“What if he strengthens the groups who are going about it in the wrong ways, in ways that merely help rather than hinder.”
“But that would mean he…”
“He is a grotesque. He loves intrigue. Maybe he hates his own class, and particularly himself. Maybe he hides behind this facade of… political gullibility and this collection of erotica. Maybe he is not quite sane.”
“For goodness sake, he is just Calvin Tomberlin, a dull, self-important, rich, silly, sick little man.”
“I don’t like wasting time with these questions, but I have to ask them. Was Rafael Mineros doing anything effective about the Cuban situation?”
In the shadowy reflections of the pool lights, she looked startled.
“He asked me to come in with them. Maybe I was too selfish. Maybe I didn’t have his dedication. He had organized a group of wealthy people, about half of them from Cuba and the others from sensitive areas, Guatemala, Venezuela, Panama. They formed a syndicate to try to stifle trade with Cuba. They weren’t working through governments, with sanctions and embargos and things like that. They were dealing directly with the businessmen in Japan and Greece and Canada, the ones who wanted to buy from Cuba and sell to Cuba. They would line up other sources and other markets, and then put in enough money to make the deal more attractive than if they’d dealt with Cuba.
“It was his idea that if they could hasten the economic collapse of Cuba, they would be hastening the fall of the Castro government. He showed me where they could prove they had stopped forty-three ships from taking cargoes to Cuba and bringing Cuban goods out, just by locating other deals elsewhere. I guess it wasn’t very dramatic and exciting, like buying little airplanes and hiring madmen to drop little bombs on refineries, but I imagine it is dull negotiations like that which do a lot more damage. Rafael was completely tireless and dedicated. I think he was flying a million miles a year. It is probably all falling apart now. It was an expensive project. His son Enrique and Manuel Talavera were his aides, and Maria Talavera did a lot of the office work. Now they are all gone.”
I took her by the upper arms and shook her. “Now listen to me. Listen to two things. Make it three things. One. Tomberlin had that group killed. And then he had the people killed who had killed them. He used his collector’s mania as window dressing. Two. I told you precisely the plan Tomberlin has in mind far you. Three. In one of the bedrooms of this house there are two very dead people right now, dead by violence, and this whole situation may blow up in our face at any moment. But there is too damned good a chance that Tomberlin can cover the whole thing up. He has too many personal pictures of too many people in his files. His big levers are money and blackmail. I didn’t want to get you too involved. But now there isn’t much choice. You can still say the hell with it. Or you can help. It depends on how much any of this means to you.”
She huddled her big shoulders. “I… I’ve never been what you would call a p-patriot. But the way they think about my family… that’s a precious thing. And… Rafael was a good man. What do you want of me?”
“Let’s get him back into that museum.”
“How?”
“Be a little drunk. Tell him you want your picture taken. Tell him it has to be with me, and it has to be now, before you change your mind.”
“What are you going to do?”
“You said that layout is built like a safe. Nobody is going to get in and upset anything. Let’s see what happens.”
Nineteen
IT TOOK her about fifteen minutes to set it up. The party was now visibly dwindling. Tiresome drunks were in the majority of the diehards still left. I noted with approval that when we went in, Tomberlin locked the heavy door. Connie was doing a good job of simulating a constant high foolish giggle. I was unsteady on my feet, and wore a vacant, lecherous, fish-eating grin. Tomberlin was very soothing, and kept turning a quick broad smile off and on as though he were hooked up to a repeating circuit.
He took us back through a library to a small studio. There was a shiny jungle of lighting equipment. A technician was fiddling around with cameras. I had not anticipated his presence. He was a little old fellow, a mixture of oriental blood lines, part Japanese.
“As I explained, my dear, you will have absolute privacy.” Tomberlin said. “I wouldn’t want you to feel too restrained. Charlie will get the cameras set up and then we’ll leave you alone.”
The equipment was interesting. There were three 35 millimeter Nikon cameras, still cameras with automatic drive and oversized film carriers. One was locked to a track directly over the low broad couch, aiming down. One was on a high sturdy tripod at the foot of the couch, slanted down. One was on a low tripod beside the couch.
Charlie led the drive cables over to jacks in a timer box. He adjusted lights, one a direct flood, but softened and diffused, and the other a bright bounce light from the white ceiling. Charlie turned the timer on. One camera clopped, and after about six seconds another one clopped and buzzed, and at the same interval the third one fired. Charlie turned the timer off and nodded.
“The film will last about fifty minutes, dears,” Tomberlin said, wiping his pale lips on the back of his hand. “Do try not to be too dull and ordinary.”
“What are you going to do with these pictures, Cal?”
“Darling, it’s just a fun game, that’s all. We can go over the contact sheets together and see what we have worth enlarging. I’ll give you all the negatives. You’ll have some very interesting souvenirs, Connie dear. The lady in her prime. Don’t be too quick dears, and waste all that film.”
“Is anybody likely to walk in?” she asked.
“There’s not the slightest chance.”
“Where will you be?”
“I might rejoin the party and come back in an hour.”
I rambled over to the timer box and turned the switch on. The little old fellow hissed at me and slapped my hand away and turned it off. I’d wasted one exposure.
“Please don’t touch the equipment,” Tomberlin said.
I went grinning over to where he stood. Bashful guy. The old Hank Fonda in a farm picture. Shucks. I studied my fingernails, head bent, and said, “There’s one thing about all this, Mister Tomberlin.”
“Yes?”
I pivoted a half turn. I had screwed my legs down into the floor, and I pivoted with thighs, back, shoulder and arm, to see if I could drive my fist all the way through softness above his belt, right back to the backbone. The wind yawffed out of him and he skidded backward, bowing low, spilling tripod and camera, hitting the couch with the back of his knees, rolling up into a kind of curled headstand on the couch before toppling over onto his side.
Even though I started moving the instant I hit him, I still almost missed the old man. He had the speed of a lizard. I got him by the back of the collar just as he went through the doorway and hauled him back. He began to jump up and down and whoop and bat at me with his hands. He was too hysterical to listen to anything. I held him at arm’s length, got the length of pipe, timed his leaps, and with due regard for the long fragile look of his skull, bumped him solidly right on top of the head. His eyes rolled out of sight and I lowered him to the floor. I don’t think he weighed a hundred and ten. Within moments he was snoring heartily. They do that quite often.
Connie stepped out of my way as I went over to the couch. Tomberlin was on his side, his color dreadful, knees against his chest, semi-conscious, moaning softly with each breath. I shook him and said, “Greetings from Almah. And Sam. And Miguel. Rafael, Enrique, Maria, Manueh Greetings from the whole group. Dru is dead too. And so is Boody.”
“Boody!” Connie gasped. “Claude Boody?”
“World traveler.”
I shook Tomberlin but I couldn’t get through to him. I’d given him too much. He was going to be out of touch for a long time. I tore one of the cables loose and wrapped him up. I wondered if I should stuff his mouth. The black toupee peeled off with a sticky sound and I wedged it into his jaws. It muffled his moans. Connie stared at me with a wide and horrified grin, wringing her big hands.