A licia drove Vince and her mother home from the cemetery. It was a sunny Saturday afternoon, and even the first day of winter was way too hot for their black attire. Alicia cranked up the air-conditioning, but her mother switched it off. An earlier attempt at conversation had drawn a similar reaction. Her mother seemed averse to consolation of any kind, as if an overall state of misery were a prerequisite to a widow’s proper grieving.
The graveside ser vice had been private-just Alicia, her mother, Vince, six of the mayor’s closest friends who served as pallbearers, and a presiding Catholic priest. The funeral mass, on the other hand, had been public in the extreme. The Church of the Epiphany was South Florida’s version of the Crystal Cathedral, an award-winning architectural gem with soaring ceilings, towering windows, and so much natural light that you couldn’t help but feel God’s presence. Though outside the Miami city limits, it was the only church large enough to accommodate the crowd, and it was packed to capacity. Alicia sat between Vince and her mother in the front row. Behind them was a virtual who’s who in Miami politics, friends and foes seated shoulder-to-shoulder. Their ranks stretched all the way to the vestibule, like so many waves of power. Among them were a former governor and U.S. senator, the lieutenant governor, a congresswoman, state representatives, mayors from around the state, and judges, not to mention the entire city council, the county commission, and the lobbyists who controlled them. The business community was equally well represented, as there was nothing like the death of a Latin leader to bring out living proof that Miami-land of opportunidad-had more self-made Hispanic millionaires than any city on earth. As yet, neither the mayor’s secret past nor his final words to Jack Swyteck-“I am the doctor”-had leaked to the public, so Alicia alone noted the irony that was buried in the third verse of one of the church’s oldest funeral hymns:
Often were they wounded in the deadly strife.
Heal them, Good Physician, with the balm of life.
The eulogies were delivered in both English and Spanish, heartfelt and even a few humorous stories about a compassionate man, a doting husband, a loving father. For the moment, Mayor Mendoza had officially joined the ranks of those beleaguered souls who had escaped the wrath and judgment of mere mortals through the expedience of untimely death.
Invited guests gathered for food and refreshment at the Mendoza house after the ser vice. Parked cars lined both sides of the street for several blocks. The press was not allowed on the property, but they blanketed the neighborhood. It was as if the local media had decided to hold the tough questions until the mayor was buried, and now they were ready for the real dirt. Editorials called for a complete investigation. Talk radio was buzzing with all kinds of theories, some of them crackpot, some not. A local television station did a segment on the Disappeared and the Argentine Dirty War. The Tribune dispatched its Pulitzer Prize-winning investigative reporter to Buenos Aires. It would only be a matter of time before the mayor’s dark past came to light.
Police officers stood outside the front gate at the end of the driveway, directing traffic. There were more guests than expected, and many of them flocked to the mayor’s widow and daughter the moment they entered the house. Alicia accepted the sincere condolences of several well-wishers and then quickly excused herself.
“Are you okay?” Vince asked. They were standing outside the carved double doors to her father’s library.
“Yes, I’m all right. Really.” She could tell that he wanted to speak with her alone, away from her mother. Vince had been supportive all week, but something was clearly weighing on his mind. Whatever it was, Alicia wasn’t ready to deal with it. “I just need some time to myself.”
“You go ahead,” he said. “I’ll get something to eat.”
She thanked him with a little kiss, then retreated into the library and closed the door behind her.
As long as Alicia could remember, it had been an unwritten house rule that the library belonged to Mr. Mendoza. Rules, however, were made to be broken, and Alicia was the biggest offender. There was something uniquely comforting about a room filled with books, and Alicia had always felt drawn to this place. Celebrated Argentine author Jorge Luis Borges once said that he could not sleep unless surrounded by books, a sentiment that sang to Alicia from the country of her birth. Just a quick glance at the titles was like a trip down memory lane, a reminder of the various stages of her life-Alice in Wonderland, Don Quixote, The Great Gatsby. Her prized collection of Argentine comic strip Mafalda, however, had disappeared years ago. Apparently, Mr. Mendoza didn’t like the political leanings of the artist who created the smart little girl that couldn’t help speaking her mind. Still, so many times over the years, the library had been Alicia’s escape, and she could still feel some of the magic within these four walls. No other place on earth had the power to suppress the negativity of the past week. Had she succumbed to that power or magic or whatever it was that energized this roomful of memories, she might have found a better place-an emotional equilibrium where, despite everything that she’d learned recently about her father, it would have saddened her to see the empty chair behind his desk. She would have remembered climbing up into his lap as a little girl and promising to go to bed if he would read her just one more story. She might have even smiled at the sight of the humidor on the credenza, recalling the only time in her life that he’d offered her a cigar. It was on the night she’d graduated from the academy, and she would never forget the look on his face when she took it. They laughed and drank twenty-year-old scotch until the Monte Cristos were reduced to a pair of smoldering nubs.
