Suspicion of Deceit Page 2

  "Of course not." He made a smile she didn't really believe. "Let's go upstairs. I'll speak to these comemierdas, and then we'll leave. All right?" He took her arm and turned her toward the building.

  "Hold it. Why are you so pissed off? Slamming the door, calling people names—"

  A shrug. "I wanted to be with you tonight."

  "No, it's something else."

  "Let's just go—"

  "Not until you talk to me."

  He looked past her at the building. A breeze shifted the fronds of a palm tree, and shadows moved on his face. "I don't like to be a spokesman, an example— whatever the hell they expect."

  "What they expect? I think they'd like to have your opinion. Maybe your help. Rebecca would, anyway. She'd like to avoid any controversy over Thomas Nolan, but some people on the board don't get it. Nobody's going to push us around, by God, this is the U.S.A. You know."

  "Oh, I know very well."

  "Will it cause you problems with your family? Your brother-in-law—"

  "To hell with Octavio. I don't care about him. What he says on his radio show, I don't care. If he mentions my name, to hell with that too."

  "Your grandfather—"

  "Gail, I have always been independent. You know that." Anthony laughed and threw his hands up. "Why do you think the old man and I don't get along? Because I refuse to take sides. I won't do it. You watch. Those people up there don't want my opinion. They want me to tell them what those crazy cubanos have against an opera singer, an artist without a political agenda. So he sang in Havana! What's the big deal?"

  "You feel disloyal."

  He laid a hand flat on his chest. "Disloyal? Why should I feel disloyal? I'm not one of them. I'm the good guy, the one they can reason with. Explain to us, Mr. Quintana, why they make so much trouble. Why can't they forget about it? It's been almost forty years. This is their home now. Why can't they be good Americans?"

  "Anthony—"

  "Explain to us why they still care about the place that gave them life, a place as close as their blood, where a man can be put in jail for taking a lobster from the sea to feed his children—Gail, I love this country. I chose to be a citizen, I didn't have to. And Cuba—I don't talk about that. I don't try to explain it to people who can't understand, because every time I do, I feel sick."

  "Oh, Anthony. They won't be like that to you."

  "No, they're too polite."

  Nearby headlights went off, then someone opened and closed a car door. An alarm system chirped.

  Gail took his arm. "I should never have asked you to do this."

  "It doesn't matter."

  "It does. I think it matters a lot."

  He let out a long breath and played with his keys. "Well, some things you just have to leave alone."

  After the concierge called upstairs, they stepped into the elevator just ahead of the man Gail had glimpsed in the parking lot, a stocky figure in jeans and a pullover sweater. Anthony pressed a button, then glanced around as if to inquire what floor he wanted.

  They stared at each other, a mildly curious gaze that worked into puzzlement, then recognition. But there was no hearty greeting, only steady appraisal. The other passenger was in his late forties, a few inches shorter than Anthony and twenty pounds heavier, with curly gray hair and gold-rimmed glasses. A smile slowly lifted the corners of his mouth.

  "Tony? I'll be damned."

  Anthony remembered she was there. "Gail Connor, Seth Greer."

  Gail glanced from one to the other. "How nice to meet you, Mr. Greer. It seems we're all going to the Dixons'. You're the treasurer for the Miami Opera, aren't you?"

  "Right, but call me Seth. And you're the new lawyer. Welcome aboard." He shook her hand. "A distress call from Madame President induced me to trek all the way over here. Something about a problem with the Cubans." He grinned at Anthony. "Speaking of el diablo. She didn't mention you."

  "We ran into each other tonight at the party."

  "Imagine that." Seth Greer looked at Anthony for a moment longer, then at Gail. "I sense a relationship here."

  "Definitely," Gail said.

  "You poor kid. I could tell you stories about this guy."

  Anthony said, "Seth and I used to be neighbors in Coconut Grove."

  "Ah, the Grove. Just not the same anymore. Planet Hollywood on one corner, multiplex cinema on another. The steady march of progress."

  "You still live there?"

  "I do, in my own little tropical wonderland. Stop by sometime, we'll reminisce about the days of old. You're looking good, amigo. I see your name in the paper, defending the downtrodden and no doubt falsely accused." The remark had a touch of sarcasm. Anthony's clients were some of the richest defendants in Miami.

  "And what are you doing now, Seth?"

  "I have an accounting firm downtown."

  Anthony made a slight smile. "What happened to your law practice?"

  Seth Greer spread his arms. "I've moved up in the world."

  The bell dinged softly on the top floor.

  The men let Gail out first. She glanced at Anthony, but he wore a blank expression. Seth Greer led the way, a bouncy stride across an open terrace where plants spilled from clay pots along a carved limestone railing. In daylight, the view to the sea would be breathtaking. They walked around the corner, the wind lifting Gail's hair.

  Greer leaned on the buzzer. "Dis mus' be da place." A young Hispanic woman in a maid's uniform opened one side of the double doors. "Juanita, ¿qué tal?"

