Suspicion of Betrayal (7 page)

The double doors were open, and a chandelier cast a glow on the polished wood table and the marble floor beneath it. Twenty chairs had been squeezed around the table. Señora Pedrosa wheeled her husband to one end, then took her own seat at the other, host and hostess. Anthony touched Gail's waist. "Come sit here with me." He held a chair, and she sat between Anthony and his cousin Elena's husband. Pepe spoke to Anthony, and the men laughed, then went back and forth in Spanish too fast for her to follow.

Glancing around the table, Gail counted twelve people who managed one or another facet of a family empire worth close to three hundred million dollars. A bank, a construction company, rental properties, shopping centers. And it was all controlled by Ernesto Pedrosa—who was now over eighty. How much longer could he make decisions? Someone would have to take over. There were three granddaughters and their husbands. There were grand-nephews and nieces. And Anthony.

But he and his grandfather had been at odds for years, on different sides of an issue that had torn their country apart. Pedrosa had taken his family out of Cuba after Castro seized power, but Anthony and a sister remained with their father, Luis Quintana, a decorated hero of the revolution. When Anthony was thirteen, Pedrosa arranged for him to come visit his mother in Miami, then refused to let him go home. Anthony was forced to go to school in enemy territory, forced to learn a new language. He refused to denounce his father. At twenty he was thrown out of this very house after a raging argument with Pedrosa. Brilliant and rebellious, he had gone north and made his own way through law school.

Relations between him and his grandfather gradually thawed, then grew to mutual respect. Anthony Quintana managed nothing belonging to Ernesto Pedrosa. Had been given nothing, had asked for nothing. He was Pedrosa's chief irritant and greatest hope. The favorite, and everyone knew it. But he had said no.

The courses were served, and plates were passed.
Puerco asado
—pork roasted with garlic and spices.
Moros
—black beans and rice cooked together. Fried plantains. Boiled yuca
con mojo
—oil and more garlic. Sometimes there would be chicken, beef, or delicately cooked fish. But always the garlic, the beans and rice, and then—the world would stop otherwise—tiny cups of espresso after dinner.

Someone told a joke, which was duly translated for Gail. They waited to see if she laughed, and when she did, the laughter went around the table again.

In Havana the Pedrosas had employed a French cook. Here they could have had whatever they wanted, but even the menu made a political statement: solidarity with the displaced exiles, rich and poor alike. Ernesto Jose Pedrosa Masvidal had decreed that only traditional Cuban food would be served in his house. In Havana he had ordered his shirts from an English tailor, but here he stuck to his four-pocket
guayaberas.

A nicely sun-browned hand with an onyx ring on it deftly poured wine into Gail's empty glass. Anthony. She smiled at him. "Trying to get me drunk?"

He said quietly, "I apologize for last night. I shouldn't have left you like that."

"It wasn't your fault," she said. "I was stressed out. Why do you put up with me?"

His lips parted just enough for her to see him smile. He leaned over as if to kiss her cheek. His breath was warm in her ear.
"Porque me gusta tu sabor. "

Her mind processed the words.
Because . . . I like . . . I like the way you taste.
Her skin tingled. She spoke with the wineglass in front of her mouth. "When we get home, I am going to tie you to the bed. Open the bottle of love potion. Unzip your pants . .."

When she didn't go on, he prodded, "And ..."

"Well, I don't know. If we stay as late as we usually do, I might be too tired."

"We won't stay. As soon as the old man is asleep, Nena will come downstairs. We'll say good night to her, then leave."

"No cigars with the guys," Gail said.

"And you won't get into a long conversation with the women about the wedding," he returned.

At least the wedding had given her something to talk about. The Pedrosa women were polite. They embraced her and kissed her cheek, but she would always be
la americana.
Anthony's first wife, a Cuban woman, had fit in better, even though Rosa—they gossiped about her—had been out of his social class, the daughter of a meat packer in Union City, New Jersey. But she had been pretty, and Anthony had been so young. Gail had felt their eyes on her, appraising. She could imagine their thoughts: She's American, but we can overlook that. Her family is prominent, and she will make a good wife.