Strange, but those memories didn’t even seem to belong to her anymore. They felt more like somebody else’s musings about a man very different from the one her father had turned out to be.
The door opened, stirring Alicia from her thoughts. It was her mother, still wearing her black hat and veil.
“There are people here you should see,” she said.
“Can we talk for a minute?”
Her mother balked. All week long, she had been dodging a one-on-one conversation, which Alicia figured was the reason she’d given the okay to invite Vince along for the family-only events. “But we have guests.”
“They can wait a few minutes,” said Alicia.
The older woman paused to consider it. A houseful of guests offered her the perfect excuse to cut things short, but she seemed to recognize that she’d put off Alicia long enough. “What is it that you want to talk about?”
At Alicia’s lead, they sat in the matching leather armchairs in the center of the room, separated by an antique marble pedestal that had been in the family for generations and that now served as a cocktail table. As a young girl, Alicia got into serious trouble for wrapping herself in a bedsheet, covering her body with talcum powder, and then climbing up on the pedestal with arms pinned behind her back à la Venus de Milo. This room was so full of conflicting emotions.
She looked at her mother directly and said, “Do you think I should forgive Papi?”
“For what?”
“Surely you don’t need me to answer that.”
“Your father loved you more than most men love their own natural offspring.”
“His whole life was a lie, and he made me the center of it.”
“His love for you was not a lie.”
“That’s not the point,” said Alicia.
“What else matters?”
“Truth,” said Alicia. “The truth matters.”
“The truth is that your father was destroyed by some crazy terrorists who exploded a bomb near a crowded café and murdered his wife and daughter. It took him a long time to find a reason to go on living, and he found it in you and me.”
More of those conflicting emotions. Alicia backed off just a bit, her tone softening. “Why did you adopt?”
“We desperately wanted a child. We tried on our own, but I couldn’t get pregnant.”
“Did you know about my parents?”
“Of course not. I thought you came through normal adoption channels.”
“But Papi knew everything.”
She struggled, as if the answer were better left unstated. “Like I said, those people destroyed his life. He must have justified it that way.”
“Wait a second. Are you saying that my biological parents planted that bomb that killed his family?”
“No, no. I don’t know anything about them or what they did. But they were part of the insurgency.”
“Guilty by association, is that it?”
Her mother didn’t answer, but Alicia waited, refusing to let it drop. Finally, her mother said, “You have to understand the times. I’m sure your father’s only thought was that he was providing a loving home and a bright future for the innocent child of not-so-innocent parents.”
Alicia nodded, not because she agreed with what her mother was saying but because she understood her position. “For the moment, let’s put aside the question of whether that rationalization holds water or not. I still have a real problem with what you’re telling me.”
There was a sudden uptick in the noise level outside the closed doors. More guests were arriving, and apparently, no one was leaving. “We really should get back,” her mother said.
“I’m almost finished.”
“We can talk more about this later,” Graciela said, rising.
“No, I want to talk about it now.”
The stern voice made her mother do a double take, and it surprised even Alicia. Until this day, she’d told herself and others that there were certain things she just didn’t want to know. But now she was in a different place. Her real grandmother was no longer an abstraction. She’d also been affected deeply by Jack’s mention of the innocent woman who had sacrificed herself to expose the truth. Alicia couldn’t stop thinking about the midwife who’d heard a numbered prisoner shout out her real name, who’d followed her conscience and sought out the baby’s grandmother, only to pay the price with her own life. Alicia was tired of hiding behind lies.
Her mother lowered herself back into the armchair.
Alicia asked, “Do you remember the videotapes of those Argentine cartoons Papi and I used to watch together? The ones about the witch?”
“La Bruja de la Cachavacha. Of course I remember.”
“My biological parents were held in a detention center called La Cacha. It was named after that cartoon, because of the witch who could make people disappear.”
Her mother looked down. “That’s a very macabre coincidence.”
“Unless it’s not a coincidence.”
“Oh, come on now, Alicia. There is no way that your father could have known the name of the detention center.”
“Why not?”
“How could he-how could anyone sit down with a little girl and watch those cartoons knowing that her parents had disappeared from La Cacha? That just wouldn’t be human.”
“I agree.”
“Your father would have to have been some kind of sociopath.”
“Yes,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “He would.”
