The Convert's Song (3 page)

Pescatore glanced at Dr. Block, whose face had creased in pain. Pescatore translated for another minute, then stopped. The judge kept talking. Pescatore brought his palm down on the table, interrupting the monologue. He flashed a head-game grin of his own.

“Lamentably, Your Honor, Dr. Block has to catch a plane this very afternoon,” he said. “He’s here to express to you how deeply he hopes you can keep the suspect behind bars and move forward with this case. He has full confidence in this court, Your Honor, and in the justice system.”

The judge’s voice lowered an octave.

“Such a complex case,” he intoned. “Many legal subtleties. These mafias, Doctor, they are sinister. But we are doing everything we can. I can only imagine the profound, unbearable agony of losing a son.”

The judge shook his head. His eyes welled up. His manicured hand delved into his breast pocket and produced a large purple handkerchief. He dabbed beneath each eye.

“Very sad, very sad,” he murmured.

Pescatore got up. Signal received. End of tragicomedy. Dr. Block followed his lead.

“Thank you very much for your time, Your Honor,” Pescatore said.

“A lovely chat,” the judge declared. “The most important thing, my dear doctor, is to pray. Pray a lot.”

Pescatore led Block out before the judge could swoop around the desk for a farewell round of hands-on hypocrisy. They rode back downtown. Pescatore left Block with the car and driver at the hotel, telling him to take the time he needed to pack and check out. Then Pescatore walked to a café called La Biela, the longtime hangout and informal base of operations of his boss, Facundo Hyman Bassat, owner and director of Villa Crespo International Investigations and Security.

Per the dictates of national slang, Facundo was also known as El Ruso (the Russian). He wasn’t really Russian. Argentines of Spanish origin were known as
gallegos,
Italians were
tanos,
Arabs
turcos.
And those of Jewish descent were
rusos.

Facundo divided his time between Buenos Aires and the town of Puerto Iguazú on the Argentine side of the Triple Border with Brazil and Paraguay. His agency did a thriving business with companies and governments. His wife and an adult daughter lived in Buenos Aires; other daughters lived in Miami and Tel Aviv. When in the capital, Facundo held court at Café La Biela. Buenos Aires was full of cafés, ornate as cathedrals, big as ballrooms. La Biela occupied a corner with a view of the Recoleta Cemetery and attracted politicians, executives, journalists, entertainers, intellectuals. The waiters wore bow ties and green vests and moved with speed and pride. The ambience was unpretentious: a well-lit rectangular room with rows of tables, blond-wood paneling, and plants.

Pescatore found Facundo in his usual spot with his back to the wall. The burly Argentine wore a black suit with no tie. He stood with his cell phone at his ear, shaking hands with a sleek-looking, silver-haired man in a blazer and ascot who stopped long enough to say hello and good-bye. When Facundo saw Pescatore, he ended the call, speaking in Hebrew, and put the phone down. Spreading long arms, he advanced wrestler-style, banged Pescatore’s shoulder, pumped his hand, and planted a kiss on his cheek that left him with a scratchy sensation and an aroma of cologne and nicotine.

“
¿Cómo te va,
Valentín?”

Facundo’s voice rasped from deep in his chest. He sat heavily, wheezing. A waiter slid his usual order onto the table: a double espresso, three sweet mini-croissants known as
medialunas,
and a glass of mineral water.

“My eternal blessing upon you, my son,” Facundo told the waiter. Pescatore ordered an espresso. Facundo blissfully contemplated a pastry, which looked flimsy in his hairy mitt of a hand. “Ah, the
medialunas
of La Biela. Did you see that character?”

Brandishing the
medialuna
at the tapered back of the man in the ascot, Facundo continued: “Dario D’Ambrosio. An ex-chief in the SIDE.”

The SIDE was the federal intelligence agency of Argentina. Pescatore watched D’Ambrosio stride out as if he were late for a polo match.

“I’ve heard of him,” Pescatore said. “Just retired, right?”

“Supposedly. But he still runs things as far as about thirty percent of the agents are concerned. There you have a spymaster who feels the greatest possible appreciation and gratitude toward this humble servant.”

“Why?”

Facundo grinned, his eyes narrowing to slits between stubbled cheeks and furry eyebrows. “Let’s say he, eh, ran into trouble with agencies of a very big country that detected his links to an international auto-theft ring and put him on a list of pending indictments. And let’s say that someone interceded to convince the agencies in question that, although he is not a saint—and who is?—Dario remains a valuable ally. How did it go today?”

