Suspicion of Rage (42 page)

Danny looked over his shoulder. "So, Karen, what kind of cake are you going to get?"
 

"A Charlotte. Why?"
 

"I hate that cream stuff. It has no taste."
 

"I like it."

"Nobody else does."

"Yes, they do. It's Mrs. Vega's favorite."

"A Charlotte costs like twelve bucks. If you buy a Charlotte, we won't have enough money to get something for ourselves."

"Look, Danny. You're only coming along because my grandmother wouldn't allow me to go by myself. It isn't your money."

"You're so fucking selfish. I can't believe you," Danny said.

The day had started out bad. His father had knocked on the door at eight o'clock in the morning and told Gio to leave. Then he reamed Danny out for telling the police about José Leiva.
Deeply disappointed in you. Why did you do it?
Danny hadn't seen him so mad in a long time.
Put you on a fucking plane right back to New Jersey.
Danny had started crying. He hated that, crying in front of his father. It wasn't because he felt sorry for calling the police. It was knowing that whatever he did, he and his dad would never get along. His father went out and slammed the door. A minute later a car started. They were going to find a lawyer for Leiva.
To try to repair some of the damage you have done

Angela overheard it, naturally, and now she wouldn't speak to him. Gio took off with his friends, didn't even tell Danny he was going. The general was in his study with the door locked. Janelle was freaking out because nobody was paying attention to her party. Aunt Marta was just freaking out, screaming at whoever spoke to her. Was Danny responsible for all of that?

Cobo was supposed to drive Karen, but when Mrs. Connor went up to knock on his door, he didn't answer. Drunk again, probably. And so Danny got stuck with escorting Karen to the bakery. She didn't like it either.

They walked on Nineteenth Street like that, with him in front and the Brat behind him. A few blocks later he saw the yellow-and-white striped awning of the bakery. He opened the glass door, held it, then let it go just as Karen got there. She caught it with her sneaker.

There was a crowd picking up sandwiches for lunch, and the place smelled of coffee. Behind a window, a guy in a white jacket was making espresso. Finally they got to the front of the line, and Danny told Karen to give him the list. He read it in Spanish to the lady behind the counter. Baguette, rolls, two croissants, and a Paris cake. Plus two of those eclairs and two boxes of orange juice. "Karen, you want a juice, right?"

"Sure. Did you order a Charlotte?"

"Yes, Karen,
I
ordered a Charlotte. Give her the money. It's nineteen-fifty."

Danny looked around the bakery. There were a couple of blond tourist girls at a table by the window. They were from England. He could hear their accents.

When Karen saw what the clerk was putting in the box, her face screwed up. "That's the wrong one!"

Danny reached over and stuck his finger in the icing and licked it off. "Too late."

"I
didn't want that cake!"

"Come on, it's better than a Charlotte. Look, I bought you a chocolate eclair."

"You
bought it? That wasn't your money!"

"Well, do you want this or not? I can eat both of them."

She grabbed the bag out of his hand and looked into it to make sure he wasn't lying. He handed her the orange juice and she jabbed her straw through the hole in the box.

"You could say thank you," he said. "For
what?"

When he took the bag from the clerk, Danny rolled his eyes toward Karen. The lady smiled at him, and he told her to have a good day.

They were in the parking lot when he noticed his orange juice wasn't in the bag. "Oh, shit, I left my juice. Hold this."

Karen took the bag over to the curb at the edge of the parking lot and sat down to eat her eclair. Danny went back in, said excuse me to some people in the way, and got his juice off the top of the glass case.

One of the tourist girls motioned for him to come over. "Do you speak English?"

"Yes."

"Great. You look like you do."
 

"What does that look like?"
 

The girls giggled.

"They gave me this cappuccino, and I really wanted ice in it." The way she was sitting, he could look down the front of her shirt and see everything. The other girl had a tube top, and marks from a bathing suit cut through her sunburn.

