”

“Where, in a restaurant?”

“No, Jaguar gives them,” replies Moie. His Spanish is coming back a little, he finds, in these short conversations with the girl, although he does not trust the language to express anything complex. This is disturbing, not to be able to speak to others freely, far more than he thought it would be. Father Perrin had been correct: he could not really speak the language of the
wai’ichuranan,
and Jaguar has sent this child to help him. It was not shameful to make an error before a girl, especially one who would probably not live for much longer. Another reason why Jaguar has sent her.