Lonesome Point Page 4

  Celina said, “Tell Tessa I said hi. I might come by and see her if that’s okay? I liked her, that time we met. I think she’s great, Leo.”

  He said, “Yeah? Thanks,” and turned around, giving her smile his back. Her performance had been Oscar-worthy.

  Out on the terrace, Patrick slumped into a basket-weave chair. Leo waved down to the kids in the pool. “Hey, guys.”

  Ethan, the younger one, was doing backflips off the diving board; Cassie was sunning her long limbs in a bikini, impersonating a teenager. She shouted up, Uncle Leo, Uncle Leo, saying she was coming up to see him, but Patrick told her to give them a minute, he and Uncle Leo needed to talk.

  Ethan kept saying, Uncle Leo, look, watch this one, as he executed another splayed-legs backflip.

  Leo took a swallow of beer and sat down in a chair next to Patrick.

  Patrick looked over the bay. “So what’s going on, Leo?”

  “Freddy came by to see me.”

  “Robinson?”

  Leo said the very.

  Patrick rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger and shook his head. “I figured it would be somebody like that ass to start something. What did he want?”

  Leo told him about the visit. Patrick steepled his fingers under his chin, jaw working. Afterward he drank some whiskey and tapped the rim of his glass. “Freddy told you specifically that he would inform the authorities about what happened at Lonesome Point?”

  “He didn’t say that exactly. He said—well, come to think of it he didn’t say who he was gonna tell specifically. He implied. Made it sound like if I didn’t let them have their little talk with this guy, Herman Massani, I wouldn’t be happy about the consequences. Talking about the people he represents, he kept saying that: The people I represent want this to happen.”

  “I’m asking because who is he going to tell? Somebody with a rap sheet like his, who’d believe him? And that was so long ago. And it didn’t even happen in this country. It’s crazy.”

  “So you’re saying I should tell him go screw himself?”

  Patrick set his drink on the ground and stood up, walked over to the railing. He hitched up his pants, pulled his shoulders straight, the trial lawyer now, eyes on the causeway across the bay. “I saw him once, about a year ago, did I tell you?”

  Leo said no, thinking, You and I hardly talk, Patrick, of course you didn’t tell me.

  “At the airport, I believe it was, he’d just gotten out of prison. Apparently he was still pissed at me for not attending his cousin’s funeral, dropping little hints here and there, you know how he does it.”

  “Sounds like him.”

  “Talked about how Fonso suffered, the family could hardly pay for the funeral, et cetera?” Leo nodded, and Patrick said, “Cancer is a terrible thing but he shouldn’t blame us for it. Fonso was a good guy, no one would wish that on him.”

  Leo waited to see where this was leading. He didn’t know how to handle this situation. He realized he was hoping Patrick would help, maybe give him the word: Yes, go ahead, let him out. Or: Tell Freddy to go to hell.

  Patrick was saying, “Freddy is an ingrate. He could still be behind bars. He was very fortunate I agreed to defend him, I should remind him. He could’ve been stuck with a public de fender and where would he’ve been? Doing ten to twelve in Florida State, that asshole.” Patrick turned around, leaned back against the railing. He inhaled deeply, shoved his hands in his pockets. “If there’s anything I learned … ,” shaking his head. “You know I built my career, built everything I have through hard work, sure, but through preparation, too, mainly preparation is what I’m talking about. Anticipate some event, then prepare for it.” He returned to his seat, this time dropping elbows on knees, leaning close. “Two months ago one of my secretaries was causing some trouble, I suspected where it might end up so I sat her down, we had a chat, found out she wanted severance. We signed off on a little agreement, now that matter is settled. What was happening, she was making noises about my campaign, accusing it of improprieties, who knows what else. If I hadn’t talked to her? God knows what else she would’ve cooked up. With Freddy, now, it might be a little different. I expected something like this could happen but I still have to be careful, extra careful now. Now it matters to me more because I’m not just another Joe Blow, I’m a county commissioner, Lee, I have much more to lose. It’s a bigger pot. I’ve worked too hard for my career, my family, my kids. See where I’m going with this?”

