Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [15]
“I am not sure that I need you at all, Ignacio. I have the goods here. We are the factory—without us you cannot live.”
“And without the distributors you cannot live. Your people come here like farmers, with cowshit between their toes. They do not speak English. They do not understand gringos. They do not even know how to make elevators work. All they know how to do is to steal and shoot.”
“In time they will learn.”
“In time the police and the customs and the DEA will be on every street corner with big deals and bad money. It will be impossible to sell anything.”
From Bogotá came only static.
“Look,” he continued, “we can work together. If you need a few people here to make sure things go well, that some merchandise is shipped north, that is no problem. It is only Miami that I care about.”
It was a major concession, and he heard the man in Bogotá expel a long sigh. Relief? He pressed.
“We need to dry up the freelancers and to arrange territories between us. It should not be hard if we are sensible.”
“Very well. We can talk at least. Where shall we meet?”
“I prefer somewhere neutral. Panama. I know someone there you would like. She is very special, very young.”
“You certainly know how to tempt an old man, don’t you? Let me see…”
He could almost see the manicured fingers ruffling the pages of a parchment diary. The man would be in his study at the desk of eighteenth-century teak. Under the Goya a fire would be burning, for in Bogotá it is always damp and the man was old.
“Ignacio,” the man in Bogotá said finally, “there is no way I can leave the country anytime soon. The Senate is in session; my coffee is almost ready for picking; there is a speech I must give; my favorite horse is running. One thing after another. You know how it is.”
“Ignacio” relit the Churchill and pulled deeply, letting the smoke pour into his mouth and tickle his gums. He tried to blow a smoke ring. He never could make them round. But he was good at negotiation.
“Yes, of course, I know how it is. My new boat is nearly finished, and I cannot wait. I am like a little boy. You must see her: long and white and sleek and new—like my friend in Panama.”
“Cartagena!” said the man in Bogotá. “In a couple of weeks I must go to Cartagena for a conference. We can meet there.”
Cartagena. Ancient, ribald, lawless Cartagena, a city for adventure. A great Caribbean port where less than half of what left and less of what came in ever appeared on anybody’s manifest. Every smuggler in the hemisphere loved Cartagena, and most of them had been swindled there. He could go to Cartagena inside a Patton tank and still be dead in six hours. The old man was teasing him.
“But of course, Cartagena is very hot at this time of the year, isn’t it?” said the man in Bogotá. “I’ll tell you what. Come here as my guest. My granddaughter is getting married. I’ll send you an invitation.”
“Well…” He let the word drag out until it was an acceptance and a refusal.
“Come here and come alone. I guarantee your safety,” said the man in Bogotá.
“Done,” he said.
“Vaya con Dios, Ignacio.”
“Igualmente,” he said, and hung up.
IT WAS AN IMPORTANT DAY, a day of great events, Jesús could tell.
The man had gone into the office hunched and worried. When he emerged now, he seemed relaxed, almost expansive. He complimented Raúl on the Churchill and asked after Pedro’s family. He told Jesús sales were good and urged him to find another tabaquero to fill Pepín’s empty seat at the tambol.
The tabaqueros waited. Would he give them some news of the cause, something to warm their bony chests and scarred hearts? They needed to know that the cause was advancing, that little by little, the way a good cigar accumulates ash, the circle was tightening on the killer in Havana.
“La lucha sigue,” the man said at last, gently banging a fist against the old wooden table. The fight goes on.
The tabaqueros understood.
“Hasta mañana, Don José,” the old men chorused. It was indeed an important day.
Chapter 4
THE EARLY-MORNING light is Florida’s freshest face, flawless as crystal, fleeting