They looked at each other for a moment in silence, and then he nodded, and got out of bed and began dressing. They left the apartment together at a quarter past eight. Bowery was almost deserted at that hour, all the service stores closed, the street dark except for the streetlamps. It was bitterly cold. Vapor steamed up from the manhole covers. There wasn’t a cab in sight. She was beginning to think she should have let Billy, whoever he was, drive her home. She was beginning to think she shouldn’t have come here at all. She had already decided she would never see him again. If she got past lying to Michael when she got home tonight, she would never again—
A cab was coming up the avenue.
Andrew whistled for it.
Time was running out. She felt suddenly empty.
The cab stopped.
Andrew opened the back door for her.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said.
“No, don’t,” she said.
“I’ll find the number and I’ll call you.”
“I don’t want you to,” she said.
“I will,” he said.
“Don’t,” she said, and pulled the door shut, and told the driver where to take her. She did not look back at Andrew as the cab pulled away from the curb.
Alonso Moreno was dressed for the equator. Andrew guessed no one had ever told him it got to be twelve degrees above zero here in New York City. The place Moreno had chosen for their meeting was a club on Sixteenth Street and Eighth Avenue. The band was playing Spanish music, and Moreno and Andrew were eating Spanish food. Moreno sat in a beige tropical-weight suit, a brightly colored floral print tie trailing down the front of his pearl-colored shirt. Hookers at the bar kept flashing wide smiles at him, but Moreno was too busy with his food. He ate the way Charles Laughton did in Henry the Eighth, which Andrew had once seen on late night television. Washed the food down with sangria he poured from the pitcher on the table. Two of his goons sat at a nearby table, keeping an eye on things. Moreno didn’t want them in on the conversation, but he did want their presence to be felt.
“That was very brave, what you did that day,” he told Andrew.
“I’m a good swimmer,” Andrew said, brushing off the compliment.
“Still,” Moreno said. “Sharks.”
Andrew wanted to know what deal Moreno had come up with, never mind sharks. The orchestra was playing something that sounded very familiar, one of those Spanish songs you’re sure you know, but can’t remember the title or the lyrics. Moreno kept eating and drinking as if he were in a five-star restaurant instead of a dinky little club on Eighth Avenue, which his cartel probably owned. Andrew poured himself a glass of sangria. One of the hookers at the bar smiled at him and raised her glass to him. He raised his glass back.
This was Thursday night.
He had debated calling Sarah this afternoon, had gone so far as getting a number for the teachers’ lunchroom from a woman in the main office who sounded like the one he’d tried to con earlier about the grocery delivery. He might have called at twelve thirty, when Sarah had told him she’d be having lunch, but his uncle called five minutes earlier to tell him Moreno wanted a sitdown tonight, he suspected the man was ready with a counterproposal. They’d talked for about fifteen minutes, Uncle Rudy telling him these goddamn chemotherapy treatments were going to kill him quicker than the cancer would, the two of them arranging to meet tomorrow morning to discuss whatever Moreno had to say tonight.
So far Moreno hadn’t said a word.
The hooker at the bar was a black girl wearing a blond wig. That was the only thing about her, the color of her hair, that reminded him of Sarah. He didn’t know why he hadn’t called her this afternoon. Maybe he was protecting himself. Married woman getting nervous, starting to feel guilty about lying to her husband, fuck her, there were plenty other fish in the sea. Or maybe he was intuitively playing her like the schoolteacher she was, letting her stew in her own juices for a day or two before he popped up again. He really didn’t know. Or particularly care. He’d see how it worked out.
“So what’s on your mind?” he asked Moreno.
“Well, first I have to tell you a story,” Moreno said, and winked slyly, as if he was about to tell a dirty joke. “It’s a story about a fox and a snake... Do you know they call me La Culebra in Spanish? That means the Snake.”
“No, I didn’t know that,” Andrew said, lying.
“Sí, La Culebra. But this story isn’t about me, this is an old Spanish tale that goes back centuries. I think the blonde there likes you. Shall I have her sent over?”
“Let me hear your story first,” Andrew said.
“The story has to do with a sly fox and a wise-snake. Did I tell you that this was a very young fox? If I forgot to tell you that, I’m sorry. This is a very young fox. Not that the snake is very old, either. It is just that the snake is more experienced than the fox. In years, they are not so far apart. How old are you, Andrew?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“I’m eleven years older than you are. Thirty-nine. That’s not very old, is it? But like the snake in the story, I’m very experienced. Not that the story is about me.”
“I understand,” Andrew said.
Get on with it, he thought.
“The fox, although very young, is very sly. And he thinks he can trick the snake into giving away all his eggs. Snakes lay eggs, did you know that, Andrew? In Spanish, the word ‘snake’ is feminine. Perhaps that’s because snakes lay eggs, I’m not sure. La culebra. Even a male snake like the one in the story is called ‘la’ culebra. That’s odd, don’t you think?”
“Yes.”
“That a snake, which so resembles the male sex organ, should be female in Spanish. Very odd.”
“Mr. Moreno, this is a very interesting story so far...”
“Oh, it gets much more interesting. The sly young fox... did I tell you he was both sly and young? The sly young fox goes to the wise old snake and tells him that if he gives him all his eggs, he will make him rich for the rest of his life. Well, this is very tempting to the snake...”
“This is an old Spanish folk tale, huh?”
“Oh, yes, everyone knows it. El Zorro y la Culebra. Afamous story.”
“And the fox wants the snake’s eggs, hmm?”
“That’s the way the story goes, yes. In exchange for lifelong riches. The problem is the snake is already rich. And he knows that the fox is looking out only for his own...”
“That’s where the story veers off,” Andrew said.
“Veers off? From what? This is only a story.”
“I’m sure it is. In reality, we’re offering you...”
“The fox is very persistent, as I’m sure you can imagine. He is desperate to have those eggs. But the...”
“Not as desperate as you think,” Andrew said.
“Perhaps not. But the snake knows one thing the fox doesn’t. In this part of the forest, the fox is bigger than the snake, you see, and he thinks that size alone matters. He thinks he can swallow the snake in a single gulp. But the snake can outwit him in a minute.”
“How?” Andrew asked.
“By eating the eggs himself.”
He’s threatening to dry up the supply of coke, Andrew thought. No coke, no deal with the Chinese.
“If the snake did that,” he said, “he’d be poisoning no one but himself.”
“Until the fox became hungry again. There will always be eggs. A deal can always be struck later.”
“Is that the end of the story?”
“The beauty of the story is that the fox and the snake can write their own endings to it.”
“Tell me how. In plain English.”