  “You’re saying go ahead and let the man out.”

  “I’m not saying that at all. What if this is a shakedown? Or what if Freddy comes back with some other demand? I’m not prepared to give that piece of shit any control over me. Do you understand the complexity of this, Leo?”

  “I’m not an idiot, Patrick.”

  “Look. We give Freddy what he wants, maybe he goes back under the rock he came from. Or we bend to him now and watch him come back and then watch us keep on bending.”

  Leo shrugged. “So then …”

  Patrick sipped his drink. “So we do nothing.” He looked directly at Leo. “Understand? Nothing. We wait.”

  “And if he comes back?”

  “Then we burn that bridge when we come to it.”

  Leo thought that sounded so fucking easy. He took a swig of beer, rubbed his eyes, already tired of this conversation. “If I let this man out, they discover it was me, I might be out of a job. I just want you to know that.”

  Patrick straightened. “Don’t worry about this. Come on, Lee. Am I your brother or am I your brother? If it ever comes to that, I’ll take care of you. Till you find something else.”

  Leo thought of saying, That’s what I’m afraid of. But he held back, sucked on the beer.

  Patrick said, “What’s on your mind?”

  “I don’t know.” Leo pinched the bridge of his nose. “Aren’t you tired of this?”

  Patrick leaned back and looked at him. “Of what?”

  “You know what. It’s like a ghost. Chasing us. We can’t seem to shake it.”

  “Leo.”

  “Always around the corner, something else nasty or looking to threaten your happiness. All this fallout from Dad’s business, like it won’t go away, it can’t just fucking lay down and die.”

  “Leo, cut it out.”

  “I’m telling you, Patrick, believe me, the old man messed us up good.”

  “Quit it, you hear me?” Patrick’s voice rising as the French doors behind them opened and Celina popped her head out.

  They all looked at each other in silence.

  Celina said, “Leo, you staying for dinner?”

  Leo gave it a moment, for manners. “Thanks, but, uh, I got to be someplace in a little bit. Thanks, though.”

  Celina said to Patrick, “We’re having pork chops, sautéed baby bella mushrooms, and steamed broccoli. What kind of wine?”

  “The Shiraz would be perfect.”

  Celina said okay and glanced at Leo before she closed the door, or maybe Leo only imagined the glance.

  Patrick said, “I understand you’re worried. How do you think I must feel? I feel like I’m at risk. I say let’s keep our heads and we’ll get through this fine.”

  Leo was having difficulty with the “How do you think I must feel?” Whenever he talked to Patrick too long he felt tension knotting his throat, like now. He decided it was time to leave.

  Patrick said, “You’re gonna say hi to the kids?”

  Leo said sure he would and felt guilty for hoping Patrick would forget. They walked around the terrace to the back stairs, getting another view of the bay.

  It was sweet the way Patrick lived, in his little piece of paradise, a beautiful wife, two good-looking kids, a Porsche out front. Leo was envious: There, he admitted it. While Patrick had climbed the status ladder, Leo had gotten serious and practiced the habit of following rules, working hard, and if honest employment meant living one step up from poverty, so be it.

  Maybe it was better than havi
ng political ambitions and a crick in your neck from forever looking over your shoulder.

  “Uncle Leo!” Cassie screamed and came running, arms wide for a hug.

  Holding her aloft by her thin hips, Leo whirled her around, and felt himself hoping for a daughter just like her.

  4

  DUSK HAD SETTELED while Patrick sat with his second scotch and soda by the pool. He leaned back and spat out an ice cube high, watching it arc down into the water with a plop.

  A door opened on the terrace and Celina appeared in the shaft of light from the house. She sashayed over to the railing. “How long will you be down there, Mr. Worrywart?”

  He raised his drink. “I’ll be up in two sips.”

  “Ethan needs help with his geometry. Which one’s an isosceles triangle again, I forget.”

  “Tell him I’ll come up in a sec to explain. Hey, give me a moment, will you, Cel?”

