Part 15 (1/2)
up than the rest of the pimps trying to get by, but you're not a pimp.”
”I was never a pimp,” Rafi said, as indignant as he could sound with a sore mouth.
”I mean you don't have the right stuff to be a good pimp,” Nolen said. ”You're not only about thirty years behind in your style you're playing the wrong part. You come on like a young Fernando Lamas when another type entirely, today, is selling tickets.”
Rafi said, ”What tickets?”
”Just listen,” Nolen said. ”What's going down in the Caribbean, in Central America, El Salvador now, ever since Cuba? Revolutions, man. They've always been big down there, but now they're getting more notice because they seem closer to home. Only an hour, two hours across the friendly skies and it scares the s.h.i.+t out of people. It's going on right in Miami with the Cubans, the Haitians, Colombians that come to visit-you got dope and international politics all mixed up with terrorists that use pipe bombs and automatic weapons, man, it's real and it's right here. You understand what I'm saying to you? You want to score today you got to get into the action that's going down, you got to spread a little terror.”
Rafi was listening. He said, ”Yes? How do I do that?”
”I'm glad you asked,” Nolen said. ”You've got the background, the hot blood, all that s.h.i.+t. I think with a little direction, a good slogan, you could make a pretty fair revolutionary. Viva Libertad Viva Libertad- you know, get excited.”
Rafi frowned. ”You want to start a revolution?”
”No, you do,” Nolen said. ”You want to make it look like you're part of a wild-a.s.s revolutionary movement. You're an ace terrorist come here to do a job. You're a fanatic, man, you can't wait to blow somebody away. But, you want him to know it first. You want to make him believe he's got this f.u.c.king movement coming down on him, not just some muggers-you know what I mean?-some real gung-h.o.e.rs, man, fire-eaters.”
Rafi said, ”What guy?”
”I thought so,” Nolen said. ”Right there in front of you and you don't even see it. You go after Moran and his girlfriend ...what about the girlfriend's husband? He's the guy with the prize, not Moran. Moran's one of the good guys.”
”Wait,” Rafi said. ”You have to explain this to me.”
”In time,” Nolen said. ”First we got to think of a good slogan, something to get the guy squirming- he doesn't know what's going on, where it's coming from, but it looks like some pretty heavy s.h.i.+t coming down.”
”An eslogan? eslogan? ...” ...”
187.
”Not a slogan-how do you say it?-a grito de combate grito de combate. A battle cry.”
”Yes? To say what?”
”How about Muerte a de Boya? Muerte a de Boya?” Nolen said. ”That's got a pretty nice ring.”
Rafi had stopped touching his sore mouth. He stared at Nolen, interested but uncertain, trying to put it together in his mind.
”You asking me to kill?”
”Would you like to?”
Rafi didn't answer.
”I want you to think about it,” Nolen said, ”get a feel for the part. You're Rafi Amado, the man from Santo Domingo, a no-s.h.i.+t revolutionary full of zeal, revenge, whatever revolutionaries are full of. You understand what I mean? Get in the mood and we'll talk about it some more.”
12.
JERRY WAS READING the Sun-Sentinel Sun-Sentinel. He held it up as Moran came in the office.
”You see this? Right up at Hillsboro. Guy walks out of his condo, he's taking his morning exercise, look what he finds right out in front of his place.” The headline of the newspaper read: 33 HAITIANS DROWN IN HILLSBORO SURF; SURVIVOR'S STORY DOUBTED BY OFFICIALS The photograph that ran the full width of the page and was about five inches deep showed four naked swollen bodies lying on the hard-pack sand at the edge of the surf in early morning light. A Coast Guard helicopter hovered about twenty yards offsh.o.r.e.
”I'm telling you,” Jerry said, ”it's getting out of hand. People up there, they invest a lot of money in their retirement homes-this's what they got to put up with.”
”What's the story the officials don't believe?”
”That they came all the way from Haiti in this rickety boat, sixty-something people. If they're not coming from Cuba it's Haiti now, we don't have enough Latins here, we got all this extra welfare money laying around. Oh . . . there was a phone call for you. You know how many Cubans they got in Miami now?”
”Who was it called?”
”Two hundred thousand. Over half the population. Some woman . . . she didn't leave her name. Plus a hundred and twenty-five thousand boat people, for Christ sake, half of them out of the Havana jails and insane asylums. They send 'em here for us to take care of ...Here's the number.”
It was Mary's.
”When'd she call?”
”Few minutes ago. We're different, we got us a couple Dominican freeloaders. Where you going? You just got here.”
”I'll be back.”
Moran shoved the slip of notepaper into his jeans and walked out into the sunlight, back toward his house. He was anxious.
Nolen, coming out of Number Five, stopped him.
”George, can I talk to you?”
”I got to make a phone call.”
”Just take a minute.” Nolen, his s.h.i.+rt open and 191.
hanging out of his pants, got to Moran at the shallow end of the pool. ”I got a request. How about letting your buddy from the D.R. stay a couple more days? He's afraid to talk to you.”
”I hope so,” Moran said.
”He's sorry. He said he made a mistake.”
”I made the mistake,” Moran said, ”ever talking to him.” He started to move away.
”George, he can't hurt you. Let him stay a while.”
Moran stopped. ”Why?”
”Why not? He's all right, just a little f.u.c.ked up. He's an interesting type, I can study him.”
”I know what you want to study,” Moran said.
Nolen shrugged. ”I think I can get a freebee, a libret.i.to.” His hair hung oily looking, he needed a shave, he looked terrible, forlorn, standing barefoot with his hands in his pockets. ”She wants me to show her Miami Beach, all the beeg 'otels.”