"I can fix that for you." He took her cup to the window. He told the man the English lady wanted it
con hielo,
with ice. He waited, then took the glass to the table.

"Thanks, it's perfect. Are you American?"
 

"Cuban. I live near New York, but a lot of my family's here. My uncle!s a general in the army."

"A general!"They giggled again.

He glanced out the window, but a car was in the way, and he couldn't see the other side of the parking lot.

The girls asked where a good beach was. They didn't want to drive all the way to Varadero. Danny told them to go to
Playas del Este.
"It's not far."

"Could you just show us on this map?"

He leaned over and traced the route with his finger. "There are like three or four beaches, but this one is best."

"Thanks." She drew a circle with her pen.
 

"Well, nice meeting you."
 

"Bye," they said in unison.

Danny picked up his juice and went outside. The curb was empty. He saw a small white bag on the ground. He walked to the corner of the building, but there was nothing back there but a steel door and some cans.

"What the hell?"

He walked out to the sidewalk and looked up and down the street, but he didn't see any skinny girls with long hair. He went next door to the video store, but it was closed.

Danny stood on the sidewalk with his hands on his hips. There was only one answer. The Brat had taken off without him. He wasn't worried. Havana wasn't New York City.

He went back inside to help the English girls with their directions.

 

 

 

 

36

 

 

Gail noticed that Anthony's knuckles had turned white. He held on to the steering wheel as if he wanted to rip it out. He was furious with himself for not being able to help José Leiva. Eighteen years of practicing criminal defense law in the United States meant nothing. He had $1,000 cash in his wallet, the amount Yolanda had said would buy a good lawyer. In the U.S. this wouldn't have paid for a D.U.I, defense.

"Do you know there are only
one hundred
defense lawyers in Cuba?"
 

"I didn't know that," Gail said. "And they're all working for the government."
 

"Well... so are our public defenders."
 

"Our P.D.s don't roll over," Anthony said. "They're a pain in the ass to the system, as they should be. This is useless. Yolanda won't find a lawyer who will take the case, not for a thousand, not for ten thousand."
 

"Why not?"

"Because there's not a fucking thing that can be done."

"Being here is something." Gail touched his face. "Don't let her see you like this."

He blew out a breath through his teeth and guided the car through the tunnel under the river and out the other side.

The lawyer Yolanda would talk to was part of a
bufete colectivo
in Central Havana. The building, once the home of a wealthy merchant family, had been converted into law offices in the
1920s.
After the Revolution, lawyers became employees of the state. In theory they would charge all their clients the same low fee in Cuban pesos; in reality, the best lawyers demanded a premium in dollars.

The friends of José Leiva had gathered in a comer of a waiting room that Gail found astonishingly luxurious. Air-conditioned, quiet, lots of polished wood. Stained glass above the windows put curves of blue and red on the tile floor. Yolanda Cabrera sat between two women whose own husbands were in prison. Gail asked what for. One had put an X through Fidel's face on a poster. The other had handed out copies of ah Amnesty International report.

It was unreal, impossible. Gail had heard of this; she'd lived in Miami all her life hearing such things, but now she felt she had walked into a surreal play, and these people were actors. No one really went to prison for drawing an X on a poster, not in the twenty-first century.

Her chair was next to that of a robust man in his late sixties named Carlos Portal. He had presented Anthony with his card:
Comité de Derechos Humanos.
Committee on Human Rights—one of many such groups that the government tolerated. Portal held a straw fedora on his knee. His English was lousy, but he insisted on speaking it so that
la señora de Quintana
would understand.

Portal had found out that José Leiva had not yet been formally charged with anything. They had taken him in for questioning in the murder of Olga Saavedra. They were also looking into a charge of possessing enemy propaganda. Portal didn't think the murder case would go anywhere. As for the other case ...

