“Just an old-time racketeer, Manny. They say he was in Capone’s gang.”
“I heard it was Bandello’s.”
“Whatever,” Carla said dismissively, missing the joke. “The point is, noticing Olivia too much is bad for your health.” Maybe she had a point.
I looked around. The joint was definitely packed, and not just with the expected Beat crowd. They made up a clear majority, sure, but there were laboring types mixed in along with a few squares with the word ‘tourist’ practically stamped on their foreheads. Ofrenda’s dive really pulled them in. I scanned the faces, more than idly wondering if this was the sort of place Meche would be drawn to.
“Looking for someone?” Carla asked.
I started. I’d forgotten she was there. Not a good way to begin the evening. Carla, I thought, was good stuff and she deserved my full attention. “Sorry,” I said. “I was wondering if someone I know might be here.” I stopped for a moment, thinking of the least offensive way to broach the subject. “I don’t suppose you’d remember if anyone named Mercedes Colomar came through your security gate any time recently.”
Carla gave me a hard-to-read look. It could have been offended; it could just have been arch. “I must be doing well if you’re thinking about old girlfriends,” she said. Arch, I decided.
I laughed. “She’s an old client,” I said emphatically. Carla relaxed visibly. “I was curious whether she’d made it this far. She thought she had to walk but there was a mistake. The paperwork was screwed up and she cleared out before it was caught.”
Carla frowned, but not really at me. “I didn’t know the DOD made mistakes like that.”
“Usually they don’t,” I said. “It’s really no concern of mine,” I lied, “but you have to wonder how she’s getting on.”
“If you met her again, maybe things could be straightened out,” Carla said. “You still got any pull with the DOD?”
That was an awkward question. Before I could think of a safe, meaningless answer, the music stopped and suddenly we could hear the guys at the next table.
“But don’t ya see,” one of them was saying loudly, “when the government fades away, so will our troubles!”
“Ah, nonsense,” another replied. “We’ll always need some armed force to fight off the return of capitalism.”
Carla shot me a questioning look. I was too busy trying not to laugh, partly in relief.
“That sort of fascist thinking is as dead as you are, comrade,” the third cocktail revolutionary snapped. “When we get rid of—” Just then the music started up again and the doctrinal argument at the next table vanished beneath it.
“Are those guys for real?” Carla asked me.
“Yes, they are,” I said. “And so was I.”
A waiter approached then and we ordered drinks. I lit a couple of cigarettes and passed one to Carla.
“What do you mean, ‘so was I’?” Carla asked.
I shrugged. “There are a lot of ways of dealing with the world when you’re young and alienated. Sitting around a table, getting drunk and plotting revolution is one of them. Not, of course, that you look at it that way when you’re sitting at the table.”
“I don’t get you,” Carla said.
“I’m just getting cynical in my old age, that’s all.”
She shook her head. “C’mon, Manny. Do people really take all that ‘dictatorship of the proletariat’ stuff seriously?”
“Sure,” I said. “Haven’t you ever been committed to anything?”
“I was an army brat,” she said. “The only thing I cared about was keeping my distance from people so I wouldn’t get hurt when we moved on.”
“Oh,” I said. “Then I can see why you don’t get it. Isn’t ‘Marx’ just an expletive in the military?”
“Something like that. That’s kind of the way daddy looked at it.”
“Yeah, well, it’s something else to other people. Underneath all the ideological posturing, Marxism is just about social justice.” I shrugged. “Not that it ever seems to work out that way. If the posturing doesn’t foul it up, human nature will. But that never stopped anyone from believing. Sometimes you just have to, no matter what.”
“Well, I still don’t understand,” Carla said. “The way I figure it, the only thing you can do is to look out for yourself.”
That attitude was probably at the root of why Carla had to work her way across the Land of the Dead. But I kept that thought to myself.
The music died away again. This time our neighbors were silent. They were looking toward the little stage that was against one wall. Olivia was standing in the spot. A guy with bongos sat to one side. Olivia began reciting in a low, sultry voice:
The audience clicked its fingers in approval. Scattered polite, but uncertain, clapping drew disapproving glares.
“What the hell did that mean?” Carla whispered to me. “And what’s the deal with the bongos?” she added, glaring at the stage as Olivia began reciting another poem which seemed to consist mostly of the word ‘ashes’.
“Just experience it,” I whispered back. “Don’t analyze.”
“This place is too weird,” she said.
“You wanna go?” I asked.
“Do you mind?”
“No. We can go somewhere else.”
“Now you’re talking,” she said.
I picked up the check and we were on our way.
“Whew!” she breathed once we were back on the street. She shook her head.
“Not exactly your style, was it?” I said as we started walking.
“No kidding,” Carla said. “Have you ever seen anything like that in your life?”
“Sure,” I said. “I’ve been in a few beatnik joints in my time. The first time on a fake ID.”
“Whoever heard of getting up in a nightclub and reciting poetry!” Carla exclaimed.
I laughed. “That’s kind of the point,” I said. “Oh, well. Before your time, I guess. So where do you want to go now?”
“I thought you’d never ask!” she said.
The next morning I dragged myself down to the docks to meet with Glottis before he set out.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
“Late night,” I said. I massaged my temples. “New girl.”
“What’d she do?” Glottis asked. “Use a bungee cord?”
“Just dragged me to every bar in town. You’d think Prohibition was coming back the way she packed it away.”
“Might not be a bad idea, Manny,” he said.
“So are you all set?” I asked. “Got the money and everything?”
“Sure,” he said. “And I got a pad and pen to write down phone numbers.”
“OK,” I said, “I’ll see you in a few days.”
“OK, Manny,” Glottis said as he got into the Bone Wagon. “Bye!” He peeled away from the docks with a squeal that split my head open.
Around 10 o’clock Celso turned up and we went into Velasco’s office. Velasco wordlessly handed me his port log. He seemed perversely pleased. I turned to the entry Glottis had told me about and showed it to Celso.
“Your wife sailed out of here two months ago with another man,” I said as gently as I could.
Celso shook his head slowly as he read the entry. “Oh, Manny,” he said, “is there a greater constant in nature than the treachery of women?”