“What sort of ‘other ways’?” she asked.
“Many other ways,” Rizzo said.
Rizzo’s friend reached into his jacket and piled another three hundred Euros on the table.
“And that’s just for listening,” he said. “Okay, Mimi?”
She smiled. “I’m all ears,” she said, picking up the money and pocketing it. “This sounds like a blast!”
FIFTY-EIGHT
Alex liked to walk in New York, watching the neighborhoods change as she moved briskly at a pace with Manhattan. She found herself at Central Park South within half an hour of leaving her apartment. Sam Deal was seated outside on a terrace at the Café de la Paix.
Alex recognized Sam from a description Mr. Collins had given. He was a tall, thick man, gray-haired, pale-faced, with a neat moustache. He wore violet-hued wraparound sunglasses that looked far too young for him. The shades were more Brad Pitt than Tom Clancy, and Sam was definitely more of the latter than the former.
Alex studied Sam as she approached. He was glancing at his watch. Then he turned toward her, and his eyes settled, wandering up and down. His glasses were low across a nose that looked as if it had been broken more than once. His hands were on the table, unmoving, not far from a drink and a pack of smokes. A copy of the New York Daily News was open in front of him, and Sam appeared to have been immersed in the sports section, soaking up the previous evening’s boxing at Sunnyside Garden, a card of Irish and Italians against Puerto Ricans and Mexicans.
She approached him. “I’m Alex LaDuca.”
“Ah,” he said. “Good. Great.”
Sam stood. He extended a big raw hand and shook hers. “I’m Sam Deal,” he said. “Call me Sam. That’s what my parents called me.”
Alex sat down and ordered a sparkling water. From the get-go, as she sipped her drink, she didn’t like Sam. He looked and sounded like the kind of guy who, as a kid, would have stolen other kids’ lunch money in third grade.
“So you’re going to South America, huh? For Mr. Collins?” he asked at length.
“That’s right. Venezuela. If I take the assignment.”
“What did you say your name was?”
She gave it again.
“You any relation to the former Mets catcher, Paul LoDuca?”
“That’s my husband,” she said.
“The ballplayer ain’t married,” he answered.
“That’s right. LoDuca and LaDuca. It’s spelled different. No relation at all, but I like the player. Outstanding catcher, dependable hitter.”
Sam laughed. “I’m impressed. You got some sass to you.”
“Thanks.”
“And you work for Mr. Collins?”
“That’s correct. For Mr. Collins.”
“Well, that’s a great thing too,” he said. “We both work for him. So I better be polite to you and tell you what I know. Tell me, you interested in coming back from this assignment alive?”
The question took her completely off guard. “I was hoping to,” she answered.
“Well, good start,” he said. “See, I got this attitude toward Latin America. My feeling is we should blow up Cuba and stuff it into the Panama Canal. How’s that?”
“Write to your senator and suggest it.”
“Well, no matter,” he said. “Look, let’s get out of here, and Sam will tell you everything you need to know. Shouldn’t take more than thirty minutes. Let’s walk.”
Sam downed a full gin and tonic and popped a straw hat on his head that reminded Alex of The Buena Vista Social Club. On the hat was a football booster’s pin that Sam was quick to explain without being asked.
SEC. Ole Miss.
Sam’s boy played football, he explained. “He’s a big dumb kid but he’s a great linebacker,” Sam said. “Got a shot at the pros.”
“Congratulations.”
Sam said he was planning to get down to Oxford, Mississippi, for all the home games.
They crossed the street and were about to enter Central Park. “Hey. Let’s do this.” He pointed at the stand of horse-drawn carriages. “I’ve always wanted to do this with a pretty lady. Let’s go for a ride and we’ll talk.”
He hailed the first carriage in line along the north side of Central Park South. Alex nodded. Sam addressed the driver in Spanish, and the driver was pleased to reciprocate.
Sam offered her a hand to help her. She accepted it out of courtesy, not need. She stepped up into the carriage, and she caught Sam eyeing her legs for half a second.
Okay, a carriage ride in Central Park. She had never done this. For a moment, a wave of sadness was upon her. It was a beautiful day. Joggers and strollers filled the park. She missed Robert.
Sam waited till the carriage entered the park. Then, “So,” Sam said, “I assume you’re a practicing Christian like Mr. Collins. That’s all he hires.”
“Then that would also make you one, right?” she said.
He sniffed. “ ‘Kill a Commie for Christ,’ and all that? I’ll buy that part of it.”
“That’s not exactly my direction,” she said.
“Oh yeah? Are there some other directions I should know about?”
“I could list a few. Eradicating AIDS. Hunger. Poverty.”
“Whatever,” Sam muttered. “Look. You look like a smart girl,” Sam said. “So before you get going on a lot of squishy soft do-good stuff, let me give you the template for American foreign policy in this hemisphere.” When it came to charm school, Sam was a proud dropout. “You know anything about Rafael Trujillo?” he asked.
“I know he was the dictator in la República Dominicana for, what, thirty years?”
In the background, the clop of the horse’s hooves kept beat with Sam’s voice.
“Thirty-one,” Sam said. “Lemme get you the quick backstory. In 1930 General Trujillo placed himself on the ballot for president and then used goon squads to terrorize the voters. When the elections were held, ninety-nine percent voted for Trujillo. Viva la democracia, huh? The thugs had done their job.”
Sam pulled a cigar from his inside jacket pocket. Romeo y Julieta. A fine Cuban, of all things. “You don’t mind if Sam smokes, do you?” he asked.
“I don’t care if Sam burns.”
“Good answer,” he snorted. “No one else does, either.”
Sam produced a Dunhill lighter and threw up a flame worthy of the Olympic torch. He lit his cigar as the horse turned north on the east side of the park.
“So late in 1930,” Sam continued, “Santo Domingo got knocked flat as a tortilla by a hurricane. Trujillo suspended the constitution to speed along the cleanup. Any unidentified bodies were cremated. So Trujillo decided that what his island needed was even more unidentified bodies, as long as he could decide who they would be. This coincides with the vanishing of several political enemies. Get it?”
“Got it,” she said.
“When Santo Domingo was rebuilt, it was also renamed. Ciudad Trujillo. Trujillo City. Can you imagine that? From there, Trujillo received support from Washington for three decades. His methods for suppressing dissent were torture and mass murder. Know what FDR said? He said, ‘Trujillo is an SOB, but at least he’s our SOB.’ ” Sam laughed. “I always liked that,” he said.
Behind the glasses, behind the cigar smoke, Sam was enjoying this. The clop of the horse’s hooves patterned nicely on the walkway. At this hour on a weekday, the park was closed to motor vehicles.