Pescatore sighed. “Fine.”

“The judge’s secretary called. They are pleased with our ‘efficient and professional collaboration.’ He will issue an order ensuring detention for trial. So what’s the problem?”

Pescatore looked down. After Pescatore had left the Border Patrol and Isabel Puente, Facundo had hired him as a favor to Leo Méndez of Tijuana, a friend from a case they all had worked on at the Triple Border. Méndez had explained to Facundo that the young American wanted to spend time in Argentina and put distance between himself and his troubles. Pescatore knew the Mexican had told Facundo that he was a good kid, tough and reasonably smart. But he also knew the recommendation had come with the warning that the kid had a wild side. Pescatore had overcome Facundo’s doubts by proving himself loyal and serious. He didn’t want to complain.

“Well, I know it’s for a good cause and we didn’t have a choice and everything,” he said. “But I’m not comfortable being a bagman. I feel much better doing surveillance or executive protection.”

“Understandable.”

“Also, you were right: The judge is a clown. He told Dr. Block that he needed to pray a lot. That’s when I really wanted to slap his face.”

“What a
chorro
.” Facundo dispatched the last pastry. “Unfortunately, the judge has influence right now with this problematic government. And the American embassy does not. The new FBI attaché has run into so many conflicts he’s afraid he might get declared persona non grata.”

“Really?”

“Things are not good. Nooo.” Facundo shook his head and exhaled audibly. He looked tired. It didn’t help that he consumed industrial quantities of steak, coffee, cigarettes and
dulce de leche.
Since Pescatore had met him, he had gone from big to fat. His unruly hair and bushy mustache had grayed. While giving Pescatore pointers on combat skills, Facundo had shown he was in better shape than he looked. But he had five grandchildren. He had to be in his sixties.

“Criminality and terrorism are mixing together,” Facundo continued. “Across the region. Along with ideological extremism, anti-Americanism, and hatred of Israel.”

Facundo lowered his voice, a rare occurrence. “I was on the phone now with an old friend. A
paisano
.” (For Facundo, that meant an Israeli working for a government agency.) “There is alarming chatter. Unusual movements. Possible preparations for an attack.”

“Here?” Pescatore glanced around to ensure no one was listening.

“South America for sure. The Islamic networks see the region as a promising theater of operations. A new frontier.”

“Sunni or Shiite networks?”

“I would think the latter. The Iranians and Hezbollah. They are in the hemisphere making money, establishing alliances with mafias and extremists. But it is not clear. The al-Qaedists are looking for unexpected places to strike as well.”

Facundo had told him the story of two terrorist attacks in Argentina in the 1990s: the Israeli embassy and the AMIA, a Jewish community center. The car bombings were the work of Iran and Lebanese Hezbollah, whose presence stretched from Buenos Aires to the Triple Border to Venezuela and had grown over the years. No one important had gone to jail. The Jewish community still lived behind bomb barriers, closed-circuit cameras and private security, guarding against what people called, with a tone of inevitability, the third attack.

Facundo stood up. Dr. Block had entered La Biela, the door held for him by Fabián the driver. They ordered coffee for Block. Pescatore translated the conversation between the doctor and Facundo and was pleasantly embarrassed when Block praised him.

“I don’t ever want to go through an experience like that again,” the doctor said. “But if I do, I want this young man with me.”

“I’m not surprised to hear that.” Facundo beamed. He assured the doctor that he would make his flight on time and sleep well in business class. Then Facundo told a joke: A businessman boards a plane and falls asleep as the meals are being served. His neighbor gobbles his own meal, switches trays, and wolfs down the sleeping businessman’s meal too. This makes him nauseated. He throws up all over the businessman, who awakes to find himself covered in vomit and his neighbor dabbing at his face with a napkin and asking, “You feel better now?”

Pescatore translated as best he could. Facundo pantomimed gleefully, delivering the punch line in English with a broad Yiddish accent. For a moment, Block regarded Facundo and Pescatore. His eyes shone behind his glasses. Then he threw his head back and erupted into laughter, rocking in his seat. It was as if he had come out of a stupor. The doctor laughed and laughed, and Pescatore laughed along with him.

Later, Block dozed during the ride to the airport. The good-bye was brief. Watching him clear the security checkpoint, Pescatore thought about the fact that the doctor would always remember him as the young American who had delivered a bribe in Buenos Aires.

