Steve was greeted like an old friend by a maitre d' who didn't have a hair on his head, not even eyebrows. He was dressed in a red waistcoat, white shirt with a bow tie, black pants and shoes. Leading us into a small, dark, cool dining room, he sat us at a small table over by a brick wall. A bar was at one end of the room and there were old, stained-glass windows at the other. On two walls were huge paintings depicting the Corridor, or bullfight, by an artist I did not recognize. Over the bar hung the head, hoof, and tail of a fighting bull, along with four banderilleros, a muleta, and an acero. Off to the side was a Matador's black hat. I could not remember what it is called. It was the small hat, not the black, flat-topped ones of the Picadors.
On one wall, over by the stained-glass windows, were two bullfight posters. The Matadors listed on the one to the left were Antonio Ordonez, Diego Puerto, and Paco Camino. The other listed Julio Aparicio, Chamaco, and el Viti. Another poster over by the bar listed Gitanillo de Triana, Manolete, and Dominguin.
This was not a Cuban restaurant. Steve had lied. He was getting great delight from watching me. This place was straight from Spain, and not tourist imitation. It turned out the owner and all the staff was from Madrid and Sevilla.
We were served thick, black bean soup with finely chopped onions and hard, crusted bread, along with a tiny spoon of white rice. A strong, dry Ollauri wine, from Rioja, was placed on the table in a carafe. “A wine of the people," the waiter said as he poured the glasses. It was wonderful with the meal and had an earthy, powerful nose and enough tannin to cut through the onions.
This was Spain. A place where bullfighters would come when the afternoon's corridor had ended. A restaurant of the people. Spanish music played by a live band across the hall wafted in from the big bar.
The maitre d' came over to the table and talked to Steve in Spanish. He turned to me and, in broken English, asked where I was from? In broken Spanish I replied that I was from the United States. Everyone began to laugh, the bartenders, the waiters, and Steve. It took me a moment to comprehend. I had been so absorbed in the Spanish atmosphere that I'd forgotten I was still in Miami. The maitre d' was gracious, saying not to fret, it happened all the time.
The owner came over with Monte Cristo cigars, smuggled in from Cuba. He joined us for a strong aromatic coffee. I promised not to tell my friend Ernie about the cigar.
Later, as we drove back to town, I asked Steve if he had a fingerprint kit in his car. He did not, but said we could stop by the station and get one.
"You want to run the prints of the girl?"
"Don't you think?"
After we finished at the morgue, Steve got a call from his headquarters, something urgent. He promised to let me know about the prints as soon as they were identified. Dropping me off at the hotel, we said good-bye. It would be a long time before I would see him again.
CHAPTER SIX
There was a message from Glossman waiting for me at the front desk of the hotel. It said to expect arrival of the airplane at Butler Aviation located on Miami International airport around three p.m. Lynn in bad shape. Windom bringing money personally. Keep in touch.
Up in the room, I lay on the bed resting and thinking about the message and what was meant about Lynn being in bad shape. The inference puzzled me. Losing a sibling can be traumatic, though. The I.D. at the morgue would have to be handled carefully.
Legally, it's necessary to view a body for a positive identification. Rene's face wasn't exactly pretty, plus a morgue is an awful place for a first-time visitor. The hollow echo of footsteps on tile floors, the smell, the bright lights, the cold of both the temperature and the attendants, and the thought of all that death can get to anyone.
The Concierge at the hotel arranged a rental car for me. I drove to Butler Aviation. The rest of the afternoon loomed like a bad omen for things to come.
Parking in the lot at the airport, I walked to the operations office. The girl behind the desk flashed a California smile with a Florida tan and a set of teeth that paid some Dentist's light bill for a year and said that N5JG would be on the ramp in five minutes.
Standing outside in the bright sunshine, I watched the plane turn off the taxiway onto Butler's ramp. It was one of the Falcon Fifties, the one with the horizontal stabilizer drooping downward. I must get Windom to explain that design for me one day.
Usually when he shuts off the engines Windom would bound down the cabin stairs and say something funny, "Just like Air Force One, on time, to the second." On this occasion his demeanor was of a serious nature. He was the consummate professional pilot and, as with most people who work in stressful occupations, he had a brilliant sense of humor. This was the only time I'd seen it fail him.
He shook my hand. "She's having a rough time. Here's the money Mr. Glossman sent. Look, we've arranged for a day room in the hotel here at the airport. We'll be there in case she needs to leave earlier."
"What's she been doing?"
"Everything was fine until we got airborne. She started wailing like a banshee and pacing up and down the aisle. We left the cockpit door open to watch her. She acted like that the entire trip. At the moment, she's sitting in there staring off into space, won't say a word to us. It's like she's in shock. I hope you can handle her."
Quietly boarding the aircraft, I sat down in the seat facing her. "I'm sorry about Rene, Lynn."
She looked up, hollow-eyed, staring through me for a moment, then, "See if there's any brandy. I need a drink." The look on her face was one of defeat, a drained expression of passivity. Her appearance was immaculate, though. The long hair was perfect, not a strand out of place. She wore a bone-white business suit that exuded professionalism. Her posture gave away her inner struggle, erect, stiff, and fragile.
The co-pilot remained in his seat shutting down the systems. When asked if there was brandy on board he pointed at the liquor cabinet and offered to get it in just a moment. Patting him on the shoulder, I said I'd do it.
There was Martel Gordon Blue cognac. Pouring two ounces into a large snifter, I gave it to Lynn. She drank it in one swallow, and handed me the glass. "I'm okay. Thanks."
"I'm glad."
She appeared calm. Her look of weariness eased into a thin smile that seemed to reflect more than the endurance of this one moment. "I've got it out of my system. I'll apologize to the pilots for the way I acted on the flight. It was awful, but I couldn't help it. It started in Joe's office and I couldn't control myself. Rene was the last of my family. There is no one left. Can you understand?"
"It has to hurt. Don't worry about the pilots, they understand. As for Joe, he feels like you are his daughter."
"I'm so embarrassed."
"We have to go."
She looked out the oval-shaped cabin window. "Do I have to see the body? Couldn't it be done some other way?" She turned to me, and there was a puzzled helplessness on her face. The face was calm, but something about the expression made me wish that she did not have to experience such sadness.
"There is no other way."
She was quiet on the way to the County morgue. The body was moved there after a telegram arrived at the hospital releasing it. The facility had the latest technology and we were able to make the viewing from a quiet comfortable room via closed-circuit television.
Lynn looked hard at the screen as if implanting the picture in her brain. "Yes, it's Rene." She turned and walked away, no tears, hysterics, or emotion.
Walking out of the building, Lynn said, "Can we go somewhere for a drink? I could use one." She wiped a hand across her eyes as if she were erasing the things that she had felt and experienced in the last few days.