The Consummata

“Ah,” Saladar said, and nodded, accepting that wisdom.

Pedro and Maria had slightly shell-shocked expressions at all this talk of murder and betrayal.

“Anyway,” I said, “I like Bunny. I believe her, even if she did try to have me killed a couple times, a long while back.”

Once again, they all looked at each other, and tried not to let me know just how crazy they thought their gringo guest sounded.

Finally Pedro asked, “This one you killed—”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“Pardon, senor?”

“He fell on his own knife.”

“...Yes, I understand. He will not be traced to...to what happened here so recently?” His expression turned woeful, if slightly apologetic. “The militia, they suspect of us of aiding you, senor.”

“The hitman had no identification on him. It’s true I dumped him in Little Havana, but you’re hardly the only Cubans here.”

Pedro nodded, sighed, then asked, “What will you do now?”

“Just give it a little time,” I said, grinning. “You can’t taste the flavor of the stew until it cooks a while.”

Maria nodded, agreeing with that advice in general.

Saladar said, “How else may we be of help in your effort?”

“You can start by telling me something.”

“Certainly.”

“Jaimie Halaquez was a double agent, you said. Who were his contacts in Cuba?”

Saladar shook his head. “That information our amigo Jaimie never shared with us. He said that the less we knew, the safer we were—of course, he meant the safer he was.”

Pedro perked up. “But one time he did mention a name. I remember because it was the kind of name you do not forget—Angel Vesta. He seemed unhappy with himself that he had made this...what do you say? This slip, and never mentioned it again.”

I turned to Saladar. “What does that name mean to you, Luis?”

Saladar gave it a few seconds thought, then said, tentatively, “It might be the one called ‘The Angel,’ who was at times used to dispatch Castro’s enemies. But that is not an uncommon name in Cuba, Senor Morgan—Angelo.”

“Do you know what this Angel looks like?”

“I do, senor. I know also that he is equally adept with the gun and the blade.”

I thought about that.

Then I said, “Luis, how would you like to take a walk?”

“Well...uh, certainly, senor. You have somewhere in mind?”

“Yeah, I do.” I pushed away from the table. “Pedro, Maria, please stay here...and thank you for your hospitality.”

Pedro said, “Would you like to stay tonight, senor, in the secret place off our bedroom?”

Eyes tight, Saladar said, “It might be wise, Senor Morgan. My sources say that this Crowley has distributed your picture to every hotel in Miami.”

A little slow off the dime, old Crowley.

“Thank you, Pedro. Thank you, Maria. But I won’t place you any further in harm’s way tonight than I already have.”

Pedro looked slightly forlorn. Or maybe it was just the droopy mustache. He said, “What else may we do to help your cause?”

Funny way to put it, since I was helping their cause.

I took one last sip of coffee, put the cup down on the table and stood up. “You can keep your people alerted for Halaquez. Somebody should know what charter boats wouldn’t mind hiring out for a night trip to Cuba, if the price was right, and the same thing for private aircraft rentals. Make sure anyone you call upon can identify Halaquez by sight, and if he’s spotted, they’re not to try to take him alone. I’ll be in touch.”

Saladar and I were on our way out when Pedro stopped us, a hand on my arm.

“Senor Morgan,” Pedro said hesitantly, “as much as we are honored by your company...and would gladly offer you shelter tonight...it is best you not risk visiting here again. I will give you my phone number and—”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll call in. No more dropping by. Jaimie Halaquez isn’t the only one with a price on his head.”

Ten minutes later, Luis Saladar and I were in Domino Park, in the shadows of tall palms that hovered as if eavesdropping.

The park remained deserted, the streets nearby light with traffic, both pedestrian and automotive. I walked the distinguished Cuban freedom fighter to just the right bush, held it back, and gave him a look.

Perhaps out of respect for the dead—any dead—he removed his ivory-color plantation owner’s hat, then crouched, took a lingering examination, then turned his head and nodded.

Rising, he said, “That is the Angel, senor.”

“Angel or not, I don’t figure he’s flying upward tonight.”

“No. I would doubt this myself.”

We moved away to the sidewalk and strolled slowly.

“Luis, did you have any idea this character was in the States?”

“No. None.”

“What does his being here suggest?”

His eyes flared. “Only that what you said before makes sense, Senor Morgan—that this must be more important than just the seventy-five thousand dollars that was stolen from my people.”

We walked toward where I had parked Bunny’s station wagon.

I asked him, “Is there any way you can run a check on who else Halaquez dealt with back home?”

His expression turned grave. “Not without risking getting our own people in difficulty. I can try, senor, but I could not press hard for results, this I admit freely.”

“Then try your best.”

“Very well, senor.”

He tipped his hat and walked off toward the sounds of Latin music and laughter.

Not that goddamn good with a gun and blade, I thought.

Muddy Harris met me in a diner on lower Biscayne Boulevard. He was red-eyed and mussed, his clothes baggier than ever, and when he sat down in the booth opposite me, he made a grimace of disgust and called over for a coffee and pie.

I passed on coffee—I was still buzzed on that Cuban stuff I got at Pedro and Maria’s. Sweetened Southern- style iced tea was my excuse for taking up booth space.

“You do know, I haven’t hardly slept since you come around, Morgan?”

“Tough.”

“Sure, slough it off...you don’t have anything to lose.”

“Just my ass.”

He patted his comb-over and his fleshy face made his fold of a smile. “Hell, it’s been like that so long with you that you’re used to it. Me, I got a business to run. I got mouths to feed.”

“And secrets you don’t want the cops to know. That’s why I got Kirk to alert you in the first place. You live in the same damn limbo world I do.”

“No argument there.”

“So turn off the self-pity machine. You know I’ll take care of you—you’ll wind up with a slice of any action.”

He let a tobacco-stained grin show through his day-old beard. “Okay, Morgan, okay.”