That was when someone stepped up close behind him. A hand clapped his shoulder. Two fingers of another hand dug into his back, as if mimicking the barrel of a gun.

He hadn’t heard the voice in a long time, but he recognized it instantly. Smooth, jovial, self-aware. A voice that sounded a lot like his own, making the moment even more disorienting. He felt a rush of disbelief, wariness and nostalgia.

“Cuate,”
Raymond said. “Whaddya hear, whaddya say?”

T
hey were drinking rum and Coke, like back in the day.

Pescatore had cut down on liquor. He was out of practice.

Raymond polished off drinks with no visible effect. Like back in the day.

“You look good, bro.” Raymond smiled warmly. “I bet you could still hold your own in the ring.”

“You too.” Pescatore suspected that Raymond had given the compliment to get one. “You been working out?”

“I laid off dope and alcohol. Changed diet. No pork. Cleaned myself up, physically and spiritually.”

“Like a born-again thing?”

“Not exactly.” Raymond seemed to find this amusing.

“You’re drinking now, though.”

“This definitely qualifies as a special occasion, Valentín.”

Raymond had grown a mustache. His hairline had climbed. He wore his hair short and slicked back, the high forehead and high cheekbones accentuating his hooded eyes. His skin was tight and tanned. He had acquired muscle beneath the black sport jacket and black T-shirt. The outfit and the black Tumi carry-on made him look like a young South American executive. Or a military officer from a wealthy family: aggressive, athletic, urbane. He had said he was on a business trip and happened to spot Pescatore on his way to the check-in counter. He hadn’t mentioned his destination or his business.

“Ten years,
cabrón,
” Raymond declared. “Hard to believe.”

Ten years since that night at the lakefront—the last time they had talked. Ten years since Raymond had wounded Wolf and gotten arrested. He had disappeared. There were rumors: Jail. A plea bargain. Raymond’s father pulling strings.

“I think about that night a lot, man,” Raymond said.

“Me too.”

The petite waitress deposited drinks. Raymond patted her arm, his nonchalance eliciting a bashful grin. He had always had a thing for waitresses.

“You did right,” Raymond told him. “You warned me. You always talked straight to me. I didn’t listen. It was my own fault what happened.”

“Tell you the truth, I feel kinda bad about it now.”

“I was out of control back then. It was inevitable.”

“I shouldn’ta just walked away.”

“You always looked out for me. I liked that in you.”

Although Raymond used the expression nostalgically in that familiar throaty voice, Pescatore saw a change. In the past, Raymond had talked a mile a minute, jiving and gaming, usually half drunk or wasted. Now, he enunciated more clearly, spoke more slowly. It still sounded like patter, though. Like he had settled on this focused, controlled version of his old self.

“What about you, Valentín?” Raymond said. “You’re working security?”

“Yep. A bona fide international private investigator.” He felt a little thrill when he said it.

“Badass. What about the Border Patrol?”

“Long story. Listen, man, what time is your flight?”

Raymond checked his Rolex. “I’m fine. Worst comes to worst, there’s plenty of flights to Miami.”

“You live there now?”

“Just connecting. So tell me the story, homes. Your dream came true.”

“I don’t know about alla that. My dream was to join the Chicago police. Instead, I got in a jam. Almost went to jail myself.”

Pescatore recounted his attempt to go undercover on a ring of thieves while working security at the hotel in Chicago. It ended with him getting arrested about two years after Raymond’s disappearance. Pescatore’s uncle interceded and saved his bacon. Uncle Rocco pressured him to apply to the Border Patrol, calling in favors to make it happen. The Patrol gave him structure. He was good at the work. But the Line was all culture shock and bad company. He got mixed up with a clique of rogue agents.

“That’s kind of a recurring thing with you, huh?” Raymond said.

“I got caught chasing a scumbag a few yards across the Line. The OIG—that’s like Internal Affairs—they had me
por los cojones.
They recruited me to infiltrate this DTO—drug-t
rafficking
organization. Things got crazy.”

“You made headlines, bro. You were a fugitive; they thought you killed a cop. And finally a drug lord got busted, right?”

“Man, I was just hanging on for the ride.”

“
Puro
Hollywood.”

Pescatore sipped his drink. Telling the story, he had relived the whirl of fear and blood from San Diego to South America and back.

“How come you know about it?” Pescatore asked.

“I Googled you, bro. I wanted to know how you were doing.”

