Exposure (14 page)

Desmerelda has to concede that this would not be a good thing. She takes an orange from the fruit bowl and sits at the table to peel it, concentrating on getting all the white pith away from the flesh. In the bedroom, her phone rings. She waits until it gives up.

“Don’t you think,” she says carefully, “it’s kind of strange that all the papers had pictures of Michael and Montano and everybody coming out of El Capricho? Like, the people call the police because there’s this big fight, they get there pretty fast, yeah, but as soon as they come out with Michael, there’s all these photographers? Isn’t that slightly weird?”

“I guess somebody tipped them off.”

“Yeah, but how come they got there so quick? It doesn’t make sense.”

Otello shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe they didn’t. Maybe the paparazzi knew that Luis and his celebrity friends were going to be there, and were just hanging around for pictures. Maybe they hang around there all the time. It’s that kind of place, isn’t it? It’s why we don’t go there anymore.”

He pours the coffee. “Or what’s more likely, come to think of it, is that people took pictures with their cell phones and sold them to the papers. It happens all the time. Everyone with a goddamn Nokia is a paparazzo these days.”

Desmerelda pulls the segments of her orange apart so that they look like the petals of a fleshy flower, or a starfish.

“Maybe,” she says. “It still seems kind of funny to me, though.”

It
is
funny. Marvelously funny. Diego, gunning the Maserati at the traffic lights on Independencia, laughs out loud. Really, who could have predicted that it would all work out so well? The taxi to his right has two young guys in it who are checking out his car, and his laughter. They grin back at him, lifting their thumbs in an admiring salute. He returns the gesture. The lights change, and he pumps the accelerator, cutting off the cab for the simple pleasure of it.

Soon, he knows, Dezi will start working on Otello to give Cass his job back. And Otello will start to ask himself why she cares so much. Yes. But just to make sure, he will talk to Cass. Not now, though. Later. Let things simmer awhile. Besides, Emilia will be missing him.

Y
AWNING
, F
AUSTINO SHAMBLED
into his kitchen and switched on the kettle. He opened the fridge and sniffed suspiciously at the pineapple juice. It smelled slightly fermented, but he glugged some down anyway.

He had not slept well, but could not recall the dreams that had troubled his night. They had slipped away to wherever it was they spent the days lying in wait for him.

While the coffee brewed, he went to the tiny bedroom he used as a home office and fired up his aging PC. Once he had deleted the usual baffling messages about firewall updates and virus checkers, then the spam (why was it that these people assumed he was lonely, impotent, and sick?), he discovered that he had one new e-mail. From Diego Mendosa, suggesting possible dates and times for the next interview with Otello. The message was logged at 6:04 a.m. Either the man started work very early or he didn’t sleep. It occurred to Faustino that he knew nothing about Mendosa’s private life. Just as — he tried to avoid the thought, and the memory that went with it, but couldn’t — he knew nothing about Bush’s.

He consumed his usual breakfast of two cups of coffee and two cigarettes while gazing blankly at the strips of world showing through the venetian blind. Then he called his office at
La Nación.
A robotic voice informed him that the departmental secretary was not at her desk at the moment. When the bleep went, he thought about saying, “And why not, exactly?” but then decided he couldn’t be bothered and hung up without leaving a message. It would hardly be a shocking novelty if El Maestro was late on duty.

Faustino drove the Celica as quickly as he dared up through the lower tiers of the multistory garage. Bad shadowy things lived at these levels, and he would not leave his car there. There were spaces on the roof, and he parked in one that was within sight of the attendant’s glass booth. He walked through the tubular glass bridge that arced above the squalling traffic and onto the concourse that overlooked the vast atrium of Beckers, the biggest and best department store in the city. From his vantage point, it resembled a colony built by termites that declined to use any building materials other than crystal or chrome. Here, as always, he felt almost religious. The Muzak and the ascending voices of a thousand shoppers blended into something that could be mistaken for prayer. He rode the escalators down to the menswear department, trying to look uninterested as he sank past the brazen mannequins that beckoned him into women’s lingerie.

Faustino knew about clothes. His fingers could tell the difference between the genuine article and the product of some local or Asian sweatshop. He was halfway to the cashier with a nice cotton crew neck when he realized his mistake. He returned the garment to its rack and went to rummage in the discount bin for something that looked less stealable. Almost everything in there made him wince, but eventually he found a gray-and-black synthetic sports top that wasn’t entirely disgusting and was probably windproof. He took it to the register. There was no point using a credit card; Faustino paid with the change in his pocket.

He headed back to the escalators, then paused to study a floor plan. Household goods, maybe. Down in the bowels of the store, where he had never ventured. He hesitated, checked his watch, then began the descent.

