The Informant (32 page)

“Walker, I know about
—”

“My ass, you know. If I thought you knew, I wouldn’t be wastin’ breath. I said we had an agent killed ’round here, and we still don’t know why. Oh, sure, we know who, where, how. What we don’t know is, did we do all we could to prevent it from happenin’? Did we do all we could to Walter Dankin from gettin’ blown away by some greedy spics? Neil, I don’t like men under me gettin’ killed. I don’t like goin’ to their funerals or talkin’ to their wives or their parents and tryin’ to tell them just what the fuck happened to somebody they love. So that means you get your mind back on tomorrow’s buy. You think about the fact that three more agents and one New York City cop will be with you, and their lives will be hangin’ by a fuckin’ thread, and you’re part of that thread.

“So, Neil, you do it right. Tomorrow’s what you got to have on the brain. Nothin’ else. You read me?”

“Walker, I’m human. I’m a man, not some goddamn machine. You think I shouldn’t feel something? You think I should just say, ‘Lydia’s just had her life ripped apart and too bad.’ That’s it, right?”

“Neil, you’re paid to be an agent, a pro. That’s all you’re paid for
—”

The buzzer went off on Walker Wallace’s intercom, and Neil almost flinched. Almost.

Walker snatched at the telephone. “Yeah? Okay, put him on. Yes, this is Walker Wallace. Yes, yes.”

Silence. Walker Wallace frowned several times, listened, and nodded his head. Twice he mumbled
“Shit,”
shaking his head, and Neil knew that it was all bad news, every word of it. When Walker hung up, he sat down, covered his face with his hands, and took a deep breath before looking at Neil.

Walker said, “Dominic León’s the man, no two ways about it. But he’s untouchable. He’s gonna walk on this one.”

Neil said, “Is that what the phone call was about? Walker, how the fuck can that be? How can this son of a bitch walk? He raped her, sodomized the woman
—”

“Neil, keep your voice down, okay? I can hear you, hear every fucking word. I know what he did. He gives it to her up the ass, and he’s gonna get away with it, and you wanna know why? That call’s from somebody we got on the cops. We wanted to know about Dominic León. I didn’t tell my man why, but he just might put two and two together and figure out that we have an interest in Lydia. Neil, León’s an informant.”

“So what?”

“It means he’s got friends. It means he’s protected and that what he did to Lydia is gonna be overlooked. It’s as if it never happened.”

Neil leaped out of his chair and leaned across Walker’s desk.

“I don’t believe it! This sucks! I don’t—”

“Neil, if you don’t sit down and stop shouting at me, I’m going to kick your ass, I mean it! Now, cool out, cool out.”

Walker nodded. “That’s better. Just listen. It’s gonna tear you apart, and your insides are going to burn twice over, and you’re right, it sucks, but here it is. Dominic León’s a police informant, and they want him on the street. If we push for an arrest, we’ll have to tell them why. If we tell them Lydia’s our snitch, she’s dead and your case is over. Washington won’t want that.

“The reason León’s on the street with his record is that he’s being worked by the New York Police Department, and one thing he’s on, believe it or not, concerns Lydia indirectly. Which is another reason we can’t help her. Lydia’s got a cousin, René Vega. Pretty René. You know him.”

Neil nodded. “He’s a mule for Blind Man. René’s off the wall, a wacko. Goes around with a pretty blond named Shana Levin. He’s always belting her.”

“No more. She’s dead. Died in a fire in some fleabag she used to share with Pretty René. Pretty René wanted everybody to think that’s how Shana Levin died, but what really went down is, he wasted her, then he set the fire. All of this is just comin’ out now. Shana’s folks are loaded, and they have clout, a lot of juice. The kid was spoiled rotten and did what she wanted. Worked at Attica with all them niggers and spics her family didn’t approve of, and the worst thing of all, she takes up with an ex-con like René Vega.

“Now, her father, her well-connected father, didn’t believe his only daughter had died accidentally, so he had her buried in a steel casket. Not wood, mind you, but steel, which preserves the body. Then he flies in some high-priced coroner from Cleveland, and this coroner, he does a thorough autopsy and finds more stab wounds than you can count. That’s all daddy needs to hear. Plus, Shana’s jewelry’s turned up. That happened because daddy started putting on pressure in Albany, which came down to the mayor’s office, down to the police commissioner, and you know that somebody in a precinct’s got to be hurtin’.