“No offense, Raymond, but I’m giving up all kinds of intelligence. Meanwhile, you haven’t told me squat.”

Raymond leaned back and laughed. “Look at you, all careful and suspicious and whatnot. You’re a cop all right.”

Pescatore narrowed his eyes. Raymond glanced at his watch. He said, “You’re right, homes. There’s a lot to talk about. How about this: I’ll postpone my flight. We have dinner someplace
piola,
catch up. I’ll check back into my hotel and fly out tomorrow.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely. I’ve done a lot of thinking. I’m thirty. What, a year older than you? The more I travel, the more people I meet in this fucked-up world, the more I realize you’re the best friend I ever had. And I treated you like shit. All of a sudden, I run into you down here at the bottom of the world. The land of our ancestors. I get a chance to make it right, reconnect. Everything happens for a reason. It was meant to be.”

Raymond spoke in a hoarse voice. His head shook with emotion. The speech sounded sincere but rehearsed.
He can still talk that bullshit,
Pescatore thought.
He acts like he’s in a movie. Mr. Drama.

He said, “Hate to mess up your trip.”

“Let me just go deal with the airline. I’ll be right back.”

On his way out, Raymond murmured to the waitress, whose dark sultry looks made Pescatore think she was from Peru or Bolivia. The waitress smiled uncertainly.
He’s still a dog,
Pescatore thought. He considered following Raymond to see if he really did have a ticket and was changing his flight.

Get a grip,
he chided himself.
Why would he do some big fake-out setup just to pretend he ran into you at the airport?

They rode back into the city in Pescatore’s hired car. The driver’s Boca Juniors scarf got them talking about soccer. Pescatore and Raymond reminisced about their neighborhood team. The Argentine coach knew their parents through immigrant connections. Pescatore was the only kid who went to Catholic school and whose father worked for the county government. Most of their teammates went to Raymond’s private school near the university; sons of lawyers, executives, professors. The team traveled the city playing in ethnic fiefdoms.

“There was that Assyrian team, you remember?” Raymond said.

“The Assyrian Eagles. They were cool. Iraqi Christians.”

“And that brawl with those fucking Croatians or whatever they were?”

“You decked that humongous Fred Flintstone–looking mug.”

“All game he’s talking shit. Calling me ‘taco’ this, ‘wetback’ that. Finally, I get up in his face. I go, ‘Dumbass, I’m not even Mexican.’”

“That’s when I came runnin’ up,” Pescatore exclaimed, the memory flooding back. “You said, ‘Now,
he’s
Mexican.’ Guy goes, ‘Fuckin’ taco.’ Then,
bam!
You did that sweet move where you popped him on the ears.”

“He went down like two hundred pounds of Jell-O with an attitude.”

They whooped with laughter. Raymond had been a slick and agile fighter. He inflicted pain with cold efficiency and played forward the same way. He did not hesitate to cheat, hiss insults, use elbows and feet to bait opponents into fouls. He showed flashes of brilliance with the ball, though he was lazy, sullen and often wasted. Pescatore was all defense: a competent fullback because of his speed, strength and low center of gravity.

Raymond patted him on the shoulder. “You been to Chez Che?”

“Nope.”

“It’s great. I used to go all the time when I lived here.”

Raymond gave the driver directions. They sped along the elevated highway toward the downtown towers glowing in the sun.

Got that much cleared up,
Pescatore thought.
He used to live here.

At the restaurant, they had finished a bottle of velvety Malbec by the time the food arrived. Raymond ordered a second bottle and gestured at Pescatore’s plate of gnocchi.

“That’s the payday special right there.”

Pescatore strained to hear over the crowd and the speakers cranking U.S. and Latin oldies. Chez Che was in the Palermo Hollywood neighborhood. The walls were adorned with neon signs and murals of buxom ladies in slit dresses dancing tango with
guapos
in fedoras. The clientele was a mix of hip sexy young people and families with dignified grandparents, cavorting kids, and squalling babies.

“Argentines used to eat gnocchi on payday,” Raymond explained. “So that’s what they call no-show government payrollers: gnocchi. They only come to the office to collect their checks.”

They were back in the dynamic of Encyclopedia Ray schooling him about one thing or another. Raymond raised a hand. The sound system blared elegiac piano and organ chords. He said: “‘Backstreets.’ Great song.”

