Miami Midnight (24 page)

Harrison Tigertail stood up, wiping his hands on his coveralls. He said in a low voice, with an intensity that surprised her, “Please listen to me, Miss Collier. This man’s just burning himself up, running on raw nerve, and he knows it, but he won’t quit. Not even when he sees the end of it coming.” He held out a big hand beseechingly. “If Jimmy ain’t told you what he does, I can’t tell you, either.”

Gaby backed away. “I don’t want to hear about what he does. And I don’t want you to tell me!” She stopped, struck by a sudden thought. “He’s not an undercover drug agent.” She knew she was grasping at straws. “He’s not an undercover cop, or a drug enforcement agent, is he?”

Harrison Tigertail’s small obsidian eyes opened wide enough to expose a rim of white. “Lord, no,” he breathed. “Not Jimmy. He can’t—” He stopped abruptly.

“Can’t
what
?” Gaby cried.

The big man looked at her with a strange expression. “Jimmy’s no DEA agent, you can forget that. That’s the last thing he is. But that hasn’t got anything to do with you, noways.”

“Nothing has anything to do with me. I can’t get a coherent explanation from anybody! But I can do one thing,” Gaby cried angrily. “I can tell you to get off my property!”

The corners of his mouth turned up. “If I was to picture somebody who could save something out of this,” he said, never taking his inky gaze from her face, “I don’t know that it would exactly be like you, soft and pretty and looking like you ain’t got no more spunk than a little bunny rabbit. But I think, Miss Collier,” he went on so softly Gaby almost couldn’t hear, “there’s more to you than that. You might be just what we need. Yes, ma’am, I think you come along just in time.”

Gaby glared at him, unable to think of anything to say. How could she say anything, when no one spoke sense these days?

“Good-bye,” she said with dignity. She turned on her heel and walked away.

At seven-thirty that evening Gaby typed the last of her description of Mrs. F. Schmidt Bonney’s masked ball costume, exclusively designed for her by Jean-Louis Sherrer of Paris, and directed it through the newsroom word processor to Jack Carty’s attention. Then, in the
Times-Journal
’s fourth floor restroom, she repaired some of the damage working in the rain all day had done to her hair, put on new lipstick and eyeshadow, and stood back for a last look at herself.

The jade-green cotton gauze dress she was wearing was dressy enough for dinner with Dodd. Beneath the jacket, thin spaghetti straps held up a tight bodice with plenty of décolletage, and the tightly cinched waist and flared skirt flattered her legs. There was something about the way she looked that kept her staring at her reflection in glass office doors all the way to the elevator.

She noticed that even in the way she moved, there was a subtle, indefinable something that hadn’t been there before. She watched her own willowy reflection, bemused. She’d never been sexy, if that was the word. It wasn’t sexy. But something softened, glowing, was there.

Her mother’s ancient Cadillac was still giving her trouble in spite of its recent, horrendously expensive session in the repair shop. Worse, as she left the building and started toward the parking lot, it began to sprinkle. Gaby prayed for a quick start on the first few tries as she looked in her pocketbook for her keys. A shadow loomed up beside her in the semidarkness. She lifted her head.

She wasn’t frightened, but a warning struck somewhere in her consciousness. “Elena?” she said doubtfully.

The shadow almost fell into Gaby’s arms. “Oh, Mees Gabriela,” Elena Escudero cried. “I have to leave you because bad t’ing happen to your house—
tenemos mucho miedo
, Angel and me! But the
iyalocha
she fix him, is better now, no?”

It was raining in earnest now, a warm summer shower. Gaby peered at her former tenant. “You’re right something happened to my house.” She was still angry. “You and Angel took all the things out of the apartment without even telling me. A lot of that stuff wasn’t yours.”

“But is going to make much better,
promeso
!” Elena took Gaby’s arm, pulling her away from the car. “Thees
bilongo
put on your house by thees crazy
bruja
.” She began dragging Gaby purposefully toward the street. “Thees crazy girl who is doing these things to you, she don’t know what she making. But is all fixed up now. You come with me, we tell you all about it.”

