Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [2]
“You have the other car?”
“Sí. A Taurus. Silver.”
“Not too new.”
“Ninety-five. Where’s Morrie?”
“Late, as usual.”
“There he is.”
Garraga pointed to a green four-door sedan that had entered the traffic circle and approached where Munsch and Garraga sat. It was driven by a blond woman wearing large round sunglasses. The man next to her sat resolutely, looking straight ahead, like a husband being driven by a wife to a hospital for life-threatening surgery. He was bald on top but had long silver hair slicked back at the sides and tied into a small ponytail. He was tieless; the collar of his white shirt protruded inches above the back of his blue suit jacket.
“I told him to leave the bitch home,” Munsch muttered.
She pulled up behind the Caddy. Munsch saw in his rearview mirror that she was using her mirror to adjust her hair. Morrie turned to her and said something. It looked to Munsch that they’d started arguing. Morrie opened his door and started to get out, but turned and yelled something at her. She responded with a pointed gesture. He slammed the door, walked to the Caddy, and got in the back.
“Why the hell did you bring her?” Munsch asked.
“I needed a ride.”
The blonde put her car in reverse, jerked back a dozen feet, then pulled out from the curb, almost sideswiping another vehicle.
“You should get rid of her,” Munsch said.
“Forget her,” Morrie said.
“You tell her what we’re doing?” Munsch asked.
“No, of course not. Hello, Garraga.”
“What ’a you say, Morrie?”
“I say let’s go do it. My sinuses are killing me.”
With Morrie noisily using an inhaler in the backseat, Munsch drove to Coconut Grove, following Garraga’s directions, until reaching Alice Wainwright Park, a lush waterfront recreation area surrounded by mansions, including one owned by Sylvester Stallone and another by Madonna. The light rain started to come down harder, and Munsch turned on the wipers.
“Over there,” Garraga said, indicating a silver car parked on Brickell Avenue.
Munsch parked the Caddy in a well-lighted area and they walked to the Taurus. “Damn rain,” Munsch said. “I hate rain.”
He took the keys from Garraga and got behind the wheel of the Taurus. “Where did you get this?” he asked.
“Opa-Locka. The airport parking lot.”
“You couldn’t have gotten better?” Morrie asked from the backseat.
“What do you want, a Rolls?” Garraga said. “Munsch told me: nothing fancy.”
They drove into the Little Havana area of Miami, also known as the Latin Quarter because a heavy influx of immigrants from Central and South America had made it less exclusively Cuban, and parked across the street from Casa de Seville. They sat there quietly, Munsch chain-smoking cigarettes, Morrie chain-inhaling loudly, Garraga slouched passively in the front passenger seat.
“This Esteban, you trust him?” Munsch asked Garraga.
“He needed the money. He’s a snowbird.”
“That cocaine is garbage,” Morrie said. “Only animals use it. You have to smoke so many goddamn cigarettes, Munsch? I can’t breathe in here. It kills my sinuses.”
Garraga laughed. “You want me to smoke a cigar, Morrie?”
“Better not put a match near your mouth, Garraga. You smell like a brewery,” Morrie said.
Munsch ground out his cigarette in the ashtray and turned off the engine. “Okay,” he said.
They stepped from the car into the rain and quickly crossed the street. Casa de Seville was a one-story white stucco building with a blue tile roof. The public entered through carved double oak doors set in the middle of the building. Two windows covered with black wrought-iron grillwork flanked the doors.
Attached to one side of the building was another one-story structure housing a bodega in which an old Cuban, illuminated by overhead fluorescent lights, stood behind a counter talking to a man seated on a stool. They were the only people in the small grocery.
A narrow alley separated the other side of the museum from a two-story apartment building with four units. A woman stared at the rain through a glass door on the ground floor. Aware she was