The Informant (28 page)

Mas trusted Graciela to find the girls; they were young, rarely over fifteen, almost always Cuban, and chosen extremely carefully; the parents knew and approved of what their daughters did, though they did not know Mas’s identity. In Graciela’s words, he was
un hombre rico
, a rich man, and that was enough.

The girls had to have long, dark hair, slim bodies, be clean, and wear no fingernail polish. They had to know what was expected of them, for Mas insisted on silence, on no communication between him and the girl the entire time they were together.
They had to know what was expected of them.

This afternoon, Mas sat naked on a dark red couch, his hairy, withered legs spread apart, one thick hand on each of his thin thighs. This girl was pretty, a favorite of his; today was the third time she’d come to him, and this time she was more relaxed, less rigid as she sat on a wooden chair, her knees only a foot from his. Her name was America, and she was fourteen, with a shy, crooked smile and a tiny mole near the right side of her gentle mouth.

She wore a long-sleeved white sweater and a black skirt now pulled up around her hips. Both legs were bare, and she wore no underwear. Her legs were spread wide apart so that Mas could see her thin, dark brown pubic hair. Mas noticed she had stopped smiling at him, but at least she wasn’t as tense as some of the others had been. Why should she be? Today was her third time, and she was getting paid well. To prolong his pleasure, he closed, then opened his eyes, repeating this several times, each time looking directly at the young girl’s pubic hairs,
at that small, precious place that the world had yet to touch.

He looked at the rest of her, too. At her bright, dark eyes, her small, slim nose, at the long black hair pulled back from her face by a small white plastic rose at either temple, at the small, budding breasts under the cheap white sweater, at her slim arms and short, clean nails, the thin black plastic belt around her tiny waist, at the black skirt still up around her hips, at …

America. She would give him pleasure, satisfaction, relief. Not merely from sexual tensions, but from the terrible pressure of knowing that he could not, must not, fail with his last dope deal. Failure meant the death of hopes and dreams, the loss of Pilar and the loss of Mas’s position in the world of narcotics. To fail on this large a scale meant never to be trusted again. He could live with this pressure, but he couldn’t live with it all of the time. When he couldn’t, when those difficult times came, he telephoned Graciela.

America squirmed on the chair, looked up at the ceiling, and gripped the edges of the chair with small hands that had a ring on every finger. Her father and mother needed the money, and they had been assured by Graciela that it would be all right. America had been slightly frightened, but it
had
been all right the other two times. Still, she wanted to finish and leave quickly. The old man had such ugly legs.

When she saw him reach to his right for the small jar of oil, she tensed, then relaxed slightly. It would be over soon. Soon. She closed her eyes.

Mas, eyes bright behind his brown-tinted glasses, poured oil into the palm of one hand, set the tiny bottle back on the table, and rubbed his strong hands together until his palms gleamed. He took his time rubbing in the oil, his eyes on the girl’s vagina, enjoying, enjoying …

Sighing, he took his penis in both hands and slowly began masturbating, his mind filled with fantasies of the young girl sitting before him, of his own youth, when there were no worries, no pressures, and life was sweet, new, still in front of him, and waiting to be taken and
enjoyed.
The pleasure of his thoughts filled his body, his mind, crowding out everything that didn’t belong there, and his eyes were on the girl,
on her, on her!

It was over quickly, the increasing, growing pleasure, then the sharp, indescribably joy of orgasm, and his body tensing, then jerking again and again, and then the collapse, his body falling back against the cough, his mouth open as he breathed through it loudly, the sticky semen cooling on his thighs and the backs of his hands. His eyes were closed, and from far away he heard the girl move from the chair, reach down for her shoes, stockings, panties, and the fifty-dollar bill in an envelope under the chair. She dressed quickly, hurried across the room, and took her overcoat and scarf from the closet, then left the apartment without a word, running past the bodyguard and driver at the door, neither of whom acknowledged her.

They had to know what was expected of them.

Minutes later, Mas sat in Graciela Negrón’s bathtub, his stocky, crippled body relaxing in scalding-hot water, smoke from his cigar mingling with steam from the tub. The girl, had cleansed him from within; the hot water would cleanse him from without. He relaxed.

