The Informant (16 page)

Rolando, the telephone receiver squeezed tightly between his shoulder and long jaw, removed his black jacket. Consider the heat as penance, he thought.

“Uncle—”

“Rolando.” A hard weariness eased into Mas Betancourt’s voice. “Someone informed on Cruz. They wanted the boy to have trouble, serious trouble. Now, who can tell me for sure that these enemies will not make another attempt to bring Cruz down? Can you or anyone tell me that Cruz will not make
new
enemies? I say to you, what effect could this have on me, on all of us?”

Rolando reached for the widening damp circle under his left armpit. Uncle Mas had not forgotten his years in Batista’s secret police. Self-preservation, along with expecting the worst of humanity. As Santayana has written,
life is not a spectacle or a feast; it is a predicament.

Mas Betancourt said, “There is something else, too, Rolando. Fear. I have used fear as a weapon most of my life. I know it, understand it thoroughly. Better than most men, I understand what Cruz will do when he becomes frightened, when the agents begin to pressure him.
They
know he is related to Paco;
they
know Paco is related to me. Do you understand?”

I’ve lost the game, thought the priest. Not that it mattered. As it says in the Bible, man’s days are short and full of woe. It has certainly been a short day for Cruz Real, who died at twenty-two, a victim of his loins.

Rolando wiped sweat from his long nose with a damp, wilted handkerchief. For a few seconds he watched the blond teenagers play touch football in the park across the street, all of them momentarily ignorant of life’s pain. The priest took a deep breath of hot, humid air and aimed one last parting shot.

“There is no chance of us allowing him to spread his juices among the unwashed women of some ancient Peruvian village, my uncle?”

Mas Betancourt always spoke to his nephew Rolando politely, as though the priest were a mischievous, yet good-hearted child whose peccadilloes must be tolerated because there was still some slight chance of redemption.

“My nephew, a man can feel very strongly about a woman, believe me. You know how I feel about Pilar. Well, the man who informed on Cruz, he feels that way about
his
wife. Pride, love, so many things. Now, this is what we will always face with Cruz. He is sure to continue making enemies of jealous husbands.”

Rolando’s intelligence forced him to agree. “Granted. There is an old Italian saying: a stiff dick knows no conscience.”

Mas chuckled. “It is also an old Cuban saying, my nephew. How is everything else going?”

“On schedule, no problem.” Rolando was in Florida to collect money from Kelly Lorenzo, at the moment being hidden by relatives in nearby Georgia. Rolando was also collecting money from two other blacks, Julius Shelton and Lonnie Conquest, both of whom had met Kelly in Georgia to discuss the Mas Betancourt deal as well as other narcotics business.

Rolando had found Kelly charming, amoral, shrewd, though lacking formal education. Kelly was a born leader, like Mas Betancourt.

Rolando said, “What if John-John, our rather overfed relative, takes it upon himself to save Cruz’s life? He could help him jump bail and put him on a boat anywhere. Even though we are all related, it occurs to me that there might be objections to your pruning the family tree, shall we say.”

Mas snorted. “I am in charge, I am the leader. Everyone supports me. No one wants to lose money or their freedom because Cruz Real enjoys women. Anyone opposing me now is opposing other Cubans, even blacks. John is neither that strong nor that foolish.”

Rolando, patting sweat on his forehead with a handkerchief that was almost wet enough to wring out, nodded in agreement. Among Cubans, a leader was expected to take charge, make decisions. Failure to do so was more than a disappointment to the men under you. It was an insult, and the men you were supposed to be leading would kill you for it.

Rolando knew of some who had failed to lead when they were supposed to and had paid for it with their lives. Uncle Mas, apparently, had no intention of failing to lead.

Uncle Mas had men to account to, and an incredible narcotics deal to protect. No matter what he did to ensure success and protect money, he would be supported. Under those circumstances, Cruz Real’s life wasn’t worth the piece of dried orange peel under Rolando’s shoe.

Mas said, “Call me when Cruz has been removed.”

“Yes. Say hello to Barbara for me. I sent her some Florida oranges, and I sent Pilar grapefruit and limes.”

“Good. That was considerate of you. Pilar should eat more fresh fruit. Oh, one more thing, Rolando.”

“Yes, uncle?” The priest felt perspiration slide down his left side. For some odd reason, the perspiration felt cold.

“Cruz’s wife. She goes too.”

“May I ask why?” She’s nothing, thought a surprised Rolando. An unnecessary killing.

