Saladar and I were on our way out when Pedro stopped us, a hand on my arm.
“Señor Morgan,” Pedro said hesitantly, “as much as we are honored by your company...and would gladly offer you shelter tonight...it is best you not risk visiting here again. I will give you my phone number and—”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll call in. No more dropping by. Jaimie Halaquez isn’t the only one with a price on his head.”
Ten minutes later, Luis Saladar and I were in Domino Park, in the shadows of tall palms that hovered as if eavesdropping.
The park remained deserted, the streets nearby light with traffic, both pedestrian and automotive. I walked the distinguished Cuban freedom fighter to just the right bush, held it back, and gave him a look.
Perhaps out of respect for the dead—any dead—he removed his ivory-color plantation owner’s hat, then crouched, took a lingering examination, then turned his head and nodded.
Rising, he said, “That is the Angel, señor.”
“Angel or not, I don’t figure he’s flying upward tonight.”
“No. I would doubt this myself.”
We moved away to the sidewalk and strolled slowly.
“Luis, did you have any idea this character was in the States?”
“No. None.”
“What does his being here suggest?”
His eyes flared. “Only that what you said before makes sense, Señor Morgan—that this must be more important than just the seventy-five thousand dollars that was stolen from my people.”
We walked toward where I had parked Bunny’s station wagon.
I asked him, “Is there any way you can run a check on who else Halaquez dealt with back home?”
His expression turned grave. “Not without risking getting our own people in difficulty. I can try, señor, but I could not press hard for results, this I admit freely.”
“Then try your best.”
“Very well, señor.”
He tipped his hat and walked off toward the sounds of Latin music and laughter.
Not that goddamn good with a gun and blade, I thought.
Muddy Harris met me in a diner on lower Biscayne Boulevard. He was red-eyed and mussed, his clothes baggier than ever, and when he sat down in the booth opposite me, he made a grimace of disgust and called over for a coffee and pie.
I passed on coffee—I was still buzzed on that Cuban stuff I got at Pedro and Maria’s. Sweetened Southern-style iced tea was my excuse for taking up booth space.
“You do know, I haven’t hardly slept since you come around, Morgan?”
“Tough.”
“Sure, slough it off...you don’t have anything to lose.”
“Just my ass.”
He patted his comb-over and his fleshy face made his fold of a smile. “Hell, it’s been like that so long with you that you’re used to it. Me, I got a business to run. I got mouths to feed.”
“And secrets you don’t want the cops to know. That’s why I got Kirk to alert you in the first place. You live in the same damn limbo world I do.”
“No argument there.”
“So turn off the self-pity machine. You know I’ll take care of you—you’ll wind up with a slice of any action.”
He let a tobacco-stained grin show through his day-old beard. “Okay, Morgan, okay.”
No more posturing. Good.
But Muddy waited until his pie and coffee was in front of him, and the waitress gone, before he said, “For what it’s worth, I do have something, but in the interest of fairness, I have to level.”
“Interest of fairness? You are Muddy Harris?”
“I’m just saying, it wasn’t me who ran this down. You know that kid at the Amherst?”
“Sure, the little smart-as-a-whip bellhop.”
“That’s the one. I mean, I played a role. We kind of angled it out together.”
He shoveled some all-American apple à la mode in his pie hole. He talked as he chewed it—not a pretty sight.
“Seems like he thinks you’re quite a guy, Morg. Quite... a...guy.”
“Some people have taste.”
“Seems like he found out who you are, too. That you’re a living legend and all.”
I looked at him and didn’t say anything.
“These refugees,” he went on, “stick together. They have their own crazy little grapevine.” His expression crinkled in thought. “You think I ought to know more about how they work it, Morg? Might come in handy in my trade.”
“No. Go on.”
Muddy washed some pie and ice cream down with coffee, some of the latter dribbling down his chin like dirty rain. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Guess you’re right,” he said. “That’s a whole world of its own.”
“Yeah. Wipe your chin.”
He did. “Anyway, the kid found two bottles of high-price booze stashed away in that old porter’s digs—buried under a pile of junk in the closet of the basement room the geezer used there. Wasn’t the grade of stuff he usually swilled down at all—he was more a Muscatel man.”
“Less commentary, Mud, more facts.”
“Facts? How’s this for facts—there were three pawn tickets stuck back there, too, in that closet—one for a cheap portable transistor radio the old fart got a buck for, one for a travel clock he likely swiped out of a room, worth another buck, and another for an old signet ring that had his initials on it, which got him a whole two dollars.”
“So he was hard up,” I said.
“Just goes to show the old man never had a dime. And what he did have went for cheap wine or booze...that is, until the night that room blew apart. That night, from a joint four blocks away? The codger picked up three quarts of the finest hooch...and told the liquor store guy that a hotel guest had just given him a big tip.”
“That,” I muttered, “is what you get when you pay a drunk in advance.”
Muddy blinked at me, freezing between bites of pie. “What, Morgan?”
“If the old porter polished off one of those quarts, that explains why he didn’t set the timer right.”
“Yeah, or maybe you just got lucky, is all.”
He finished the pie, swirled the coffee around in the cup, polished it off, and smacked his lips.
“So,” Muddy said, “the kid and me start nosing around at what’s left of the Amherst Hotel to see who the old man’s contact was. We went round and round until finally we get one of those cleaning maids to talk. Seems a few hours before the explosion, she remembers that the old boy asked her to cover for him for a while.”
“Did he tell her why?”
“Indeed he did—turns out grandpa had an errand to run. She agreed to help him out, and said he was gone for a couple of hours. When Pops come back, he was acting funny, the maid says, nervous-like, and had something with him that she figured was just another bottle in a brown bag. She nips from her own jug from time to time, so never thought anything much of it.”
“Tell me there’s more.”
“Oh, there’s more. After that, it took a whole lot of legwork, but the bellhop and me, we found a place where the old man went for some chili and beer. Seems he was eating when a guy come in, sits next to him and strikes up a confidential sort of conversation. The counterman didn’t hear what they were talking about, because the jukebox was blasting away, but when they left, the guy paid for the old boy’s eats.”