“Why would you think that?”

“Because when I said his name, your face jumped.”

Paz shrugged. “He’s a mover and shaker in the Cuban community. Yoiyo Calderón. Everyone knows who he is.”

“What’s he like?”

“Ask Tito. He’s Cuban, too.”

“I’m asking you.”

“I’m the wrong guy. People like Yoiyo don’t associate with people like me.”

“He never eats here?”

“Never.”

“That was a very definite statement. You know what he looks like, then?”

Paz was about to say something angry but checked himself and grinned at his former boss. “Hey, that was pretty good. Interrogated in my own restaurant. Very classy, Major. Maybe we’ll put it on the menu.”

Oliphant allowed himself a tight grin. “Just a couple of old comrades shooting the shit.” He popped a yuca chip into his mouth and crunched. “Come on, Jimmy. Help me out here. These are big shots we’re talking about, and I’m getting incredible pressure from the pols on this Fuentes thing. If it’s some kind of Cubano vendetta I need to know about it. Especially the weird aspects…”

“Uh-uh. What, you suddenly have a dearth of Cubans in the P.D.? I’m the only one you can think of to ask?”

“I did ask. I’m getting mixed messages, shifty looks. Everybody’s got a second cousin works for these guys, and I get the feeling the Consuela trio are all informed about the investigation before I am. Which is why I came to see you. And I’m still getting shifty looks.”

Paz help up his arm and pulled back the sleeve of his tunic. “Look, man, you see the color of my skin? The kind of Cubans we’re talking about only want to see that color in the kitchen, or carrying a plate. They don’t hang with me or mine and tell me their secrets.”

“But you know Calderón.”

“To look at. I wouldn’t say I know him.”

“But he doesn’t eat here. I thought this was the best Cuban restaurant in Miami. What, he doesn’t eat out? He only likes Chinese?”

“Him and my mom had business dealings years ago. They had a falling-out. That’s the story.”

“What kind of dealings?”

“I don’t know the details. You could ask her.”

“Uh-huh. So what’s the book on Mr. Calderón? The reason I’m asking is we got a murder and two acts of what you have to call threatening vandalism against three out of four partners in a venture, of which Calderón is number four. We had someone call at the Calderón place. He claims he had no scratches, no cat prints, no jaguar shit, although his home sports a brand-new front door. I have to think it’s connected, a business thing. So…Juan Calderón. Good guy, bad guy, maybe capable of violence…?”

“Okay, Major, since you press me: he’s a typicalgusano piece of shit. Him and his father came over with a pile of cash in the first wave and bought into a lot of businesses, and made another shitload putting money out on the street to Cuban entrepreneurs. Then he got into development and made a third shitload, which is what he does now. Capable of violence? Probably, as long as it wasn’t traceable back to him, or if he had a bad day he might kick a servant. But if you asked me would he murder his partner and eat a couple of chunks off him, or order it done, I’d say no. It’s not their style.”

Oliphant opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment Amelia, a sheaf of menus clutched to her chest, came by with a party of four and seated them at a nearby table. After she was done, she stopped in front of Oliphant.

“Is everything all right, sir?” she asked.

“Everything is just fine, miss,” said Oliphant, with a beaming expression on his face that Paz could not recall seeing there before.

“Except,” said Paz, “I would like a little girl to sit on my lap.”

“Daddy, I’m working,” she said severely. And to Oliphant, “May I send the waiter by with a dessert menu?”

“No, thank you,” said Oliphant. “You know I used to have a little girl who sat onmy lap. It was better than dessert.”

“What happened to her?” asked Amelia.

“She grew up and moved away.”

Amelia took this in without comment, said, “I’ll bring your check,” and departed.

Oliphant laughed and shook his head. “That’s not cute or anything.”

“She’s not bad. I was about that age myself when I started in the business. Probably illegal as hell, but you’re not going to tell the cops. Look, Major…”

“You need to call me Doug. You don’t work for me anymore.”

“Doug. I wish I could help, but, honestly, I’m out of the loop with that crowd.”

“Okay,” said Oliphant. “But if you think of anything, you’ll let someone know, okay?” His tone and expression made it perfectly obvious, in a nice way, that he knew Paz was holding something back.

The three surviving partners of the Consuela company lunched in the Bankers’ Club that day as they did nearly every Wednesday. People expected to see them there, men in fine suits, and a few women stopped to speak, to smile, to touch hands, but it was difficult to tell whether this was a kind of grooming behavior, acknowledging membership in the pack, or the first probing tugs of the jackal at the belly of a dying animal. A little of both, was Yoiyo Calderón’s thought as he smiled back and extended his hand. He did not like the way Ibanez looked: old and tired and frightened. Even Garza, who normally presented the slick and predatory face of a cruising shark to the observing world, appeared pasty, his movements lacking their accustomed vitality. He encouraged them to order a second round of cocktails. The liquor brightened them a little, like a cheap paint job on a clunker car, enough to show the room there was nothing wrong with their affairs. That was sufficient under the circumstances, Calderón thought. In business, especially business in the tightly knit Cuban community, appearance was 90 percent of the battle. The men ordered their usual lunches, too, all large lumps of costly protein, and appeared to eat. The service staff knew how little of it they consumed, but they did not count.

“So when does this start?” Garza asked.

“Today,” said Calderón. “Hurtado moves fast when he wants something done. That’s a good sign, I think.”

“Yes, marvelous,” said Ibanez bitterly. “He’s a credit to the human race. What will this entail, this protection he’s offering?”

“You won’t notice a thing. Some cars on the street, is all. The whole point is to move with discretion and remove whoever’s doing this.”

“I still can’t believe I’m involved in this,” said Ibanez, as if recounting a bad dream. “They came to myhome! The maid found what they’d done when she went to walk the dogs in the morning, the door clawed… She was hysterical, and the stupid bitch went tomy wife. Two hysterical women, Jesus Christ, what was I supposed to say?”

“Yes, Felipe, we’ve heard all about your hysterics,” said Calderón. “But let’s not turn into women ourselves, hey? A few days and all this will be over. They will make some other stupid move and then”-he snapped his fingers-“gone. The Puxto will come through and we’ll be fine.”

“How can you be sure it will be days?” asked Garza. “Why not months?”

Calderón had feared this very question. He cleared his throat and said, “Hurtado thinks the pressure is coming from Colombian interests. He’s put the word out that we are moving up the schedule for the cut, more crews on the road, accelerated delivery of equipment, and so on. They will be, let’s say, stimulated to increase the pressure.”

“You’re using us asbait, ” said Ibanez in an outraged voice, rather higher in volume than was usual in the Bankers’ Club. A party at the next table looked over with interest. Calderón kept his own voice moderate, not without effort; he could feel the veins at the side of his head throb.

“Felipe, use your head. We’re all targets already. We’ve all been hit. Time is of the essence here, as is secrecy. There is a police investigation going on. Whoever these people are, it’s vital that we get them before the police do. Speaking of which, have they learned anything?”