  "Bien, señor. Le esperan en la sala." She smiled-and nodded at Gail and Anthony. They followed her through the marble foyer to a living room with uncurtained floor-to-ceiling windows. Everything was the white of bleached sea shells, except for a huge abstract canvas spattered with the colors of the ocean. Long white sofas and a thick hand-woven rug marked the living room. The five people sitting there looked around when Seth called out a loud hello.

  Aside from the Dixons, Gail recognized only one of the others, an elderly man named Wallace something, who had been general director of the opera a few years ago. Rebecca Dixon's gold tunic swirled as she crossed the room, arms extended. She told them to come in, have a seat. Juanita would bring coffee and dessert. Or would they prefer a drink?

  Introductions were made. Eleanor, a woman about sixty in a black beaded dress, whose face-lift had tilted her eyes. Martin, a bald man with a neatly clipped beard. The elderly gentleman, Wallace, toddled from the other end of the long sofa to shake their hands.

  Lloyd Dixon walked behind the bar at the opposite end of the room. Lights in the high ceiling shone on his white hair and white shirt. His black silk bow tie hung from his open collar. "What can I get for you folks?"

  Seth Greer passed. Gail took red wine, Anthony asked for scotch.

  "Red wine. Jesus, we've got about ten different— Pinot noir, how's that? Pinot noir and a single malt scotch. Glenfiddich okay?"

  Dixon was a big man with a barrel chest, a heavy jaw, pale blue eyes, and a smile that started on one side of his mouth and didn't quite get to the other. Suspenders made an X on his shirt when he turned to drop ice into Anthony's glass.

  For a while there was the usual chitchat about the recital. The selections Thomas Nolan had chosen. How many people had shown up. The quality of the hors d'oeuvres. Seth Greer sat at the baby grand picking out the melodies of old standards. Rebecca walked past him on her way to the bar, and his eyes stayed with her across the room. She asked her husband for another martini on the rocks. Seth watched her come back.

  The maid came in with a tray, which she put on the low glass table between the two sofas. She set it down slowly, carefully, not to let the silver pot tip over onto the plate of tiny frosted cakes.

  Rebecca called to Seth Greer, "Seth, could you stop, please?" He dropped his hands into his lap. Rebecca settled into a high-backed armchair with a cup of coffee. The president, presiding. "Everyone is aware of the facts, so I thought rather than a formal meeting, we'd simply discuss ou
r options and see if we can arrive at a consensus." There were nods all around.

  Lloyd Dixon was rotating the ice cubes in a rocks glass with a forefinger. "We were talking about you, Quintana. My wife thinks you've got some pull with the Cubans."

  As everyone looked at Anthony, Gail saw his mouth twitch into a smile that quickly vanished. He said, "No. I have no such influence with anyone. For personal and business reasons, I stay out of politics."

  The bald man—Martin—said, "Oh, this is useful."

  "Martin, please." Rebecca frowned at him, then said to Anthony, "What do you think might happen? How will the exile community react? That's what we need to know."

  "The exile community—if there is such a thing anymore—does not speak with one voice. Some people will care, some won't. You could have problems, but I can't tell you how serious they would be. It depends on the circumstances. I'm sorry I can't be of more help."

  Rebecca apparently hadn't expected this. The man she had hoped would hand her an easy decision was sitting there watching her struggle.

  Gail decided to chime in on the legal questions, which would at least get the focus off Anthony. "You're all aware, I assume, that you can't just fire Thomas Nolan without paying him. What you've got here is a policy decision, not a legal one. If you do decide to replace him, we could possibly negotiate a settlement with his manager." She added, "Honestly, though, they don't have to settle for a dime less than what you agreed to pay."

  The old man turned to the woman in the beaded dress. "I didn't think the Spanish cared much about opera. Well, Carreras and Domingo, of course, but I don't think I can name any others. Luis Lima?" He stared into his brandy snifter. "Juan Pons."

  The woman held a cigarette between red-tipped fingers, "Wally, Havana is in Cuba."

  "I know that!" he snapped back. "I was simply making the observation that, in general, opera is not a notably Spanish art form."

  She exhaled smoke, then smiled at Anthony. "We have some Cubans on the board of directors, lovely people."

  Anthony smiled back. "I am so happy to hear it."

  Lloyd Dixon gave a low laugh. "Jesus, Eleanor."

  Rebecca still had her eyes on Anthony. "What do you think we ought to do?"

  "To avoid trouble completely? Tell Thomas Nolan to get out of Miami."

  Martin snorted, then looked down at Anthony as if he had personally dragged this situation through the door like roadkilll "What kind of trouble? Death threats? Bombs?"

  Anthony's dark eyes turned slowly upward. He propped his ankle on his knee and leaned back, arms spread, jacket open. The casual position was subtly insolent. "Call a press conference. Nolan can make up some story. He wanted to see how miserable the conditions are, he didn't sing for anyone important, he made no money, and so on."

  "Lie. Grovel a bit. There's a thought."

  From the piano came a schmaltzy lounge tune. Seth Greer, gamely playing through some wrong notes, said, "Don't forget, Rebecca. Tom Nolan is giving master classes at the New World School of the Arts. The vocal director won't like it if we fire him. They've already started the semester."

