Resurrecting Midnight (23 page)

The Italians talked, their conversation passionate, yet quiet and reserved.

They were a bunch of post-fascist-Berlusconi People of the Freedom conservative fucks criticizing the goddamn U.S. while in their own country the right wing had marched in. What the fascist fucks said rang out as being harsh, but they weren’t in the top ten when it came to the most anti-U.S. countries. Still, it was kinder than what the U.S. said about others. And it pissed Medianoche off. Always would, no matter where he nested.

Medianoche peered into the night, saw the bitch. The diva.

She came from the direction of Callao, another main street that led to Libertador.

He saw how she let her presence be known, how she had stood across in front of the
lavandería
and allowed herself to be seen. She crossed the one-lane street and came inside the café, hands at her side. She always looked like Madhuri Shankar Dixit with shrapnel in her once-beautiful face. Thick eyebrows. Black, wavy hair slicked back on the sides, the top sticking up like a mohawk, a juvenile hairstyle that cried for attention.

She walked inside the café and the Italians stopped talking. Medianoche knew why. They saw her marked face. Saw what shrapnel had done. They thought the Indian woman could be a female suicide bomber and tensed like they were in Baghdad.

Señorita Raven unbuttoned her coat. No explosive vest. Just curves and breasts.

The men went back to their conversations.

Señorita took cautious steps, moved by Coca-Cola adverts and displays for desserts and
facturas
, nodded at the waiter, came to the back of the café where he waited, his back to the wall, underneath a Johnny Walker sign. She stopped in front of his table.

Medianoche’s gun remained in his lap, business end pointed at Señorita Raven.

Señorita Raven said, “
¿Qué tal?
”

“English only.”

“Because no one in the café speaks any goddamn English.”

She nodded. He smelled her floral fragrance.

She wore a double strand of pearls on her left ankle. Wore shrapnel marks and war wounds like they were jewelry from Tiffany’s. Good-looking. Smart enough. Professional. Sexual. Tonight, with her cleavage, suddenly sensual. Her cleavage was strong and her breasts kissed and stood high, that magic enhanced by the bra she wore.

Medianoche stared at her. Waited for her to talk. Or shoot. Her call.

She said, “You see how those Italians looked at me? Fucking Pope lovers. Following an out-of-touch old man who tells the world to not use condoms. That’s why the ecologists and communists are over there in Paris throwing condoms at Notre Dame Cathedral. I hope they are throwing used condoms. Easy for a fucker who ain’t fucking to tell fuckers who are fucking to stop fucking, which is fucked up. And those old fucks across the room. Did you see that racism? Imperialistic coffee-drinking fuckers looked at me like . . . geesh . . . like I was a goddamn terrorist.”

“A mouth like yours.”

“What about it?”

“Language.” He shook his head. “Not like a lady.”

“I was imitating The Beast. Fucking fuck this and fucking fuck that. When he gets mad, all he says is fuck this and fucking fuck that. Sounds like an immigrant thug. Cracks me up.”

Medianoche wasn’t amused. “Amaravati Panchali Ganeshes.”

“Told you, I don’t use that name.”

“Not using it won’t change who you are.”

She said, “I’ve been all over the city today. I’ve seen five brown-skinned people. Light brown skin. Not many dark people. And not many people with blond hair, for that matter. Only a handful. But definitely not many darkies. Which was why it was so easy to find the Jamaicans at EZE. They definitely stood out.”

He said nothing. Her conversation made no sense. He wasn’t into riddles. Talking to a woman was like being in a foreign country where he didn’t speak the language.

Medianoche asked, “What’s the point of this rambling conversation, soldier?”

“Mind if I sit?”

“I do mind. State your business and keep it moving.”

She nodded. “Who else is coming after the package? How many teams?”

“No idea.”

“We can’t keep everybody out. We can’t catch everybody getting off the boats and we can’t monitor every flight at every airport.”

Señorita Raven kept her eyes on his gun, he saw that. The shrapnel gave strangeness to her beauty. Underneath the dim lights, for a brief second, she had looked like a work of art.

