He verified his credit number and went up the walk. When he stepped into the atrium, Norm opened the door and said, " Buenas."
"So who was the guy with the bandage?"
"That's a long story"—Norman let him in—"and a short one. The short one is that he's the man who broke the window."
"The burglar? Why don't the cops have him—you just let him go?"
"The cops were here. Turns out you can settle out of court, on the spot. He offered twenty big ones, more than twice the replacement cost."
"Must be a lot of money in his line of work."
"Whatever that is. Let's measure the thing." Pepe followed Norm into the kitchen, where he rummaged through a couple of drawers and came up with a tape measure. The broken window was 80-by-160 centimeters.
"I've got some one-by-two-meter pressboard," he said. "It's ugly, but it'll do."
They went into Norm's neat garage. The neatness made Pepe uneasy. His own garage, under the apartment, was a collection of random junk. There was actually room for a car in this one.
Norm went to a rack that was mostly woodite and pressboard, but did have a few actual boards of fragrant pine. He tugged on a big sheet of pressboard. Pepe stepped over and helped him with it.
The house chimed and said the privacy period was almost up. Norman asked for another thirty minutes. He worked silently for a few minutes, using the tape and a T square to measure out a rectangle on the pressboard. They carried the board over to the table saw.
On the workbench next to it, an iron mallet and a splatter of blood. Norman saw Pepe staring at it. "That's part of the story, the long story."
"You want to tell it?"
"Not really, no." They wiggled the board and the table saw's guide until it was exact, the saw blade's kerf on the waste side of the drawn line. They cut off an eighty-by-two hundred rectangle, and then cut that to size.
"You don't have to answer this," Norman said suddenly, "but we were talking a couple of years ago, after Rory went to bed. Talking about sex, homosex."
"I sort of remember that. We'd had a bit to drink."
"A lot." He stamped the board on the table twice; then went over the cut edges with a rag. "You'd done it, you said."
"Well, it's not a big deal in my culture," he said, trying to separate Cuba from the place where he actually grew up. "Older men think it's scandalous, effeminate. But they probably did the same thing when they were boys."
"Boys," Norman said, rubbing the board with the rag.
"It's just play," Pepe said. "You nortesare still Puritans."
"Some." Norman smiled into space. "Some of us are still boys."
"¿ Como?" Pepe said. "Still boys?"
"I've been homosexual since before you were born. Rory accepts it."
Pieces falling into place. "And that's what the man was here about?" He looked at the blood spatter and trail. "The man with the bandage."
"Blackmail. You can imagine how long I'd have my job if it came out."
"Rory, too," Pepe said. "The way things are."
"Exactly." He put the board under his arm and Pepe followed him into the kitchen.
"So the blood? The guy's hand?"
The board fit the space exactly. "Hold this in place?" Pepe held it while Norman went through drawers, and finally found a thick roll of white tape.
"You know a guy named Willy Joe Capra?" He pulled out tape to match the top and tore it. It had an unexpected smell, raspberry.
"No, never heard of him." Not until this morning, from Sara.
"You're lucky. He's our friendly local Mafia connection."
Pepe went all over cold. "Jesus, Norman. What did you do to his hand?"
"Oh, that wasn't Willy Joe. That was his bodyguard, or something." He pulled out long strips for the vertical sides. "His name's 'Solo'; I guess that's why they sent him after a musician."
"And what did you do to him?"
"He did it to himself. I suggested he take a hammer and apply it to his gun hand."
" Madre de Dios." Pepe lowered himself to sit on the windowsill, a foot off the floor. "And where was his gun?"
"The police took it from him."
"The police who were just here?"
Norm nodded. "They have some sort of scanning device."
"I've seen it on the cube."
"They didn't use it on me. When this fellow threatened physical violence, I pulled out my own gun."
"You carry a gun?"
"Not under normal circumstances, Pepe; haven't since the army. But I knew who I was dealing with."
"Let me get this straight. You pulled a gun and said, "Let's go out to the workshop and smash your hand.' "
"No, that was his idea. He offered to take a hatchet and chop off a finger."
"But you, you decided to be nice to him?"
"Well, he could have a new finger in a week. Actually, I think he wanted to use the hatchet on me."
"And lose all that blackmail money?"
"I don't think their brains work that way." Norman went to the refrigerator. "I don't understand them any better than you do. Want a Coke or something?"
"Something stronger. Early as it is."
"Me, too. White plonk?" Norman pulled out a ball of white wine and squeezed them two tumblersful. "Look, we'd had a meeting. Willy Joe and some lawyer and this bodyguard. A lunch meeting. They told me what they knew, and it was correct."
"So how much did they want?"
"Well, I don't know. I got up and walked out."
Pepe kneaded his face. "You have a death wish, Norman?"
"Sometimes I think I do. Or at least place a low value on survival. Con permiso." He picked up the buzzing phone. " Buenas— oh, it's you." He pushed a red "record" button on the side.
"That's not possible. We're having company over for dinner tonight, and I—
"I suppose you might." He listened, shaking his head. "Just you and Capra. And we talk outside the house, on the sidewalk, not inside." He pushed the "end" button and looked at the phone.
"That was the bodyguard?"
"No, the lawyer." He drank half the glass of wine and replayed the conversation.
Capra congratulated Norman on being cute (" que guapo") and gave the phone to the lawyer. He said the rules were different now, Norman having upped the ante by using violence. They had one more thing to show him, and if they couldn't do business then, they would reveal his secret in time for the evening news, and just be done with it.
Come to Capra's house, 211 SW Third Avenue, at five, prepared to make a million-dollar credit transfer. Otherwise, they'd come join him and his company for dinner, and make it a really interesting party.
"Southwest Third. Wonderful neighborhood," Pepe said.
"If you're in the market for dope or prostitutes," Norman said. "I never have one without the other, myself." He drank some wine. "Showdown, I guess."
"You sound like you're looking forward to it."
He smiled. "An end to it, possibly. Don't tell Rory anything. I'll go ahead and fix dinner, and leave her a note."
"What, "Go ahead and enjoy dinner; I'll be back after I shoot some blackmailers'?"
"It won't come to that. Don't worry."