The James Deans Part 21

Larry's face went blank.

"Come on, Larry," I prodded, not wanting to give him too much time to think. "Who came to you with it?"

"My chief."

"And do you think your chief s.n.a.t.c.hed this idea out of midair? Somebody with juice whispered in his ear."

"I didn't give it much thought, Moe. I was just happy for you."

"I'm happy for me too, but Wit's gonna f.u.c.k it up for all of us." I appealed to Larry's healthy sense of self-interest.

"How?"

"He thinks he has a line on something Brightman did as a kid that will ruin his political career. I was with him in Jersey yesterday checking it out. That was no coincidence today that someone mentioned me getting the b.u.mp to second grade. You're too smart a man not to see the connection."

Larry got down to business. "Tell me what's going on."

"Wit got a lead about some bombsh.e.l.l s.h.i.t Brightman and this guy Jeffrey Anderson did as kids. We went to Jersey yesterday to talk to this Anderson, but he's moved out to California somewhere. Wit's flying to California tomorrow to look for this guy, and I'm going with him. I gotta keep an eye on him. Can you clear a few days for me, postpone my reinstatement for a while?"

"Don't worry about it, but to tell you the truth, Moe, it sounds like you're talking outta your a.s.s. What could this guy possibly have on Brightman?"

"That's what I'm going to find out." I stood to leave.

"Don't you want your drink?"

"No time. Gotta go home and pack. I have a long trip ahead of me."

He didn't know the half of it.

Chapter Nineteen.

THE FLIGHT FROM La Guardia to O'Hare had been uneventful if not exactly enjoyable. Wit was a nervous flier and had trouble keeping still. The Wild Turkeys didn't do anything but exacerbate his jitters, and frankly I was glad that we'd made the second legs of our journeys to separate locations. Actually, only one of us had taken that second flight. By the time Wit got to L.A., I was already in Miami.

Miami was a funny place. In some ways it was like the Catskills south. Once the hot vacation destination, it had fallen on hard times in the seventies. Unlike the Catskills, however, Miami was enjoying a renaissance of sorts, but not one built on art and enlightenment. No, the rebirth of Miami was driven by the ultimate cash crop of the decade, cocaine. Miami was the most desirable transshipment point for the bulk of cocaine smuggled into the States from the Caribbean and Central and South America. Florida's seemingly endless coastline made it a smugglers' paradise, as the coastline of Long Island had been a boon to bootleggers and rumrunners half a century before. But I wasn't here about cocaine. I was here about another kind of smuggling, the human kind.

Barto had gotten a good head start and had a fair amount of information by the time I checked into my motel. He'd left a message for me at the front desk. It was dark here just as it would be back in New York, but the harbingers of autumn, the crispness in the night air and the hints of gold in the leaves, were absent. By the feel of the hot, damp night on the skin of my face, it might as well have been mid-July. The dankness that lurked in the peach and teal green corners of my cheap room did nothing to argue me out of the illusion of summer.

There was a knock at my door. It was Barto. During our previous two meetings, I hadn't bothered taking much notice of him. Until yesterday, he'd been more of a what than a who. He was built like a fireplug, short and squatty. Gravity and years of eating bad food had given him a prominent gut. He had a chubby, almost boyish face. He'd also lost most of the hair on top of his head, though he hadn't yet faced up to the fact. I'm certain Barto fancied himself quite the miracle worker with how he parlayed the few strands of top hair he had left into a sort of spiderweb covering his bald pate. He probably hadn't seen himself on videotape recently. It was one thing to look in a mirror and fool yourself. It was something else to see yourself on film.

"You were right," he said, barely able to contain his enthusiasm. "Spivack flew down here at least three times in the last year. I had some old contacts do a little checking. He spent most of his time in Little Havana, just like you predicted. You want a beer?" he asked, holding up the six-pack he held in his right hand.

"Sure."

"It's from some country in Central America, El Salvador or some s.h.i.t," he warned, twisting off two caps. "It's yellow as cartoon p.i.s.s, but it's pretty good stuff. Here."

"Don't go into advertising, Ralph."

Not understanding, he shrugged his shoulders. We drank in relative quiet.

"So, Joe was down here that much, huh? Three times."

"At least," Barto answered. "Maybe more. I can find out for sure if I go to the field office and have them check."

"That won't be necessary. How often's not really that important. All I needed to know was that he was here. What about Alfonseca?"