"If they make a case for a political crime, you are guilty. That's it. If they arrest José for the political crime, he have a trial in two or three weeks. It is very hard to find a lawyer, very hard—no because the lawyer is afraid. The reason is, why to take a case if you know you lose?" Portal reached over and squeezed Yolanda's hand. "I don' give her bad news. She know already. This man is a lawyer of skill. Maybe he get less years for José. If the prosecutor say for ten years, maybe the lawyer get eight years."

Gail's lips moved soundlessly.
My God.

"They can do what they want," Yolanda said calmly. "If José is in prison, I will do his work, and if they want me to stop, they'll have to put me in prison, too."

A murmuring went through the group gathered around her, and one of the men nodded. "They will have to take all of us."

"Can he be released on bail?" Anthony asked.
"Una fianza?"

"I don't think so, on the murder case, no," Portal said. "On the political case, it's possible. House arrest is possible."

"The lawyer could do that much, couldn't he?"

Portal let a shrug stand as his reply.

The others started talking again about what they would do if José was indicted. Gail could read Anthony's thoughts. Hire the goddamned attorney to arrange house arrest. Forget the effing trial. Put José and Yolanda and Mario on a boat and get them the hell out of here.

Ever since finding Olga Saavedra's body, a memory had gone in and out of Gail's consciousness. Whenever it had occurred to her that she should mention it, Anthony had not been there, and when he had been, other events had crowded it out. The memory came again with such force that Gail felt the impact in her stomach, a queasy sense of dread. For several minutes she stared into the stained glass over the window, hearing but understanding not a word of the Spanish flowing around her.

She put a hand on his coat sleeve. "Anthony." When he finally looked around, she whispered, "Come outside with me."

Anthony told Yolanda they would be back in a few minutes. He followed Gail out the door and down the front steps. He asked her what was wrong. Pedestrians walked around them, and next door a crowd waited in line to get into a dollar store. Gail went the other way, and when they reached a place where no one could hear them, she reached for his hand.

"I have to talk to you about Marta. This might mean nothing at all, but you should know." Holding onto his arm, she told him what she had seen two days ago from the back terrace of his sister's house. Marta answering the phone, leaving quickly, coming back with Cobo, who vanished into his garage apartment. Marta closing herself in her room, washing out her clothes in the sink, explaining that she had dropped a carton of yogurt at the market.

"Anthony, she went to the market and didn't bring anything back."

Through pursed lips he took some breaths to steady himself.
"Ay, Dios mío."

"What do you want to do?" she asked.

"Yolanda is with her friends. She's all right. I'll tell them we have to leave."

 

When they arrived home, Gail watched Anthony walk up the stairs to the second level, then turn left out of sight. She heard a knock, then his baritone voice asking if he could come in. The door opened. Closed.

Gail leaned against the curved railing and looked around the empty living room. She wondered if Marta had canceled delivery of the tables and chairs for the party. The street was quiet, and in the other direction, the mid-afternoon sun slanted through the trees. Someone had left the sliding doors open, and she could hear the birds. Ramiro had left early for his office, and his son had taken off even earlier. Everyone else was in their rooms, probably packing. Anthony had told his kids that they might be leaving a little earlier than planned.

What would become of this house? It would be confiscated, she assumed, along with the years' worth of things the Vegas had collected, from the Limoges china once used by Marta's great-grandmother, to the awards Giovany had won for his swim team.

"Gail?"

Irene had come out of her room, a small nook with a sofa bed and an old upright piano. Her baggy red sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt meant she'd been inside all day, probably putting her things back into her suitcases.

"Hi, Mom. Yolanda is still waiting to speak to the lawyer. She seems all right. We're not sure about José. Maybe he can get out on bail. Anthony wants to talk them into coming to Florida. After this, they might listen."

"I hope so." Irene's hands were at her heart. "Honey, I'm a little worried about Karen. I sent her to the bakery with Danny. That was over three hours ago, and they aren't back yet."

"Danny probably wanted to go somewhere else. You know how he is. They didn't call?"

"No. I would have heard it. The phone hasn't rung."