Her mother took her meaning and nearly erupted from her chair. “This conversation has gone on long enough. After all that’s been said this past week, and after all that you’ve been through, I can understand that you would have some questions. But I won’t have you dishonoring your father like this on the day he was laid to rest.”
“I also have some questions about the woman he married.”
“You’re going to insult me now, too?”
“The birth certificate. It said I was two years old when I was really just two weeks old.”
The older woman covered her ears. “I don’t have to listen to this.”
“That means Papi knew it was false.”
“I’m leaving now,” Graciela said as she started toward the door.
“And so did you.”
Alicia’s final accusation stopped Mrs. Mendoza cold in her tracks. She stood there for almost a full minute, saying not a word, her back to Alicia.
Alicia said, “I went all the way through school wondering why I was the oldest kid in my class, thinking I’d been held back. I was actually the youngest.”
Her mother refused to turn around.
Alicia said, “You don’t have an answer for any of this, do you?”
Graciela started to turn around, then stopped. It was as if she couldn’t face Alicia. Or perhaps she simply didn’t want Alicia to see her tears of shame.
“I didn’t think so,” said Alicia. She rose and walked right past her mother on her way to the double doors.
“Alicia!” her mother pleaded, but Alicia opened the door and kept right on walking.
The house was filled with guests, scores of people grouped into smaller clusters of conversations. They held drinks or plates of food with one hand, and, in the time-honored Latin tradition, spoke with the other hand. Several guests tried to catch Alicia’s eye and engage her as she cut through the crowd. Alicia made a beeline past everyone, exited through the French doors that led to the patio, and found a little privacy in the backyard near the tall ficus hedge.
She dialed Jack Swyteck on her cell phone.
“Hey, it’s me, Alicia Mendoza,” she said.
“Well, isn’t this a surprise.”
“I wanted to ask you a favor.”
“Sure. What is it?”
Alicia glanced back toward the house. Through the French doors, she could see her mother inside the family room, working the crowd with the skill of a seasoned politician. She had managed to compose herself completely, as if nothing had happened-just like the last twenty-seven years.
Perhaps she and the mayor had been alike in more ways than Alicia could imagine.
“Tell my grandmother-” she started to say, but a wave of confusion and conflicting emotions washed out her voice.
“Tell her what?” said Jack.
She drew a breath and said, “Tell her that her granddaughter would like to meet her.”
J ack never really expected Sergeant Paulo to show up.
At the height of the hostage standoff, Paulo had asked Jack how he could defend the guilty and still live with himself. Jack had suggested that they have that discussion over beers someday. That was not an offer he extended casually. Life was too short, and Jack would sooner call his college roommate in Chicago and do shots by long distance than waste time drinking with people he didn’t like. Paulo was definitely one of the good guys, and when they finally parted ways, Jack mentioned that he could be found at Sparky’s Tavern on just about any Friday night, if ever Vince wanted to have that beer.
It took a few weeks, but Paulo actually showed up. The even bigger surprise was that he’d brought Alicia with him. Apparently, she’d finally reached the turning point and could go out in public without the media hounding her about her father. That was the great thing about Miami. There was always a bigger scandal to come along and take you out of the limelight.
Theo showed them to “the best table in the house,” which for anyone who knew Theo meant the one that happened to be available at that particular moment. They talked over drinks. Fortunately, Theo exercised relatively good judgment by waiting for Alicia to break for the restroom before offering a couple of toasts. The first went to Sergeant Chavez, who, according to the newspapers, was demoted from head of SWAT pending the outcome of an internal investigation into whether his determination to take out Falcon was purely a favor to the mayor. The second was to Felipe, who (through Jack and Theo’s cooperation with the grand jury) would soon be indicted for taking his job as the mayor’s bodyguard way too far.
When Alicia returned to the table, Theo got up and played “a special set for some special guests,” which, of course, meant the one that he had been planning to play all along. Vince and Alicia sat extremely close to each other as Theo played out his set, and seeing Alicia in this setting gave Jack a fuller appreciation of what a captivating woman she was. He was trying not to eavesdrop, but he was only human, and it was a scientifically proven fact that fifth wheels were cursed with excellent hearing.
“Do you remember that dream I told you about?” Paulo said to her. He was speaking loudly enough to be heard over the music, but Jack had to presume that it was intended for Alicia’s ears only.
“Which one?” she said.
“The one about the little girl who sits in my lap.”
Okay, it’s the kinky cops, thought Jack, but he soon realized that he had it wrong.
“Yeah, I remember,” she said. “You and I were married, and this little girl comes up to you in the park and sits in your lap. But she doesn’t say anything, so you can’t tell if she’s our daughter or somebody else’s child.”
