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"Why don't you trust your own family a little bit?" my brother Jimmie asked.
"What are you talking about?"
"I understand you bopped into an interesting scene the other night. Very stylish. There's nothing like crashing a Garden District party with a .45 on your hip."
"It had been a dull night."
"Why didn't you call me? I could have bonded you out in fifteen minutes. I might even have had a little influence on that concealed-weapons charge."
"This is one you can't oil."
"The point is, I don't like my brother being taken apart by some pencil-pushers."
"You'll be the first to know the next time I'm in the bag."
"Can you get somebody over there that speaks Spanish in the next half hour?"
"What for?"
"I told Didi Gee I'd get him in the Knights of Columbus. He likes me. Who else would eat lunch with a character like that except at gunpoint?"
"What are you doing, Jimmie?"
"It's already done. Presents come in strange packages. Don't question the fates."
"Anything Didi Gee does has ooze and slime all over it."
"He never said he was perfect. Stay cool, bro," he said, and hung up.
I called a Cuban horse trainer I knew at the Fairgrounds and asked him to come to the houseboat. He arrived there ten minutes before a Cadillac limousine with tinted windows pulled up on the dead-end street by the sand dune and palm trees where my boat was
moored, and two of Didi Gee's hoods, dressed in slacks, loafers, and shades, with flowered shirts hanging over their belts, got out and opened the back door with the electric motions of chauffeurs who might have been delivering a presidential envoy. Instead, an obviously terrified man sat in the gloom of the backseat with a third hoodlum next to him. He stepped out into the sunlight, swallowing, his face white, his pomade-slicked, kinky red hair and grease-pencil mustache like a parody of a 1930s leading man's. He held one palm around the fingers of his other hand.
"This guy asked us for a ride. Begged us to bring him here," the driver said. "We can't shut him up, though. All he wants to do is talk."
"But give him something for his breath. It smells like sewer gas. The guy must eat dog turds for breakfast," the other hood said.
"Hey, serious, he's got an interesting story," the driver said. "If somehow he don't remember it, tie a shirt on your TV antenna. I got to pick up a loaf of bread at the corner store a little later. We can help him fill in the empty spaces. We're just out for the morning air, anyway."
I couldn't see either one of them well behind their shades, and Didi Gee's hired help tended to run of a kind—slender young Sicilians and Neapolitans who would blow out your light as easily as they would flip away a cigarette—but I thought I'd seen the driver in a lineup two years ago after we'd prized parts of a bookie out of his own kitchen garbage compactor.
They drove off in their Cadillac, the white sun bouncing off the black-tinted glass in the rear.
"Andres, I wouldn't hang around with that bunch if I were you," I said.
But you still can't accept gratuities when they're given to you on other people's terms, particularly when they come from somebody like Didi Gee. Besides, the fingers of the Nicaraguan's left hand were wrapped in tape, and I had an idea where they had been earlier. He sat at my kitchen table, rigid, his brown eyes riveted fearfully on me as though the lids were stitched to his forehead. I put a tape recorder, a Polaroid camera, and a pint of white rum on the table.
"I don't have a tank full of piranha here, and I'll take you to the hospital if you want to go," I said to him through my Cuban friend, whose name was Jaime.
He did not need a hospital; the injuries were not serious; but he would very much appreciate a glass of Bacardi, no ice, please.
I opened the morning newspaper, pulled my chair around next to him, held up the front section between us so the headline and date were visible, and told Jaime to take our picture with the Polaroid. The Nicaraguan's breath was awful, as though there were something dead in his lungs. He drank the rum and wiped his lips, and the wispy gray scars around his mouth shone like pieces of waxed string.
"I want you to understand something," I said. "You're going to be a cooperative person, but not because of Didi Gee's hoods and the business with your fingers. Those guys will not get to you again, at least not because of me. If you want, you can file assault and kidnapping charges against them. I'll drive you to either the police station or the FBI."
He watched me carefully as Jaime translated. The thought of reporting Didi Gee's people to the authorities was evidently so absurd to him that his eyes didn't even register the proposal.
"But our photograph here is another matter," I said.
