Something made a sudden noise — a slam of sound: The truck jiggled and Anders went into his pocket for his gun, whipping his eyes around — it was two kids: Their baseball had bounced off the truck fender.
“Jesus.”
Crobey climbed out and the kids scuttled back. Crobey went along the curb and picked up the baseball. He talked in Spanish to the kids and tossed the baseball to one of them; the kids swallowed and nodded their heads and put their backs to him and ran like hell. Crobey got back into the truck. He glanced at Anders. “Shooting them wouldn’t have done a whole lot for your image, Glenn.”
Anders was rattled; it was clear to all of them; excuses or apologies wouldn’t change it. He didn’t really care. His future had been shot down last night with a bullet on the steps of El Convento. That had been his second chance; now he’d missed it. It was time to quit: Take early retirement and put O’Hillary out of his life and mark time in an Arizona suburb ranchette writing letters to the editor and taking up hobbies.
There was only one possible escape from that: The sense of justification he might derive from destroying the destroyers who’d taken Rosalia from him.
Crobey said mildly, “That house in the next block with the pink Pinto in the carport — that’s Rodriguez’s house.”
“What?”
“He hasn’t been back since that night he ditched your plainclothes cop,” Crobey said. “Will you relax a little?” He tipped his head toward the house he’d indicated. “The wife’s name is Soledad. They’ve got three girls, various ages, the oldest about fourteen I think. Or maybe twelve — kids grow up faster these days, don’t they. The family name on the mailbox is Mendez. Ernesto Mendez, that’s the name he goes by when he’s not being Cielo and/or Rodrigo Rodriguez.”
A battered camper-bodied pickup truck came crunching down the street, turned in at a driveway and let off a woman with her hair in yellow plastic curlers who began to unload brown grocery bags from the seat. Crobey’s voice went on, droning in his ear with that faint Liverpudlian overlay: “The neighbors believe him to be an adjuster for a casualty insurance company, which is a fair dodge because it explains his absences — he’s away investigating claims. He belongs to a local National Guard regiment, the kind where they train every Thursday night and one weekend a month. A couple of old pals of mine have been asking questions around. They’ve come up with some interesting bits and pieces. This National Guard outfit has a little rat-pack of noncommissioned officers all of whom seem to have served with Mendez-Rodriguez at some unspecified time in the past, for which I tend to read Bay of Pigs. It turns out, on inquiry, that every last one of the members of this little rat-pack happens to be away on important business at the moment — extended business trips.”
“You’ve been busy. What else have you found?”
“We’re still about thirty bricks short of a full load but we’re getting there,” Crobey told him. “These two buddies who’ve been working for us on Carole’s payroll have talked to several of the National Guardsmen in that outfit. Not rat-pack types but other chaps in the same unit. It seems the first lieutenant in command of that particular platoon is one Emil Draga, age twenty-four, graduate of the University of Florida at Coral Gables.”
“The name sounds familiar.”
“The family name ought to. Try this on — Jorge Vandemeer Draga-Ruiz.”
“Ah. The boy’s father?”
“Grandfather. The old boy’s pushing ninety.”
Anders looked at Carole Marchand. She hadn’t spoken for a long time. Between the bucket seats her hand lay across Crobey’s; Anders marked that and drew its meaning. He said to her, “That could be the source of the police clout you were looking for.”
“I know.”
Carole Marchand said, “What if we asked him a few hard questions at the end of a gun?”
Anders smiled a little at her naïveté. “I’m sure that man’s guarded by a security system as heavy as a medieval baron’s moat. You’d never get within half a mile of him.”
“We could get him to come to us,” Crobey said.
“How?”
“Leave that aside a minute. The question is, if we get the old goat under a gun, do you go along with it or do you blow the whistle on us? He’s a powerful old bastard. He’s probably got four senators and a dozen congressmen in his pocket.”
“And that’s supposed to scare me off?”
“It’s the kind of thing that’ll cost you your job and your pension.”
“I doubt that. These old Cuban families aren’t that influential anymore. They’ve turned into White Russian emigrés — nobody pays that much attention to them.”
“Draga’s just a little bit different from most of them,” Crobey said. “To the tune of maybe three hundred million dollars.”
Anders kept glancing fitfully up the street toward the Mendez-Rodriguez house, reassuring himself that no one was going in or out. He said, “I’d be happier if we had better evidence the old man’s involved. Suppose we get him under a gun, as you say — suppose he turns out to be the wrong man? Suppose he doesn’t know anything about this business? We’ll have made ourselves an enemy strong enough to blast us out of Puerto Rico permanently. Then what happens to the hunt for Rodriguez?”
Carole Marchand said, “Harry and I are willing to take the chance. We believe Jorge Draga has got to be the power behind Rodriguez.”
“A minute ago you were accusing the CIA of jumping to conclusions on the basis of flimsy fragments.”
“All right, the shoe’s changed feet — we bought your reasoning. Why shouldn’t you buy ours?”
Anders picked at a ragged fingernail. Carole Marchand said, “You can get out of the car right now if you like. We’ll do this by ourselves if we have to. But we’re a little short of manpower and we could use your help. I thought, in view of what happened to Rosalia, you might be inclined to throw in with us...”
The last of the day’s sunlight was creeping up toward the low roofs across the street. The two young baseball players had disappeared — gone inside for dinner, probably.
Crobey said, “The two blokes I’ve been using here are Cubans. They owe me favors and I’ve been collecting. But they hate Castro. I don’t think we ought to depend on them to help us do anything except collect information. I’m sure they won’t go up against Rodriguez in a firefight — there’s a limit to their obligations to me. They wouldn’t have strung along this far except that Carole’s paying them good money. What I’m doing is giving you the full picture. Odds against. There’s only the three of us, unless you can recruit people from the agency.”
“Not much chance of that. I couldn’t do it without O’Hillary getting wind of it.”
Carole Marchand said, “Then it’s just three of us. If you’re in.”
“And just two of you if I’m not. What happens then? How can you fight him by yourselves?”
Her reply was a defiant stare.
“I think you’re nuts.” He looked at Crobey. “She’s nuts. I never thought you were. What’s in this for you? I hope it’s enough to pay your funeral expenses.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve arranged to sell my body to science.”
“Come on, Harry. If I buy in, how do I know you won’t disappear when we need you?”
“I trust him,” Carole Marchand said.
“Sure — but you’re infatuated with him.”
It only made her smile, a reckless bawdy sort of grin. She was, he thought, a remarkably likable woman. Clearly she had captivated Crobey; and he found that to be an amazing thing.