Vince said, “I think he said everything he wanted to say.”
“What do you mean?” said Alicia.
“If I’m to believe that old woman who passed along those files to you, Falcon gave you something that thousands of other Argentine families have never gotten.”
“What?”
“An apology.”
Alicia tried, but she couldn’t dodge the impact of Paulo’s words. Jack took notice.
“Hey,” said Theo. “You guys heard tonight’s forecast yet?”
“The forecast?” said Jack.
“Tell ’em, Wally,” said Theo.
One of the SWAT guys said, “Hey, ain’t you Walt the Weather Wizard? My wife watches you every night.”
The weatherman groaned, as if resigning to the fact that it was time to face the music. “Yes, yes. Walt the Weather Wizard was shacked up in a flea-bitten motel room with a couple of teenaged hookers. I’m guilty as charged, all right? You happy now?”
The SWAT guy checked out the Latina, then, as if the weatherman weren’t even there, he gave his teammate a little shrug and said, “Who knew? I thought he was gay.”
chapter 63
T heo wanted nothing to do with the media.
For two full days, one reporter after another tried to land an exclusive interview and brand him a hero. Theo turned them all away. In his mind, true heroes were never motivated by self-preservation. They ditched their own safety and thrust themselves into danger to save others. The actual words he used to convey those thoughts, however, were slightly less than quotable: “Ain’t nothing heroic about lifting your own black ass out of a crack.”
In some ways, it took more courage for him to pick up the telephone and call Officer Mendoza.
The Mendoza family had also been hounded by the media, and Theo could only assume that Alicia had managed to avoid the frenzy by crawling into a bunker. Her father, of course, was all over the television and newspapers, praising “a job well done” by the City of Miami Police Department. Chief of Police Renfro was almost as much of a media hound. She and the mayor spoke most highly about Sergeant Chavez and “the brave men of SWAT.” They made little mention of Jack and the active role he had played in the negotiations. Even Sergeant Paulo was relegated to the I-also-wish-to-thank category. Jack and Paulo seemed okay with that. After the hour-by-hour intensity of a hostage crisis, a chance to relax and sleep was more than welcome, and a little time to step back and plan the next move was a good thing. At some point, however, it was time to stop planning. Theo was ready for action.
Alicia sounded somewhat surprised to hear from him, but she took his phone call nonetheless. She was pleasant enough in thanking Theo for doing all that he could to keep Falcon from harming the other hostages. Theo was never one for small talk, however, so he cut to the chase.
“I’m calling because there are things Falcon told me while I was stuck in that motel room with him. Things that I think you should know.”
She hesitated, as if not sure how to respond.
“Did you hear me?” said Theo.
“Yes, sorry. What kind of things are you talking about?”
“Personal stuff. Family matters.”
“Do you mean my family?”
“I don’t mean the Sopranos.”
“There’s no need to be sarcastic about it.”
“Sorry, but being a smart-ass is kind of like therapy. It’s about the only thing that separates me from the guys who tell the mayor’s daughter that they’re sorry and then blow their brains out.”
“I have no idea what you mean by that.”
“That makes two of us. But look, what I called to tell you is that Falcon talked plenty before he killed hisself. I haven’t gotten into the details with anyone yet. Not the police, not the newspapers, not even Jack.”
“Do you plan to share with them?”
“Right now, I ain’t got a plan. I think you and me need to talk about it first.”
“What could we possibly have to talk about?”
“For starters, a guy named Sikes.”
“Are you talking about the guy who deposited two hundred thousand dollars into Falcon’s safe deposit box in the Bahamas? Do you mean that Sikes?”
“Sort of. Dude used a phony name, you understand? So maybe you’d like to know who this Sikes really was.”
Again, she paused. “Falcon told you who Sikes was?”
“Yup.”
“Who was it?”
Theo laughed. “Not so fast. I had to work real hard to get that information out of Falcon. Real hard.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t work for nothing.”
“Are you asking me for money?” she said, suddenly indignant.
“Money? Nah. That wouldn’t be right.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Well, I hope I don’t sound too much like Falcon the crazy man,” he said with a light chuckle, “but I just want to meet with you.”
“Why?”
“Because this is too important to discuss over the telephone.”
“And if I refuse, then what?”
“Then you’ll never know who Sikes is.”
“You do want money, don’t you?”
“Like I was saying, this is way too important for you and me to handle over the telephone.”
There was silence, as if she were mulling things over. “All right. I think I’d like to talk with you, Theo.”
“Good. Let’s say eleven o’clock tonight at my bar. I own Sparky’s Tavern down on-”
“I know Sparky’s,” she said.
“Cool,” said Theo. “And if you decide to come, you’ll know Sikes.” He said a quick good-bye and ended the call with a touch of the speakerphone button. His use of the handheld receiver had made it impossible for Alicia to know that she was on speaker.
“Did I do good, boss?” asked Theo.
Jack was sitting across the table from him. “You were perfect,” he said. “Just perfect.”
chapter 64
J ack reached Sparky’s Tavern around ten forty-five p.m. Tuesday was not Jack’s regular night, as it was common knowledge that a visit to Sparky’s was best followed by at least a full weekend of detoxification. Tonight, however, he made an exception.
Theo was blowing on his old Buescher 400 saxophone and just finishing up a set when Jack entered the tavern. A few appreciative regulars stood to applaud Theo’s efforts, but most of the patrons kept right on drinking, talking, and laughing, as if Theo were little more than elevator Muzak. Sparky’s was not a true jazz club by any stretch, and on most nights, it was whatever the paying clientele wanted it to be. If the Latino band of bikers craved a little meringue with their cerveza, so be it. If the pretty redneck girls raced to the jukebox for yet another round of the electric slide, it wasn’t Theo’s place to stop them. Any bartender worthy of his honorary degree in pop psychology could see that Sparky’s struggled with a multiple-personality disorder Sunday through Thursday just so that Theo could pay the rent and do Charlie Parker proud on the weekends.
Theo stepped down from the stage to meet Jack at the bar. Jack had a beer, and Theo drank bourbon, which told Jack that he was done playing for the night. Theo never drank alcohol when he was performing, but he sure made up for it when he wasn’t. Time passed quickly, as it always did for Jack at Sparky’s. By eleven-fifteen p.m., it was pretty clear that Alicia would be a no-show.
By eleven-thirty p.m., it was equally clear that Jack’s plan was working perfectly.
“Well, look who’s here,” said Theo, pointing with a nod toward the door.
Jack swiveled his barstool to see a handsome Latino coming toward him. He was built like a football player, had the haircut of a marine, and bore the chilling expression of a racist cop who’d just spotted a busload of rap musicians doing eighty in a thirty-five-mile-per-hour zone. He walked up to the bar, ignored Jack, and spoke directly to Theo. “You Theo Knight?”