“Neil, Shana’s father wants Pretty René’s balls in a spoon, and that’s why Dominic León is on the streets.”

Neil shook his head slowly, his face twisted by disgust. “And there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“ ’Bout the size of it. I don’t even think we’re authorized to give her money for doctor’s bills on this thing. Sounds rotten, but that’s the way it goes.”

“Tough shit, Lydia. Is that how it goes, Walker?”

“Neil, you’re a part of that same system, so don’t go gettin’ high and mighty on me. We play by the rules, or else. ‘Or else’ don’t mean somebody comes along and blows in your
e
ar. Know what else my cop friend tells me? Says that there’s no sign of forced entry in the apartment, that Lydia must have let Dominic León inside. Now, add that to him being the father of her kid, and you tell me how that’s going to play in court. Okay, she gets lumped, but who the hell goes to jail for beatin’ his wife or his girlfriend? My friend says that even if León wasn’t a protected snitch, this thing probably wouldn’t get to court anyway. Best thing all around, for her, for us, for you, Neil, is to forget it. Bite the bullet.”

“Walker, has anybody told Lydia that we think this is the best thing for her?”

“Neil?”

“Yeah?”

“Back off. Back off me, and back off Lydia. You’re too close, and it’s being noticed.”

Neil frowned, chewing a corner of his mouth, feeling his stomach start to knot. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

“You understand, Neil. You fuckin’ well understand what I just said. People are noticin’ things. That’s all I’m gonna tell you.”

Israel Manzana ordered
lengua a la catalana
, beef tongue, with
caldo gallego
, a bowl of white bean soup, on the side. The ritual demanded food, the three-hour meal that Cuban dope dealers consistently indulged in when doing business, and Neil, with no appetite, his mind still on Lydia, was forced to go along with it. He ordered grilled filet of sole and a saucer of sliced tomatoes, letting himself be drawn into small talk about cocaine, women, baseball, Christmas shopping, clothes, foreign travel. Men walked past their booths to the cockfights in back, and even the loud jukebox couldn’t completely cover the shouting coming from the cockfights. Once or twice Neil saw someone walk out of the back room carrying a bloodstained pillowcase with a dead or seriously wounded rooster inside. One man who had walked past them with a bloodstained bag had been in tears, as though a close relative had died.

Israel wiped his small mouth with a cloth napkin. “Tonight I got two thousand dollars bet on four different birds. Man, my wife don’t know ’bout that. If she find out …” Israel drew a forefinger across his throat. “One bird, he got only one eye, but he’s mean as hell. Maybe after the deal, you stay ’round, maybe catch the last few matches. We be here until five o’clock this morning.”

Neil stopped picking at his food, dropping his fork in his plate of untouched fish. “Thanks, but that’s not my scene. Some other time, maybe.” Christ, he thought, why can’t we do it, why can’t it go down, so I can get out of here? My head’s tore up, wasted, and I need to cool out, do some thinking.

He and Israel had talked for two hours, with people stopping by the booth to say hello, new names and faces for Neil to file away, and once Israel had stood up to sing along with the slow, droning Spanish love song on the jukebox, delighted with the applause he received. He sang well, contorting his face with dramatic feeling, almost on the verge of tears in that emotionally extreme way Neil had come to associate with Cubans. Israel sang better than the man on the record, Neil thought, and when he told him so, Israel’s smile was huge, genuine, and he hugged Neil with an incredible strength for such a tiny man.

There was more talk, more hellos and good-byes to Cubans coming to their table. Lydia had told him about being patient when copping from Cubans. Be patient and bring your appetite.

Lydia.

Neil and Jorge Dávila stood to the right of the door to her hospital room. Walker Wallace had given Neil permission to see Lydia, but it had been on the second day, and only after Dávila had gone there first and made sure no police were around taking names.

Neil said, “You believe Dominic León’s a witch?”

Dávila closed his eyes, opened them, and thought carefully before answering. “I have seen things, Neil. I have seen things as a Cuban that you will never see. Yes, I believe in certain things. What those things are, it is hard for me to talk about. I hear Dominic León is a very bad man. How can I explain this to you? You are a main.”

“What’s a main?”

