“Well,” he said, “forensic botany is a trying job, Manny, but have you ever spent much time here with a florist? In life they became florists because they loved flowers, but here,” he plucked a blossom off my friend and sniffed it, “a flower is a symbol of pain, of death within death.” Could he have known how much he was torturing me? “Their conflicted feelings build and build until, eventually, they become quite mad.” He crushed the flower and let it fall to the floor.
“Thanks for the tip.” I made myself sound as normal as I possibly could. “I guess I’ll send balloon bouquets from now on.” I wondered whether Lola had felt what Membrillo had just done. He sighed, burdened only by his own thoughts, and turned away from Lola to begin feeling around the vegetation of the other soul. “Isn’t there something shiny on that one?” I pointed to Lola.
Membrillo looked and shook his head. “I must be too tired.” He freed the dog tags from the entangling leaves and twigs. “Seaman Anselmo Naranja,” he read out. He put the dog tags down on the slab, picked up his clipboard and started filling out a form. “All day long,” he said dully as he wrote, “I sort through pure sadness. I find evidence, and I piece together stories.” The man felt pain. It wasn’t the same as mine, but it was still pain. “But none of my stories end well. They all end here, and the moral of every story is the same: we may have years, we may have hours, but sooner of later, we push up flowers.”
Membrillo could really use a nice tropical vacation, I thought, and so could I. “Shouldn’t you tell Velasco?” I asked, forcing myself to play the game to it’s end.
“In the morning,” he answered.
“I think I heard him say this guy was missing.”
“Don’t worry. He won’t get away.” Membrillo looked up at me, suddenly curious. “Did you come down here for any special reason, Manny?”
“No. Just passing by.”
“I see.”
“Well, I’ll let you get back to work.” Membrillo nodded as I left.
I started to head back to the club. Then I stopped and swore to myself again. I still had one more thing to take care of. I looked up toward the top of the cliff. I could just make out the ‘cactus’ part of the club peeking up over the edge. I turned around and started walking to Feline Meadows. It was getting late, but I had to find Virago if I could. I wanted nothing more than to put this day behind me, but Terry the Sea Bee had to come first. I put my hand into the pocket containing Lola’s last picture, just to reassure myself it was still there.
I went back to the High Rollers’ Lounge. I didn’t know if Virago would be there, but that’s where Max’s office was, and Virago was Max’s lawyer. It was the best place to start. Funny thing, I found him right away, sitting at a table in the lounge with a careless spread of papers over by the plate windows overlooking the track. Luck is a strange, cruel thing.
He looked neat and relaxed, not at all like he had just chased down and sprouted a soul who had been dear to me. I’m not sure just how I expected him to look when I found him. Maybe I wanted him to look as awful as I felt. But, no, he just looked like Nick Virago. Same as ever. Except now I had a better idea of what he really was.
“Nick Virago!” I exclaimed in mock surprise as I came up to him. “What are you doing working in the High Rollers’ Lounge? I would think that Maximino’s private lawyer would have his own office.”
“I do,” he answered, barely looking up at me, “but they don’t serve drinks there.”
I sat down at the table across from him. “Got a little lipstick on ya, Loverboy,” I needled.
“I already took care of that,” he said, then looked steadily across the table at me, “and I can do the same for you, Calavera.”
I didn’t doubt it. But not here, not in front of the staff and all the customers in the lounge. I picked up Virago’s drink and leaned back in my chair. He got a funny, ready-to-pop look, but I was feeling invulnerable. Or maybe I was past caring.
“Nick,” I said, taking a sip, “I need a lawyer. Friend of mine’s in the slammer.”
“Well,” he answered tartly, “my dance card is full.”
“You’ll make time for this. Oh, I think you will,” I said when he went hmpf. “Otherwise I might tell Max about you and Olivia.”
“That kind of claim could send a man like Max into quite a rage,” Virago said softly in a cold voice, “especially when the messenger has no proof.”
I reached into my pocket and removed the envelope. I slid the photo out just enough so Virago could see the subject. When he went rigid I quickly put it back into my pocket.
“What do you want?” he demanded, sounding angry and frightened at the same time.
“I wanna tell you a sad story about a young man unjustly imprisoned merely for speaking his mind. And then we’re going down to spring him. And you can do it, Nick, ’cause you’re the best.”
“When?”
“Now.”
He shook is head. “Impossible. What I’m working on now won’t wait… and neither will Max.”
I sent a smile toward Virago. “Then Max must still be here. The photo is here. You’re here. It’d be easy to arrange an introduction, dontcha think?” I pushed back my chair.
“Wait!” he blurted before I could stand up, sounding more than a little panicked. “OK, I’ll go with you. But I’ll have to tell Max where I’ll be.” He got up and I followed close behind.
“You can tell Max afterwards,” I said, grabbing an arm and pushing him toward the elevator. “I’m not letting you out of my sight until our business is done.”
Virago growled softly, but he went with me. When we were in the elevator I quickly turned and pinned him to the wall. I had his gun out of his shoulder holster before he could react. “Thanks,” I said. “I’ve always wanted one.” He glared at me, but only straightened his clothes.
As we crossed a particularly long bridge between two islands on our way to the police station, when there were no people around and we were midway between two lamp posts, I threw the daisy maker out into the water. Virago heard the splash and turned to me in surprise.
“Well,” he said, “you are smart. You hide it well.”
“Thanks,” I said. “So do you.”
When we got to the station, Virago went to work and in almost no time he got Terry out on a writ of habeas corpus. While Virago worked, I had a few words with Terry. He was a little confused by the goings on.
“I don’t get it, man,” he said through the wire mesh that separated us. “What gives? What’s’a’ upstandin’ racketeer like Manny Calavera doin’ bustin’ a workin’-class slob like me outta the can?”
“I hear you’re ready to strike against that crooked union,” I said. “I’d like to see you get a fair shake. In fact, I’ve got Alexi and the other cats preppin’ the Sea Bees for your release. Bogen knows you were about to strike,” I lied, or at least I think I did. “That’s why he put you away.”
Terry buzzed a little and said, “No, I still don’t get it, Calavera. The union’s run by the coppers, sure, and you—of all people—should know that the cops are in bed with the gamblin’ joints. Help us against the union and you’re only hurtin’ yerself.”
That made sense only if I really were a racketeer… in the sense everyone thought I was, that is. I couldn’t really tell Terry the truth so I said, “Hey, man, I run an honest joint. We ain’t in bed with nobody.” Except for the kickbacks to Max, I wouldn’t be.
“Yeah, an’ what about the protection money?” Terry demanded to know.