Straits of Fortune - Anthony Gagliano [42]
Ellis spoke up. “The coast guard said there was some guy shooting at him from a speedboat.”
“Is that right?” Cortez said, nonplussed. “That’s very fucking exciting. Just like Miami Vice.”
“You’re a fucking American,” Cooper said indignantly. He had a whiny, cartoon-character voice that had no business being in law enforcement. “You talk English.”
“This is America,” I said. “English is pretty popular around here.”
Cortez grinned and turned his attention back to me. “What’s your name?”
“Jack Vaughn.”
The inspector’s eyes narrowed, and his cigarette stalled in the airspace between his lips and the butt-filled ashtray on his paper-laden desk. “Jack Vaughn?” he said. “You’re not a personal trainer by any chance, are you?”
“Sure I am.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Cortez said. He spent a few more seconds reading my face, then stood up. “Take the cuffs off and leave us alone,” he said. He stubbed out his cigarette and sat down on his chair again. Ellis and Cooper hadn’t moved. They seemed to be in shock, but after a moment they removed the cuffs and left, looking dejected.
When we were alone, Cortez swiveled around in his chair and opened the door of a small refrigerator behind his desk. I used the break to read a plaque on the wall to my left. Ten years before, while with the Border Patrol over in Texas, he had saved a Mexican from drowning in the Rio Grande. I wondered if that was why he’d gotten transferred. When he turned around, he had two cans of Diet Coke in his hands, one of which he set down in front of me.
He opened his and took a long sip, then held the can up before setting it down.
“You remember Tab?” he asked.
“Sure, but I don’t think they make it anymore.”
“Yeah, they do, but it’s hard to find. You can get it in Mexico, though.”
“You can get anything in Mexico.”
“Yeah,” he said, “especially the clap.”
We laughed, but then it got quiet all of a sudden, as though a match had been snuffed out, and Cortez and I were just watching one another over the tops of our soda cans.
“You used to train my wife,” Cortez said.
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m serious. About a year ago.”
“Maybe so. I don’t remember. In my business people come and go.”
“Yeah,” Cortez said. “That’s the way it is around here, too.”
“What’s her name, your wife?”
“Susan Andrews. Blond, short hair. Kind of tall. Don’t sit there and tell me you don’t remember her.”
“Oh, yeah. Sure I remember her.”
“I bet you remember her ass, right?”
“That, too.”
“I bet you do. Don’t get cute with me, Jackie boy. There’s no reason to be. We split up a long time ago.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
Cortez leaned forward in his chair and clasped his hands in front of him. He stared down at his mated fingers for so long that I thought he was going to start praying. Then he lifted his head suddenly, his dark eyes beaming with suspicion.
“Tell me the truth,” he said in a soft voice. “Were you doing her?”
“What makes you think I was?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
I thought for a moment. “She was married to a cop. How stupid do you think I am?”
“Considering your current location,” Cortez said, looking around, “pretty stupid.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” He lit another cigarette. “By the way, while I have you here, Jack, let me ask you a personal question. What were you doing in the water this morning, and why would somebody shoot at you? You know who it was?”
“No idea,” I said.
“So let me get this straight. Some guy just pulls up out of nowhere and decides to take a few shots at you. Is that right?”
“I don’t see any other explanation,” I said.
“I do,” Cortez answered. “Let’s say the personal-training gig isn’t bringing in the megabucks you had been hoping for. So you find yourself a partner with a nice fast boat and you go and get yourself a bunch of Haitians or Cubans, take their money, and dump them somewhere. Nice money in smuggling. If they had a better dental plan, I’d get into the business myself.”
“You think I’m