The Assimilated Cuban's Guide to Quantum Santeria (14 page)

All of us were stunned. But Xavier could handle anything. After a short pause, he stood and went over to the bag, took out a rubber-banded brick of bills, rifled through them appreciatively. Then he smiled and in Spanish said to the old woman, “Okay, abuela. Paid in full. So it’s over.”

The old woman squinted her horse-eyes. “Don’t try to find Tito. Don’t try to hurt him. You’ll never find him.”

“I kill for money, woman, not for pleasure. I have been paid, and I didn’t have to lift a finger. Why would I want to kill him?”

“Because he has seen your face. He can report you to the police.”

“But you won’t let him. You told him he could never say anything to anyone, because if he did, I would kill him.”

“Yes. Just as you say.”

“But abuela, now you have seen my face, too. Maybe you think I am going to kill you?”

“Yes,” she said. Sudden tears fell like ballasts from her eyes. “I do.”

I saw Xavier’s character waiver—the hitman persona shimmered, almost dissipated. But he collected himself. “I understand. I see it all clearly now. You think I won’t let either of you live. You have done everything you can, but you think I will kill you both anyway. But listen, abuela. Killing clients is bad for business. I have a reputation to maintain. So long as you and Tito keep quiet, it’s better for me to take the money and be on my way. We can all win.”

She was still crying, but she didn’t let that get in the way of scrutinizing Xavier. “Don’t lie to me. God is watching you. You are going to
let Tito live?”

“Yes, abuelita. And you, too.”

“I am an old woman. If you don’t kill me, soon enough something else will. But Tito is just a boy. Swear to God you will not kill him.”

“I swear in the name of God that I will not kill Tito Angelobronca.”

She narrowed her horse-eyes. “How can I trust an assassin?”

Xavier laughed and replied, “I don’t know, abuela. All I can offer is my word.”

She studied him for a moment. Then she said, “You are going to hell. Unless you change your ways, God will punish you for your terrible sins. You should pray every night to Jesus Christ, and confess your sins, and change your evil ways.”

“I know, abuela. I know.”

“If you keep your word, I will pray for you. One rosary every day.” She turned to leave. “Perhaps the Virgin Mary will hear me and inter-cede on your behalf. Perhaps your heart will open up to God’s love. You can still be saved from eternal damnation. Pray every night, and in the end you may spend eternity in God’s loving presence.” She pulled the door shut and was gone.

We watched the monitors, jumping from one to the next as she left the range of one staircase camera and entered that of another. It wasn’t until she left the building that we started breathing again.

The crew and cops erupted in an astonished disputation: “What the hell was that?” we asked each other, laughing and scratching our heads. Could we still make an episode out of this weird twist of an
ending? And then there was the money, all that money: of course we had to return it to the abuela. It was her money, not Tito’s, we were sure—scrimped and scoured from who-knows-where to save the life of her unworthy grandson.

Well, that could be our ending right there! We could have Xavier return the money to her, tell her it was all pretend, all just for TV, and that she didn’t have to live in fear. We’d just have to make sure she was ready, so that she wouldn’t do anything rash—like have a heart attack—when she saw Xavier again.

Xavier. He sat with his elbows on his thighs, hands covering his face. I went over to him, put a hand on his shoulder. He knew it was me by touch. “Oh man, Mámi,” he said. He always called me ‘Mámi,’ which I kind of hated and kind of adored. “That was hard. I shouldn’t have done it that way. I should’ve told her it was all an act.”

“Are you kidding?” I said, and moved around to the front to give him a hug. The first rule of being a good producer is hug first, talk money later. “You were perfect. Thanks to you, we’ll still be able to salvage a show out of this. And she’ll get her money back. Everyone’s going to benefit from this, thanks to you.”

He groaned. “I tortured her, Mámi. I made her suffer. I could’ve been so much kinder. Why didn’t I just tell her the truth? Why did I stay in character?”

