A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [87]
An aging showed in Reynaldo Maldonado’s eyes, and his work was hovered over by dark angels.
A moment of truth came with startling speed and completely unexpected. Quinn and Helena were at the breakfast table, checking the papers, making calls, trading little nothings when the lobby desk buzzed.
“Morning, Mr. O’Connell. Someone to see you. I sent him up.”
Quinn knew. He pulled himself together. His doorbell insisted. Quinn opened it and looked into the eyes of Carlos Martinez. Carlos entered without invitation, took a pistol from its inside holster, and placed it on the pass-through kitchen counter.
“Oh, my God,” Helena cried.
“No, no,” Carlos said with a barely audible voice. “I leave the pistol in your hands, Quinn. It is loaded. Kill me, or otherwise speak with me.”
Quinn took up the weapon, opened the chamber, took out the bullets, and put them in his pocket. He set the gun down and turned to Helena.
“We’ll be all right,” Quinn said.
Helena looked from one to the other. Carlos lowered his head and nodded in confirmation.
“I don’t think I’d better leave.”
“No, we’re going to be fine. I’ll call you at your office in about fifteen minutes.”
“Uh-uh,” Helena said. “I’ll wait in your study.”
She bussed Quinn’s cheek, glared volcanic at Carlos, and retreated, leaving the door slightly ajar.
“Nice lady,” Carlos said. “Can I take my coat off?”
“Sure, sit down.”
Carlos stared blankly through the big sliding windows. “For a lawyer I’ve lost my golden tongue,” he mumbled. “Let me try to get out what is shuttered in me as best I can.”
Quinn nodded.
“First, Rita is all right. She is all right. Better, much better.” He asked for water and sipped. “I must let you know how much I hate myself—”
“Save that shit.”
“All right, all right,” Carlos answered. “Then let me go point blank. When she arrived at my place in Houston, she was in a bad way. Hysterical, incoherent. A bad way. Yes, she had phoned me. Yes, I told her come to Houston. I sent away my fiancée and told her not to come back. I’m not going to lie to you, Quinn. You can’t hate me any more than I hate myself. I, uh, was in exultation that Rita was coming, in exultation. It overwhelmed any sense of decency, and sense of honor—”
“Save the shit!” Quinn snapped. “I know how you’ve suffered.”
“She was in a bad way. For the first days she was under sedation and watched ’round the clock. I travel a lot.”
“So I hear, a regular traveling laundry.”
“I’d be a septic tank for the fees I am paid. My point is that Rita had care day and night and the best professional help in Houston. I’m not going to try to lie to you, Quinn. I did this for me, Carlos. My desire for her has always been unbalanced.”
“Fuck it, get out, Carlos, before one of us gets killed.”
“No,” Carlos said.
Quinn felt Helena’s hand on his shoulder. “Let him speak,” she commanded.
“No.”
“Look at him, Quinn. He’s already a walking dead man. You’re not far behind. Let him speak.”
Quinn fell into an easy chair and stared at the carpet.
“Rita was awakened from her bad dream. For a time I was so thrilled by her restoration. But then, without sinking back into madness, she also began to die. Every day, every night. She wished for death. She does not love me, Quinn. I love her almost enough to try to keep her, but I love her too much to see her die.”
“Got a bundle of hot cash,” Quinn spat, “on your way to some quaint little offshore island. Offshore Martinez. Cash Carlos. Cocaine cash Carlos offshore Martinez.”
Helena realized that her days and nights with Quinn might be fast coming to a close. Thank God, she said to herself, she had not lost her soul to him. All that could be heard was their grunting breaths.
“We knew we couldn’t live with it anymore,” Carlos croaked. “Her head is clear now. She is very much on top of things. She called Mal a few days ago for him to come down to Houston.”
Quinn passed through the French doors to the balcony, easing back from his rage.