“What’s the message?” André asked again.
“Well,” Raul said, not pausing in his task, “I’m not even sure you’d be interested. Antonio Duarte wants to see you — apparently about a job, I guess — but if you’re so flush...” He recorked the bottle and raised his glass again.
“Antonio Duarte?” André frowned, his fingers reaching for his refilled glass automatically. A job? Or was that just an excuse, the bait to draw the unwary into a trap? He had, of course, never borrowed any money from Duarte any more than he had from Sanchez; in any event, Duarte was too big a man in the rackets to be approached for the loan of a few pesetas. Still, there were people who reported that Duarte, among other activities, also took on the job of collecting bad debts for a percentage — or rather, his boys did. On the other hand, it was very doubtful Duarte would handle the extremely small amounts involved in André’s paltry borrowings. Maybe it was a job? But he didn’t want a job, other than one on the ships. It seemed only honest to clear the air with Raul, at least. “I’m not looking for a job right now.”
“I didn’t say it was a job for sure,” Raul said, quite willing to drag the conversation on as long as the bottle lasted. “I just said I thought it might be. All I know for sure is that the word is out that Duarte wants to see you. I don’t really know why.”
André sighed. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another! Still, Duarte had a long arm — or his boys did — so possibly he’d best see the man before he started signing up on a vessel. Or possibly it would be better to sign up and forget Duarte. It was a difficult choice.
“Where does one find this Duarte? I only know him by sight; I never dealt with him before.”
“He’ll be at the Villarino Bar,” Raul told him. He hurriedly drank and reached for the bottle, pouring hastily.
“When?”
Raul sighed, a tragic sigh. “He’s there now,” he reported sadly and stared at all the lovely liquor remaining in the bottle. With a final sigh he replaced the cork and pushed it home. André came to his feet, smiling down in friendly fashion.
“Don’t rush,” he said and laid money on the table. “That should handle the bottle and the waiter, too.” A thought came to him, a hunch; he had long since learned to respect his hunches. He bent down, lowering his voice. “As far as you know, I have no money. I’m broke. Understand?” He straightened up, smiling, but the smile did not extend to his steady eyes. “Just pretend today is like every other day.”
Raul nodded in complete understanding. As he had suspected, the money was hotter than a phone booth in Morocco.
“Don’t worry,” he said and sipped his drink this time, instead of bolting it. “And thanks for the drinks.” A thought came to him; he looked up. “André—”
André paused in leaving. “Yes?”
“Tell Duarte I’m the one who found you, will you?”
André stared. Was there a reward out for him? A bounty? And would his friend, for whom he had just bought a bottle, be willing to profit from his capture? It was a strange world.
“All right,” he said, with no intention of complying, and turned away, crossing the street. Better see Duarte at that; he had heard the man also controlled the hiring on the docks. One thing about seeing him, he thought somberly, at least it will postpone my having to make a decision as to where I go from here, if only for a few minutes...
4
Although in general he preferred to drink in more refined settings, Antonio Duarte y Bertrand was not a stranger to the Villarino Bar. Business had taken him to the small café in the Plaza de Antonio Lopez more than once, being located, as it was, near the harbor and the various possibilities there of making money at the expense of shippers and receivers. It was also, he knew, a logical place to meet Martins; the big man would have been out of place, as Sanchez had suggested, at the Ritz. Duarte was a short, swarthy man with a barrellike figure in sharp contrast to the elegant emaciation of his temporary partner; his face was puffy and normally demonstrated a suspicious frown, his temper short, and his appetites exaggerated.
Señor Duarte was sipping a Don Carlos Primero brandy — the legitimate grandfather, one might say, of Fundador — and studying the busy square before him half angrily. He had put out the word that he wanted to see the giant André the day before, and he was properly irritated that to the moment there had been no response. True, the city was a large one, but the circle in which Duarte moved — and on the fringes of which André existed — was a relatively small and close-knit one. The little, chunky man sipped at his cognac without proper appreciation for its fineness, his mind preparing castigations for those in his organization he had assigned to locate André; one more hour was all he would give the big man to arrive and then he would tell Sanchez to forget his wild idea and get on with getting Huuygens — or someone—
He noticed the large figure far in the distance and paused in his thinking, unwilling to admit success. Yes, it was the big man. André was crossing the square diagonally in his direction, his cap pulled over his eyes almost challengingly. Duarte came to his feet, forcing a smile onto his normally dour features, greeting the big man as if they were old friends instead of meeting in person for the first time.
“Señor Martins. A pleasure. Sit down, sit down.” He himself sat and waved an imperious hand. “Waiter!”
André sat down, frowning. While the expression of friendship was obviously false, this approach equally obviously was not normal from one attempting to make a collection. Nor was it the usual approach one faced when being offered a job. Unless, of course, the job was on the order of murder — and while he had heard that Señor Duarte also accepted assignments of that nature for his boys, he was fairly sure that Duarte would not approach him in that regard, surely considering him an amateur by the fat man’s high standards. He waited while the waiter poured him a generous portion of the Don Carlos Primero; his eyebrows rose at sight of the prestigious brand. Whatever Duarte wanted to see him about, it had to be important. Don Carlos Primero cognac was not dispensed lightly.
“Your good health,” Duarte said woodenly and drank.
André nodded and drank with him, savoring the smooth, velvety touch of the brandy, a rare treat for his disenchanted palate. He set the glass down a bit reluctantly, but still determined to get the matter over in a hurry. He had a boat to catch.
“I hear you wanted to see me.”
“I did, yes.” Duarte was smiling at him, a calculating, humorless smile. He pushed his glass away, getting down to business. “Tell me — the name is André, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“Tell me, André — how would you like to make some money for practically no work at all?”
So it was a job after all! André’s face was hard put to find a suitable expression; he compromised by leaving it expressionless. “Nobody pays money for practically no work at all.”
“Except this time.” Duarte tapped his mottled nose with a thick forefinger and then raised it in the air for emphasis. “A telephone call is all. Scarcely what one could call work.”
“A phone call?” André frowned. Who paid money to have someone make a phone call for them? One possible explanation came to him, an explanation he didn’t like. “Setting up who? For what?”
Señor Antonio Duarte looked faintly amused at the suggestion. “My dear André,” he said with a touch of sardonicism, “I do not need your help in things for which you have no experience. No, this is a call that would be beneficial to everyone involved.” He leaned a bit closer, lowering his voice. “You know, or used to know, a Dutchman named Huuygens. Kek Huuygens. Didn’t you?”