Paul Levine - False Dawn

Again she couldn’t continue. Just like her father, she puzzled me with her riddles, the words unsaid. Sometimes the best way to get a reluctant witness to talk is to ask a pointed question. But often, it’s best to just remain quiet. Let the silence invite an answer to the unspoken question.

“I had to help,” she said. “I was there when it unraveled. I knew he would ruin everything unless he was stopped, and when…”

Who was he? She didn’t say.

Unless he was stopped. Okay, let’s count the bodies, going backward.

One potato. Kharchenko, of course, but Foley did that.

Two potato. Eva-Lisa, who wasn’t a he.

Three potato. Crespo, dispatched by Kharchenko.

Four. Vladimir Smorodinsky.

… He would ruin everything unless he was stopped, and when…

I grabbed her by the shoulders, pulled her close, and looked her hard in the eyes. “The reason you offered to help me in the Crespo case was to make sure I wouldn’t get too close to the truth-”

She turned her head away.

“-And to report to Yagamata if I got too smart. Of course, if I did, you could always run me down with a forklift.” I took a deep breath. “Just like you did to Vladimir Smorodinsky, who would ruin everything unless he was stopped.”

As I spoke, I pictured it. Lourdes and Yagamata watched from the offices overhead as Crespo lay unconscious on the floor of the warehouse and Smorodinsky, battered and woozy, headed for the exit. Lourdes raced down the stairs, hopped onto a forklift, and chased Smorodinsky down, spearing him like a fat olive on a toothpick. Oh, she can handle that forklift, all right. She could have killed me if she had wanted to. But she didn’t. It was her father who would have that honor.

“You and Yagamata cooked up those phony affidavits,” I said, “not to save Crespo, but to keep him quiet, to protect you. When it didn’t work because I wouldn’t use fabricated evidence, and when Crespo looked like he would crack, you had him killed.’’

She began sobbing. “Not me, Jake. Yagamata ordered Kharchenko to do it. You must believe me. Yagamata did it for the money and his obsession with the art. Kharchenko did it for his politics. I only followed orders. To me, it was just a job.’’

She collapsed in my arms, seeking comfort and forgiveness. Still holding her shoulders, I gave her a shove. She landed on her bottom, looking up at me with disbelief. “That only makes it worse,’’ I said.

The freighter stayed wide of Fowey Rocks and came up along Key Biscayne. I caught sight of the lighthouse at Cape Florida just as the sun was setting. Music blared from the outdoor bandshell at the marine stadium, and a score of boats skimmed across the bay and into the open water. By the time we crossed Government Cut between Fisher Island and the southern tip of Miami Beach, it was dark, and the water was crowded with boats angling for good views of the fireworks. Offshore, half a dozen freighters and a cruise ship lined up, waiting for tugs to take them into port in the morning.

The two crewmen with sidearms had been my shadows for the past three hours. One stayed on each side of me wherever I went, except to the head, where one went in, and the other stayed outside the door.

“Want to hold it for me?” I asked the one who ventured inside.

“ No comprendo.”

“You guys flip a coin, and you won, is that it, Jose?”

“ Mi nombre no es Jose.”

I returned to the deck, and the two crewmen followed. I can understand a little Spanish if it’s spoken slowly. From the guy who wasn’t Jose and his friend who was Xavier, I learned that tomorrow’s edition of Granma, the Party newspaper named after Fidel’s boat, would carry the story of our heroic act, including the names of all the martyred crew members. Mine, too, I guess. My footnote in history. So these bozos were trading their lives for a half-inch of newsprint.

“I want to reason with you two,” I said to Xavier. “This is pointless. Ridiculous. Estupido! ”

They exchanged looks and shrugged. I heard footsteps on metal stairs. In a moment, Lourdes appeared and walked quickly to me. On the deck, crewmen were preparing her lifeboat. The gray haze of dusk was backlit by a fiery pink glow to the west as the sun dipped into the Everglades.

Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I know what you think of me, Jake. Believe me, I’m sorry for what I’ve done. Now let me help you.” When I didn’t say a word, she lowered her voice even more. “I’ll be the only one in the boat. You could jump over…”

“What about Yagamata?”

“He knows all hell will break loose and doesn’t want to answer questions on shore. His helicopter will be back for him. He’s headed straight to the Bahamas. He has arrangements to return to Japan.”

I took a small measure of solace in the fact that Yagamata was leaving empty-handed. Lourdes grabbed my hand and laced her fingers through mine. “I could create a diversion for you, Jake.”

Next to the lifeboat, Soto turned and gestured for his daughter. Without a word, she left me and walked toward him. I stayed put and thought about Matsuo Yagamata. He had ordered the killing of Vladimir Smorodinsky and Francisco Crespo.

Francisco Crespo.

How I’ve let you down. I promised your mother I’d take care of you, and I promised myself, too. I wanted to protect you, to return the favor. Okay, so you were never going to win the Congeniality Award. But who knows what you went through in Severo Soto’s workers’ paradise? I remember tossing the ball with you one day in the postage-stamp backyard behind your mother’s place. The clothesline was heavy with drying laundry. You wore my jersey, and it hung to your knees. You couldn’t catch a football with a butterfly net, but you yelped and scampered and we had fun, then ate your mom’s arroz con polio with flan for dessert.

On the shore, lights flicked on along the boardwalk that fronted the beach. I could barely make out the rocky groin that jutted into the sea. Below us, a lifeboat was being lowered into the water. Lourdes sat alone, looking straight ahead, holding her seat as the boat stuttered down two sturdy lines toward the sea.

A boom-boom from the shoreline startled me. Above us, the fireworks had started. Great flashes of yellows and greens, an occasional burst of crimson. Starbursts of silver floated toward the sea.

I turned to Xavier. “You’re going to die, muerte, for nothing. Nada.”

Overhead, a whoosh of a rocket, then a pop-pop-pop like cannon fire. A shower of sapphire streaks fell from the sky.

“C’mon, whadaya say we go down into the hold and stop this. Pare! ” I motioned to I’m-not-Jose. With my index finger, I pretended I was firing a gun at Xavier.

The two of them chattered something in Spanish. All I recognized was “ Estas loco,” and after Xavier looked at his watch, “ Cinco minutos.”

Oh, shit. No time to use my impressive powers of persuasion. “You guys are really a couple of assholes,” I said, laughing. They laughed, too.

Overhead, between the whistles and ka-booms of the fireworks, I heard the whompeta-whompeta of the Italian helicopter as it descended toward the stern. Over the side, the lifeboat was nearly in the water. I heard Lourdes’s shouts even over the roar of the helicopter. She was screaming in Spanish at her father, shaking her fist. Soto and every crewman on deck, including my two companions, were staring at her. If this was the diversion, I didn’t know how it could help me. Everyone’s attention was diverted all right. Everyone was looking straight at the lifeboat. No way I could get to it. Meanwhile, the helicopter touched down.

The helicopter!