“Because you’re a good actor, and you had a job to do. We’re going to fix everything. We’re going to make everything right.”

Into his hands he said, “I have to make it right, mámi. I have to.”

“You will,” I said. “Don’t worry. We’ll fix everything. First thing tomorrow.”

As I entered Xavier’s hotel room the next morning, tears dragging clots of mascara down my face, I thought to myself,
I told you we were going to fix everything, Xavier. Why didn’t you believe me?

This part is a little sick. I know it is. I am ashamed, but not as ashamed as I should be, and that makes me even more ashamed. I brought a camera crew with me to Xavier’s hotel room.

Look, I’m a TV producer. This was a legitimate international news story. I had a responsibility to the public. Plus, I didn’t want to go there alone. So I brought Eugenio, the oldest cameraman in the industry, and Constancia, the show’s viper-tongued director, to whom I would trust my eternal soul.

The only reason I got into that hotel room in the first place was because, after many shoots in New York of
¿A Quién Quieres Matar?
, I’d made friends with a lot of NYPD detectives and, in a small but real way, helped them arrest some dangerous people before they could do any real harm. And everyone wants to be on TV, even detectives.

Enter Detective Dan Burdock. I always think of him when Billy Joel sings the line: “He’s quick with a joke/ or a light of your smoke,/ but there’s someplace that he’d rather be.” Yes, poor Danny always dreamed of being a star, but since he had a complexion like a post-poisoned Viktor Yushchenko, he was better off as a detective, where
he could use his looks to intimidate low-lifes.

He was the one who had called me, who was now leading me and my crew through the room. The detectives, crime scene investigators, and the coroner had all done everything they needed to do. At Dan’s request they had left a few key items in place so that I could film them. But not Xavier. They had, of course, removed his body. They had even remade the bed. He was utterly disappeared from the room.

Once my crew was parked, plugged in, and rolling, Dan, overacting, looked into the camera and set the scene for us. “Here is where the apparent suicide took place. I say apparent, because the official report won’t have been filed yet, but it’s pretty cut and dry. The victim, Xavier Enamorado, was found this morning at seven-thirty a.m. by Alonzo Guiterrez, his personal assistant. Xavier was on that bed, seemingly asleep, but Alonzo couldn’t wake him, checked his pulse and found none, and immediately called the front desk for an ambulance. There were no signs of struggle, forced entry, or robbery in the room.”

He smiled at the camera like an idiot. Didn’t he realize how much more he had to explain? In a voice that displayed not a hint of irritation, I asked, “Detective Burdock, how did Xavier do it?”

“Oh, right,” said Dan. His face grew appropriately grave, and he said, “Cyanide.”

I could literally hear Constancia making a face. “Cyanide?”

“And how do you know it was cyanide?” I followed up.

Detective Dan looked into the air philosophically. “You see, as a New York City detective, you become an expert in identifying poisons
just by using this,” he said, tapping his nose. “Cyanide has a unique smell. A little like almonds, but bitter. Furthermore, the victim often changes color, because what cyanide does is it causes cells to suffocate. Mr. Enamorado was pretty blue when we found him.” I could see him trying to formulate a bad pun, but luckily he restrained himself and continued. “We’re waiting for a toxicology report to verify this hypothesis, of course, but really, that’s only a formality. I’d bet my shield it was cyanide.”

Before I could follow up, Constancia asked, “Potassium cyanide?”

“Toxicology will tell us for sure. But yes, probably.”

“So where’d he get it? Where’s the container? How’d he get it into his system?”

Dan didn’t like Constancia’s tone—she had a way of making everybody sound incompetent—but he didn’t break character. “We believe we’ve successfully reconstructed Xavier’s last hours. Basically, the answers to all those questions can be found right there,” he said, pointing to the nightstand. Besides all the other typical nightstand-y stuff, there stood a large milkshake cup with the word “GruuvyJuuce” written in a groovy, juicy typeface on the side.

