Blood of Paradise (43 page)

Too bad knowing all that doesn't solve anything, he thought. You got thrown a curve by what Fitz told you, that stuff about the fire in California, the work up north, but you can't pretend anymore, hope you left this problem behind somehow. It's right here. You can't see it just yet, but it's here, has been all along. Not just Strock working for whomever, but Malvasio, who faked you out of your jock from that very first phone call, worse than he did the old man. Down the road somewhere you can take the time to flog yourself properly for being such a perfect mark, but right now you better smarten up and do it fast. You won't have the luxury of figuring out the plan ahead of time—who knows if the two are in it together, if they buried the hatchet somehow, what it took to make that happen? None of that matters. God only knows what's in play—you've just got to stay on the ball, prepare for anything and everything, because something's going down. It's been in the works all along.

Gradually, as he sat there staring out into the hot dusty night, he began to sense why it was that he'd not seen any of this clearly until now. What was it Eileen had said:
You've got two modes, kinda okay and complete disaster
. She was right, of course, and not just in the way she'd intended. That wasn't just how he dealt with the outside world—it was how he faced himself. From the very beginning, those first get-togethers with Malvasio, collecting Strock—Christ, even his bungled night with Eileen—every time he'd sensed something wrong, he'd gone from being savagely critical to blindly stoic, nothing in between. And invariably he'd resolved his doubts, cured his paralysis, by telling himself to forget about it: Keep your head down, soldier on. It was why he'd never seen what was coming. Given his training, he had an intuitive sense of how to predict trouble, avoid danger, at least when it came to protecting someone else. But he had no reasonable critical faculty when it came to his own actions—he either eviscerated himself or numbly kept on moving. Moving toward disaster, as it turned out—and not just for himself now.

As much as he could see where this behavior came from—the logical result of his upbringing, he supposed—he also realized it was pointless to dwell on that. Mom and Pop won't be taking the fall if you screw this up, he realized. He'd set himself up for a real test, the defining moment of his life, maybe. Bummer for Axel and Oscar's little sister—and God only knew who else—if he fucked it up.

He caught himself: There you go again, he thought, cutting yourself off at the knees. Come on, do something—not just anything this time, the right thing, the smart thing, the necessary thing.

He got up, closed the door, and climbed the stairs. Rapping on the bedroom door, he called out, “Axel?”

The door edged open. Consuela peeked out, dressed in a cotton
falda
, her hair held back from her face by a broad white band and her skin smeared with cold cream.

“I need to see him alone a minute.”

Consuela glanced over her shoulder. Axel sat on the bed, already stripped to his boxers. Nodding, he rose wearily and stepped barefoot into the hall. Closing the door behind him, he crossed his arms, covering the down of white hair on his chest. His voice was soft but strained: “I had an idea you'd be coming up.”

“Tell her to stay away from the window.”

Axel started, “Jude, what—”

Jude reached past him, opened the door, went in, and switched off the bedside lamp. “Stay away from the windows,” he told them both.

Axel, still standing in the doorway, said, “You've told us that already.”

“Then do it.”

“Jude—”

“If you have candles, use them. The shadows on the curtains won't show so clear. And put your vests on. I've told you that, too, haven't I?”

Consuela stared, alarmed at his tone. Finally, she reached down to pick up the vest from the floor beside the bed and strapped it on. Jude collected the second vest and handed it to Axel, then pushed past him and hurried down to the living room, where he gathered his own from beneath the couch. Hurdling back upstairs, he knocked on the back bedroom door and went in.

The boy sat on the floor beneath the window, folded up like a knife, clicking his teeth. The curtains hung motionless above him as he gazed at his mother, curled up on the bed. Her eyes were savage, a rosary in her fist. Jude repeated the same directive—lights off, use candles, stay clear of the windows—then he crossed the room, knelt down before the boy, and told him to lift his arms. As he attached the Velcro straps in place, he told the boy not to take the vest off, no matter how hot it became.

