I was so preoccupied by the case that I narrowly missed two bicyclists in brilliantly colored latex outfits pedaling north on Main Highway. I also came a little close to two rollerbladers, who cursed me and gave me the finger. So it was going to be that kind of morning.
Solano Investigations operated out of a three-bedroom cottage in the heart of the Grove, which Leonardo and I had converted into two offices and a gym. We’d been happily ensconced there for the past seven years. I slowed down and parked my Mercedes in its usual spot under the frangipani tree. Once inside, I went straight to the kitchen and brewed up an extra-strong café con leche, then headed for my office. I got out a fresh yellow legal pad.
After a while I heard the outer door to the reception area open, and I called out to my cousin.
“Leo, I need to talk to you,” I said. I heard Leo drop his keys on his desk and rummage in the kitchen for his own cup of coffee.
Close as we were, this wasn’t going to be an easy conversation. I was dreading it, in fact, but it was necessary if I was going to get anywhere on the GHB case. Leo poked his head in my office door, took one look at my serious expression, and backed out again.
“Just a minute,” he said, going back to the kitchen. “I think I’d better make this café con leche a double.”
I had no problem with Leonardo fortifying himself with Cuban coffee before our conversation. I could have used another myself. Because in all the years we’d worked together, I’d never really asked Leo a direct question about his personal affairs. I was more than happy to listen whenever he wanted to talk, but I’d never initiated an inquiry into the specific details of his life.
I had my suspicions about his tastes and inclinations, but I never felt that I had the right to intrude. Now, because of Manny Mendoza and the deaths on the Beach, I was going to have to ask some probing questions.
“Hola, Lupe,” Leo said. He took his steaming mug of coffee to the couch across from my desk and sat down.
I tried not to wince, now that I had a good look at his outfit. Solano Investigations had a pretty loose policy about office attire, but Leonardo sometimes went overboard even by our standards. A couple of years ago, I’d been forced to implement an “eight-ounce” rule: anything he wore had to weigh more than half a pound. I had a postal scale out in the reception area if I ever needed to check.
This morning, Leonardo was pushing the envelope. He was wearing a fluorescent-pink tankini over fuchsia bicycle pants. The ensemble was grounded by orange high-tops. I resisted the impulse to put on my sunglasses to cut the glare.
Leo made himself comfortable, then looked at me with an expression of wary apprehension.
“So,” he asked slowly. “Qué pasa?”
“I went to see Manny Mendoza last night at Oceana,” I said. Leo nodded and blew on his coffee to cool it. “Do you know what he wanted to talk to me about?”
Leo looked out the window as though suddenly mesmerized by the family of parrots who lived in the avocado tree. “Sort of,” he said.
I was willing to bet that Leonardo knew more than he was allowing, but I played along and told him everything. Finally I got to the part where I needed his help.
“Leo, I’ve been a PI here for seven years,” I said, trying to find a way to get to the subject I needed to reach.
Leo nodded. “I know. I’ve been here the whole time.”
“Right.” I nodded too vigorously. “I’ve worked all kinds of cases, criminal and civil. And I’ve worked cases for gay clients, and cases that had gay components, but I’ve never—”
I stalled out. Leo’s eyes widened.
“I’ve never worked a case that dealt so centrally with the gay subculture in Miami.”
Leonardo’s body language changed completely; he had figured out where this conversation was heading. He sat up straight, very much the deer in the headlights. I felt like dashing over there and hugging him, but I told myself that we had to press on.
“If I’m going to help Manny, then I have to understand gay club life on South Beach,” I told my cousin. “I need someone I trust who has connections to the clubs to help me out, tell me things that I couldn’t possibly know about.”
I exhaled deeply. This was exhausting.
“Okay, Lupe, I know what you’re asking me — even though you’re not coming out and directly asking me.” Leo pursed his lips impatiently.
Well, I wanted to say, coming out was an interesting choice of words at that particular moment.
“You want me to be the person who tells you about gay life in Miami,” he concluded.
“That’s right, Leo. That’s what I’m asking you.” I was relieved the topic was on the table. Without going into details, I had finally found out that Leo was gay. I supposed that everyone in the family knew it, or suspected it, but we had all respected Leo’s privacy.
Leo seemed to realize that the worst was over, and that I wasn’t asking to delve into his personal life. Suddenly I realized that he and Manny might have had some sort of relationship.
“No problem.” Leo smiled, leaned back, and sipped his coffee. “What exactly do you need from me?”
“First, I need to know about the designer drugs that are being taken in the clubs,” I said. “I know a little about the drug scene, but not what’s going on in South Beach. Specifically GHB.”
I didn’t want to get into how I knew anything about drugs, and I wasn’t going to ask Leo how he might know about the drugs in the gay clubs. Our mutual don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy was stronger than ever.
“GHB is different from Ecstasy and Special K and Ruffies because it’s not a controlled substance,” Leo explained.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, that means that anyone can manufacture it — not just trained scientists or chemists,” Leo said. “There’s even a website that tells you how to make GHB.”
“Like the sites that tell you how to make a nuclear bomb?” I shouldn’t have been at all surprised.
“Right,” Leo said. “GHB is taken in liquid form. It’s a clear liquid that people buy in little vials. Depending on how much you take, it can last as long as twenty-four hours — and it’s an upper, so that’s a day without sleep. And the sexual energy it gives is really awesome.”
Leo seemed to catch himself when he saw me looking at him. He took on a more serious expression. “Anyway—” he said.
“Manny said something about GHB being lethal in combination with alcohol.”
“That’s right, and that’s what I heard happened.” Leonardo shook his head, and I could see how deeply he felt the senseless loss of those six men. “They went into a G hole.”
“A G hole?” I repeated. Now I really felt out of the loop, having to ask questions like that.
Leonardo looked me over for a moment, as though trying to gauge just how naive and uninformed I really was.
“A G hole is when someone has a bad reaction to GHB.” Leo visibly shuddered. “I’ve seen it happen. Guys get seizures; they vomit. I heard about one guy who went into a G hole and aspirated on his own vomit. And other people are supposed to have choked on their own tongues. It’s really nasty.”