But if you go and tell them where to find the homosexual, they'll give you ten thousand dollars. Do you understand what Fin telling you?"
"Clearly," Santiago said.
"Our phone number and the address of the command post on NW 27th were in the paper, so the guy knew where to come."
Ray Nicolet sat at one end of the sofa now, close to Karen's dad. Ray would look up at Karen, standing-she wouldn't sit down-in her jeans and shirt hanging out, and then look at her old man sipping his drink as Ray told them:
"The guy, his name's Santiago, walks in with a dead cigar in his mouth and says he can give us two of the escaped convicts, they're hiding out in this squatters' camp way the other side of the airport. I'd been there before, raiding cockfights; it's like a junkyard with banana trees. We showed him a mess of pictures.
He points to Chirino and Linares and goes, "Him and him. When do I get my twenty-thousand dollars?" We told him to sit tight, we'd be right back. By six-thirty we're out there, FDLE, FBI, Metro-Dade, local cops; there were even guys from Fish and Game. Once we were in position, helicopters came in and lit up the camp like a football field. You heard roosters, you heard these people yelling in Spanish scared to death, they're coming out of the shanties with their hands up. The order was, you see anybody run, give them a warning, and if they don't stop on a dime, shoot. Linares ran right into a Metro-Dade cop, kept running and was popped four times. We looked all over for Chirino, under every rock, you might say, but he wasn't there.
Linares died on the way to Jackson Memorial."
Karen got out a cigarette and picked up the lighter on the table next to her dad's chair. He was asking Ray, "Did you pay the guy the reward?"
"Yeah, as soon as we got back."
"What do you do, write a check?"
"No, we paid it in cash. It was late, the banks were closed-I asked Santiago if he wanted to keep the money in our safe till tomorrow. You kidding? No way. Skinny old guy with dark skin, he looked like a chicken. He walked out with the ten grand in a shopping bag."
Karen drew on her cigarette and blew the smoke out.
"Foley hadn't been there?"
"This place was strictly Cuban," Ray said.
"If Foley had a ride he must have his own agenda. He's the only one seems to know what he's doing."
The late TV news became weather reports and Buddy clicked the remote to turn off the set, on a stand surrounded by plants.
Foley and Buddy, on the imitation Danish sofa, didn't move.
"What do you think?"
"I thought Chino would have a better place to hide. It looked like a hobo jungle."
"They said he wasn't there."
"If Lulu was, he was. He got out. You know what I'm wondering?" Foley said.
"If he thinks I set him up. See, he asked me if I want to go with him.
I said no, but didn't tell him I'd made my own plans."
"Why not?"
"It wasn't any of his business. But now he reads the paper, he sees I'm out. He knows it didn't happen the way Pup said all of us ganging up on him in the chapel. He's gonna ask himself what I was doing there with Pup. Did I tell him they were going out? I did, but it was to get Pup in the chapel, for his uniform. It wasn't like they would've all made it if Pup hadn't been there and seen them. As soon as they're out you know they're gonna be spotted-the hack in tower seven, or they touch the fence, the shaker wire sets off the alarm…"
"He's running for his life," Buddy said, "he doesn't give a shit about you."
"Unless he thinks I snitched him out. He does, he'll come looking.
It's the way those guys are, they're big on revenge."
"Yeah, but he'll never find you. How could he?"
"Maybe through Adele."
"He knows where she lives?"
"I didn't tell him, no. But we were talking one time, sipping rum and confiding, you might say. He tells me how he came here from Cuba, twelve years old, born in '47. He tells me how he always wanted to be a fighter, might've had a chance at a title and blew it when he took the dive, all that. I mentioned Adele, told him how I did the bank so I could give her some money, how I got caught fucking around with the guy in the Firebird…"
Buddy said, "If you didn't tell him where she lives-she's not in the phone book…"
"No, but I mentioned she worked for a magician and Chino got interested. Yeah? How does he saw the woman in half? He saw a show in Vegas when he was fighting out there. How is the woman in the cage changed into a tiger? Does Adele ever get changed into an animal? He wanted to meet her. Or get a look at her if she ever came to visit."
Buddy got up.
"I'm gonna get a Diet Pepsi. You want one?
Or a beer?"
Foley shook his head. Buddy started for the kitchen and stopped.
"You tell him the magician's name?"
"Emil the Amazing," Foley said.
"Yeah, I think I did. You want to call Adele for me, just in case?"
"What do I tell her?"
"Don't talk to any Cubans."
"Her phone'll be wired."
"She knows your voice?"
"I'm pretty sure."
"Just say it and hang up."
As soon as it was dark Chino had walked away from the camp, down the road to 12th Street and then east past open fields to the Cafe Cuba Libre sitting by itself. Santiago had told him this was where he came to get drunk and Chino believed he would come this evening to celebrate becoming rich. He bought six bottles of Polar and took them across the street to wait in the trees. Wait for this cock fighter the way he had waited in the Fifth Street Gym for the fight promoter. His life coming to this because of countless reasons, all beyond his control.
His hands had been broken too many times.
He never had time to train properly.
He never had a manager who could influence the right promoters.
He never had gauze for his hands; he had to use cotton wraps and wash them every day when he trained.
What else?
He had never owned a hooded running suit.
The big one. He had never had people handling him who cared. The cut man should have told him not to clear his nose after taking the shot in the eye from Palomino. Blowing his nose put pressure on the blood vessels, the eye became swollen and closed and the fucking referee stopped the fight, the one in Vegas Jack Foley saw, or said he did. You couldn't be sure, since Foley was a liar who pretended to be a friend.
It was all the bad luck and then blowing his nose that time. If he didn't blow his nose he would have beaten Carlos Palomino and then would have had shots at Cuevas and Benitez, Duran, Curry, anyone, and wouldn't have had to take the dive with the white kid he could have beaten lefthanded, thirty-nine years old.
In the trees across from the Cuba Libre he drank one of the beers, waited, and began to drink another. The gun he had taken from the woman's house was a Ruger.22 with a long barrel, he believed a target pistol, not a high-caliber gun, but it should be enough. At exactly seven-thirty he heard the police helicopters and saw the searchlight beams shining down on what would be the squatters' camp over there, about a mile away. He wasn't sure if he heard gunfire, maybe. He continued to wait, drinking the beer slowly to make it last. Three hours passed before he saw Santiago's pickup, the truck so old Chino didn't know what kind it was, coming from the direction of Miami. He walked across the street, the pistol in his belt beneath the woman's husband's shirt. The truck was in front of the cafe now, among a few cars parked there, Santiago getting out, locking the door. Chino called to him and Santiago turned. In the streetlight and in the red neon that said Cuba Libre, Chino saw the man's look of surprise change immediately to innocence, wide-eyed now, ready, even smiling a little.
"They pay you?"
"It was as you said."