She said, “The way you stare at me . . . frigorific.”

He didn’t move as she stared, felt her taking in his roughness, her eyes never blinking as she stood and read his injuries, studied every line on the road map that lived on his face.

Señorita Raven took a small breath, maintained eye contact. “Was just saying there weren’t many brown- or black-skinned people. It’s like being in a Woody Allen sci-fi movie. Hey, did you know that if you counted up all of the illegal aliens from south of the border, the U.S. has more Mexicans, more Spanish-speaking people than Argentina?”

He stared. “You’ve been drinking.”

“Long day. Was up at the crack of dawn shooting down tangos and blowing up vans. Then I had to wash my hair and get a manicure and pedicure. Did some shopping. Took a long bath. Played some music. Had a glass of wine. Maybe two. Nothing I can’t handle.”

He sipped his coffee. “Used to be more than fifty African nations in this area.”

“Fifty African nations? Really? How long ago?”

“Nineteenth century. First half.”

“Sounds like this should’ve been another Africa. What happened to the Africans?”

“You’re not African, you’re a goddamn Indian. What does it matter to a Punjabi who grew up in a loony bin in East Saint Louis? I’d understand if you were interested in the Slumdog Millionaires. Why the goddamn Africans? Nobody on the planet cares about Africans.”

“You are so fucking insensitive.”

“You want liberal, get off the battlefield and move to commie-homo-loving Hollywood.”

“Very insensitive.”

“Insensitive is a Jackson building a slavery theme park in Africa. Going to a slave port, building an amusement park in Nigeria along the site of a famous slave port, that is insensitive.”

“Okay. I’ll have to roll with that one. With reservation.”

“You have walked in uninvited and invaded my table. You want that politically correct hypocritical bullshit, do an about-face and march your 51-50 ass where they soft-shoe the truth.”

“I guess you’ve put me in my place. Something about Africans bother you?”

“Why Africans? Indians and Africans don’t have the best relationship on the planet. Sounds suspicious when a damn cow worshipper is standing over me asking about bushmeat eaters. Is that insensitive too? They eat chimpanzee, gorilla, antelope, and rodent. Is that insensitive? You’re standing over me breathing up all the good air and yakking about Africans.”

“Sir, didn’t mean to upset you, sir. But on a side note, I find it amazing how a man of your intelligence can offend so many people in one sentence. You’re a regular Bill Maher.”

Medianoche looked in her face, beyond the damage from war, into her eyes.

She returned his stare. Then she looked away.

She said, “Anyway. The slave thing. The fifty tribes.”

He watched her hands, knew she was strapped, wondered what her angle was.

She maintained eye contact. “Fifty tribes. That meant that most of them were enemies. Or didn’t like each other. But they worked together because they had a common enemy. Common enemies make enemies become friends.”

Medianoche finally spoke, “The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Is that where you’re going with this?”

Señorita Raven paused. As if she were trying to get to some point.

He asked, “Who is your enemy?”

“Mine is poverty.”

“Mine is time.”

“Same enemy everyone hopes to have in the end.”

He nodded.

She asked, “How much time do we have on the Rabbit’s Foot?”

“Rabbit’s Foot?”

“The package. Since I don’t know what it is, I call it the Rabbit’s Foot. Anyway. I mean, we’re all loaded up and on call, but no one seems to be as worried about it as they should be.”

“Why are you so worried about someone else’s money?”

“Who is guarding it? And where is it hidden? And if this is a team, why are at least two of us being kept in the dark on a package of such monumental importance?”

“Need-to-know basis. You know how that goes, right?”

“I need to know.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know.”

“You will be given the information you need. When you need that information.”

“Okay, so Hopkins was to pay us for delivery. Hopkins was blown the fuck up. We didn’t get the rest of our payday. So the package is with the team. Well, we have the Rabbit’s Foot. I overheard you say a few Russians were killed trying to get the package. And we took out two teams of ganja-smoking plantain-lovers this morning and shut down that route into the city until high noon. We own it. So it’s our money now, right? It’s The Four Horsemen’s money. And I am one of The Four goddamn Horsemen. We’re a team and I’m concerned with team business.”

