Paul had apologized to Miles on the way to the car—sorry for almost killing you. Miles reiterated that he was the one who’d sent Paul and Joanna to Colombia. Only this time he hadn’t sounded very convincing.
Then they’d both shut up.
The spiderweb cracks in the windshield made driving an exercise in guessing. There either were or weren’t cars in front of them, lights were either green or red, road signs were anybody’s guess. On the way out of the swamp they passed four fire engines screaming down the highway.
Paul tried to navigate with his head out the window.
Somewhere between Jersey City and the Lincoln Tunnel, Paul said, “Who were they?”
Miles didn’t immediately answer.
“They must’ve burned down the house in Jersey City,” Paul added. “It had to be them.”
Miles nodded. “That makes sense.”
“So?”
Miles seemed lost in thought. Either that or he was still feeling too depressed to talk. They’d entered the white fluorescent glow of the Lincoln Tunnel—always a kind of sci-fi experience.
After a while Miles said, “I don’t know who they are. I can guess. The other side.”
“What other side? The Colombian government?”
“The Colombian government’s not going to be shooting people over here.”
“Okay. Then who are we talking about?”
“The other side in the war. Those right-wing paramilitary nuts. Manuel Riojas.” He didn’t appear to be very happy about this suggestion.
“Riojas? I thought he’s in jail. They extradited him. To Florida.”
“Sure. He’s in jail. They’re not.”
“They? Who’s they?”
“His people. His gang. His foot soldiers. You know how many Colombians there are in New York City?”
Miles tried to clean his hands by wiping them on the seat divider, but it only succeeded in making it black.
“They followed FARC’s drug contacts?” Paul said, trying to work it out as he spoke. “That’s what you’re saying? Found that house in Jersey City and burned it down? Then tailed them here?”
“Maybe. Why not? They’re on different sides, but they pay for things the same way. Drugs mean money. Money means guns.”
Okay, Paul thought. He wondered if sometimes money just meant money.
“Consider it a two-for-one. They get to kill a few of FARC’s friends, and score some drugs at the same time. Just my theory.”
Given what Paul had read about Manuel Riojas, it was a theory you’d rather not spend too much time thinking about.
“What now?”
“I can bullshit you and say I’ve got a great idea. Would you believe me?”
MILES INSISTED THEY STOP AT HIS OFFICE IN THE CITY.
“I might have a hard time explaining to my wife why we look like we’ve just returned from Baghdad. There’s a shower there. And some clothes.”
Miles’ office was in a brownstone on the East Side. Three months ago Paul and Joanna had walked in there and been told they’d have a daughter in two months.
Miles parked the car in a single-car garage beneath the building.
When they exited the car, Paul could smell that peculiar odor of garages everywhere—mildew, dust, and motor oil. Joanna, he noted with a pang, would have been able to discern a few other things as well.
They entered the house through a side door, opening onto a hallway with gray cement walls covered in a sheen of condensation. A single naked bulb supplied what little light there was.
They took the stairs up to the first floor, which contained a modest waiting room filled with out-of-date magazines. Paul remembered sitting there with Joanna, flipping through a strategically placed issue of Time. Infertility—the New Scourge was the cover story.
“Bathroom’s upstairs,” Miles said. “Want to go first?”
“Thanks,” Paul said. “I have nothing to wear.”
“I’ll lend you some jeans.”
When he turned on the shower, the water at his feet turned black. The skin on his legs and arms felt scrubbed raw, and he wondered if he needed medical attention.
When he got out of the shower, he examined himself in the bathroom mirror. His face seemed okay—a little pinker than usual, certainly more despondent-looking. There was nothing a doctor could do about that.
Miles had left blue jeans and a white button-down shirt just outside the bathroom on a chair. They were about two sizes too small. He waddled out to the hallway where Miles was patiently waiting his turn.
He wordlessly passed Paul on his way to the bathroom.
When Miles came out, he was back to more or less normal skin color.
“Let’s go to my office,” he said without any particular enthusiasm.
Being in the very place where Miles conducted his business, where he pulled strings and conjured up babies, didn’t seem to do anything to improve his disposition. He sat behind his desk and looked strangely lost there—as if he’d forgotten what it was he did for a living.
Paul only had to look above the desk to remind himself.
He who saves one child saves the world.
Okay, Miles. There’s another child who desperately needs saving now. And her mother. Her too.
He scanned the rest of the room while Miles sat there silent and brooding. In between an honorary degree from Baruch Law School and a citation from the board of a Bronx hospital was a poster he hadn’t seen before. The All-Nazi Baseball Team, it said, a diamond grid with each player’s name affixed by position. Joseph Goebbels was on the pitcher’s mound. Always threw curves was the scouting report on him. Hermann Göring was behind the plate—great defense, it said. Joseph Mengele was in right—lethal arm. Albert Speer at third—surprising power. The ball girls were Eva Braun and Leni Riefenstahl. The manager? Hitler, of course: a great motivator. Not great enough: The poster reminded everyone that the team Lost World Championship in 1945.
Ha, ha.
Paul wondered if Jews other than Miles found that particularly funny.
“I don’t suppose you have the kind of money to make it up to them?” Miles finally said. He was looking down at his hands where his fingernails were still black, even after the shower.
“Two million?” Paul said. It might just as well have been two billion.
“Okay.” Miles shrugged. “Just asking.”
Paul had come to a decision of sorts. It wasn’t an easy one, but it was clearly the only one. It didn’t matter that he’d smuggled drugs into the country. Not anymore. The drugs were gone, the cupboard bare. His family was hanging by a string.
“I’m going to the authorities,” he said.
“The authorities?” Miles repeated, as if it were a strange and foreign concept. “Okay. Which authorities are we talking about?”
“The police, the government, whoever has a chance of doing anything. The State Department, the Colombians. Every authority there is—all of them. I’m going to tell them everything—throw myself on the mercy of the court. Isn’t that the expression?”
“The mercy of the court? Oh yeah, that’s an expression. Absolutely. That’s pretty much all it is. I don’t think mercy is allowed through the metal detectors. You might want to reconsider.”
“Reconsider? What do you suggest I do? Tell Pablo I lost two million dollars’ worth of drugs, but if he doesn’t mind, I’d like my wife and daughter back anyway? I’ve got to do something. It’s the only thing left.”