Back in the hall, Axel waited, looking ashen. Above the rim of his vest a wisp of white hair tickled the hollow of his throat. “My God, what is it? I saw something in your face, earlier, at the table. Something's wrong, obviously. I should have asked but you seemed—”

“Come downstairs. Please.”

They settled in across from each other at the dining room table. Jude had no idea how to frame the thing, so he just launched in—from his father's days in the Eighteenth District to Malvasio's recent contact, Jude's trip to Chicago to bring Strock back, everything learned since. As the words rushed out, he flashed on what he'd always told Axel, the importance of hiding nothing—for his own good. The irony of the role reversal felt shaming, especially since all this candor came far too late, but for once he refused to let that stop him.

“I have no idea,” he said, “beyond his taking Oscar's sister away, what Malvasio has to do with Estrella. As for Strock, he's a wild card at this stage. But I think we should assume the worst, prepare for it.”

Axel sat there, a look on his face as though his brain had begun to tick. He said, “Give me a moment, please,” then glanced down at the tablecloth. Shortly he reached out, as he had before, and absently smoothed the fabric until he caught himself and drew back his hand. Glancing up with a sort of pitying dismay, he said quietly, “I'd wondered, ever since McGuire first brought up your father, what the whole story was. It must have been pretty rough, going through all that. And excuse the dime-store psychology, but I'd venture a guess that the roughness of it most likely explains why you got involved with these men again. To show you're better than they are.” The dismay and pity melted, only to be replaced a moment later by something colder, more demanding. “It's not the noblest motive, you realize. And certainly not the smartest. But I suppose you've figured that out.”

It occurred to Jude it might be best if he stepped aside. “I'll understand,” he said, “if you call Fitz, get someone to replace me.”

Axel recoiled. “Who—Bauserman? Please.”

“I'm sure they can find someone capable.”

Axel waved off the idea. “I don't believe merely capable will fill the bill at this stage, do you? Certainly not after the song and dance we handed Fitz. And another lie to cover the last will hardly make anyone safer.”

Jude felt as though a pile of ashes had formed in the pit of his stomach. He nodded. “I suppose you're right. Still—”

“No, Jude. I'm afraid we're in this a little deep, my friend.” Axel glanced over his shoulder toward the upstairs bedrooms. “And I don't mean just you and me.”

38

Before turning in, Jude sat with Consuela on the living room couch and had her map out the houses in the neighborhood and name and describe everyone she could, down this block and on the next street behind. There were both
areneros
and
efemelenistas
, even a few die-hard Christian Democrats, but by and large the neighbors were simple working people, a baker, two mechanics, a widow hairdresser, several teachers, a pair of evangelical missionaries from Chile, a music professor (there were whispers he was a
mariquita
, a ladybug: “Homosexual,” she explained), a retired bank teller who was also a bit of a gossip. None enjoyed the social station needed to rub shoulders with the likes of Judge Regalado or Wenceslao Sola, Consuela said, nor could she imagine any of them being thoughtless enough to dare any involvement with a man like Hector Torres.

“But one never knows,” she said helplessly. “After the war, you learned things about people you'd never suspected. Never. And I've only lived in this neighborhood a few months.”

She asked if Jude was going to speak with anyone, and he said no, that wouldn't be wise. It would just pique their curiosity about Consuela and whoever was staying at her house. He just wanted to know who was who as best he could, plot out the most likely sources of trouble. He thanked her for her help, then wished her goodnight.

Jude stayed up awhile longer, opening the front door and standing there sideways, to form a harder target, studying the houses he thought, given what Consuela had told him, were most likely to harbor unfriendly folks—the gossipy old teller, the
arenero
mechanic, the professor with a secret. The entire neighborhood was dark and still, not so much as a stray dog slinking about, and after five minutes he returned inside, heading for the back door now. Standing at the edge of the garden, he repeated the routine, peering up and over the high wall, listening for movement. The heady fragrance of the
veranera
blossoms hung thickly in the close heat, and from one of the nearby houses the fleshy gargle of deep-throated snoring rumbled softly into the night from an open window. He listened for another minute, trying to guess the weight and girth of the snorer, then came away from the back door and settled in on the couch.