Gail pushed a piece of tomato around on her plate, nudging the chunks of pork into a straight line. She had no appetite, and the thought of pork made her queasy.

"Anthony, I need to see a client of yours, Harry Lasko." Anthony's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "It's about the Sweet case you sent me. Wendell Sweet says he has no money, but he's lying. Harry Lasko knows him and might be able to tell us what he did with his cash. If I don't get some information, Jamie could be in real trouble. And my fees! I've got twenty-two thousand dollars' worth of time in this case. The judge won't rule on it until he knows what Wendell can afford. I've got to talk to Mr. Lasko."

Anthony shook his head as he finished chewing. "No."

"What do you mean, no?"

"N-o. I can't let Harry talk to anyone until I work out a plea with the prosecutors. They could tack on more charges if anything else comes up."

"Such as?"

He made a slight shrug. "One never knows."

Gail was still looking at him. "Give me something about Wendell. Come on."

Anthony didn't want to get into it, she could see that. Barely moving his lips, he said quietly, "Harry and Wendell had some business dealings on Aruba, and before you ask—yes, they were legitimate. However. Wendell knows some questionable people, and the DEA is interested in who they are. I don't want to open that can of worms, not while I'm trying to persuade the government that poor, bumbling Harry Lasko tripped on his shoelaces and fell over the line—"

"Wendell is a drug dealer?"

"Let's say . . . that Wendell has terrible taste in friends."

"I don't see what all this has to do with a divorce case," Gail said.

"It doesn't. But if Harry slips up and says more than he should, and you file a list of assets in the Sweet case that shows a connection in any way to Harry Lasko—"

"Who would see it?"

"No, Gail."

"I just want to
talk
to him. It would be confidential."

"Sorry."

"Well, I don't see why not."

"You don't practice criminal law,
bonboncita."

"Then I defer to your expertise—reluctantly."

"Thank you." Anthony leaned away to ask Alex for the beans and rice.
Alex, favor, los moros
— The only place Anthony ever ate Cuban food was here, she had noticed. Otherwise, he preferred pasta or steaks.

"Why is Harry pleading guilty?" Gail whispered.

"That often happens when a client thinks he'll do worse at trial."

"But you're too good a trial lawyer to give up so easily."

"Well, the situation is not so simple."

"What do you mean?"

Ignoring her question, Anthony tapped vinegar onto the
moros.
"This is what we'll do. After I work out a plea, you can talk to him. He'll be around for a while. All right?"

"When are you going to do this?"

"Probably next week."

"I don't want to wait too long," Gail said. "Wendell has to comply with an order of discovery, but what if he doesn't? He could drag this out past the report date, and I'd have to go after him on a motion for contempt—"

"Gail, pass me the bread, will you?"

The baby fussed, and Digna held out her arms. Betty got up and carried him around to her. He opened his eyes and stared at his great-grandmother, then cooed in, a toothless grin. When everyone broke into laughter, he started to wail. Digna shushed them and cradled the baby on her breast. Ernesto Pedrosa announced that this little
machito
already knew how to charm the ladies.

Then Pedrosa tilted his head to focus his glasses on the other end of the table. Anthony was talking about real estate with Xiomara's husband, Bernardo. Pedrosa broke in with a comment in Spanish, and Anthony disagreed. Pedrosa laughed and made a dismissive wave with one large, bony hand. Anthony returned a frosty smile down the length of the table and spun off some figures. The old man's glower turned into a shrug. He acknowledged that his grandson could be right for once. He allowed a smile before snapping his fingers for more
puerco asado.

Gail had noticed the similarities—the physical resemblance, the dry humor, the pride—but they were not the same. Anthony had said so himself. He had a slight accent he couldn't shake, but his ideals, his political views, were not a holdover from fifties Latin America. She was grateful for every difference.

The conversation veered to houses, then to the one on Clematis Street, which Anthony said they would remodel—probably next year—and eventually, as Gail knew it would, the talk came around to the wedding.

Gail smiled, not really comfortable as the center of attention. No, she hadn't picked out her dress yet. Elena suggested a shop in Coral Gables. "Gail, you have to see it. You
must.
I'll go with you." And Betty wanted to come along too, because she had bought her wedding dress there. Gail shook her head, still smiling. "Please don't bother. I can find something easily enough."

