“We get our news from television now,” the driver said. “The television station still functions. There are many North American programs. There is the one about the attorney Perry Mason. It is a favorite. There is also the one called Leave It to Beaver. Did I pronounce it correctly?”
Citron replied that he did.
“That, too, is a great favorite.” He paused. “No harm ever comes to anyone in that program. It is very popular.”
The Inter-Continental Hotel was nine stories of steel and tinted glass built on a cliff above the sea. A drive curved up to it from the Avenue of the Nineteenth of January. The driver charged $15 for the trip in from the airport, and Citron gave him $20. The driver thanked him graciously and again mentioned the exhibition of the thirteen-year-old virgins, should the gentlemen change their minds. And the lady, too, of course. Citron said he would take it under advisement.
Their bags were carried into the lobby by a doorman who wore a chrome conquistador’s helmet and a costume to match. Velveeta Keats and Citron decided to share a room. Haere was assigned one a few doors down. Both rooms were on the top floor with views of the ocean. The hotel seemed almost empty of guests. When Haere commented on this to the room clerk, the clerk replied that it was not yet the season. Haere asked when the season began. The clerk said next month — or the month after at the latest. When Haere was asked how he intended to pay, he said with his American Express credit card. The clerk said that would be acceptable. However, should the gentleman wish to pay cash in dollars, there would be a twenty percent discount. Haere said he would think about it.
Velveeta Keats was in the bathroom with the door closed when the telephone rang. Citron picked it up and said hello.
“Morgan Citron?” a man’s voice said.
“Yes.”
“I think we should talk.” The man spoke in Spanish.
“What about?”
“A matter of mutual interest.”
“Who are you?”
“I am Mr. X,” the voice said, giving the X the Spanish pronunciation of either “equis” or “eckys.”
“I suppose we could meet in my room.”
“I prefer not to.”
“Where then?”
“Tomorrow morning at ten.”
“That’s when. What about where?”
“I will let you know.”
The phone went dead, and Citron put it down just as Velveeta Keats came into the room from the bath.
“Who was that?”
“Mr. Eckys.”
“That’s a funny name.”
“Yes,” Citron said. “Isn’t it?”
Chapter 28
The three of them entered the almost deserted restaurant in the InterContinental at nine that night. They were shown to a table by a bearded maitre-d’ who also provided them with menus. A busboy arrived and replaced the napkins, which did not seem to need replacing. Citron unfolded his on his lap and caught the folded piece of paper before it fell to the floor.
Citron looked around. The two other diners were a man and a woman who were seated across the room and interested only in what they were eating. Citron unfolded the piece of paper behind his menu, read it, and stuffed it into his pants pocket.
“Who’s it from?” Haere asked, studying his menu.
“The guy who called.”
“Mr. Eckys?” Velveeta Keats said.
“Mr. Eckys.” Citron ran his eyes down the menu. “It’s still set for ten tomorrow morning,” he said, “but it’s out in the country. I’ll need a car.”
“We’ll rent one at the desk,” Haere said. “What’re you having?”
“Steak.”
“Velveeta?”
“I think I’ll have the fruit of the sea thing.”
When the waiter came, Haere ordered steaks for himself and Citron and the seafood for Velveeta Keats. He and the waiter discussed wine, Haere in his broken Spanish, the waiter in his equally fractured English. They finally agreed it would probably be wise to skip the wine, which was of doubtful merit, and try the local beer instead. The beer was called Two Brothers and turned out to be exceptionally good.
Haere put his glass down and said, “While you’re with Mr. Eckys tomorrow, I think I’ll drop by the embassy and do my outraged-American-citizen turn.”
“Over what?” Citron said. “The doctor?”
“If that’s what he is.”
“The embassy folks’ll like that. They always do.”
Velveeta Keats looked first at Citron, then at Haere, and again at Citron. She frowned. “Can I ask a question?”
“Sure,” Citron said.
“What’re you guys really up to?”
Citron leaned toward Velveeta Keats and smiled in what he felt might be a conspiratorial manner. “You want the truth, of course.” She nodded.
“Well, the truth is we don’t really know.”
“Right,” she said, nodding wisely. “That’s about what I figured.”
Citron lay naked on the bed and watched as Velveeta Keats, also naked, sat crosslegged in a chair by a lamp and painstakingly applied the clear polish to her fingernails. They had acted out one of her sexual fantasies earlier, something to do with a mild form of bondage, and after it was over and Citron lay exhausted, she sat up in bed, popped up really, and announced the need to repair her nails. It seemed to be more than a need. It seemed to Citron almost a compulsion. He lay watching as she hummed softly, almost tunelessly, and carefully applied the small brush to each nail. He wondered if there really were such things as born liars and, if there were, whether Velveeta Keats could be classified as one. Was the trait inherited or acquired? Did she need to practice her skills as a liar, or was she a natural? And why were good liars usually better company than the truth-bearers who, he felt, were all too often stolid and dull and sanctimonious? Citron decided to request another performance.
“Tell me about him,” he said.
“Who?”
“Your brother.”
“The one I used to go to bed with?”
“Him.”
“I just made that up,” she said, still concentrating on her manicure. “I thought it might turn you on. Incest does that to a lot of people, did you know that?”
“So I’ve heard.”
“He died when he was nine and I was seven.”
“Of what?”
“Polio.” She blew on her nails. “I still miss him.”
“What happened to your husband, then? Jimmy. Wasn’t that his name?”
“Jimmy. Jimmy Maneras. Jaime really.”
“What happened to him?”
“He died.”
“When?”
She held her hand out at arm’s length to examine it. “Oh, I don’t know. About six months ago, I reckon.”
“What of?”
She waved her hand to dry the fingers. “Papa shot him.”
Citron sighed. “Come on, Velveeta.”
She looked at him, and her expression seemed hurt. “I’m telling you the truth. Papa shot him.”
“Why?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“I think I would.”
“That’s why they shipped me out to Malibu. I was going to the police. But then I got this call out of the blue from Craigie Grey inviting me to come out and stay in her beach place, and so, shoot, I didn’t really want to get Papa in trouble with the police, so that’s what I did. I went. He still won’t speak to me, though, but you know that.”
“Why’d your father shoot your husband?”
She was working on the other hand now, the left one, concentrating on each small brushstroke. “Self-defense,” she said. “You know, I really shouldn’t be telling you all this.”
“Your husband was about to kill your father?”
“Uh-huh.” Her concentration on the brushstrokes was now absolute.