  Celina pursed her lips, tapping the railing. “Sure.” Spinning around and stalking back inside.

  When he went up he’d be in for a frosty few minutes. Then she’d probably launch into one of her we-don’t-spend-any-time-together harangues and he’d have to sit down and reassure and talk softly and promise he’d knock off early one day this week, Friday maybe, they’d go to Joe’s Stone Crab just the two of them, leave the kids with the babysitter.

  Jesus, marriage was exhausting sometimes. Some days he wanted to tell her, You don’t know how good you’ve got it. Never worked hard a day in her adult life. Everything she ever wanted, more money in her weekly allowance than some of his firm’s secretaries took home in a month, she needed to quit whining.

  But he’d never dare say any of that because that would mean a huge fight and she’d only retort like she did once: Oh, and I have you to thank for all this happiness? Don’t you ever forget who has been behind you all these years, you didn’t make it all on your own, sir.

  She was right. Through all his major challenges—law school, his first year of private practice, his first political race—she’d been his rock. The woman was strong-willed, but difficult sometimes. She’d never forgiven him for the fact that he grew up with money and she didn’t, had always needed to work summer jobs as a teenager while he caroused, his father being … Well, whatever Ivan Varela had been, he was wealthy. But when did Patrick ever brag about that?

  She’d say it wasn’t what he said, it was how he acted. And how was that? With this freaking, insufferable sense of entitlement, she’d say. As if somehow he’d achieved everything by his hard work and intelligence and not because he’d been lucky enough to be born into the right family and lucky enough to marry a woman like her. Modesty wasn’t one of Celina’s traits.

  Then they’d get into this whole am-I-a-good-spouse argument that always led nowhere. Hell, he was a good husband. Tried to be, every single day. At least he wasn’t like Leo, who did everything to avoid responsibilities like marriage and a career, including remaining a teenager deep into his twenties. Look where that got him. Working a menial job, living hand to mouth at age thirty-two. What kind of father was he going to make?

  Leo had caused their parents enough grief to last two genera tions. Suspended from high school twice; arrested for marijuana possession back in Belize; dropped out of college; then his testifying about that assault on the drug dealers, which Patrick had never divulged to their parents. Leo’s inability to stay under the radar had been a disappointment to the old man, who had built a lucrative under-the-table business over several years without a hint of a criminal record.

  As for himself—Patrick thought he was a good father: attentive, affectionate, like their father had been before business consumed his life. And Patrick was certainly a better husband. Patrick had never cheated on Celina.

  And Leo? Had he ever been faithful to anyone he dated before breaking their hearts? His fiancée had a disappointing marriage ahead, only she didn’t know that yet. Patrick was positive that Celina, way back, had sensed that Leo would amount to nothing, which was why she had ended it with him. For crying out loud, the man wasn’t even faithful to himself because he hardly knew himself, he was a moving target.

  Patrick rose with his cell phone and walked away from the pool and the house, toward the seawall. The lights of downtown Miami high-rises glinted from across the water. They said to him: Enjoy the view, but keep your distance. Admire the beauty, but remain clean. So far he was listening. Trying real hard to keep his name unsullied. He scrolled through the numbers on the cell and found the one he needed.

  He glanced back at the house, lights on in the living room, kitchen, kids’ rooms. Cassie probably lying on her side in bed yapping on the phone, schoolbooks she hadn’t cracked strewn amid magazines like Seventeen and CosmoGirl. Ethan probably doodling in his notebook, trying to avoid deciphering math problems on his own, preferring to wait for Patrick to explain.

  It struck Patrick, as it had before, standing there about to make a private phone call, that maybe he was more like his father than he was willing to admit. Ivan Varela would sometimes disappear down in the yard to discuss business. This was back in the eighties, early nineties, and he’d take out one of those old brick-looking analog cell phones and talk standing by the fence, admiring the view of the harbor.

  But no, Patrick was decidedly not like his father. He’d discovered that years ago.