Over the telephone from Spain, Mr. Gray, Luis DaPaola, wasted no time in giving Mas the bad news.

“Germán Burgos’ mother died this morning, so Germán couldn’t come to the airport to meet me. I had to come into Madrid this morning, and I still haven’t seen Burgos. His mother died three hours ago. Diabetes. Mas, Germán is destroyed, he cannot work. I mean, how can he be any use to us now? He is the one who talks to Potenza about his ship. What do we do?”

Mas shook his head and sighed. The death of a mother could shatter a man. Why couldn’t Germán’s mother have waited to die? Burgos had to be the one to deal with Potenza, because Mas didn’t want Potenza finding out how big the deal was. If anything went wrong with the load Potenza was smuggling, no one connected with it would be in a position to give up anyone else. Germán Burgos was necessary to Mas, because Potenza and his ship were necessary.

Mas said, “Calm down, Luis. What I want you to do is slow down, don’t panic. Stay with Germán, see him through the funeral. Help him
—”

“Mas, I hate funerals! You know that!”

“Luis, stay there, all right? Do it for me, please. We need Germán, because we need Potenza’s ship. Potenza will do it for us; I don’t want to bring in anyone else at this point unless absolutely necessary. Go to the funeral, offer your condolences to the family. Do what you can for them. A couple of days, that’s all. Don’t rush Germán, he’s old, and this is a serious thing, his mother’s death. Give him time to weep for her, to put her in the ground. Then it will be time for him to go back to work. Offer him ten thousand more, understand?”

In the static and silence, Mas thought of Luis, Mr. Gray, a man who had strangled men to death with his hands so that he could look into their eyes and watch them carefully up until the exact second of their dying. Luis feared nothing except funerals.

Luis said, “Mas, I stay. You ask me, so I stay. But I’m telling you, I hate funerals, understand? They scare me.”

“I understand, Luis. I understand.”

The second phone call.

From a public telephone booth in Paris, Barbara Pomal said, “Mas, I don’t know if Duclos is telling the truth or not.”

Mas said, “Find out. Be certain. It is necessary that we know if Duclos really needs the extra money to bribe his superiors to prevent a transfer, or if he’s lying to us in order to get more for himself.”

Barbara’s voice echoed over a poor transatlantic connection. “Mas, either way, he wants us to come up with that extra twenty thousand dollars. Duclos wants us to come up with this so-called bribe so that his chief doesn’t transfer him. Duclos is such a shit, such a fat, greasy liar most of the time. I don’t know, I just don’t know.”

“Barbara, here’s what you do. We Cubans are lucky, we have our friends and relatives all over the world; exile can be a blessing. There is this friend of ours in Paris, you know who I mean, the one who always manages to get himself invited to parties at the presidential palace, the one with his great love of uniforms and official banquets.”

“Oh, him. The one who is a gourmet cook and you spent five thousand dollars building a new kitchen for him and his wife. Raúl—”

“Yes. That’s who I mean. Have him find out about Duclos, have him learn if our overweight friend is lying or telling the truth. If Duclos is telling the truth, we give him the twenty thousand. If he’s not, we tell him we know he’s lying, but we’d still like to work with him. We want him at customs the day the load comes through. Now, this is where you must be delicate. If you tell him he’s lying and he backs down, doesn’t press for the extra twenty thousand, everything is fine. If he insists on it, stall as long as you can. Promise him the money, then we’ll delay. You know what to say then. Tell him about the difficulty getting the money together, about the problems getting the cash out of America. Tell him anything. Tell him we’re coming through sometime in the summer on another deal. Whet his appetite and throw him off guard. If it looks bad and he won’t help unless we give him the extra money, pay it. After our load comes through, only after it comes through, then we really deal with Duclos.”

“Permanently?”

“Yes. Whatever happens, Duclos must be the customs agent when we come through Cherbourg. After we come through, Duclos won’t matter, understand?”

Mas heard the acceptance in Barbara Pomal’s voice; she had no reservations about having Duclos killed. “I understand, Mas.”