Raymond hummed along with Springsteen’s soulful growl. His rock band had done Springsteen covers. He had gone through a Springsteen adulation phase, making an effort to emphasize his slight resemblance to the Boss. Pescatore was convinced that Raymond’s pensive habit of looking sideways with his fingers over his mouth was an imitation, conscious or not, of the cover photo of
The Wild, the Innocent, and the E Street Shuffle.

“You still sing, man?” Pescatore asked. “It’d be a shame if you didn’t.”

Raymond’s smile turned melancholy. “You were always pushing me to stick with the music. Ever since we were little.”

“I figured it would keep you out of trouble.”

“When I first came to BA, I sang for a while. A piano-bar thing. Standards, jazz, tango. Honest money, for a change.”

Pescatore gulped wine. Springsteen made him think of Raymond onstage. And Dolores: dancing, smiling, applauding. And now, Isabel. Sweat dampened Pescatore’s brow. Springsteen wailed into a guitar solo.

“What’s up with you on the personal front?” Raymond asked. “Married?”

“I was engaged for a while.”

“Beautiful lady?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“A cop too?”

“Yeah.”

“Where from?”

“Miami Cuban.”

“Oooh, damn.” Raymond went into a lascivious riff about
cubanas.
Pescatore looked him in the eye and interrupted.

“So, you still a drug dealer?”

Raymond tilted his head. “No, man, I’m not. Is that important to you?”

“I don’t like drug dealers. In fact, I killed a couple of ’em. Mexican cartel guys. Before they could kill me.”

Raymond winced. “You still have some rage stored up.”

“Look, Ray, you say you’re glad to see me.” Pescatore strained to keep his voice even. “I’m glad to see you too. The past is past. But I’m waiting for you to fill me in. Instead of talking bullshit.”

“There’s not that much to tell. You know the Chicago part.”

“Just bits and pieces. Is it true you told Wolf not to run or you’d shoot him in the ass? And he ran, so you shot him in the ass?”

“Uh, yeah.” Raymond grinned. “I’m not proud of it, mind you.”

“Crazy fucker.” Pescatore restrained a chuckle. He folded his arms.

Raymond took a deep breath. His eyes were gloomy in the shadows. He explained that, within hours of the shooting, the police tracked him down. They found the Beretta, Wolf’s fifty thousand dollars, drugs.

“I was looking at state and federal charges. Enough to put me away till I was a senior citizen. I was in Cook County jail,
cabrón.
I had to move fast.”

“They flipped you.”

“
Y tanto.
My father, he’s an asshole. But he’s a helluva lawyer. He said, ‘It’s strictly a transaction now. Give up everybody and everything.’”

Raymond’s father was a criminal defense attorney, slick and youthful despite his gray beard. He specialized in what he called “insurgent” political causes. He defended cop-killers, corrupt politicians. That was why Pescatore’s uncle couldn’t stand him.

“I went through my BlackBerry and set people up,” Raymond continued. “Shit, I gave them Gangster Disciples, North Shore kids, a supplier connected to Sinaloa. A federal task force took over. I convinced them to let me work the streets, use my Spanish. I played
colombiano, mexicano,
whatever. Generating cases. Popping people left and right. The feds loved me. You’ve worked undercover—you know. The ultimate high.”

“When I was undercover, I was pretty terrified the whole time.”

Raymond nodded sagely. “I bet you were good at it, but you didn’t enjoy it. You don’t like lying to people.”

And you sure as hell do,
Pescatore thought. Out loud, he said, “You skated?”

“I didn’t have priors. My father did the deal. One case led to another. They decided to base me in Miami, move me around working Latin America.”

Raymond’s cell phone rang. He glanced at it and put it away. He was drinking nonstop. They ordered flan with
dulce de leche
for dessert.

“I was a great fucking informant,
un buchón de primera, boludo,
” Raymond said, talking faster now, giving off that old manic energy. “I made money. But I was putting it up my nose. After a couple of years, I was burned out and fucked up. I quit, moved here to stay with relatives. You have people down here?”

“No. My father emigrated alone from Italy when he was eighteen. There was an uncle here, but he died. My dad’s brothers were in Chicago. That’s why he went there finally.”

“I researched my family history. Interesting stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Ever see those off-the-boat family photos of Menem, the president in the nineties? The old
turcos
? The women in veils? Our photos look like that. Turns out we were converts.”

“Really?”

“We were Muslim in Lebanon. It was the Ottoman Empire, that’s why they call Arabs
turcos.
My great-grandparents converted to Catholicism. Like the Menems and a lot of others. So you know what? I converted back.”