For the first time in their conversation, Mas seemed uncertain. And the reason he finally gave Rolando, after hesitating for long seconds, seemed unsubstantial, no firmer than smoke.

“She … she could pressure cousin John into something … well, impulsive. Women can be vengeful. Just do as I say. Take care of her.”

Rolando rubbed his long, unshaven jaw. “First I watch Barbara in Paris, now I must make sure that Cruz has companionship in the next world. What is this sudden resentment toward women?”

Mas was silent. The prophecy from the dead
babalawo
was his secret, his alone.
La última
, his final narcotics deal, was a carefully woven tapestry threatened with unraveling by an unknown woman. Killing Cruz Real’s wife was to literally tie up a loose end. If she was the unseen woman standing in darkness behind Mas, then let her die. And let Barbara live.

Irritation added a cutting edge to Mas’s voice. “
Rolando, please do as I say
!”

Miles away, the priest stood up and leaned back, as though in his uncle’s presence. Instinct alerted him. The time for games was over.

“Uncle, I’ll telephone you when the matter is settled.”

Outside, in the sun, Rolando put on sunglasses and stood still until the trickle of fear receded in his stomach. Sometimes his uncle Mas did that to him. Sometimes Mas
almost
made Rolando afraid of him.

Lonnie Conquest was twenty-five, wire-thin, with caramel-colored skin, dark brown hair braided in corn rows, and a withered right hand that he attempted to hide by wearing dashikis or shirts with long flowing sleeves. He wore a mustache and goatee. He had three gold teeth in the front of his thick-lipped mouth, and a habit of turning his head and looking at you from the corner of one brown bloodshot eye.

Tonight he wore all white: long-sleeved silk shirt, cotton pants, leather boots. A double-edged razor blade of solid gold hung from his neck on a thin gold chain. As usual, he carried a carved black African walking stick and kept the grin in place on his seemingly friendly North Caroline country-boy face.

The grin rarely had anything to do with what was actually on Lonnie Conquest’s mind. He spoke slowly, with a strong black Southern accent, which along with his grin often caused people to underestimate him. That was a mistake.

At six feet three and a half, and only a hundred and eighty pounds, his street name was Lonnie Too Tall.

Tonight he seemed pleased to have accidentally run into Lydia Constanza in a Cuban nightclub on Algeria Street in Miami’s Little Havana, that section of the city that began at West Eighth Street. Miami was officially a bilingual city, with a Spanish-speaking population of over five hundred thousand. In Little Havana you could live and die without once speaking English.

Lonnie had greeted Lydia warmly, hugging her, then letting his good left hand slide down to her ass. Now he sat at a table with her and Jorge Dávila. Lonnie held Lydia’s hand in an almost old-fashioned, courtly manner.

“Pretty one, you are
on
tonight. Lookin’ good.
Lookin’
and cookin’.” He winked at Jorge Dávila, who smiled quickly and lifted a glass of red wine in a friendly toast. Jorge, a neat, small Cuban in his mid-forties, pudgy in a dark blue pinstripe suit and two-hundred-dollar handmade alligator shoes, sipped wine, then patted his thick mustache with a green cloth napkin. The black, Jorge observed, was deceptively friendly.

Jorge Dávila had been around long enough to sense when somebody was trouble. Mr. Withered Arm was dangerous.

As for Lydia, she seemed attractive, sexy, a nice person, and probably hot enough to burn the sheets in bed. Jorge wondered if he should … No, better not. Leave the bureau’s informants alone. If he parried with her and New York found out, it could mean trouble.

Just do the clubs and bars with her on the bureau’s money. And keep his eyes and ears open.

Lonnie Too Tall turned, waved to his own table several feet away, then again faced Lydia and Jorge. As usual, he aimed one eye at them, talking in one direction while staring in another.

“Lydia say you two be doin’ somethin’. That’s why she boogied all the way down here to his niiiiice Florida sunshine.”

Jorge had played his role before and enjoyed it. Informing was having power over people. “Yes, we have something going.” No need to say more.

Lonnie Too Tall nodded. He understood. “Well, ain’t we all some ver’ busy peee-pull? Lid-ja, Lid-ja, Lid-ja. Ain’t seen you lookin’ this fine in I don’t know when. Now you done gon’ and got yo’self some dude wif heavy cakes to pay all dem bills, no doubt?”

“Now, Lonnie, you know a lady never tells.” Lydia smiled, pulling her hand from under his.

“What if I make you a better offer?” he said. “How ’bout that? I ain’t zackly po’ white trash, you understand?”