“The way we figure it,” Dan continued, “Xavier was feeling depressed about the shoot yesterday. Yes, we know he was upset; Alonzo told us. So he goes out, picks up some cyanide on the street, then stops at a GruuvyJuuce, takes the cyanide on the way home, washing it down with the shake, gets back to his hotel room, and goes to sleep. Forever,” he said grimly, looking straight at the camera. You can
always pick out the reality shows on TV; they’re the ones with all the bad actors.

“Picked up cyanide on the street?!” screamed Constancia. “That is the absolute stupidest theory—”

I covered her mouth. She mumbled for a second in my palm, but then finally shut up. I removed my hand, but gave her an admonishing look. “What’s GruuvyJuuce?” I asked Dan.

“It’s from one of those new powershake places that’re popping up all over the place. Can’t see the appeal myself. They’re really expensive, and they have all these weird fruit flavors I’ve never heard of. Like this one: It’s got this neon-peach-orange color, and it smells like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

“You see smells?” asked Constancia.

I shot her a look, then went over to the nightstand, leaned over the cup and took a long whiff. “It’s mamey,” I said.

“What?” asked Dan.

“Mamey,” said Constancia. “Tropical fruit. Cubans love it.”

Something was bugging me. I turned to our cameraman and asked him in Spanish, “Eugenio, mamey. Don’t people use them for home remedies?”

Like any good cameraman, Eugenio was loathe to talk while we were still rolling. But he was also too polite not to respond, so after a moment’s hesitation he said, “Of course. They use it to cure everything: good for headaches, stomach problems, VD, warts, malaria, everything. They make a hair tonic with it in El Salvador to keep you
from going bald. I should get me some, eh?” he said, patting his bald head.

We all laughed, even Dan, whose Spanish was so bad he can’t even order at Taco Bell. But I could tell Eugenio wasn’t done. It took a minute of staring at him expectantly, but finally he continued: “And you can use the seed to make a drink that will induce an abortion. I had a cousin from Pilar del Río. You know the type: one of those bobas de la yuca who can’t keep her legs shut. Well, she got herself into trouble, and there was only one way to fix trouble like that. That mamey potion almost killed her, but she lived, and it worked. It got rid of the baby all right.” Eugenio’s mouth clapped shut. He hid behind his camera so I wouldn’t see him getting choked up. “Poor little baby. Never got to be born. My poor little nephew.”

“What’d he say, Desi?” Detective Dan asked.

I was about to answer Dan when Constancia’s cell phone/computer/surrogate brain went off. “It’s Alonzo,” she said, handing that overcomplicated gizmo to me.

I took it, struggled to figure out how to work the stupid thing, let Constancia press the right button for me, and then, finally, said “Ai, Alonzo. How are you doing, niño?”

“I’m okay,” he said. “You know, rough day.” A beat. Then, “I shouldn’t have left him alone.”

“No sea estúpido. What were you going to do, crawl into bed with him? There was nothing you could do. This isn’t your fault.”

He wasn’t convinced. But like a niño bueno, he said, “Okay.”

“Hey, you’re not alone, right? You keeping busy?”

“Yes, Mámi,” he sighed, just like Xavier would’ve. He imitated Xavier in everything.

“Don’t lie to me. What are you doing right now?”

“Ai, my job, Mámi, okay? In fact, I have good news. I found the abuelita
.
We can return the money to her.”

“That was fast. Good work.”

“She works at this place called GruuvyJuuce. Mámi, it’s perfect. I was thinking we could give her back the money right there, right at the store while she’s working. Man, what a great moment that’s going to be.” And then he added sadly, “Xavier would’ve loved it.”

I pulled the phone away from my ear. For a few seconds I thought I could hear the roar of the ocean. But it was the sound of my own blood surging into my head.

“What is it?” asked Detective Dan.

“It’s a homicide,” I said to him. “Xavier was murdered. And I know exactly where to find your prime suspect.”