The plastic buckets were pastel-colored, flimsy-looking affairs with unconvincing handles. Girly things, accessories for oversize Barbie dolls. He found his way into home decorating, and there he discovered a small tower of black rubber pails. It resembled the trunk of a burned palm tree. He pulled the topmost one free. The handle was made of galvanized metal with a wooden grip. Faustino wedged the pail between his feet and yanked at it, testing the fixings. A shelf stacker paused in his work and watched him with some interest. Satisfied — or as satisfied as a non-expert in bucketry could be — Faustino bought the thing.

Rubén watched Faustino approach the glass doors. The senior sportswriter arriving at
La Nación
carrying a black rubber bucket was not an everyday event. It was possibly sinister. The doorman braced himself.

“Hi, Rubén.”

“Señor Paul.”

“A little less chilly today.”

“Yeah,” Rubén said, glancing down at the bucket. There was something in it, something in a purple shopping bag.

“You, er, seen the kid this morning?”

That question again. And the man seemed edgy. Uh-oh. “Nope. Not yet.”

Faustino turned away and walked to the edge of the patio. He looked up and down the avenue. Rubén studied the trees, his face neutral. Faustino came back.

“Look, Rubén, do me a favor, huh? If you see him, give him this.” Faustino held out the bucket, and after a flicker of hesitation, Rubén took it. “Tell him it’s from me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And listen, say, um, say that this is to make up for the misunderstanding, all right?”

Rubén frowned at this difficult idea. “The bucket is to make up for the misunderstanding?”

“Yes. Well, no, not exactly, it’s . . .”

Faustino looked distinctly shifty, which was a new thing in Rubén’s experience. It made him cautious.

“No? Sorry. It’s what’s
in
the bucket that makes up for the misunderstanding. Is that right, Señor Paul?”

Faustino had not expected the need to explain himself. Indeed, he could not have done so. A motorcycle messenger stumbled out of the revolving doors. A skinny yellow dog came up the patio steps, looked around, and went back down.

“Look, er, forget the misunderstanding bit, okay? When you see the kid, just give him the damn thing. You don’t need to say anything.”

“Okay.”

“Right. Let me in.”

Rubén put his hand on the huge brass door handle, then paused thoughtfully. “Thing is, Señor Paul, if I don’t say nothin’, the kid’s gonna think it’s from me, maybe. So you want me to say it’s from you?”

Faustino’s shoulders fell. He looked at the ground, nodding as though he were suddenly afflicted by Parkinson’s disease. “Yes,” he said as calmly as he could manage. “Fine. Thank you.”

Rubén pulled the door open, and Faustino passed through. Halfway across the lobby he said, “Jesus!” so loudly that Marta, the receptionist, dropped her lipstick.

F
AUSTINO SPENT THE
first hour of his working day watching the TV in his office and keeping up with the stuff from the Press Association that popped up on
La Nación
’s intranet. There was nothing new; none of the leading characters were saying anything. There was footage of Otello arriving at the Rialto training ground, ignoring all questions from the press pack at the gates. Luis Montano was saying nothing because, obviously, lawyers had told him not to. Ditto Jaco Roderigo. Nothing from Desmerelda; a smooth, long-haired young man representing Shakespeare made a brief media statement to the effect that although “distressed” by the affair, the star was “continuing to fulfill her professional and other engagements.” Nobody had seen her, though. As for Cass himself, he had gone underground; incredibly, no one seemed to know where he lived.

La Nación
had reported the brawl and its aftermath almost reluctantly, on page three. So Faustino was surprised to get a call from the news editor, Vittorio Maragall.

“No, Vito, I do not have Otello’s personal phone number. No, we’re not ‘great pals.’ I’ve met him half a dozen times, is all. And in any case, I wouldn’t . . . Look, Vito, what is this? We’re not chasing this story, are we? It’s just tabloid fodder . . . We are? Carmen thinks what? Yeah, well, she’s always been a bottom feeder at heart. Okay, I’ll see what I can do. Maybe a sort of ‘thought piece’ on how this is all so much bullsh — Yeah, well, if she doesn’t like it she can stick it. Yeah, and you, Vito. Chin up.”

Faustino already had two things that he was meant to be working on: an obituary of the former Deportivo San Juan and international goalkeeper Pablo Laval, and a longish piece for the weekend supplement on the latest corruption scandal seeping out of Italian soccer. He’d retrieved a manila-bound file on Laval from his famed Library of Useless Knowledge, a packed and eccentrically cataloged storeroom that opened onto his office, and he sat for a few minutes leafing through it. Then he set off on the long trek to the drinks machine. He got as far as the elevators and paused, jingling the coins in his pants pocket. He made a thoughtful popping noise with his lips, like a man who has just remembered something, then pressed the down button.

