Fifty Grand

“Oh, that’s a man called Esteban, a bear, straight, second-gen Mex, he did not bring his car into the garage for repair but he seems to have damaged it at around the same time. Apparently he hit a deer. It’s only a small dent, but I knew you’d be intrigued.”

“Why isn’t he one of your suspects?”

“I don’t know if anyone would have the cojones to kill a man and drive around with his blood and DNA on his car for half a year.”

“Hmmm, you might be right about that. Who’s this Jack Tyrone character?” I ask, skimming his conclusions.

“He’s the movie star I was talking about.”

“Never heard of him.”

“No, he’s an up-and-comer. I met him at the party, talked to him, also straight as they come, alas.”

“Ricky! You’ve got him down as a suspect!”

“Secondary suspect. I suppose someone might be covering for him but his alibi seems watertight. He was in L.A. at the time of the accident. He was ok, but, like I say, straight as the fucking gate. At least he didn’t try to get me to attend a Scientologist meeting like my charming new friend did the next morning.”

“What’s a Scientologist meeting?” I ask innocently.

“Oh, my God, sister. Don’t you read the Yuma magazines?”

Yuma was street slang for anything Yankee, and of course you could get the magazines but why anyone would pay hard currency for a copy of People or Vogue was beyond me.

“I need my money for things like food and electricity,” I say.

“Oh, boo hoo, the poor, starving public servant.”

“Shut up.”

He shakes his head as if I’m hopelessly uncool.

“Oh, speaking of Scientologists. One other thing I put in there at the end. The same night as the accident, one of them apparently crashed a golf cart on Pearl Street. I don’t think it’s anything to do with us but you might want to check it.”

I put the notes back in the folder and grin at him. “Well, I’m impressed, you’ve done really well here, Ricky.”

“I risked a lot.”

“I know.”

“I was proud of the photographs. Thought they might help.”

“Did you talk to Karen?”

He conceals his distaste in a comic pretense of distaste. “No. That little chore I will leave to you. If you go.”

“When I go.”

“Oh, the one thing I couldn’t get was the sheriff’s report. They told me I could file a Freedom of Information request-if I were a U.S. citizen.”

I look at him. “They said it like that?”

“Yeah, they said it like that.”

Ricky waves at a friend walking past the Ambos.

“Well, I guess I’m going too, then,” I say.

Ricky leans back in his chair. “Not necessarily, sweetie. We have an interests section at the Mexican consulate in Denver. Maybe we could do something through them,” he suggests.

“No, Ricky, my mind’s made up. I don’t want a snow job. I want to do it myself.”

“And of course you’re the only one who can do it, right?”

I note the sarcasm in his voice but I don’t want to make an issue out of it.

“I’ve decided, Ricky.”

He says nothing, blows a smoke ring, and waves hello to yet another friend.

I tap the folder. “Seriously, thank you for this.”

“You’re very welcome,” he replies and flutters his eyelashes.

A long silence.

This is always what it’s been like between us. What’s not said is just as important as the dialogue.

“So when are you thinking about popping off?” he asks, in English, his brows knitting.

“Soon. Next week. I’ve put in for a leave of absence.”

“Next week? I’ve got an article coming out in El País. Big break for me. I’m having a party.”

“And I would have been invited?”

“Of course. But you wouldn’t have come.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you feel out of place around my coke-snorting, bisexual, decadent contra-revolutionary pals.”

“Yeah, I wonder why. What’s the piece?”

“Feature article in the magazine on the new Cuba. All sorts of rumors coming down from the MININT.”

“El País. Dad would have been proud.”

“You think?” he asks dubiously.

“Of course, Ricky.”

He nods but doesn’t answer.

His face assumes a dark expression and he reaches his fingers across the table.

“Hands,” he says.

I put my hand in his.

He clears his throat.

“Oh no, Ricky, you’re not going to give me a lecture, are you?”

He ignores this crack and says what he’s going to say: “Listen, sweetie, I know you’re two years older than me but in some ways I’ve always felt that you were my little sister and I should be looking out for you,” he intones very seriously.

“Don’t do this, Ricky,” I say and wriggle my hand free from his grip.

He shrugs, reaches into his jacket pocket for another cigarillo, lights it, takes a puff. “Ok, sis, I’ll cut it short, but I’m going to say it and you’re going to listen. That way if anything happens to you, my conscience will be clear. I’m doing it for me, not you. What do you think?”

“Ok,” I mutter.