anyone would want to know about, that they would shove a knife in someone’s face, unless it’s the gold….”
“What gold?”
“This dope lord she lived with buried pots of gold all around his mountain. She knows where they’re hidden.”
“And some guy in Sudan came looking for it? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Although everything else makeperfect sense,” she cried, her voice breaking at the end.
He made soothing sounds and patted her hand, but she pulled it away and dashed off again to where the restrooms were.
Lorna retches, bringing up little. This is the second or third time today. It may be, she thinks, a nervous reaction to what happened, or something to do with being truly ill. She washes her face, stares at herself in the mirror. She thinks of extinction, that this very face will grow thin and hollow-eyed and yellow as the cancer takes over its body and then waxy on an undertaker’s slab being made up to look natural, and then be reduced by flames to nothing at all, a few grains of dust. She feels her neck and armpits again, as she does every hour or so now, and finds the same rubbery bulges. Diagnostic for lymphatic cancer, as are the sweats and the weakness, the itching and the weight loss. She has not heard of nausea being a symptom, but it is entirely possible that her gut is involved too, that the thing sneaked up on her, despite her precautions, and all the watchful diets and exercises, the too-frequent doctor’s visits. Strange how she knew from an early age that she was doomed in this way, perhaps even before her mother succumbed, maybe the cells tell us, Don’t count on long life, sweetie, the genome’s deeply fucked. What does she feel now? She consults her heart, finds an odd relief, not to have to worry anymore, death the end of neurosis at least, she is one with the kamikazes, the suicide bombers, an unearthly calm. A certain interest in religion, although that could be due to her current immersion among the snake handlers and speakers in tongues, still perhaps it would be even nicer to die thinking that a loving Jesus was set to carry you off. To where? She has never thought about eternity before, discovers she has no idea what it means. Also an urge to cry, to cry and never stop. Also an urge to find a drug, to turn off the mind entirely until the end. And other urges, surprising ones.
She puts her face together and goes back to the restaurant again, suppresses the nausea occasioned by the food smells. A large woman in a flowered yellow pantsuit and a lot of jangling gold jewelry is standing talking to Jimmy Paz, who politely rises as Lorna approaches and introduces her to his mother. She receives a long look and returns one. It strikes her as amusing that she and Mrs. Paz are almost exactly of a height and, allowing for the twenty-year age difference, have virtually the same figure. This makes her smile and feel crazy, and amazed that she can still find humor in things. Mrs. P. smiles too, slides into the banquette and pulls Lorna down next to her. After the obligatory commiseration about the mugging, and a capsule biography from Lorna, Mrs. Paz compliments Lorna on her hair and other features, then adds, “You know, you look like a serious woman. I admit I’m surprised, this son of mine, he’s always bringing around these, what you call them,esqueletas …”
“Skeletons,” says Paz.
Lorna finds herself laughing. “Not guilty,” she crows.
“Si, si,I can tell you are a serious person,” Mrs. Paz continues. “You have a head on your shoulders, a profession, and I have to say, although it sticks me in the heart, my son is not a serious person.”
“Gee, thanks, Mami.”
“See, like that, always with the sarcastic remark. You want to know the truth? I think you could do a lot better.”
“I do too,” says Lorna, deadpan. “But you know, I can’t help myself, he’s so pretty.”
Mrs. Paz looks at her son. “He’s not bad,” she admits grudgingly. “Not what you would call ugly.”
Paz looks ostentatiously at his wristwatch and stands. “Well, this is so pleasant, but I got to go to work. Lorna, I’ll take you home unless you think you can do better thumbing on Calle Ocho.” He embraces his mother, kisses her cheek. “Mami, always a real treat…”
“I need you for lunch tomorrow.”
“No can do, Mami, tomorrow I got my day job. Speaking of which, are you going to get me with Ignacio or not?”
“Come to thebembe tonight,” says Mrs. Paz. “Then we’ll see.”
“Mami, please…”
“I mean it, Iago. I have to consult theorishas about this and you have to be there.”
This is in Spanish, and in the dialect of Guantanamo, so Lorna cannot follow it. But now the mother turns her eye upon Lorna and says in English, “And bring her too.”
She sails off to greet some favored patrons. Lorna says, “Bring me where?”
Paz explains about the Wilson connection to Santeria, and who Ignacio Hoffmann is, and his connection to the case, and what abembe is and how his mother has him over a barrel here, because all the leads have run out and Hoffmann, if he can get to him, is the last link, the last person who might know why someone like Jack Wilson would have been interested in killing a Sudanese in the oil business.
“And why does your mom want me to come?”
“Why does my mom want anything? I don’t try to figure her out anymore. But it might be interesting, part of the tour de wacky superstition I seem to be taking you on.”
“This is like voodoo, right?”
“Not exactly. My mother, you should know, is a big deal in Santeria.”
“What does she do?”
“She gets help from the spirits,” says Paz, “and gets ridden by thesantos when they come down to earth.” There is an astonished pause.
“You believe this?”
Paz shrugs. “No, but I’ve seen weird stuff happen.” Lorna senses his discomfort and declines to press him further.
They arrive in front of Lorna’s house. Paz asks her if he should pick her up later.
“For the voodoo jamboree? I’m game. Why not? Will they foretell my future?”
“Maybe. I’ve never been to one of these either, so what do I know?”
“Really? So we’ll lose our Santeria cherries together.”
“Yeah. Okay, I’ll pick you up around eight. Will you be all right?”
“I’m fine, Jimmy,” she says. “Can you come in?”
“No, I got to get back and follow up on some things.”
“That’s a shame,” she says and leans over to kiss him.
Paz thinks it would be a simple good-bye deal, but it is not. She grabs his head and plants her open mouth on his. Steam is generated, his tongue receives a fine chewing, she hikes up her skirt and throws a thigh into his lap. He feels her smoking crotch grind against his leg.
After some time, he feels obliged to pull away and looks at her. Her pupils are unnaturally huge, nearly erasing their blue surround. “Jesus, Lorna,” he says, croaking a little, “give me a break here. I’ll have to change my shorts.” Her mouth now attacks his neck with small bites.
“Stop, Lorna,” he insists, feeling stupid, and moves her firmly away. He examines her face. If he didn’t know she was sober he would have said she was drunk. She sags back in the passenger seat and lets out a long sigh. After that she opens the door and walks slowly down her walk, and he notices there is something off about her stride, it’s too slow and uncertain. He feels crappy about leaving her, but he has to go back to police headquarters. “I’ll call you,” he cries out, but she doesn’t respond.
Paz saw the envelope sitting on his desk as soon as he entered the squad bay, a plain eight-and-a-half-
by-eleven manila with no markings on it. He opened it and slid the contents out onto his desk.
“Anybody see who left this here?” he called in a loud voice. The other four detectives looked up but none of them responded. “Nobody saw who left this here?” Apparently not. “Jesus Christ!” Paz exclaimed. “This is a restricted area. You only get in here with a fucking card. Somebody with access must have brought this in.”
More blank looks. A detective named O’Connell said, “What is it, Jimmy? Kiddie porn?” Paz stared at his colleagues and got hostile stares back, or nasty smirks.
He grabbed the envelope and its contents and stalked out of the bay, heading for Major Oliphant’s office.