Rubén was not in sight beyond the glass doors, so Faustino went over to the right-hand side of the lobby and peered through them at an angle. There was the doorman, looking bored, close to the wall next to the far door. The bucket sat on the ground just behind his feet. Faustino scanned the patio, then returned to his office.

The marina penthouse. Just after midday. The phone rings.

OTELLO:
Michael?

CASS:
Yeah.

OTELLO:
How are you?

CASS:
You don’t want to know.

OTELLO:
Man, I don’t know what to say to you.

CASS:
Yes, you do. I say, “I’m sorry.” Then you say, “You’re fired.” Right?

OTELLO:
Michael, man, I love you. But . . .

CASS:
But I’m fired.

OTELLO:
I’m relieving you of your duties.

CASS
[
laughs harshly; it’s like a bark
]: Relieving me of my duties? Where the hell did you get that from? You don’t have to talk like that to me, man. Save that crap for the press release.

OTELLO:
Maybe this isn’t the right time to be having this conversation. Why don’t I call you in a couple of days? When you’re feeling better.

CASS:
Yeah. Listen. How’s Dezi?

OTELLO:
I’ll call you, Michael. Promise. Look after yourself. You know what I’m saying?

CASS:
Someone spiked my drink, man. That’s the truth. Think about that. I want you to make sure Dezi is looked after, you hear me?

OTELLO:
I’ll call you.

Bush’s head was messed up. He didn’t think the spliff he was smoking was going to help, but for now, what the hell. He’d got it from Rocco, who sold tiny paper cups of coffee and single cigarettes (and spliffs to customers he trusted and friends who needed one) from a little pushcart made out to look like a steam locomotive. Rocco leased his mobile business, and bought his coffee and cigarettes, from a man who owned a great many of these little carts. This man was not the kind you mess with, and so Rocco never got mugged, even though he was always carrying cash. Bush was hiding money in the tin can buried in the shed with a view to getting into the same line of work. It wasn’t the kind of thing you could work on the Avenida San Cristóbal outside
La Nación,
though.

He groaned smoke, remembering. When he explored the inside of his cheek with his tongue, it still felt kind of pulpy.

Maestro or no Maestro, he’d have to go back, or lose the damn turf. Try and hustle another bucket from Nina tomorrow and go back. But he didn’t want to have to say sorry to the guy. Couldn’t think how to. Shouldn’t
have
to, for Chrissake. Like, who’d hit who? The man holds out twenty dollars. What’s anybody gonna think? He was always friendly, so he could’ve been queer, right? The friendly ones usually were.

None of this consoled Bush, however. Because he was just talking to himself in his head. What he felt, the thing that was hurting somewhere other than his mouth — well, that was something else entirely.

He was sitting with his back against the low wall of the dry fountain in Los Jardines, the Gardens, down at the southern end of the Triangle. A hundred years ago, Fidel had told him, these really had been gardens: fabulous ones, with parrots in the trees. The huge
palacio
to which they’d originally belonged had been pulled down to build the university whose raw-looking concrete towers loomed beyond the growling traffic over to Bush’s left. Now Los Jardines was a large area of patchy grass and reddish earth, randomly broken up by footpaths, stubborn trees, and meaningless wire-mesh fences. Boys came here to sleep in the sun, in little packs with sentries, or to stage unruly, day-long games of soccer. The girls came to support, mock, gossip, hang out. There was a certain safety in the openness of the space; you could see something happening from a long way off. It would take an army of Ratcatchers to surround the place. Bianca and Felicia had become part of a cluster of girls gathered on and around a couple of benches fifty yards from where Bush sat smoking.

Felicia. There was another thing messing with his head.

Last night. He’d sat on his sleeping mat with his knees drawn up under the old knitted blanket for maybe an hour, playing the scene with El Maestro over and over in his head, trying to picture the next day, how things might go. He’d fallen asleep without noticing how, and then there’d been something moving up against him. He’d turned, thinking,
What?
And he must have said it, too, because she’d put her fingers on his mouth and gone,
“Shh.”

“Felicia? Wha —?”

“Shh. Bianca’s asleep.”

Felicia’s eyes, just two pale circles in the darkness, very close. He’d watched them, listening to the sound of Bianca’s mumbled breathing.

“What you want, girl?” he’d whispered. “Somethin’ the matter?”

“I need to talk to you, Bush.”

“Well, you sure picked a poor time to start. Can’t it wait? I need to sleep.”

“No, it can’t wait. I gotta talk to you when Bianca ain’ listenin’.”

He’d moaned quietly.

“Bush, you just got to face up to this. I can’t watch her no more.”

“Aw, Felicia —”

“No. Listen to me, now. This isn’ me complainin’, right? This’s me sharin’ the cares we both got. And you’ve gotta take your share of it. I know, I know. I know you got other things you need to do. But she’s your sister, man. I just don’ have the hold over her you do.”