Gaby pulled her arm out of Elena’s grip. This was all so typically
latino
, she thought, the half excuses, the promises to explain when nothing was ever really explained, the effusive, affectionate appeal to one’s patience and good nature. “
Who?”
she demanded. “Who’s going to tell me all about
what
?”

“Pleese, Mees Gabriela, Angel and me no can stay in that house!” Elena was actually wringing her hands. “I bring your things back right away. Was a mistake when my cousins came to your place, they didn’t know my things, your things, they only mixed up, you know? They carry everything away, those
idiotos
, make me unhappy so I cry.” She grabbed Gaby’s wrist and again pulled her toward the street. “There somebody want to talk to you. Explain everything.”

“No, wait a minute.” Gaby was exasperated that Elena had ambushed her in the newspaper parking lot. What was wrong with calling her at home? “Listen, Elena, the police want to talk to you about that
Santería
mess at the house.”

The small woman took Gaby’s other hand. “Mees Gabriela, pleese, all t’ing fix up right away, you see. You no get married so soon. The
iyalocha
tell you.”

“The
iyalocha
?” Gaby drew back. “My God, what has she got to do with this?”

“There, there,” Elena said, pointing.

A dark car was parked under the streetlight. For a moment Gaby’s heart leaped into her mouth. Then she saw it was not the Cadillac limousine she dreaded but a late model Buick. Uncertainly, she allowed Elena to propel her toward it.

The rear door of the car opened as they approached. The next thing Gaby knew Elena was pushing her from behind. A hand reached out and grabbed her by the shoulder. Gaby half fell, was half dragged into the back seat.

The door slammed behind her.

And all again was in darkness: Such a dream

As this, in which I may be walking now.

PEDRO CALDERÓN DE LA BARCA

Chapter 16

Like most illusions, it was very real.

The marina, with its floodlit rows of sleek power cruisers and luxury sailing yachts against the velvet backdrop of the night, was a maze of pontooned walkways, masts, and softly blinking lights. To anyone who didn’t know it was merely a fantastical dream, they might have been somewhere in Miami, or even Fort Lauderdale.

Gaby stumbled along in the wake of the
iyalocha
. If she hadn’t known that this wasn’t real, she would have been worried about wandering around like this late at night, especially with unreliable people like a
Santería
priestess and her chauffeur-bodyguard. But a hazy excitement, a suspenseful feeling of something about to happen, pulled her along in spite of herself. From the very beginning, Gaby had been told to be patient, that all would be revealed.

It had taken hours. And she was still waiting.

At first, she hadn’t intended to cooperate, especially after having been dragged into the
iyalocha
’s car, and she told them so. But Elena Escudero’s tearful pleadings and several potent rum drinks made Gaby see that there was no harm in joining—for a few minutes—a rather mysterious, if enjoyable, party at the
iyalocha
’s temple in
Calle Ocho
, complete with a live salsa band and a crowd of elegantly dressed people.

Things after that were slightly confused. Gaby tried not to worry about it. After all, what difference did it make, being swathed in azure-and-yellow silk gauze that was probably as transparent as it looked, instead of her own somewhat sticky, hot clothes?

Had she been foolish? She remembered something about a dinner date with Dodd. The loud, strangely euphoric party had left her wondering what day it was. She wasn’t even certain when she’d changed clothes.

The genuinely warm, supportive people had made it difficult to complain. Everyone was so happy. They’d made it very clear they wanted Gaby to be just as happy, too.

“Nothing bad, all good,” the little priestess had promised her as the silk
Santería
robe had been settled on Gaby’s shoulders. “Love, be happy, all good t’ings come to you. Bad t’ings over now. Everything be fixed up, you see.” Ibi Gobuo’s small hands had patted Gaby’s breasts and arms, settling the silk, adding strings of beads and shells around her neck. “Chango, he wait for his beautiful Oshun,” the old woman told her fervently. “You make him better. Happy, too.”

