Department. He looked up from his nearly empty plate and nodded at Paz, indicating the seat opposite.
Paz sat and said, “You had the prawns.”
“I did. I’m almost ready to say you’re more valuable to humanity and the city cooking this stuff than you are catching murderers. Terrific food, Jimmy.”
“Thank you. The answer is still no.”
“You don’t know the question yet.”
“I bet I do. Tito was by the other day. You want me to advise on this big shot who got eaten up by the invisible voodoo tiger.”
A tight smile from Oliphant. “That would be nice. It would be a civic gesture and appreciated by all your friends in the Cuban community, especially in light of recent events.”
“Such as?”
“Last night the home of a man named Cayo D. Garza, a Cuban-American banker, was vandalized. His front door was clawed to ribbons and deposits of feces were left on his front walk. On examination, these feces proved to be that of a jaguar. According to the zoo. Our crime scene people don’t have much expertise with jaguar shit. It’s not something that comes up a lot. We took a look around his yard, and we found big-cat paw prints, not unlike the paw prints found at Fuentes’s place.”
“The partially devoured Fuentes.”
“Him. So we’re now real interested, and when Tito looks at the known associates of Mr. Garza, what does he find? The late Antonio Fuentes. And upon further investigation of the K.A.s of Fuentes and Garza, we find Felipe Ibanez, an import-export fellow, and guess what? He had exactly the same vandalism two nights ago, although he thought so little of it that he declined to report it to the police. He was having someone replace his door when the Miami Beach cops showed up, and he’d already flushed the jaguar poo-poo, but we found paw prints there, too. They’re both out on Fisher Island, big estate-type places. Now, it seems that Fuentes, Garza, and Ibanez were partners in a venture, because when we ran their names through county business records, we found a little d.b.a. they set up last year called Consuela Holdings, LLC. Four equal partners. The fourth guy is Juan X. Calderon. You know him?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because when I said his name, your face jumped.”
Paz shrugged. “He’s a mover and shaker in the Cuban community. Yoiyo Calderon. Everyone knows who he is.”
“What’s he like?”
“Ask Tito. He’s Cuban, too.”
“I’m asking you.”
“I’m the wrong guy. People like Yoiyo don’t associate with people like me.”
“He never eats here?”
“Never.”
“That was a very definite statement. You know what he looks like, then?”
Paz was about to say something angry but checked himself and grinned at his former boss. “Hey, that was pretty good. Interrogated in my own restaurant. Very classy, Major. Maybe we’ll put it on the menu.”
Oliphant allowed himself a tight grin. “Just a couple of old comrades shooting the shit.” He popped a yuca chip into his mouth and crunched. “Come on, Jimmy. Help me out here. These are big shots we’re talking about, and I’m getting incredible pressure from the pols on this Fuentes thing. If it’s some kind of Cubano vendetta I need to know about it. Especially the weird aspects…”
“Uh-uh. What, you suddenly have a dearth of Cubans in the P.D.? I’m the only one you can think of to ask?”
“I did ask. I’m getting mixed messages, shifty looks. Everybody’s got a second cousin works for these guys, and I get the feeling the Consuela trio are all informed about the investigation before I am. Which is why I came to see you. And I’m still getting shifty looks.”
Paz help up his arm and pulled back the sleeve of his tunic. “Look, man, you see the color of my skin? The kind of Cubans we’re talking about only want to see that color in the kitchen, or carrying a plate. They don’t hang with me or mine and tell me their secrets.”
“But you know Calderon.”
“To look at. I wouldn’t say I know him.”
“But he doesn’t eat here. I thought this was the best Cuban restaurant in Miami. What, he doesn’t eat out? He only likes Chinese?”
“Him and my mom had business dealings years ago. They had a falling-out. That’s the story.”
“What kind of dealings?”
“I don’t know the details. You could ask her.”
“Uh-huh. So what’s the book on Mr. Calderon? The reason I’m asking is we got a murder and two acts of what you have to call threatening vandalism against three out of four partners in a venture, of which Calderon is number four. We had someone call at the Calderon place. He claims he had no scratches, no cat prints, no jaguar shit, although his home sports a brand-new front door. I have to think it’s connected, a business thing. So…Juan Calderon. Good guy, bad guy, maybe capable of violence…?”
“Okay, Major, since you press me: he’s a typical gusano piece of shit. Him and his father came over with a pile of cash in the first wave and bought into a lot of businesses, and made another shitload putting money out on the street to Cuban entrepreneurs. Then he got into development and made a third shitload, which is what he does now. Capable of violence? Probably, as long as it wasn’t traceable back to him, or if he had a bad day he might kick a servant. But if you asked me would he murder his partner and eat a couple of chunks off him, or order it done, I’d say no. It’s not their style.”
Oliphant opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment Amelia, a sheaf of menus clutched to her chest, came by with a party of four and seated them at a nearby table. After she was done, she stopped in front of Oliphant.
“Is everything all right, sir?” she asked.
“Everything is just fine, miss,” said Oliphant, with a beaming expression on his face that Paz could not recall seeing there before.
“Except,” said Paz, “I would like a little girl to sit on my lap.”
“Daddy, I’m working,” she said severely. And to Oliphant, “May I send the waiter by with a dessert menu?”
“No, thank you,” said Oliphant. “You know I used to have a little girl who sat onmy lap. It was better than dessert.”
“What happened to her?” asked Amelia.
“She grew up and moved away.”
Amelia took this in without comment, said, “I’ll bring your check,” and departed.
Oliphant laughed and shook his head. “That’s not cute or anything.”
“She’s not bad. I was about that age myself when I started in the business. Probably illegal as hell, but you’re not going to tell the cops. Look, Major…”
“You need to call me Doug. You don’t work for me anymore.”
“Doug. I wish I could help, but, honestly, I’m out of the loop with that crowd.”
“Okay,” said Oliphant. “But if you think of anything, you’ll let someone know, okay?” His tone and expression made it perfectly obvious, in a nice way, that he knew Paz was holding something back.
The three surviving partners of the Consuela company lunched in the Bankers’ Club that day as they did nearly every Wednesday. People expected to see them there, men in fine suits, and a few women stopped to speak, to smile, to touch hands, but it was difficult to tell whether this was a kind of grooming behavior, acknowledging membership in the pack, or the first probing tugs of the jackal at the belly of a dying animal. A little of both, was Yoiyo Calderon’s thought as he smiled back and extended his hand. He did not like the way Ibanez looked: old and tired and frightened. Even Garza, who normally presented the slick and predatory face of a cruising shark to the observing world, appeared pasty, his movements lacking their accustomed vitality. He encouraged them to order a