“Mainland people. Americans born in America. See, we Spanish, most of us come from Caribbean islands, so you are the mainland to us. You mains do not grow up with witches, cults, spells, things that we Caribbeans grow up with, that are a part of our lives. Did you know that many Caribbeans, many Spanish, believe that Fidel Castro is successful and powerful because of what a
mayombero
did for him? So many Cubans believe this, that a witch has placed Castro in power, and that is why nobody can harm him, not Cubans, not the Russians, not your CIA. Nobody can touch Castro because of what the witch has done for him.”

“You believe this?”

Dávila shrugged. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know if I believe it or not. I tell it to you so that you can understand how deep some things are in Cuban culture. Can you understand when I tell you that if Lydia had somebody who was her man, then things would be a little better for her? She will recover, she can talk now, and the doctor say she can come out of the hospital day after tomorrow. But the mind, it is so important, and like I tell you, certain things are important to Cubans. Revenge is important. Lydia needs to be revenged; it is the Cuban way. A man must do this for her, if she is not afraid, she can do it for herself. She needs this.”

“Dávila, you know I can’t do a goddamn thing. My hands are tied. León’s an informant, he’s protected. Even if she did charge him, Lydia would be wasting her time. Besides, I’m … I’m not her man, I’m just a friend. Hell, I’m her controlling agent, that’s who I am.”

Dávila looked at Neil for a long time. “I’m an informant, so I know. If you commit the wrong kind of crime, you can’t be protected. If León’s caught doing something
—”

“Dávila, you’re saying make Dominic León dirty. Flake the bastard. Plant drugs or stolen goods on him, something like that.” He’s stroking me, thought Neil. Dávila doesn’t mean that. How can I flake León and even hope to get away with it? It’s dumb to think that way, because if I did it and it gets out, I’m finished, and everybody
—
Walker Wallace, Saul Raiser, even Berger Picard and Chester Herzen, hell, the whole bureau
—
takes the weight on something like this. Get caught flaking a jive-ass like León, and there goes the Mas Betancourt case, all of it. Get caught making León dirty, and what jury is going to believe we’re telling the truth about anything? Make León dirty? Can’t be done.

Yet Neil studied Dávila’s face carefully, looking for a sign, but a sign of what? he asked himself. A sign saying go ahead and do it? A sign saying here’s how it’s done, my man? A sign saying just jiving, agent Shire, just shucking and jiving, brother man? What the hell kind of sign was Neil looking for, and more important, why was he looking?

Dávila’s smile came and was gone, a thing as elusive as fading smoke. “Agent Shire, I’m not in a position to tell you what to do, I mean, I’m an informant, right? A man who’s jammed up and has to work it off so he can stay on the street. That’s all I am. I mean, I can’t tell you about your relationship with Lydia, can I? She trusts you, and
—”

“Dávila?”

“Yes?”

“Shut the fuck up, all right?”

The Cuban inhaled slowly, giving himself time to adjust to a difficult situation; then, with his lips pressed tightly together, eyes on Neil, he nodded with exaggerated slowness. “Whatever you say, agent Shire.”

Formal bastard all of a sudden, thought Neil. He watched Dávila walk slowly down the hall, noticing that the Cuban waddled like a duck, feet turned out, body swaying from side to side. Dávila, the fucking big-mouth duck. Neil didn’t know how, but the Cuban had made him feel like shit, putting him down without coming out and saying it. It was Dávila who had just managed to put the idea in Neil’s mind that a debt was owed.

Sure, Neil owed the bureau, and up to a point he owed any informant he was working, which was not the way everybody looked at it. Anybody else would have said too bad about Lydia and let’s get on to the next thing, but not Neil. He had to stand out here in the hall and get his mind ripped apart by a Cuban snitch who waddled like
a
goddamn duck.

Inside Lydia’s hospital room, Neil’s mind got worse, because now he saw her for the first time since …

Guilt, incredible sadness, anger. All of it fell on him at once as he stood at the foot of her bed looking at her, unable to stop his tears from filling his, eyes. She seemed to be asleep, her long dark hair framing and half-hiding her face. Oh, God, her face. Both eyes were puffed and blackened, with strips of adhesive over her nose, her mouth swollen and ugly. One arm was bandaged wrist to elbow and lay across her stomach. Dominic León had done this to her. He’d done this and more.