But they carried on without her. Which couturier in the Gables was most suitable for a second marriage, and whether you could ever find the right dress at Dadeland—

"Dadeland?" Xiomara laughed.
"¡Que va!
Maybe at Saks,
pero
everything looks the same,
y la gente—
you have to walk sideways, it's so crowded."

The entire wedding had been like this—rolling along on its own, picking up speed. Gail's mother, Irene Connor, had volunteered to handle the details. An intimate wedding, Gail had instructed her. Family and our closest friends. Then Ernesto and Digna Pedrosa announced they would pay for the reception. They reserved the Alhambra Ballroom at the Biltmore Hotel. They would hire a fifteen-piece orchestra to play salsa, jazz, and pop. Flattered and thrilled, Irene caved in. She lined up a soprano with the Miami Opera to do "Ave Maria" at the wedding. The invitation list shot past three hundred names.
Darling, they want to invite the governor. How can you say no?
This was not a wedding anymore, it was an event, a political statement, a three-way detente among the exiles on the right, of whom Ernesto Pedrosa was a quintessential example, the more liberal new Cubans, such as Anthony Quintana, and the Anglo establishment. Gail felt as though she and Anthony were hanging onto a rocket by their fingernails. And somewhere during the last few weeks it had occurred to her that Pedrosa's stunning generosity was not because he liked her, or had a sentimental spot for weddings, but because he was luring Anthony home.

Leave him alone, old man.

The old man still had power. The article in the
Miami Herald
had touched only the surface, although bribery was too crude a word for what Pedrosa engaged in. Influence was better. To do favors for those in a position to return them. And when one had power, the favors were large. A judge on the circuit court, a Cuban American himself, had confided to Gail,
Where we came from, there was very little respect for government. We brought that attitude here, I'm afraid.

Anthony had accused his grandfather of that very failing, and Gail admired him for having the guts to say so. Aside from loving Anthony Quintana, she respected him. He was a lawyer because he believed in the law, not for what he could get out of it. He loved his grandfather but didn't need his contacts or his wealth.

After the dishes were cleared, the cake was brought out, naming with candles enough to make everyone laugh. They all sang "Happy Birthday," and presents were sent down the table to Aunt Adelita, who exclaimed over each one.
Que linda. Que preciosa. A
pretty blouse, some perfume, a framed photograph. Anthony had given her earrings and had signed Gail's name to the card as well.

By now Ernesto Pedrosa's head had sunk into his shoulders, and his eyes were closing. Soon his wife noticed, and she shook him gently. Standing up, she ordered everyone to stay, stay as long as they liked. The old man roused himself for the parade of goodnight kisses and hugs. Then Digna wheeled him into the elevator and the door slid shut.

While the table was cleared, the guests wandered back into the living room. Gail wished she and Anthony could go home, but he had said that Hector Mesa wanted to talk to him. She wouldn't have cared, but she could never figure out what Mesa was after. He was a friend, not a relation. He had no particular occupation that she knew of, not in accounting or in the law. His card said "consultant." His suits were blue or gray, his hair was thinning, and in a group he would vanish. All one could see was a pair of black-framed glasses and a small gray mustache.

Drinks were made for those who wanted them. A tray of espresso was brought out. Gail went to look at the baby, and Betty let her hold him. His eyes were deep blue, and he had a fine blond fuzz on his head. "Well, aren't you a gorgeous guy? And heavy! Karen was only six pounds." Gail tickled his cheek till he grinned at her. "I'm in love," she said.

Aunt Adelita, even older than Digna, laid her papery hand on Gail's knee and patted it.
"Tú y Anthony, ¿quieren hembra o varón?"

Did they want a girl or a boy? Embarrassed, Gail laughed and handed the baby back to its mother. "No, not for us. No babies." The meaning was too clear to need a translation. Adelita stared at Gail as if she were very strange indeed, then went on quickly to some other topic.

No children. She and Anthony had decided this months ago. He already had two children—and with Gail's career—Karen was enough. A sensible decision, one that did not have to be explained. Even so, Gail knew that she had been judged.