O'Farrell's Law

“But what are you going to do in Paris!”

“Nothing,” Rivera said. “Just sit back and enjoy myself.”

“When?” she demanded.

So far her reaction had not been quite what he’d expected. He said, “I haven’t worked out definite dates. But soon; quite soon.”

“Oh,” Henrietta said.

The tone was empty, and small though it was, it amounted to the first sound of sadness. Rivera said, “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“You don’t sound very upset.”

Henrietta offered her glass to be refilled. “Give me a chance, darling! It’s something I never expected. I thought we’d go on … oh, I don’t know … I mean. I didn’t imagine it ending.”

“Has it got to end?”

Henrietta looked steadily at him over the top of the glass he returned to her, then smiled coquettishly. “No reason at all!” she agreed brightly. “Paris is only an hour away by plane, after all!”

“I wasn’t thinking of your commuting.”

The smile went but the direct look remained. “I’m not going to guess what that means,” she said. “I’m going to sit here and listen to you tell me.”

“I want you to come to Paris with me.” Rivera blurted finally. He’d not meant it to be as clumsy as this; he was stumbling about like an awkward schoolboy.

For a long time Henrietta remained staring at him, as if she expected him to say mote. When he didn’t, she looked away, around the room, as if she were inspecting what he was suggesting she give up. “Divorce William? Marry you, d’you mean?”

“Yes.”

She sniggered, at once clamping her mouth shut, her free hand to her face. “Oh darling!” she said. “Oh my darling!”

The word was right but the tone was wrong; it was more sympathetic than loving. “What?” he said.

“We don’t marry, people like you and me. Not each other. We marry other, nice people. And cheat on our wedding night, because it’s fun. I couldn’t marry you! I’d never be able to trust you and you’d never be able to trust me. It would be a disaster. What goes on here—or doesn’t go on—between William and me is unimportant, to both of us. I’ve got respect as his wife. I get invited to Downing Street to dine with the prime minister … to Buckingham Palace. You’re asking me to abandon all that…!”

Rivera regarded her with astonishment for a few unguarded moments and then hopefully concealed it. He’d never imagined, ever, that Henrietta would reject him! It was inconceivable; it still was, despite her arrogant, spoiled words. Every consideration had always been when, not if. Rivera felt foolish, abjectly foolish; he recalled her giggled outburst—Oh darling, oh my darling—and realized she had been laughing at him. Actually laughing! At him, Jose Gaviria Rivera! As she must have laughed before, when he didn’t know she was doing so. Those at the dinner table tonight had doubtless laughed at him, knowing his function. A gigolo. He would have been perfect for the jokes, ideally qualified according to the tradition. A Latin, tango-dancing gigolo. Had she seen his brief, honest reaction to her dismissal? He hoped not—worried now about later jokes, among her friends—but it was too late. Only one thing mattered now. Getting out with as much dignity as possible. He tried an uncaring laugh, not sure if he fully succeeded, and said, “Of course I’m not asking you to abandon all that, not if it’s important. I just thought I’d give you the chance.…” Striving for lightness, he added, “It might have been a different sort of fun, for a while.”

“That’s just it, my darling: for a while. But where would we go from there?”

You could go to a whorehouse, where you’re naturally suited, thought Rivera. He didn’t try to laugh again but he smiled and said, “But you’re right; Paris is only an hour away.” It wouldn’t be much of a victory, but he was trying to grab what he could and he’d enjoy turning her down when she suggested coming. And she would call, he knew. Flying to Paris for an assignation would be exciting to Henrietta—fun, like traveling with armed bodyguards.

In immediate confirmation Henrietta said, “I’d like that! And we’ll have all the time in the world, won’t we?”

Where was his dignified exit line? “Nothing to do except have fun!” he said. The bitch, he thought, in a fresh flush of rage, treating him like a gigolo!

“On the subject of fun,” said Henrietta, coquettish again. “Is this a late-night-drinks party or do we fuck?”

This was the moment, Rivera thought, the moment to dismiss her and haughtily walk out. And then he paused. That would be turned into another joke, if he did. The poor darling was so crushed that he scuttled away with his tail—or maybe it was his prick— between his legs. He hoped she’d realize later he’d treated her like the whore she was, for that one last time. “We fuck,” he said.

The City of Athens, upon which the tanks and the Stinger missiles had supposedly been loaded in San Diego, together with acceptable End-User Certificates naming France as their destination, was a rusting, engine-strained hulk of a freighter chartered by Belac because it was cheap and because he had gained $40,000 on the budgeted transportation costs. A day after sailing, one of the turbines failed, and the freighter put into Manzillo for makeshift repairs. It was there that the master received the expected instructions from Havana, rerouting the tanks direct to Angola. By return, the captain advised Havana of his engine troubles and warned of a delay.

It took a further four days for the City of Athens to cover the comparatively short distance to Balboa, almost at the mouth of the Panama Canal, and there the engines failed again. This time Havana cabled that the City of Athens should not attempt the Atlantic voyage.

It should make for Cuba.

A message advising Rivera of the unexpected detour was sent that night from Havana.

TWENTY-EIGHT

O’FARRHLL HAD no idea how long everything would take, so he called Petty on the man’s outside, insecure line and said he was being held in Chicago on family business for a few days; all the bookkeeping was up to date and there was nothing outstanding. Petty said he appreciated being told and solicitously asked if there were anything he could do. O’Farrell said he didn’t think so.

O’Farrell went to see McMasters on the second day. Billy’s description had rung some bells with people in the narcotics division. There was a blank on anyone named Rick, but there was a rap sheet for narcotics dealing on a Felipe Lopez Portillo, who was known to drive a Toyota. He was gay, so Rick was probably the current lover; Felipe got them through their drug dependence and could always take his pick. Boxer had been identified. There were two possession and three supplying convictions against a Rene Ibanez. He’d fought flyweight and briefly been considered a Golden Gloves contender in his class. He’d started living the good life before the good live arrived and had screwed up: he’d fought so badly in his last official fight that there’d been a drug test that had proven positive and he had lost his license. He still fought sometimes on the fifty-dollar-a-night circuit, so he kept himself in shape; particularly by bicycling on a racing machine. And he had a red rose tattooed on the middle finger of his left hand.

“Portillo?” O’Farrell asked. “Ibanez? What nationalities?”

“Portillo’s Colombian. Ibanez is Cuban-American.”

O’Farrell waited to feel something, but nothing came. The anger—the forbidden emotion—of that first night had gone now, and he knew although he had an identification he wouldn’t go seeking them, tonight or any other night. It was still difficult to believe that he’d done that, someone with his supposed control. He said, “You going to