She jumped up, jiggling exquisitely; he led her a few paces away. She was perfectly amenable to the plan, seemed almost to have anticipated the request. She had, of course, a vast experience minding young children, often under difficult circumstances. The money he offered was fine. Her medical condition would not be a problem, she said.
“You’re on medication, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
This was a lie, he detected, but he let it pass. When Amelia was informed of the arrangement, she howled and leaped for joy.
Paz returned to his lounger on the patio, sipped his cooling coffee and read the newspaper without much interest. The lead story concerned the destruction of the S-9, a pumping station north of Miami, by a powerful bomb. An organization that called itself the Earth People’s Army had claimed credit, although this was not entirely accepted by the authorities. An editorial suggested the fell hand of Al Qaeda or even more shadowy groups, striking at American prosperity by flooding prime Florida real estate. In a statement published in the paper, this putative organization threatened to bring down industrial society unless the Everglades was restored to its pristine condition and a host of other environmental cures instantly adopted. Wishing the evil ones the best of luck, he tossed the paper aside and drifted into the Florida room, where he watched a golf tournament, an old sitcom, a shopping show, a county commission meeting, and a tour of the French wine country by balloon, each for around two minutes, after which he muted the sound and put in a call to Tito Morales.
“Is this going to mess you up?” Paz asked after informing the detective that he would be unavailable for a number of days and required round-the-clock security for his family. He did not specify his destination. Morales said, “You’re worried about the Indian?”
“Yeah, a little. That’s why I need to be away for a while.”
“I’m not going to ask where. You think a couple of cops are going to stop him?”
“Not really, but what the fuck can I do? I just have to hope I’ll be able to do what I need to do in time. Meanwhile there’s the Colombians. They still might have an interest in the Simpson girl. How’s the case against them going?”
“Oh, the case. Forget the case, man. The case is officially solved. All units are on the lookout for one homicidal Indian. The county is satisfied, we’re satisfied, and we’re on to newer and greater adventures. You heard about our terrorist?”
“Just what I read in the paper.”
“Oh, well, you can imagine. The feds are no longer interested in Colombian drug lords. Everyone could care less if Cuban guapos get their livers eaten, and as far as those two narco thugs in the garage are concerned, they’re making a medal, whoever did it. Meanwhile, every swinging dick, fed, county, and local, is now on full terror alert. Leaves canceled, automatic weapons issued-it’s a total zoo.”
“For a pump?”
“See, you say that because you’re not hydrologically aware. Miami is a fucking swamp. These bastards blow a few more pumps, and should we happen to get a couple fucking hurricanes this year, they’ll be fishing for marlin on Flagler Street. The major said to thank you for your invaluable help, by the way. They might make you a plaque.” Paz heard noises in the background, voices and car engines. “Hey, I got to go, man,” Morales said. “Catch you later.”
Paz had been about to tell Morales that there was at least one man in town with a connection to the environmental movement who had a professional skill with bombs, but the moment passed. Let them figure it out. Paz had a boat, after all, and he thought it might be kind of cool to fish on the drowned avenues of downtown. Besides, he wanted to talk to Cooksey himself, on this and other matters. But not today. His week was spoken for. He went back to the lounger and let his mind go blank, listening to birdsong and his child’s laughter until he heard the sound of his mother’s car in the driveway.
Jenny felt a certain relief when the man left. He had a way of looking at her, a sharp look that she associated with street cops, as if he knew stuff about her she didn’t want out in the open. Cooksey had a sharp look, too, but that was different, like he was seeing something in her that she didn’t know was there and it would be a good thing if she learned about it. She missed Cooksey a little, but her life had rendered her nearly immune to missing anyone very badly. Perhaps she missed the fish a little more.
The child was getting wrinkly from the water, so Jenny got her out of the pool, dried and dressed, contemplating the clothes in her wardrobe with wonder. She supposed all of them had been bought new. She herself had never had new clothes as a child, but such was the sweetness of her nature that she bore the present child no resentment. She felt sorry for her, actually, without quite knowing why. A small puzzle here, nagging.
The day progressed pleasantly enough. She called Cooksey and told him more or less what had transpired since she had left La Casita with Kevin, including her rescue by Moie, but omitting the details. She said she thought she’d stay at the Paz house for a while. They seemed to need her. Cooksey made no objection; he was delighted to learn she was safe.
Then she made lunch for the girl, tuna fish sandwiches, from the can, following the child’s instruction so that the sandwich would resemble in every detail those made by her father, the toast just so, the crusts removed, the chocolate milk in the special glass. Jenny followed these diktats amiably, delighting in a child who had confidence enough to order an adult around. She had never seen anything like it while growing up.
After lunch she cleaned the kitchen with quick efficiency and then went through the house with the child in tow, making a game of neatening, dusting, mopping, picking up toys and strewn luxuries. She didn’t think much of the mother’s housekeeping, but she figured that was to be expected from a doctor. Cooksey was a slob, too. The child informed her that no one was allowed in Mom’s office when she wasn’t around, and Jenny acquiesced in this.
They watched DVDs,The Lion King and The Little Mermaid, with the child telling Jenny what was going to happen next and singing along with the songs. The Disney music was not able, however, to drive from her head the song that had been circulating around in there for a whole day now, maybe longer, an ancient Pink Floyd number, “Brain Damage.” An older kid in one of her foster homes was always playing it. She hadn’t thought about it for years but now could not get it out of her head:
You lock the door
And throw away the key
There’s someone in my head but it’s not me.
There was someone in her head that wasn’t her, a presence, unobtrusive, silent, but unquestionably there, like someone staring at you in a crowded restaurant, but staring from the inside. She was not afraid, however, and this in itself was startling. After all that had gone down recently-Kevin getting his brains blown out all over her lap, being kidnapped and tied up naked, and what she’d seen in the garage-she should be a nervous wreck. I should be a nervous wreck, she said to herself, but I’m not. I feel fine, like I just smoked a huge spliff of primo dope, just kind of floating in the middle of life, like a fish, or this Little Mermaid on the TV. She thought it might have something to do with visiting the land of the dead with Moie. Maybe she had left all fear there. Anyway, it was cool, in a way, like being an X-man with secret powers. She settled back on the cushions and watched the movie, humming softly to herself.
Amelia dozed off toward the end of the film. Jenny watched the rest of it and then, driven by some unsettling energy, polished all the furniture that would take a polish and cleaned all the windows she could reach, with newspaper and vinegar. Then she began to assemble a meal. Invisible and indispensable, the two wings of her life strategy, her default mode. She slipped into it without thought, like a gecko going leaf-green on a leaf.
Thus when Lola came home (noting as she did so the Miami PD car with two cops in it across the street) she was presented with a working mother’s wet dream of a helper: she cleans, she cooks, she’s live-in, she’s dirt cheap, the child adores her, she’s sweet-natured, if a bit blank, she’s not a guilt-making member of the hitherto exploited races, the opposite really, a guilt-lessening member of the handicapped. True, Jenny might be involved with a murderous Colombian mob, and vicious killers might at that very moment be stalking her family (with her wacko husband off at some voodoo party instead of protecting his dear ones, the rat), but on the other hand, you could actually see through the windows, and the floors did not stick to one’s bare feet in that disgusting way, and here prepared from food already in the house a delicious crabmeat salad and actual warm biscuits thats he baked from scratch herself, this alone worth defying the entire Cali cartel, enough even to forgive her husband.