“Stay on your side of the line. Take orders.”

“Who the fuck are you to tell me what I should be concerned with?”

There was no trust at their table. The gun in his lap confirmed that.

Medianoche said, “This conversation is treasonous. Give me one reason not to put a hole in your left breast.”

“Because it looks better than my right breast. Firmer. More succulent. Beautiful nipple.”

He didn’t reply.

She looked at his gun, then looked at him and said, “I’m not wearing my corny tie.”

“And?”

“I’m wearing a very pretty dress. Bought it at the Abasto Plaza Hotel Tango Shop. I was at El Ateneo most of the day, reading books and eating, then I got in a mood and went shopping.”

“What’s your point?”

“See the shoes? Comme il Faut.”

“Tango shoes.”

“Great tango shoes. The Manolo Blahniks of tango shoes. You can tell by the heel, if you know shoes. Women’s shoes. Anyway. Tango dress. High heels. I’m not working.”

“But you have a weapon inside your coat pocket.”

“A throwaway .22. Nothing special. Not like the Beretta you have pointed at me.”

“Why carry a throwaway tonight if you’re not working on a reason to throw it away?”

“Single woman with a body like mine, dressed like this, walking these mean streets alone. People are crazy down here. Stabbing each other. Shooting each other.
For free.
Three boys got on a bus, tried to rob the driver, then cut off one of his fingers. That was in the big-money Palermo barrio. For no reason. That’s ridiculous. It’s not like Detroit, New York, or L.A., but still.”

He nodded. “What’s in the left coat pocket?”

“Tango gloves. They match the dress. Sexy. They come up to my elbows.”

“Why the dress and high heels?”

“Was bored. Didn’t want to go to Bar 6 or Moma Rocha or Bartok. Bar scene isn’t my thing. Too much competition. Too many beauty queens and shallow men. Wasn’t in the mood for any electronic music. Had hit La Preciosa, Crobar, El Cocobongo, Pacha, Live, and Amerika too many times. Did I mention that I saw The Beast’s servant guy at Amerika? He’s a regular there. Wouldn’t be surprised to see The Beast there. Anyway. Wanted to get out of that condo and do something classy. First I thought about going to Biblioteca Café, then I said, nah. Tango. I was thinking about El Beso again, but changed my mind, started thinking about La Catedral.”

“Never heard of La Catedral.”

“Underground tango spot on Sarmiento.”

One of the Italians looked his way, saw a woman standing at a table. Not being offered a seat. Medianoche wasn’t being a gentleman. He was being as low-class as his enemy.

Medianoche motioned at the empty seat in front of him.

He said, “Lose the coat. Keep those pretty hands on the table.”

“Or what?”

“Or die where you stand.”

Capítulo 22

Señorita Raven
took off her coat.

He knew her measurements. Knew them from her file. Five nine with nice breasts standing over a small waist that led to sweet hips; hips that stood guard over a distracting backside. Athletic, but still soft and feminine around the edges. Her formfitting tango dress was long and sleeveless. He knew her measurements, but in that outfit her figure was surprising, her cleavage equally disarming. Her dress was sultry, a revealing slit over the left leg that commenced a little more than a foot from her slim waist. Back out, arms exposed, Señorita Raven put her hands on the table, palms down, polished fingernails up.

She had a body that could cause an accident. Car accident or premature ejaculation. Either way, there would be a mess that needed to be cleaned up. He tried to imagine her without the shrapnel that tainted her beauty. Wondered what that arrogant diva had looked like then.

He looked at her wrist. Saw her watch. Ono Moda. Stainless steel with the classic signature dot of Movado. His brand. He clenched his teeth but didn’t say anything. He wanted to, but not all thoughts had to become words.

Then she turned her palms up.

The healed slashes from her attempted suicide on display.

More scars. Lines. Like she used to cut herself. Used pain to hide pain.

She asked, “How well do you know The Beast?”

“Don’t initiate a conversation you will regret.”

“You’ve been working with him for years, huh? Decades, huh?”