There was a knock at my door. It was Barto. During our previous two meetings, I hadn’t bothered taking much notice of him. Until yesterday, he’d been more of a what than a who. He was built like a fireplug, short and squatty. Gravity and years of eating bad food had given him a prominent gut. He had a chubby, almost boyish face. He’d also lost most of the hair on top of his head, though he hadn’t yet faced up to the fact. I’m certain Barto fancied himself quite the miracle worker with how he parlayed the few strands of top hair he had left into a sort of spiderweb covering his bald pate. He probably hadn’t seen himself on videotape recently. It was one thing to look in a mirror and fool yourself. It was something else to see yourself on film.
“You were right,” he said, barely able to contain his enthusiasm. “Spivack flew down here at least three times in the last year. I had some old contacts do a little checking. He spent most of his time in Little Havana, just like you predicted. You want a beer?” he asked, holding up the six-pack he held in his right hand.
“Sure.”
“It’s from some country in Central America, El Salvador or some shit,” he warned, twisting off two caps. “It’s yellow as cartoon piss, but it’s pretty good stuff. Here.”
“Don’t go into advertising, Ralph.”
Not understanding, he shrugged his shoulders. We drank in relative quiet.
“So, Joe was down here that much, huh? Three times.”
“At least,” Barto answered. “Maybe more. I can find out for sure if I go to the field office and have them check.”
“That won’t be necessary. How often’s not really that important. All I needed to know was that he was here. What about Alfonseca?”
That enthusiasm once again spread itself across Barto’s boyish face. “Ivan was one bad little puppy, even back in Cuba. He was in jail by the time he was eleven and came over when Fidel cleaned out his jail cells in the seventies. Florida’s still paying the price for that bullshit. Criminals are the one commodity we don’t need to import, but that didn’t stop his assholiness Jimmy Carter from taking the bastards in like they was fucking engineers and rocket scientists.”
“Maybe President Carter just wanted to keep the U.S. marshals busy.”
“Did he ever. We earned our pay down here, let me tell you.”
“But did Ivan and Spivack ever cross paths?”
“I won’t be able to tell you that until tomorrow or maybe the day after that.”
“And the middleman,” I wondered, “any luck there?”
“I got my feelers out on that. I got a friend or two still works down here. There’s plenty of ways to funnel money back to families left behind in Cuba, but a big amount like you’re talking requires someone with contacts inside the government there and the community here. Those kinda people don’t grow on trees, Mr. Prager. Little Havana’s bigger than it used to be, but it’s still a tight community. We’ll find the middleman.”
“Okay, Ralph, I’m pretty beat. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“You want another beer?”
“No thanks. Buenas noches,” I wished him in my grade-school Spanish.
“Viva la revolucion. Viva Fidel. Viva-”
“Good night, Ralph.”
Rain was tap-tap-tapping on the glass-slat-and-aluminum windows when I got up the next morning. It was a gray tropical rain, heavy and fast with a sun chaser. I ate breakfast across the street from the motel in a waffle house. I was in the mood for a waffle. I hadn’t eaten one in years. But when I noticed that the waffle irons hadn’t been cleaned since the Bay of Pigs, I opted for eggs. There wasn’t anything for me to do now until I heard from Barto, so I asked the woman behind the counter where the closest car rental was. I had a friend who lived not too terribly far away, a friend I hadn’t seen in quite some time.
The ride up to Boca Raton was pleasant enough, and finding the Millennium Village retirement complex was easy. I’d asked directions at the supermarket when I stopped to buy a bottle of vodka and some pastries. The problem was, I hadn’t called ahead. I don’t know. I guess I really wanted to see the look on Israel Roth’s face when I strolled into his condo unannounced.
“Who’s there?” he screamed impatiently as I knocked at his door. “What, you trying to take the door off the hinges?”
I kept knocking. “Special delivery.”
“Stop already with the knocking. Nothing’s that special.” He flung back the door.
“Hey, Mr. Roth.”
“Mr. Moe!” He might have been in his seventies, but he hugged like a college wrestler.
“Izzy, you’re crushing the rugelach.”
“Come in. Come in.”
I put the goods down on the coffee table and gave him back a proper hug. He had reminded me of my father when we’d met two years before in the Catskills. Time had done little to change that, but I liked Israel Roth for who he was, not for who he wasn’t. We exchanged the expected small talk about his health and my family, carefully avoiding any discussion of the incident that had brought us together in the first place. He wanted to know if Katy was still depressed over the miscarriage. He was thrilled to hear the answer.
“So, Mr. Moe, you came an awfully long way to bring me a box of Publix rugelach, which, to tell you the truth, taste like rolled-up cardboard with jelly filling.”
“I notice you’re not complaining about the vodka.”
“Complaining! Who’s complaining?”
Though it was early afternoon, we had a shot or two of the vodka.
“So, you didn’t answer my question about this unexpected visit, Mr. Moe.”
“What question? I didn’t hear a question.”
“What is this, Jeopardy, for chrissakes? You have to put things in the form of a question or you get the buzzer?”
There was no avoiding it, so I told him. He took it calmly, if not gladly. No amount of cruelty or calculation surprised him. He had seen firsthand the very worst of man. He had witnessed the systematic slaughter of his family and friends and breathed their ashes into his lungs. Though no longer capable of tears, he was not unmoved by the suffering of others. He had not let the inhumanities he’d suffered turn him dead inside. It was one of the things I admired about Mr. Roth. I didn’t know if I was that strong.
“You’re going to meet with the man who funneled the money back to Cuba?”
“I hope so. This ex-marshal I hired seems to know his way around down here. Apparently, Joe Spivack-”
“The one that killed himself?”
“Him. He didn’t cover his tracks that well. Within hours of getting in himself, Barto found out Joe’d flown down to Miami at least three times in the last year. I guess Spivack never thought anyone would connect the dots.”
“Maybe.” Mr. Roth was skeptical. “It doesn’t seem a little odd to you that such a man would be so obvious? Would a man, a professional at his job, be so sloppy? Look at what you say about the flag, that it was a hint or a challenge. It seems inconsistent, no, to be so subtle on one hand and obvious on the other?”
My first instinct was to argue with him, but I could see Izzy’s point. I didn’t know Joe Spivack all that well. He was, as Izzy had so aptly put it, a professional. Now that I stepped back and gave it some thought, it did seem a little odd that he had taken so little care to cover his own tracks. Only if he had contemplated suicide all along, which was possible, would his sloppiness have made sense. Then why all the secrecy? Why no suicide note? Why the flag? On the other hand, if he had meant not to get caught and hadn’t contemplated suicide, why hadn’t he traveled under an assumed name? Why hadn’t he driven or taken the train? There would have been no paper trail. But Barto had been specific about Spivack flying in.
“You make some sense, Mr. Roth.”
“We alter kockers occasionally do, you know. I’m goin’ to ask you a question and I don’t want you should get mad. Okay?”