“Why isn’t he one of your suspects?”
“I don’t know if anyone would have the cojones to kill a man and drive around with his blood and DNA on his car for half a year.”
“Hmmm, you might be right about that. Who’s this Jack Tyrone character?” I ask, skimming his conclusions.
“He’s the movie star I was talking about.”
“Never heard of him.”
“No, he’s an up-and-comer. I met him at the party, talked to him, also straight as they come, alas.”
“Ricky! You’ve got him down as a suspect!”
“Secondary suspect. I suppose someone might be covering for him but his alibi seems watertight. He was in L.A. at the time of the accident. He was ok, but, like I say, straight as the fucking gate. At least he didn’t try to get me to attend a Scientologist meeting like my charming new friend did the next morning.”
“What’s a Scientologist meeting?” I ask innocently.
“Oh, my God, sister. Don’t you read the Yuma magazines?”
Yuma was street slang for anything Yankee, and of course you could get the magazines but why anyone would pay hard currency for a copy of People or Vogue was beyond me.
“I need my money for things like food and electricity,” I say.
“Oh, boo hoo, the poor, starving public servant.”
“Shut up.”
He shakes his head as if I’m hopelessly uncool.
“Oh, speaking of Scientologists. One other thing I put in there at the end. The same night as the accident, one of them apparently crashed a golf cart on Pearl Street. I don’t think it’s anything to do with us but you might want to check it.”
I put the notes back in the folder and grin at him. “Well, I’m impressed, you’ve done really well here, Ricky.”
“I risked a lot.”
“I know.”
“I was proud of the photographs. Thought they might help.”
“Did you talk to Karen?”
He conceals his distaste in a comic pretense of distaste. “No. That little chore I will leave to you. If you go.”
“When I go.”
“Oh, the one thing I couldn’t get was the sheriff’s report. They told me I could file a Freedom of Information request-if I were a U.S. citizen.”
I look at him. “They said it like that?”
“Yeah, they said it like that.”
Ricky waves at a friend walking past the Ambos.
“Well, I guess I’m going too, then,” I say.
Ricky leans back in his chair. “Not necessarily, sweetie. We have an interests section at the Mexican consulate in Denver. Maybe we could do something through them,” he suggests.
“No, Ricky, my mind’s made up. I don’t want a snow job. I want to do it myself.”
“And of course you’re the only one who can do it, right?”
I note the sarcasm in his voice but I don’t want to make an issue out of it.
“I’ve decided, Ricky.”
He says nothing, blows a smoke ring, and waves hello to yet another friend.
I tap the folder. “Seriously, thank you for this.”
“You’re very welcome,” he replies and flutters his eyelashes.
A long silence.
This is always what it’s been like between us. What’s not said is just as important as the dialogue.
“So when are you thinking about popping off?” he asks, in English, his brows knitting.
“Soon. Next week. I’ve put in for a leave of absence.”
“Next week? I’ve got an article coming out in El País. Big break for me. I’m having a party.”
“And I would have been invited?”
“Of course. But you wouldn’t have come.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you feel out of place around my coke-snorting, bisexual, decadent contra-revolutionary pals.”
“Yeah, I wonder why. What’s the piece?”
“Feature article in the magazine on the new Cuba. All sorts of rumors coming down from the MININT.”
“El País. Dad would have been proud.”
“You think?” he asks dubiously.
“Of course, Ricky.”
He nods but doesn’t answer.
His face assumes a dark expression and he reaches his fingers across the table.
“Hands,” he says.
I put my hand in his.
He clears his throat.
“Oh no, Ricky, you’re not going to give me a lecture, are you?”
He ignores this crack and says what he’s going to say: “Listen, sweetie, I know you’re two years older than me but in some ways I’ve always felt that you were my little sister and I should be looking out for you,” he intones very seriously.
“Don’t do this, Ricky,” I say and wriggle my hand free from his grip.
He shrugs, reaches into his jacket pocket for another cigarillo, lights it, takes a puff. “Ok, sis, I’ll cut it short, but I’m going to say it and you’re going to listen. That way if anything happens to you, my conscience will be clear. I’m doing it for me, not you. What do you think?”
“Ok,” I mutter.
“All right, I’ll give you a précis of the big speech I was going to hit you with. Basically it’s this: There’s no point at all risking your life and your career for Dad. Dad didn’t give a fuck about us. Not one letter, not one dollar in all those years. Dad was a selfish bastard and although I’m sorry he’s dead, that’s about all I feel. We don’t owe him a thing. And furthermore, he probably was drunk that night, and although I’m upset that he went the way he went, it’s nothing to do with us.”
Ricky smiles grimly and takes a long draw on the cigarillo.
I can see his point of view, but it’s not mine.
“Who else is going to do anything about it?” I ask him.
“That’s not the issue.”
“What is the issue, Ricky?”
“The point is that this isn’t how grown-ups do things,” he says.
“How do grown-ups do things?” I say with a trace of anger. Sometimes his condescension is hard to take.
“Not like this. This is the way people behave in comic books or TV shows. It’s preposterous. It’s a throwback. It’s theatrical.”
“I’m theatrical?”
“Yes. You’re pretending. You’re acting. Look at you. You’re someone with a promising career, a cheap apartment, a new promotion. And you want to throw all that away? For what?”
“I’m not throwing anything away. I’m taking a week’s vacation, I’ve planned it all out in adv-”
“Planned what out? How dumb do you think they are in the DGI? If you don’t defect when you get there, if you really do come back, you’re going to be spending the next ten years in some plantation prison.”
“I told you. I’m not defecting. I’ll be back, I’ve got a plan all worked out.”
“Fuck the plan. The DGI, the DGSE, the Interior Ministry are always one step ahead. It took me all day to lose my tail in New York.”
“But you lost him.”
“Yeah, I did, I’ve done it before. You never have.”
“I’m a cop, I know when I’m being followed.”
“Ojalá,” Ricky mumbles, looks at the stars, and shakes his head.
Another long silence. Jiniteros and jiniteras start filtering back into the street. The boy beggar resumes his perch. The piano player at the Ambos breaks into the “Moonlight Sonata.”
“What does Hector think about all this?” Ricky asks.
“I wouldn’t tell him. I don’t trust him. Why do you mention Hector?” I ask.
“You’re screwing him, aren’t you?” he says.
“Mother of God, what makes you think that?”
“Well, because he promoted you to detective and because you always talk about him.”
“I’m not screwing him. I got promoted because I’m good at my job, Ricky.”