That enthusiasm once again spread itself across Barto's boyish face. "Ivan was one bad little puppy, even back in Cuba. He was in jail by the time he was eleven and came over when Fidel cleaned out his jail cells in the seventies. Florida's still paying the price for that bulls.h.i.t. Criminals are the one commodity we don't need to import, but that didn't stop his a.s.sholiness Jimmy Carter from taking the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in like they was f.u.c.king engineers and rocket scientists."

"Maybe President Carter just wanted to keep the U.S. marshals busy."

"Did he ever. We earned our pay down here, let me tell you."

"But did Ivan and Spivack ever cross paths?"

"I won't be able to tell you that until tomorrow or maybe the day after that."

"And the middleman," I wondered, "any luck there?"

"I got my feelers out on that. I got a friend or two still works down here. There's plenty of ways to funnel money back to families left behind in Cuba, but a big amount like you're talking requires someone with contacts inside the government there and the community here. Those kinda people don't grow on trees, Mr. Prager. Little Havana's bigger than it used to be, but it's still a tight community. We'll find the middleman."

"Okay, Ralph, I'm pretty beat. We'll talk tomorrow."

"You want another beer?"

"No thanks. Buenas noches," I wished him in my grade-school Spanish.

"Viva la revolucion. Viva Fidel. Viva-"

"Good night, Ralph."

RAIN WAS TAP-tap-tapping on the gla.s.s-slat-and-aluminum windows when I got up the next morning. It was a gray tropical rain, heavy and fast with a sun chaser. I ate breakfast across the street from the motel in a waffle house. I was in the mood for a waffle. I hadn't eaten one in years. But when I noticed that the waffle irons hadn't been cleaned since the Bay of Pigs, I opted for eggs. There wasn't anything for me to do now until I heard from Barto, so I asked the woman behind the counter where the closest car rental was. I had a friend who lived not too terribly far away, a friend I hadn't seen in quite some time.

The ride up to Boca Raton was pleasant enough, and finding the Millennium Village retirement complex was easy. I'd asked directions at the supermarket when I stopped to buy a bottle of vodka and some pastries. The problem was, I hadn't called ahead. I don't know. I guess I really wanted to see the look on Israel Roth's face when I strolled into his condo unannounced.

"Who's there?" he screamed impatiently as I knocked at his door. "What, you trying to take the door off the hinges?"

I kept knocking. "Special delivery."

"Stop already with the knocking. Nothing's that special." He flung back the door.

"Hey, Mr. Roth."

"Mr. Moe!" He might have been in his seventies, but he hugged like a college wrestler.

"Izzy, you're crushing the rugelach."

"Come in. Come in."

I put the goods down on the coffee table and gave him back a proper hug. He had reminded me of my father when we'd met two years before in the Catskills. Time had done little to change that, but I liked Israel Roth for who he was, not for who he wasn't. We exchanged the expected small talk about his health and my family, carefully avoiding any discussion of the incident that had brought us together in the first place. He wanted to know if Katy was still depressed over the miscarriage. He was thrilled to hear the answer.

"So, Mr. Moe, you came an awfully long way to bring me a box of Publix rugelach, which, to tell you the truth, taste like rolled-up cardboard with jelly filling."

"I notice you're not complaining about the vodka."

"Complaining! Who's complaining?"

Though it was early afternoon, we had a shot or two of the vodka.

"So, you didn't answer my question about this unexpected visit, Mr. Moe."

"What question? I didn't hear a question."

"What is this, Jeopardy, for chrissakes? You have to put things in the form of a question or you get the buzzer?"

There was no avoiding it, so I told him. He took it calmly, if not gladly. No amount of cruelty or calculation surprised him. He had seen firsthand the very worst of man. He had witnessed the systematic slaughter of his family and friends and breathed their ashes into his lungs. Though no longer capable of tears, he was not unmoved by the suffering of others. He had not let the inhumanities he'd suffered turn him dead inside. It was one of the things I admired about Mr. Roth. I didn't know if I was that strong.

"You're going to meet with the man who funneled the money back to Cuba?"

"I hope so. This ex-marshal I hired seems to know his way around down here. Apparently, Joe Spivack-"

"The one that killed himself?"

"Him. He didn't cover his tracks that well. Within hours of getting in himself, Barto found out Joe'd flown down to Miami at least three times in the last year. I guess Spivack never thought anyone would connect the dots."

"Maybe." Mr. Roth was skeptical. "It doesn't seem a little odd to you that such a man would be so obvious? Would a man, a professional at his job, be so sloppy? Look at what you say about the flag, that it was a hint or a challenge. It seems inconsistent, no, to be so subtle on one hand and obvious on the other?"