He hardly slept. His mind was a zoo and the blood sang in his veins from the adrenaline, his thoughts riddled with doubt and guilt. Whenever he did, at last, drift off, he entered flickering dreams thick with voices. Then, just before daybreak, he opened his eyes and felt startled to confront a middling sense of clarity. No scathing inner voices. No countering robotic vigilance. It'll have to do, he told himself as he switched on the lamp. He dragged the Remington out from under the couch and filled its magazine with nine-shot, then loaded extra clips for his .22 and the second Sig Sauer. He wanted to make sure, in his absence, Axel was prepared for anything.

He dressed and then, for the next hour, sat at the back screen door to the tiny garden, watching the glow of daylight swell like mist inside the high vine-covered walls as he thought through what he'd say, plotted out what he'd do, preparing for every twist he could think of, every wrong turn. He felt strangely clearheaded and calm. Meanwhile, upstairs, the others gradually rose and shuffled or thumped groggily back and forth, their bedrooms, the bath. Then, about eight o'clock, someone knocked at the front door.

Jude collected his pistol, released the safety, and went to the dining room where, keeping the gun out of sight, he edged back the curtain to see who was outside. Dressed in a sleeveless embroidered cotton shift, Eileen stood there alone in the soft morning light, clutching a grease-stained bag.

“Tamales for breakfast,” she said. “That down-home tropical treat.”

Jude holstered the pistol and draped it with his shirt, then went around to open the door. He pulled her inside, then looked up and down the street to see who might be watching.

“My God,” she whispered, “what's wrong?”

Jude closed the door. They were standing very close in the hallway, face-to-face. “We're just being extra cautious from here on out,” he said. It sounded coy.

She searched his eyes, then leaned in and delivered a swift dry peck on his cheek. “Well, I'm not the enemy, okay?”

They warmed the tamales in the oven until the late risers tottered downstairs, everyone but Axel wearing a vest—he'd given his to Oscar's mother. Jude met Axel's eye to suggest they discuss this, but the older man just fiddled him off as though to say he'd made up his mind—he intended to be a gentleman and that was that. And if you die, Jude wanted to say, what becomes of getting that little girl back? But he knew Axel would just turn the argument around, point out that Jude's safety was just as crucial but his vest now protected Oscar. Meanwhile, Eileen shot Jude a curious glance of her own at the sight of the vests, and he responded merely, “Like I said, we're being extra careful.”

They sat down to eat. Oscar's mother merely picked at her food, her dark eyes seeming to sink farther into her skull each time Jude glanced her direction. For once, though, the boy dove in, stripping away the steamy corn husks, devouring the soft hot cornmeal with its cheesy filling and licking his fingers afterward. Consuela made a pot of her anemic coffee and Jude threw back three cups before it dawned on him that Eileen's presence solved a problem.

He asked her to join him in the garden. Along the way, he dragged the shotgun from under the couch.

Inside the high-walled enclosure, dragonflies skittered back and forth between sun and shade. Jude said, “I have to go somewhere. I need someone who can use a weapon to stay behind, look after everybody. Axel has a pistol of his own and he can handle it okay, but I was wondering—” He held out the shotgun. “I don't know why, but I've got a feeling you know how to use this.”

Her eyes bulged, moving from him to the gun, back to him again. “No, no, wait.” She cocked her hip. “Back up.”

“Please. Do this for me, I promise, I'll fill you in on what's been going on the past two weeks or so.”

“Like that's a gift?” Then her eyes narrowed. “You've been lying.”

“There's a lot to tell.”

“But you've been lying.”

“I haven't been entirely candid, no. But I haven't lied.”

She looked away, rocking foot to foot, testy in that way of hers, then turned back and eyed the shotgun again. Taking it from him, she measured its balance in her hands, then brought the stock to her shoulder and aimed down the barrel. In her white dress and glasses, she looked like Annie Oakley's improbable sister. He remembered that first night together, the two of them swaying naked in her hammock. It seemed a million years ago.