“Right. And I’m afraid to ask her who she is, because I don’t want our own daughter to know I don’t recognize her. So I just sit there, waiting for her to say something, so I can hear her voice. Do you remember what you told me about that dream?”
“Yes. That the little girl would never speak to you until you decided what you wanted to do about us.”
“Well,” said Vince. “Guess what. The little girl spoke to me last night.”
Jack couldn’t hear the rest. All he knew was that they were up and saying good night to him before Theo even finished his set. Paulo reached for his wallet, but Jack told him to put it away. “On me,” said Jack. “Just promise to come back sometime.”
“We will,” said Alicia. “Maybe when I get back from Argentina.”
Jack had been dying to know how Alicia’s conversation had gone with her grandmother. Now he didn’t have to ask. It made him smile, but not too much. He knew it would be an emotional journey for her. “Have a safe trip.”
“Thanks,” she said.
“See you around, Jack,” said Paulo, and they headed for the door.
Jack was alone at the table when Theo returned. He saw the empty chairs and shot Jack a look of disbelief. “I leave you alone for one lousy set and you scare away the new customers?”
“They had to go somewhere.”
“Where?”
Jack didn’t answer. He hadn’t even heard the question, really. “Theo?” he said in a philosophical voice. “Do you think it’s a sin to be jealous of a blind guy?”
“Jealousy is always a sin. In fact, it’s one of the seven deadly ones. Even worse, it’s a terrible waste of time and energy.”
“Yeah, I know. But look at me. I’ve fallen for two women since my divorce. One of them dyed her hair, changed her name, and fled the country. The other one would rather live in a hut in West Africa than with me, except for the few times a year she plants herself in my bed and tries to cram six months’ worth of sex into a weekend.”
“Okay, now you got me jealous. You happy?”
“No, I’m not happy. That’s my point. When it comes to women, I’m starting to feel like the guy who didn’t get the memo.”
“Dude, please don’t tell me this is going to turn into one of those nights when I have to tackle your ass to keep you from running up on stage and doing your pathetic rendition of Rod Stewart’s ‘Some Guys Have All the Luck.’”
“I have never done that.”
Theo smiled like the devil. “You just don’t remember,” he said as he pulled a shot glass from each pocket. Then he slammed them down on the table.
“No way,” said Jack. “No tequila. Not tonight.”
Theo pushed the shot glasses aside. “How about martinis?”
“Since when do you drink martinis?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, business isn’t exactly booming. I been wracking my brain trying to figure out how to give it a jump start.”
Jack’s selection finally rolled over on the jukebox-Don Henley’s “Boys of Summer.” It was one of his all-time favorites, but it triggered a thought. “A few selections from artists who’ve actually peaked in the last ten years might do some good.”
“The music ain’t the problem. It’s the image.”
Jack looked around. The building was actually a converted old gas station, the term “conversion” used loosely, the way a high school gymnasium might be converted into Margaritaville for a 1970s retro ball. The grease pit was gone, and only recently had Theo gotten around to blocking up the openings for the old garage doors. There was a long, wooden bar, a TV permanently tuned to ESPN, and a never-ending stack of quarters on the pool table. “Granted, the image could probably use a little polish,” said Jack.
“Polish my ass,” said Theo. “What Sparky’s needs is a signature drink. That’s what got me thinking about martinis.”
“All right, I’m with you. But aren’t martini bars kind of passé?”
“I’m talking about a Sparky’s original. The smoothie martini.”
“Will you quit with the smoothies already? That practically got us killed on the mayor’s boat.”
“It’s not just a smoothie. It’s a smoothie martini. Smartini.”
“Smartini? Sounds like brain food for drunks.”
“What?”
“Never mind. It will never catch on.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because…who in his right mind would put vermouth in a smoothie?”
“Somebody who drinks vermouthies?”
“You need a new concept, buddy.”
“All right, fine.” Theo signaled the bartender and shouted, “Two belt-and-suspenders martinis, Leon.”
“Two what?” said Jack.
Theo grinned. “Belt-and-suspenders martinis. Shaken and stirred. Now there’s a signature drink fer ya, eh, dude?”
Jack shook his head. “You know what? Let’s just do the shots.”
“Now you’re talking.” He handed Jack a glass. The bartender brought over a bottle and didn’t stop pouring until a little drop of tequila spilled over the rim.
Jack raised his glass, careful not to spill any more, then stopped. “Did I really stand up and sing ‘Some Guys Have All the Luck’?”
“Yup.”
“When?”
“About two hours from now.”
Jack downed the shot in one quick hit, then wiped the tequila expression from his face. “Sure hope I didn’t embarrass myself.”