He’d turned onto his back and shut his eyes. Somehow he’d brought himself to say, “Okay. So what’s been happenin’?”

“I dunno. Maybe nothin’. All I know is, she spends like all the time tryin’ to get away from me. It’s drivin’ me crazy. Like, today, down the market, the old woman does the barbecue, she says, ‘Felicia, you wanna do me a errand, I’ll give you somethin’ nice to eat.’ And I gotta say no. ’Cause I know soon’s I’m gone, Bianca’ll scoot off, and I’ll spend the rest of the day shit-scared lookin’ for her.”

Her eyes. Shinier than before. Tears, maybe. He didn’t need this.

“So what you think she’s into? She into anythin’ you know about?”

Felicia had moved onto her back beside him then. Her shoulder warm against his.

“No,” she’d murmured after a while. “It’s just . . . like she sees the world a dif’ren’ way, you know what I mean? It’s like she sees the world full of . . . of, I dunno, promises. She ain’t got the sense to be afraid of anythin’.”

He’d wanted a hand to hold, but the only one nearby was Felicia’s. Bianca had stirred, muttered something on the verge of speech. When her breathing had returned to its rhythm, Bush’d found himself looking into Felicia’s eyes again.

“So what you think I should do?”

“I dunno. Talk to her, I dunno. All I know is, I’m scared.”

“What of?”

“Of takin’ care of her. That if somethin’ happens, you’ll blame me.”

Tiredness had swept over him then, like a soft wave he’d wanted to go with. It was perhaps this tiredness that’d made him feel gentle toward her. “No. It’s all right. I know how hard it is for you, girl. Things’ll be fine. Get some sleep.”

He’d touched the backs of his fingers to her face, then turned away, dismissing her. But she hadn’t moved.

“What happen to you today, Bush?”

“What?”

“Side of your face is swole up.”

“Yeah, well . . . Ain’t nothin’ to worry about. I’m okay.”

Then she’d leaned over and brushed the hair away from his face and put her fingers lightly where Faustino had slapped him. At the same time, he’d felt a soft double caress come to rest against his shoulder. Her breasts. Something like electricity happened. Her thigh against the back of his. She kissed his neck.

“Jesus, Felicia,” he’d said, the words thick in his throat. He’d turned over, but she’d gone before his hand could reach her. He’d heard her settle back into bed with Bianca, who’d murmured something before the darkness went still and silent. His foolish lonely body sending him needful messages he didn’t want to hear.

What you doin’?
he’d asked himself.
Tha’s
Felicia, man.

Now, almost as if she knew what he was remembering, she stood and looked over at him, folding her arms across her chest, miming
I’m cold.
And yes, despite the sun, a chill wind patrolled Los Jardines. For twenty dollars he could’ve gotten warm tops for all three of them. Bush stubbed the joint and raised a hand to her. She smiled and turned back to the game. He looked at the sky. Flat-bellied clouds with outrageous towering crests drifted from left to right. He indulged a stoned vision of ordering them into a regular, geometric parade.

When he’d told the girls that they were all going down to Los Jardines, Bianca had sulked, saying that no one cool went there. He’d told her that yeah, it was a sorry place, but the sky was bigger there than anywhere else in the city. Felicia had been happy. Unlike Bianca, she’d understood that Bush was taking a day off. At almost all the crossings she’d linked her arm in his, pretending to be afraid of the traffic. And he hadn’t shaken her off.

Yeah, his head was messed up. So it was surprising that he wasn’t unhappy. When he stood up, the dope hit him, and he set off toward the girls on uncertain legs.

When Faustino left for lunch at a quarter to one, Rubén’s place had been taken by a guy in a janitor’s uniform. The bucket containing the sports top had disappeared from its position by the wall.

“Rubén on a break?”

“Yessir. Said he’d be ten, fifteen minutes.”

“Right. He, er, give you anything to look after?”

The janitor looked anxious, as though this were a trick question slipped into a job interview. “No, sir. Should he have?”

“Nah,” Faustino said. “Don’t worry about it.”

When he returned at two fifteen, Faustino found Rubén engaged in an animated discussion with the driver of a van double-parked in front of the building. He loitered for a while, but it looked as though the dispute might go into extra time and maybe even a penalty shootout, so he fought his way single-handed into the lobby and headed for the elevators. On the way he glanced over at Marta, on the principle that Marta always deserved glancing at. And she was looking back at him. She had her phone cradled between her chin and her shoulder, and with her right hand she was holding aloft Faustino’s bucket. Her face had a big amused question all over it. Three women who were signing the visitors’ book turned to look at Faustino, then the bucket, then back at Faustino. He made a downward, put-it-away gesture with his hand and continued on his way, scowling.