My first instinct was to argue with him, but I could see Izzy's point. I didn't know Joe Spivack all that well. He was, as Izzy had so aptly put it, a professional. Now that I stepped back and gave it some thought, it did seem a little odd that he had taken so little care to cover his own tracks. Only if he had contemplated suicide all along, which was possible, would his sloppiness have made sense. Then why all the secrecy? Why no suicide note? Why the flag? On the other hand, if he had meant not to get caught and hadn't contemplated suicide, why hadn't he traveled under an a.s.sumed name? Why hadn't he driven or taken the train? There would have been no paper trail. But Barto had been specific about Spivack flying in.

"You make some sense, Mr. Roth."

"We alter k.o.c.kers occasionally do, you know. I'm goin' to ask you a question and I don't want you should get mad. Okay?"

"Go ahead."

"You have with you your gun?" he asked sheepishly.

"No. I flew down, remember? I'm not licensed to carry on aircraft. Guns and aircraft don't mix."

"Wait here a second."

He stood up and went into his bedroom. I used the time to consider what he had said about Spivack. Mr. Roth had definitely planted the seed of doubt and it had quickly taken root. Something wasn't right, but I couldn't yet see what it was.

Israel Roth stepped back into the living room of his neatly kept condo. He held a rectangular plastic case in his right hand.

"Here, Mr. Moe." He handed me the case. "I want you to take this for while you're here. Then, before you go home, you can give it back."

I opened the case. Inside was a little .25-caliber automatic in pristine condition. I took it out, clicked off the safety, and ejected the bullet that was in the chamber.

"You should never leave a loaded weapon around, Mr. Roth, especially ones with chambered rounds."

"What, so I should tell the burglar to wait until I put the clip in and put a bullet in the chamber? I got no small children here, Moe, and I keep it well hidden. I'm not a reckless man."

"I know, Mr. Roth. I didn't mean to lecture. It's just that guns are funny things. If you hesitate or are afraid to use them, they'll get taken away from you and used on you."

"I wouldn't hesitate, believe me. In my clothing store on Flatbush Avenue I used to keep a big .38. More than once I had to stick it in somebody's kishkes when they tried to stick me up."

"But why do you need a gun down here?"

"I sell a little jewelry on the side, nothing too fancy. Everybody's got some little side business in this place. The money is nice, but it's not so much the money as it keeps you sharp, awake. Retired people don't so much die as they let themselves fall asleep a bit at a time. They become pa.s.sive and inactive and they forget they're alive."

"I understand."

"So I keep the little pistol when I go to the bank or pick up inventory. That's all. It makes me feel safer. There are people who prey on the old. I've been prey once in my life. Never again. Now it'll make me feel safer if you keep it for a few days. All right?"

I didn't hesitate. He'd sufficiently spooked me. Everything had been falling so neatly in line. Maybe too neatly. Mr. Roth had done me a tremendous favor, not necessarily by giving me the gun, but by calling attention to a blind spot.

We chatted for a little while longer. I was glad of it. I wouldn't have wanted to leave with the pistol being the last business between us. It really was good to see him. My grandparents had been very old when I was a boy and my parents had both died relatively young, so I'd never formed much of a relationship with a man of Mr. Roth's age. I found his calm demeanor and his perspective a great comfort. Although he didn't talk about it much, I knew he was estranged from his son. I guess we both filled a niche in each other's lives.

He went back into his bedroom to put away the gun case, then reemerged with three smaller jewelry boxes.

"I had meant to send these to you for Hanukkah, but I prefer to let you take them home with you. This one we'll open here. It's for you," he said, a proud smile washing over his face as he raised up the lid of the blue velveteen box.

Inside was a Star of David. It was lovely, the points of the star formed by overlapping pieces of gold that were shaped like the number 7.

"When we were up in the Catskills, Mr. Moe, I noticed you didn't wear one. I hope you don't think it is presumptuous of me to-"

"Not at all. Will you help me put it on?"

We were quite a sight there, the two of us with our hands shaking, trying to get the clasp open.

"Thank you, Israel. I don't know what to say."

"The look on your face is thanks enough. There's one there for Katy and for Sarah, too. I only hope they are as pleased as you look."

"They will be. I better get going," I said, tapping my watch.

We wished each other well. He promised to come visit in November during his biyearly pilgrimage to the Catskills. I told him Katy would never forgive him if he didn't show.

"I promise. I promise!" he shouted as I retreated down the hall.

During the drive back to Miami, I couldn't help touching the star. It had been so long since I'd worn one that it felt odd against my chest, even a little uncomfortable. A little discomfort was a good thing, I thought. It made you pay attention. On the other hand, I had almost forgotten about the pistol tucked in my jacket pocket. Strange, the things you get used to.