“Why did you come here like this, Mr. Glynn?” she asked. “Why tonight?”
“You were born and raised in Mexico City.”
She laughed. “So were a lot of people.”
“You were there in those years.”
“It is a big place, I assure you.”
“Your husband worked for the Company. He was stationed there.”
McGarvey could see her reflection in the dark glass. She had closed her eyes.
“Was this Harris working out of the embassy?” she asked. “If he was I never knew it.”
“You remember some of the others, then?”
She turned around. She was frightened. “It was a long time ago. I was just a young girl, barely out of my teens. What did I know about anything? Ask yourself that, Mr. Glynn. What did I know? My eyes were filled with wedding veils.”
“I came to help,” McGarvey said softly.
At first it didn’t seem as if she had heard him. She looked toward the fireplace, her shoulders sagging. Idly she reached up with one hand, undid the towel around her head, and let it drop to the floor. She shook out her long, glistening black hair, then focused on McGarvey.
“Help with what?” she asked, her voice husky. “What are you doing here? Who was this Harris to you?”
“Harris was nothing to me. Just a name. But whoever killed him is now after Basulto and will be coming after anyone who knew what happened in those days.”
“Those days …” She shook her head. “What are you talking about?”
“The Ateneo Español. Does that mean anything to you?”
Her eyes widened just a bit. He could see her fighting for control. If she hadn’t heard about Harris or Basulto, she certainly had heard of the Ateneo Español.
“You have been to this place?” she asked, holding herself together.
“No.”
“It is not there any longer, I don’t think.”
“It was important when Harris and Basulto were there. I think you know it now, and I think you knew it at the time.”
Her lips parted. “And what do you expect me to tell you? I’m no spy, all right? It is dirty work. My hands are clean. I don’t want anything to do with it. All of it, everything, is finished.”
McGarvey held his silence. What the hell was she telling him now?
Evita leaned back against the buffet and looked up toward the ceiling. “Virgin mother,” she whispered. “Someone is filling your head with stories. This Harris you say is dead. So who sent you to me? This drug runner friend of yours?”
“Just Company files.”
She looked at him. “What?”
“I went through the agency’s files to see who was stationed in Mexico City during those years. I wanted to find out who was active.”
“Then why are you here? Why don’t you talk to Darby?”
“He won’t talk to me,” McGarvey said, holding his triumph in check. She had admitted she knew her ex-husband was active.
She laughed. “He’s a real prima donna, that one.”
“A prima donna?”
“My ex-husband has always been an important man. Sometimes a little more important in his own eyes than for the rest of the world. But he has always done big things.”
“You were active in Mexico City?”
“That is a filthy lie,” she snapped. “Who told you such a thing?”
“How often does he come up here to see you?” McGarvey asked.
Her face turned pale. She dropped her wineglass on the fur carpet, then reached back to the buffet for support. “What are you talking about?”
“Your husband.” He wanted to keep her off balance. “Has he been up here to see you? Do you have any contact with each other?”
She was shaking her head as if she didn’t understand a word he had said.
“Evita?” he said softly. Something was drastically wrong, but he did not want to break her delicate mood. She wanted to tell him something.
“You don’t know …”
“I don’t know what?” he prompted softly.
She shook her head. She seemed puzzled. “Get away from here,” she said. “Please, just get away from here. I don’t want to think about …”
“About what?”
“Go!” she screeched. “Mother of Christ, go! Get out of here you sonofabitch!”
“I have to know, Evita …”
Suddenly she snapped. She reached behind her, grabbed a half-full wine bottle from the buffet, and threw it toward McGarvey. Her aim was very bad and the bottle crashed against the side of the fireplace. Her robe came open, exposing her large, perfectly formed breasts, her slightly rounded stomach, and the narrow swatch of dark hair at her pubis.
McGarvey got to his feet as she snatched up another bottle. He reached her before she could throw it, and he took it out of her hand. She came after him then like an insane woman, biting and scratching and kicking, all the while screaming obscenities. For a few intense moments McGarvey had all he could do to keep from getting injured. She was very quick and strong despite her slight frame.
He got her away from the buffet and up against the wall where he pressed his body against her, immobilizing her as he held both her wrists over her head.
Her face was screwed up in rage, her eyes narrow with hate, her nostrils flared, bright red blotches on her cheeks and forehead.
“You bastard! You bastard,” she cried.
“I didn’t come here to hurt you. Evita, listen to me! I came here to help.” McGarvey was conscious of the press of her breasts against his chest. It was oddly disturbing.
Very slowly the fight began to drain out of her. She began to loosen up beneath him. He relaxed his grip and stepped back.
For a long time she remained against the wall, her robe open, her legs slightly spread, her eyes locked into McGarvey’s. Finally she looked down at herself. She pulled her robe tightly closed and shivered.
“Just go away now, Mr. Glynn. Please.”
“Harris was a good man.”
She looked up. She was on the verge of tears. “They were all good men. Young. Not so smart as now. Pretty boys.”
“Who?”
“All of them.”
“At the embassy?”
“Them, too,” Evita said. “The ones who came and went.”
They could hear music from downstairs now as the mariachi band started up again. Evita cocked her head as if to listen to it.
“Can’t we sit down and talk? I need your help,” McGarvey said gently.
She looked at him again. “It’s been a terribly long road. I’m finished with all of that now.”
“You could be arrested.”
She smiled wanly. “That would never happen, Mr. Glynn. Don’t you know that?”
“You won’t help?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. She stepped around the buffet, crossed the room and, without looking back, disappeared through the rear door.
McGarvey stared at the door for a very long time. In a way he was sorry he had come here. She was a sad lady. Nothing good was going to come from this business, he decided. Nothing good at all.
He walked over to Lafayette Street and headed north, catching a cab around Astor Place. It was a long time before he got to sleep. When he woke in the morning, the television set was still on and he felt a ravenous hunger not only for food, but for the real world. On the way out to the airport, though, he began to get the terrible feeling that he would never know such a world. His sister had warned him when he sold the ranch that he was forfeiting his heritage. Maybe she’d been right.