CHAPTER 21

IN AN HOUR C.J had put down three drinks. In another twenty minutes a scheme was forming itself in his mind.

The bar at the Fairmont was full of people, many of whom he knew. They kept coming up to him, saying hi, C.J., how’s business, trying to tell him banker jokes, business gossip. For once he didn’t smile, didn’t crack jokes, just sat staring at them until they got nervous and walked away.

By his fourth drink he was halfway there and one more put him over the edge. He was feeling good again. He’d figured a way out of this mess.

He ordered another Dewar’s and water and took the drink out into the lobby to a pay phone. He could have used the phone at the bar except he didn’t want anybody to hear this particular conversation.

He failed to notice the man behind him. A man who came out of the bar behind him and stood there a moment as if in indecision and sauntered slowly over to the restrooms.

“I got a problem,” he said as soon as he heard the voice on the other end.

“What problem?”

Now that C.J. was talking to Castro, he got scared. A minute ago it seemed crystal clear what he would say and how the drug dealer would react. A minute ago though he was sitting in the bar slugging down glass after glass of courage. All of a sudden he was sober and wondering if he could make the man believe him. If he couldn’t he’d be dead. One thing men like Castro didn’t tolerate and that was somebody fucking them over.

He took a deep breath and plunged ahead. There was no choice.

“It’s not a big one, Fidel. Nothing to worry about. Probably my imagination, but I wanted to let you know.”

There was a silence.

“Well?”

“Listen, I don’t know for sure, but I think maybe somebody’s been watching us.”

“Like who?”

“How do I know who! Just somebody...probably nothing. Maybe it’s my overactive imagination. No, that’s not it--I know who it is. At least I think I know who it is.”

“Then who, goddammit!” The receiver felt as if it had exploded. Fidel never talked to him like that. Must have his nose in the coke.

“Hey, there’s no need for...”

“No need for what, St. Ives? You call me up --you’re not supposed to call me up at this number--and you tell me somebody’s watching you--us--whatever--and you fuck around and don’t tell me who you think it is. What am I supposed to do--use fucking ESP? Tell me what the deal is. Dio!”

“I think it’s my wife.”

“Your wife! What the fuck?”

“Yeah. It’s my wife. I’m sure of it. She’s suspicious, thinks I have a girlfriend. I think she’s checking up on me.”

“You do have a girlfriend. You always have a girlfriend. I’ve never known you when you didn’t have a girlfriend. She never worried about it before, did she?”

“Yeah, well, I know. I think that’s it. I think she’s got some detective on me, trying to dig up something. Maybe for a divorce. You know?”

“What’s that got to do with us? With our deal?”

“Well, nothing really. Except if he--this detective--whoever--is snooping around and sees something, tumbles to what’s going on, that could be trouble. Hey, that would be trouble. Trouble we don’t need, eh?”

“So what do you suggest we do, senor?” He slipped into his Cuban accent heavier and the tone was sarcastic.

“Well...to be on the safe side...probably nothing. Like I said, I thought this week at least...maybe it’s not a good idea for you to bring the money to my office. I thought I’d come out there and get it. I’ll make sure nobody’s following me. This guy--if there is a guy--hell, I’m not sure there is, well, another week, things’ll be back to normal. This isn’t the first time Sarah’s gotten bitchy. Probably make me drop Amanda, tell her I’m sorry. You know. So I lose a teller. Glorified teller. So what. I know how to handle Sarah. It’s just that if there’s a guy snooping around trying to take keyhole photos it could mean trouble. Easy to avoid it. Do it different this one week.” Then, like he’d just thought of this, “Hey, maybe I could pick it up out there?”

There was a lengthy silence.

“Fidel?”

“Si, si. I’m thinking. Yeah. You know that might not be a bad idea. Come at nine. I’ll have a couple of the boys watch. If you’re being followed we’ll get him. Yeah. That’s good. Do that. Nine. What’s his car look like? What’s this guy look like?”

Look like?

“Well...he’s easy to spot. Drives a brown car. A Camaro, maybe. Has a big hook nose. Guy’s got short, black, stringy hair. Tries to hide the fact he’s going bald, starts his part above his ear. Greasy black hair.” He blamed the booze for his snicker and tried to assume a sober face.

“Like us Mexicans, eh, senor?”

“No, Fidel, that isn’t what I meant.”

“Good. Because I am Cubano. Between you and me I don’t like Mexicans either. Tell me more. How tall is he? How much does he weigh?”

C.J. gave him a complete description. Of Fred Touschoupe, one of the bank clerks.

“I don’t like this, Senòr St. Ives. If this is a setup, something funny, you’re going down. You know that, eh, senòr?”

C.J. was sweating when he put down the phone and it wasn’t the drinks. For a minute he thought he was going to get sick right in the lobby of the Fairmont, but the feeling passed and he drained the rest of the drink he’d brought with him.

You’re a slick son-of-a-bitch he told himself. This is going to work out perfectly. Absolutely.

He thought about the place where he was going to have to spend the night and wondered if he could do it.

As he left the hotel he passed right by the man who’d followed him out of the bar and once again didn’t notice him.

Out in Chalmette, a Cuban-American picked up his ringing phone and listened to a friend of his. A very powerful friend.

“Si, Senor,” he said, his head nodding vigorously. “I just got a call from him. I told him to come out here.” He listened some more, nodding occasionally, but not speaking. After the other party was done, Castro said, “Si. I understand. That’s what I was thinking also.”