Lydia took a deep breath, blinked, exhaled. “Bad Red says he’s doing a deal with you and Julius.” She forced herself to smile.

Jorge Dávila watched the musicians file through a door to the right and prepare to play again. They unfolded musical scores and spread them out on stands. They shifted chairs around and began tuning instruments.

Lonnie Too Tall snorted, gently scratching his chin with the baseball-size knob on one end of his walking stick. There was contempt in his voice.

“She-it. Red a jive nigger. Always broadcastin’ ’bout what he got goin’. He a chump. I see you and whitey wif him, and I say, godddd-damn! Red, he dumb. You understand dumb? That’s that sucker. He try takin’ off people every now and then, mostly white people. He goin’ ’round tellin’ ’bout he got this goin’ wif that one, got that goin’ wif this one. Ain’t got cat piss on a fork. Me and my boon coon, Mr. J., we the pee-pull of the future. We climbin’ like a rocket to the moon. Your white man, he want somethin’, you tell him to come to where the flavor is. He got the cakes, we got the stuff that will deee-light him and his peee-pull.”

He parted his thick pink lips, showing large white teeth interrupted by three large gold ones.

Lydia exhaled, her heart beating faster. Excitement exploded inside her, and she wanted to leap out of her chair and go running back to New York and tell Neil. Bad Red
definitely
was planning a rip. When she reached for her glass of red wine, she almost knocked it over, catching it quickly before spilling more than a spoonful.

A virgin, thought Jorge Dávila. But he knew how she felt. She had come up with something, and for an informant, there was no bigger thrill. Gently he pushed her hands back and patted the dark stain now slowly widening on the green tablecloth.

He thought: Later I’ll tell her that informing is a game of no nerves and no mistakes.

In the small, crowded club, Lonnie Too Tall again looked over his shoulder at his table, where nine people waited for him. Two were black men; the rest seemed to be Cuban men and women.

“Me and my man Mr. J., we gots to get back to gettin’ down. This trip down here done cost me some money, and I ain’t talkin’ ’bout no hoetail. But you gots to invest in order to progress, my daddy say.” He turned back to Lydia, his left eye aimed at her face. She smiled, forcing herself to keep staring at him.

Jorge Dávila watched the two of them. She’s working fine, he thought. There was something likable about her.

Lonnie said, “ ’Course, I be makin’ me somethin’, too. That’s gonna be comin’, but I be gettin’ mine. Me and Mr. J.”

Lydia, attractive in a calf-length pale blue dress and her thick black hair down almost to the small of her back, looked through the crowd at Lonnie’s table. “I see Julius.” She waved. He lifted one hand shoulder high in a wave back, and with the other put part of a roll in his mouth.

Lonnie looked at his partner and grinned. “Yeah. My man is tryin’ to get through some a this here Cuban food. Eatin’ him some choo-lay-tas dee porko.”

“Pork chops,” said Jorge Dávila, suppressing a grin at Lonnie’s mispronunciation.

“Yeah. Poke chops. Country boy love them poke chops.”

Lydia touched Lonnie’s good hand with hers, placing her elbow on the table and resting her chin in the other hand. Her voice was casual.

“What’s everybody else eatin’? I mean, I don’t want nobody to get sick on Cuban food, then maybe come back to New York and blame me, you know?”

Lonnie entwined his long, thin fingers with hers. “King Raymond, he the brother on Julius’ left. He eating yellow rice and ham.”

“
Arroz con jamón,
” said Lydia.

The eight musicians began to play a moderately fast
salsa
tune, and patrons stood up. In seconds, the tiny dance floor was crowded.

“Yeah,” said Lonnie Too Tall. “Now, Jewel, he eatin’ baked eggs somethin’. Can’t speak no Spanish.”

“
Huevos a la malagueña
?” offered a bemused Jorge Dávila.

“She-it, Jack, I dunno. One a dem people’s eatin’ ock-toe-puss.” Lonnie made a face. “Cat’s got to be weird, Jim, got to be. Puttin’ that kinda shit in his stomach. I ain’t eatin’ nothin’ that still be movin’ when it come outta the kitchen.”

Lydia, eyes still on Lonnie’s table, tapped her teeth with a thumbnail. “Who’s the brave one, the octopus freak?”

“Little cat sittin’ next to the woman in the orange turban and orange dress. Bald head, gray suit, bendin’ over his food like he think somebody gonna steal it offa his plate. Simon Waxler. He a bail bondsman from New York. You ever hear a him?”