A wet sea breeze jingled the rigging of the big sailing yachts. Over the chatter of hundreds of ratlines the
iyalocha
walking ahead of her invoked her African gods:
O Oshun, illa mi ille oro Illa mi ile oro vira ye yeye oyo ya...

Gaby slowed, uncertainty returning, but the
iyalocha
’s driver gave her a discreet shove from behind to keep her moving.

The priestess carried a paper bag with an open bottle of rum in it. From time to time she interrupted her incantations to put the bottle to her lips, then spray the liquid between her teeth and into the air. The sea wind occasionally flung a good part of the rum back at Gaby and the man behind her, but Ibi Gobuo never paused.

Mala ye icu oche oche oye ogua ita locum ocha deguallo oro mama kena oro...

“Are we going to another party?” Gaby asked, hopefully.

The one they’d just left had been filled with wonderful-looking people, whose skin color ranged from creamy beige and cocoa-colored to ebony black, magnificently dressed, and so friendly Gaby had somehow had the confused impression the party was for
her
. She stumbled slightly at the step up to the last dimly lit walkway. The hulls of giant luxury power cruisers, like sleeping whales, rose above them.

The chauffeur, trailing behind, seemed to melt into the darkness in his black windbreaker and dark clothes. But Gaby and the wizened
Santería
priestess were as bright as carnival figures. Ibi Gobuo wore tissue of gold and a blue velvet turban with a long white egret feather. Gaby’s caftan of hazy blue and gold did not conceal the fact that she had nothing on underneath. Her long shapely legs were perfectly outlined when she moved, and the silk gauze clung to her hips and breasts, revealing pink, thrusting nipples.

The
iyalocha
stopped, spraying the last of the rum into the air. The wind caught it and settled it over the three of them in a pungent mist. “How about a boat ride?” Gaby suggested, seeing where they were.

“Ella es muy borracho,”
the man behind them said, disapprovingly.

The
iyalocha
turned to face Gaby. “You be very beautiful
mundele
.” Her wizened face was ecstatic. “You make Chango very happy.”

The priestess patted and smoothed Gaby’s hair. Blue and metallic gold ribbons had been twisted into tiny plaits to which were attached strings of seashells, fake pearls, and slightly wilted marigolds. The
iyalocha
gave the braids a final push with cupped hands, and the seashells and pearls rattled.

“Goddess of the rainbow.” So much emotion suddenly pouring out of the mummylike priestess was alarming. Her eyes glistened. “Like beautiful Oshun,
orisha
of love.”

Embarrassingly enough, Gaby was in no condition to remember what came next. The sea breeze wafting across the open water penetrated the thin silk and made her shiver. She’d been told that in order to experience fully the good things that were coming, she had to hold an image of Oshun in her mind. That didn’t seem unreasonable. She’d immediately thought of someone like Crissette Washington.

The
iyalocha
waved her hand.
“Da la candelaria a ella,”
she ordered.

The man behind them produced a small votive candle from his windbreaker, lit it with his cigarette lighter, and handed it to Gaby. The old woman quickly took Gaby’s arm, steering her toward a short wooden gangplank.

“He is here now!” The glint in the old woman’s black eyes seemed to be ecstatic, unshed tears. “Your lord waits, beautiful lady of the rainbows.” The egret feather nodded vigorously. “Go to Chango!”

“I don’t think—” Gaby began, but the other woman gave her a push.

And don’t fall on the steps.”

Reluctantly, Gaby started down the gangplank. Midway, she turned around to say good-bye, but the
iyalocha
gave such a hoarse, anguished cry that she quickly turned back.

There was suddenly a deck under her feet. The smell of sea water and the sound of waves lapping the hull were all around her. She cupped her hand over the candle flame to keep it from going out, beginning to feel tired. In the middle of the deck was an opening that yawned downward. She crept down steep narrow steps and found herself in a cramped hallway chilly with air-conditioning. She carefully closed the door to the stairs behind her.

The big cruiser suddenly rocked on a swell and she fell against the wall, nearly extinguishing the candle. She was, she thought a little worriedly, wandering around in somebody’s boat in the middle of the night, not exactly sober. If someone found her she supposed they might call the police.