Within twenty minutes of sitting down at the special banquette reserved for her most favored patrons, Mrs. Paz had sucked from Morales his entire life history and that of his immediate ancestors. It turned out that Morales lived with his mother, that his two older sisters were both married with children, that he himself was engaged to be married (picture exhibited, to sighs of admiration from Mrs. P.), that he was taking courses at Miami-Dade University on the road to a bachelor’s degree. Paz had not known much of this, and he found himself wishing that Morales had a secret life as a violent pedophile. As this love fest progressed, the mother shot him numerous little looks: See, this is what a good Cuban son is like!
Paz only picked at the marvelous food, as a way of getting back at her, but of course this was just another indication of his inadequacy, for Morales was putting it away with both hands. Eventually the young man had to stop, when the constraints of physiology trumped even the will of Margarita Paz. Having consumed a mass of prime seafood about the size of his own head, and at the point of tears, Morales rose from the table and repaired to the men’s.
“You know, Mami,” said Paz, “I think it’s a felony to make a police officer explode in public.”
“That’s a nice boy,” said the mother, ignoring this. She gestured and a waiter made the debris vanish. “It’s a shame his sisters are married already.” A deep disappointed sigh. Then to the attack: “You ate like a bird. Something’s wrong with you.”
“Nothing’s wrong, Mami. It’s the middle of the day. If I ate like he did, my brain would shut down.”
“What, he hasn’t got a brain?”
“He doesn’t need one as long as he’s partnering with me. Look, Mami, I need to ask you a favor….”
“No, you look bad, son of mine. First you kill thatbrujo, and just the other week you shoot someone else. Don’t you know you have to be washed after something like that?”
“I’m not going to yourile, Mami.”
“Of course not, you know everything, why am I even wasting my breath?” A red-nailed finger pointed at his eye. “Also you have a new woman,” said Mrs. Paz. Sweat popped out on his forehead and thezarzuela did the fandango in his belly. “And of course you’re ashamed of your old mother, you don’t bring her to meet me. I know the spirits are angry with me, what otherreason could there be to be treated like this?”
“Mami, on Sunday. I’ve invited her to dinner on Sunday.”
“Mm. I’ll makelangosta a la crema. And what is this favor you want from me?”
“I need to talk to Ignacio Hoffmann.”
She looked away.That was unusual. “He doesn’t come in here anymore.”
“Mami, I know he doesn’t come in here anymore. He’s a fugitive. Look, I got no interest in the man or in causing him any grief. I just need to talk to him.”
“What makes you think I can find him?”
“Come on, Mami. Ignacio practically lived in this banquette for years. The seat is still warm from his ass.”
“Watch your mouth!”
“And besides, youhave to know him. He’somo-orisha.” This was a guess. Paz didn’t know whether Hoffmann was a devotee of Santeria, but the altar at Jack Wilson’s house had suggested the connection. Where would an Anglo like Wilson have picked it up if not from his former boss? And he knew his mother knew anyone who was at all prominent in the cult.
Now the eyes came back at him, full force. He made himself meet their mighty rays. “I’ll think about it,” she said.
“Mami, it’s part of a homicide investigation. I’m asking you nice, but the fact is every citizen has to help the cops when they ask them to.”
She held out her hands, wrists together, golden bracelets dinging softly. “So arrest me.”
“Mami, come on…”
“Isaid I’ll think about it.”
Paz was about to say something about time being critical, but at that moment his cell phone rang. He glanced at the screen. “This is the girlfriend. I’m going to ask her to marry me and have four grandchildren for you right now.”
“Oh, you’re so smart!”
“Hello, Lorna.What! When? Calm down, Lorna. Porky Pig? Are the cops there yet? Uh-huh. Okay. Okay, let me talk to him. Yo, Jerry…yeah, I do. No, this is part of a homicide investigation. Right. You got anything on the guy? Yeah, Porky Pig, I heard. No vehicle ID? Uh-huh. Look, can you do me a solid? Have someone drive the vic over to me. I’m at Nineteenth and the Trail…yeah the restaurant. Okay, great, I owe you a meal. No, I’ll take the statement and we’ll handle the complaint. Yeah all the paper too. Thanks, Jerry. Put the vic on again.”
After some soothing words, Paz clicked off the phone and explained to his mother what had happened. “See, you don’t even have to wait until Sunday,” he said.
“Not hurt?”
“No. But it’s no fun getting mugged.”
Mrs. Paz examined her son closely and waved a hand, as if to indicate something floating around his head. “You’re worried now. I think you like this one.”
“Yeah, it’s true, I like this one, and I think I got her into a world of trouble.”
“If you were in the restaurant business or you had a nice profession you wouldn’t be getting women into trouble.”
“Thank you, Mami, that’s helpful.”
“Don’t be sarcastic with me, Iago.”
Morales came back to the table at that point, picked up the new vibe, and looked searchingly at Paz, who directed his own gaze at the big fish tank. Mrs. Paz, however, gave the young detective a radiant smile and said, “You have room for some flan, yes?”
“No way, thanks, Mrs. Paz, really….”
She gestured to the hovering waiter. “Two flan,” she commanded.
This was delivered, and Morales was induced to consume some, after which Mrs. Paz left to attend to other customers.
“I can’t finish this,” said Morales as his stared at his flan. “I’ll die.”
“Okay, but if you don’t you’re not the perfect Cuban son. My mom’s got a lot invested in you now, and she’s going to be pissed if you don’t finish every rich spoonful. Alternatively, there’s a pain-in-the-ass job you can cover for me.”
“Anything,” said Morales.
Paz explained what had happened to Lorna Wise. “Jerry McLean caught it, but he’s not going to break his balls on a mugging with nothing much taken and no one hurt. Grab the case from him personally, do a thorough canvass of the area, try to find anyone who saw the guy getting away, his vehicle, whatever.”
“I’m on it,” said Morales, and slid from his seat. “Porky Pig, huh? You think that’s significant?”
“It could be, Tito. It could be Elmer Fudd trying to send us a message. Or Bugs himself. You’ll find out. Go!”
Ten minutes later, Lorna Wise was deposited in front of the restaurant Guantanamera by a police car, where Paz, who had been waiting for her under the awning, snatched her up and embraced her. She looked terrible, he thought, pale, splotchy, her makeup tear-ruined, and she trembled. He wanted to shoot someone.
Inside, she went straight to the bathroom and was in there for so long that he almost called one of the waitresses to go in and check on her, but eventually she emerged, looking somewhat more put together. He ordered coffee for her and a plate oftorticas de Moron, but she touched neither.
“Look,” he said, “I know you’re shaky and I’m sorry as hell that this happened, but I have to ask. Did you get a chance to read the notebook before it got taken?”
She nodded.
“Okay, then you need to tell me what, if anything, in it was relevant to the case. Your memory is fresh now….”
“Yes, I understand. But I don’t know what’s relevant and what isn’t, it’s just more amazing adventures of Emmylou.” She gave him a summary of the third notebook and added, “It’s a continuation of her sad story. She seems to have caused another killing, run off with a survivalist dope lord, and got herself shot. No secrets that