  5

  PATRICK MADE THE BIGGEST DISCOVERY of his life when he was twenty, back home from college on spring break. He walked into the kitchen one morning and saw his mother stirring cake batter, crying quietly. She was not an emotional woman, so this alarmed him. He asked her what was the matter.

  She wouldn’t say, averting her eyes and telling him to just leave her be a minute.

  He hovered, knowing it had to be something about Leo. What had he done this time? Her mother said it wasn’t him. Patrick refused to leave the room, he and his mother had this bond.

  “It’s your father,” she finally said to him.

  “Is he okay? Did something happen?”

  She poured the cake mix into a pan. She tilted the pan to level the mix. Put the mixing bowl into the sink. Wiped her hands on a dish towel.

  “Mom?”

  “He’s okay. He may have lost his mind, but he’s okay.”

  Patrick didn’t know what to say. He’d never seen his mother acting so weird. He watched her turn on the oven to preheat. He moved out of the way when she said excuse me, please, and reached around him for the sponge by the sink. She started washing the mixing bowl, her back to him.

  “Mom. Please tell me what’s going on.”

  “It doesn’t concern you, Patrick. It’s your father I should be talking to, not you.”

  “Mom, I’m twenty years old. I think I deserve to know when I see you behaving like this. What did Dad do?”

  She finished washing, stacked the bowl in the dish rack. She put the cake in the oven, turned on the timer, and sponged the countertops clean. Patrick simply refused to leave the room. When she started talking, she was still bustling about the kitchen: folding dish towels, pulling a chicken out of the freezer to thaw in the sink. “Your father has a very short memory, it appears.”

  “Explain, please.”

  “I will say about as much as I need to. This is still a matter for him and me, so don’t explain please me. Now, if I’m not happy at the moment, it’s because I sense that my home is threatened. Your father has lost sight of what makes us a family. He’s doing things that are highly upsetting. He knows there’re some people who resent his standing and what he’s achieved with his business, so you’d expect him to be more prudent. But another thing he’s lost is his respect for this family, it seems that way to me, and should he continue, oh, I pray and hope he doesn’t lose us.”

  “Mom, I don’t under—”

  “Shh. Your father, Patrick, is a loving, fine man who has deep flaws. No different from lots of people. But he’s also a man of certain appetites that I can’t satisfy and I’ll never be able
to.” She rearranged pots in a high cabinet with a clatter. “I’m not saying any more about this. But I want you to know, I’ve never felt …” Her eyes welled up. “I’ve never felt so alone in my marriage.” She turned to the sink and poured water over the frozen chicken. “What’s been happening has been going on for a while. It’s becoming disrespectful and I won’t put up with it, I simply won’t. But it’s between him and me, it’s something we’ll do our best to resolve. I’m being honest with you, dear. You saw me upset, so I’m telling you this, but I won’t say any more for the time being.”

  Patrick kissed his mother on the neck and walked out of the room. He sat on the front steps and wondered awhile before he got up and walked to his friend Fonso’s house.

  IT WAS around six P.M., a Friday. People were getting off work, driving faster than usual, streets crowded.

  Workmen waited at the bus stop at the beginning of the Northern for the bus to take them home to the districts. Bicyclists flowed into the spaces between cars and pedestrians.

  Patrick headed up the Northern in Fonso’s old pickup. He pulled into the parking lot of a dingy Chinese restaurant across the road from his father’s place. He parked behind an SUV so that he was partially hidden but could still see the glass building, lights on in his father’s third-floor corner office. The BMW was parked in the front lot behind closed gates.

  Patrick bought a Fanta from the restaurant and drank it in the truck as night came on. Around seven-thirty, the office lights went out, and some minutes later his father emerged from the building, briefcase in hand.

  Patrick followed the BMW into the city, staying well back, allowing a car or two to get between them. He tried to keep his mind blank. Not wishing for any unpleasant revelation yet expecting it, even more so when his father turned right at the roundabout instead of circling around toward home.

  Where was he going? Patrick didn’t know of any business dealings his father had in southside Belize City.