“Check him out carefully, Barbara. Then call me. Do nothing until you call me, understand?”

“Yes, Mas.”

“How’s the weather in Paris? Do they have many Christmas decorations?”

“The weather’s cold, colder than New York if you ask me. Christmas decorations. Well, let’s see. Haven’t had much chance to look around, but I don’t see much at all. Very little, in fact. One thing, though. I’m going to buy myself a pair of boots while I’m here. There’s a terrific shoe shop next door to my hotel. Have you heard from Rolando?”

The third phone call.

From Mexico City, Rolando said, “Mas, I couldn’t get to a telephone until now. Been at the bank all morning, then I had to spend some time with police, and
—”

“Police?”

“Calm down, uncle. There was an explosion in the bank last night, a big one. Two people killed, maybe more. Some revolutionaries did it, they think. Bank records were destroyed. Not all, just some, so I have to hang around while things get sorted out. Barbara’s going to have to wait for that extra money she needs in Paris.”

Mas hurled his crutches across the room, not caring that he would have to crawl to get them or wait until Pilar returned from the doctor and handed them to him. “Rolando, how long will this take? The money has to go to Brussels first, then
—”

“I know, I know. First things first, uncle. First I must satisfy the authorities I am who I say I am, which is no problem. I
…
we have friends at the bank, but because of this explosion and the destruction of records, federal authorities are now at the bank looking over everyone’s shoulders, and our friends aren’t able to hand us our money just like that. Everything has to be done legally and to the satisfaction of these governmental onlookers. I think this means I won’t be able to get an answer on our bank records for another day, maybe two.”

“No faster?”

“No faster. First, certification of records; then, a withdrawal. Not the other way around. You don’t want unnecessary attention, I assume.”

“Yes, yes.”

“Excellent. So I shall be in Mexico for a couple of days. Please make sure that Barbara knows. And give her my love, will you?”

Mas chewed his lip. Things were going wrong, too many things, too swiftly. Patience. Control. He was the leader, and among Cubans, that meant he must lead. Don’t panic.

“Rolando, keep in touch, please. Stay in Mexico as long as you have to. I’ll let Barbara know about the delay. She’ll have to stay where she is until the money arrives, so that means she’ll be in Europe longer than planned, but I guess everything will work put the way we want it to.”

Rolando said, “God is kind, sometimes.”

“I want him to be kind now! Call me twice a day, Rolando.”

Mas crawled out of the tub, sat on the bathroom floor, and using towels placed there earlier, methodically dried himself. Gripping the bathroom sink, he pulled himself to his feet, reached for his crutches, then slowly, still naked, returned to the living room and his clothes, which were piled neatly on Graciela Negrón’s dark red couch. It always took him a long time to dress, because he insisted on doing it without help.

He looked at his watch. Almost four-thirty in the afternoon, meaning Pilar should be on her way home from the doctor. Today was her regular checkup, and Mas expected no trouble. The
babalawo
had given him time to keep Pilar alive. Less than a year left, just months remaining, but Mas would do it. He would make his money, then take Pilar to Spain.

But first, he had to find another
babalawo
, another priest, one who was trustworthy and accurate, one who was
special.
Mas was to see Graciela Negrón today, to talk with her again and see if she had found a priest for him, a
special
priest. So far, he had met with three priests and rejected them; they may have been good for someone else, but not for Mas. He had to
feel
a spiritual connection between himself and a
babalawo
, feel it immediately.

Mas opened the front door, and the driver and bodyguard, who had been relaxed and talking with each other, stopped smoking and became instantly alert. “Take me to Graciela,” said Mas, reaching out with his crutches, planting them hard onto the floor, then dragging himself forward.

N
EIL SAID, “I CAN’T
accept it,” and Lydia knew they would argue. Two days before Christmas, and he had dropped by the apartment to apologize for shouting at her over the telephone the night Walter Dankin was shot to death. They had argued then, and Lydia knew they would argue now.

Lydia forced a smile, the wrapped Longines-Wittnauer digital watch in her outstretched hand. “Neil, please take it. It’s just a Christmas present, something from me to you. I want you to have it.”