chapter 44

J ack was standing by the Dumpster behind the restaurant, ready to make a follow-up phone call to his father. He’d punched out six numbers when a uniformed officer interrupted.

“There’s someone at the barricade who insists on seeing you,” she said.

It was one of those eerie doo-doo, doo-doo moments, as Jack got the impression that his father had shown up just as he was about to place the call. “Who is it?”

“Says she’s your abuela. I told her you were kind of busy. But she’s, to put it mildly, persistent. Kind of a crazy old lady. No offense. My abuela’s crazy too.”

Not like mine, thought Jack. He put his phone away. First things first, and Abuela never came second. “All right. Lead on.”

Abuela, of course, was Jack’s maternal grandmother, his chief source of information about the mother he had never known. Jack’s mother died while he was still in the hospital nursery. His father remarried before Jack was out of diapers. Jack’s stepmother was a good woman with a weakness for gin martinis and an irrational hatred for Harry’s first love and, by extension, all things Cuban. As a result, Jack was a half-Cuban boy raised in a completely Anglo home with virtually no link to Cuban culture-a handicap that his abuela was determined to rectify. The results were mixed, at best.

“Jack Swyteck, ven aca.” Come here.

She was standing behind the striped barricade with arms folded across her bosom, a disapproving scowl on her face. Jack remained on the other side of the barricade. This was not going to be pretty, and some official separation from her wrath couldn’t hurt.

He leaned closer, kissed her forehead, and said, “What did I do now?”

Her love for talk radio had improved her ear for English (Dr. Laura was her favorite), but when speaking, she often stuck to the present tense. “Your father calls to tell me what you are doing.”

“I asked him to,” said Jack.

“Then I turn on television news and hear your name. Is this how I should find out what you are doing?”

“I’m sorry. I’ve been very busy.”

“Too busy to pick up the phone and tell me you are okay?”

“Abuela, I’m negotiating for the release of hostages.”

“On an empty stomach, I am sure.”

“I really haven’t been that hungry.”

“So you eat nothing?”

Jack suddenly felt like a five-year-old. “I had half of a coconut pastelito.”

“Hmm. Por lo menos, lo que comiste fue algo Cubano.” At least what you ate was something Cuban.

There was a picnic basket at her feet, and Jack could suddenly smell the food. She picked it up and said, “I bring you this.”

Jack took it, and all he could do was smile. “Gracias.”

“Share with your friends.”

“I will.”

A look of genuine concern came over her. “How is Theo?”

Jack tried to be positive. “You know Theo. He’ll be all right.”

She nodded, then returned the conversation to a lighter subject, as if sensing that Jack needed the diversion. She pulled back the redand-white checkered cloth covering the basket. “There are four Cuban sandwiches, still hot from the press, the way you like. The papas fritas are deliciosa with the green-olive-and-garlic mojo. For dessert, there is tres leches, which you know is my own invention.”

Jack smiled. It had been a while since Abuela had made herself the laughingstock of Spanish-language talk radio by phoning in and claiming to have invented tres leches, the Nicaraguan specialty. But who was Jack to take sides? “It’s your legacy,” he said.

She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “No, you are.” Then she looked at him sternly and said, “Do not be stupid.”

“I won’t.”

“Good. Try this,” she said, handing him something sweet.

Jack took a bite, and it was delicious. “I love Torinos.”

“Aye, mi vida,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Turones.”

“Sorry.” You could say that Jack had a mental block about that word. Then again, you could say the same thing about Jack and roughly two-thirds of the entire Spanish language. But his idiomatic bumbling did bring a pertinent thought to mind.

“Abuela, tell me something. Did anyone back in Cuba ever refer to homeless people as los Desaparecidos? The Disappeared?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“Because Falcon is homeless, and he has used the term several times in our discussions. We’re trying to figure out what it means. I thought it might be some kind of Cuban slang for homeless people.”

“Not that I’ve ever heard of. But you know that man is not Cuban, no?”

“Actually, he is. I saw his file when I was his lawyer. He came here from Cuba in the early eighties.”

“He may come here from Cuba, but he is not Cuban.”

“How do you know?”

“I watch the television this morning. They show film from the last time, when the police take him down from the bridge over to Key Biscayne. He is yelling in Spanish, cursing at the police when they arrest him and say he can’t speak to Mayor Mendoza’s daughter. That is not Cuban Spanish. I have an ear for these things. Trust me. Ese hombre no es Cubano.”

That man is not Cuban.

Abuela was not always right on the money, but Jack knew one thing. When it came to all things Hispanic, her word was gold. Falcon was not Cuban. Jack could take that one to the bank. “Thank you,” he said.

“Of course. Is nothing.”

She obviously thought he was talking about the food, which he wasn’t.

“No,” he said as his gaze drifted up the barricaded boulevard in the general direction of the mobile command center. “I have a feeling that this is definitely something.”