  Martin pointed at Seth. "What if some hothead threatens a student? What do you do about that?''

  Eleanor rolled her eyes. "Martin, you are paranoid."

  The old man glared around the room. "Who hired Thomas Nolan? Who failed to check him out?"

  "Wally, it doesn't matter. There haven't been any bombs in years. They don't do that anymore." Tapping her ashes, Eleanor looked over at Anthony. "Or am I wrong?"

  "How would I know?"

  "You are wrong, Eleanor." Lamplight shone on Wallace's pink scalp, visible through thin white hair. "Just last year there was a fire at a restaurant where a singer from Cuba was going to appear, and they had to close down."

  "It was arson," Anthony said. "The owners set the fire to collect the insurance." No one was listening, and Anthony leaned back on the sofa with his drink and muttered something in Spanish. Gail laid a hand on his knee.

  "Well, the opera never had any trouble," Eleanor insisted.

  "Of course we have." Wallace snapped his fingers, trying to remember the particulars. "We invited some singers from Moscow on a friendship tour, performing in the county auditorium, and the exiles brought mice in their purses and pockets and let them go. You could hear them scurrying around in the rafters for months."

  "That was twenty-five years ago!"

  Martin said, "One lunatic with a can of gasoline is all it takes."

  "Jesus H. Christ!" With his crooked half-smile, Dixon surveyed the people sitting around the room. "We're lucky to get this guy. He invited Rebecca and me to hear the opera in Dortmund when we went through Germany. His performance in Lucia blew me away. Tom wanted to come to Miami, so I said sure, I'll work it out. Now look where he is. His career is taking off, and he's going to debut at the Met next year. I'm the one who brought him here, and I am not going to see him flushed because we're scared of the Cubans." He stood belly forward, feet planted squarely on the marble floor. "Quintana, you said there's a possibility of problems, but it depends on the circumstances. What did you mean by that?"

  Anthony rotated the heavy glass slowly in his hands, taking his time. "Well, it depends on how you handle it. I would advise you to be as nonconfrontational as possible. Try to show that you understand the exiles' position. What happens also depends on why Thomas Nolan went to Cuba and what he did there. That is the most important factor. What was his purpose? To make a statement against the embargo? Was he paid? Who did he sing for? The party elite or ordinary people on the street? What else has he said or done with regard to Cuba?"

  Seth Greer called out from behind the piano, "Maybe he french-kissed the Beard."

  Anthony finally laughed. "Oh, yes. If they have that on videotape, you're finished."

  "I hate this sort of thing," Wallace said. "Just hate it. I say let's all go home and the general director can handle it when he gets back from New York. What do we pay him for, anyway?"

  "Oh, Wally! What a spineless response." Eleanor leaned forward over crossed legs to crush out her cigarette in a crystal ashtray, and her bracelets jingled.

  "Then let's get rid of Thomas Nolan, like this fellow says. Send him packing. That's my vote."

  "You know, Wally, there is such a thing as freedom of artistic expression in this country."

  A lively melody came from the piano—Seth Greer playing the first few bars of "God Bless America." Everyone looked at him. "We at the Miami Opera support a man's right to sing anywhere he wants— even Miami." His hands came down on the keys.

  Rebecca turned around and said sharply, "Seth, please!"

  "Another vote for Nolan," Eleanor said. "Wally's pooping out on us. What about you, Martin? Come on." She raised a fist, and bracelets clattered down her arm. "Don't let them push us around."

  "Two to one," said Seth. "What'll it be, Martin? You gonna let the right-wing wackos call the shots for us?"

  Martin yelled at him, "This isn't a game! The Cubans are going to come after Tom Nolan. They have to, or people will think they've gone soft. They don't compromise, and they're proud of it! What if somebody shoots at him? Blows up his car? We should ask Ms. Connor here about a liability lawsuit. She might have to defend us in court. I say we replace him."

  Eleanor groaned, "Oh, Martin!"

  Rebecca said, "Stop! I didn't want this to be a vote. I wanted us to agree. We have to, or it's going to be so divisive. We haven't even considered the effect on the community. Dissension is the last thing we want."

  "Absolutely right!" Martin pointed at her. "What would this do to our fundraising efforts?"

  Dixon growled, "Not a damn thing, Martin. Where are your cojones?"

  Seth said, "Come on, Becky, do the right thing."

  Rebecca Dixon was sitting forward on the edge of her chair.

  Gail stood up. "Okay. Time out." She held up both hands. Everyone looked at her. "One question. Has anybody asked Thomas Nolan what he did in
Cuba?"

  Silence. A melting ice cube clinked in someone's glass.

  Rebecca slowly sat back in her chair. She laughed, then bit her lip. "Yes. That would seem rather important. And ... as you are the only one not interested in the outcome—Would you mind?"

  In the semidarkness of his bedroom, Anthony was rubbing Gail's back, hands moving between her shoulder blades, sliding to her waist, then rising over her bare buttocks, then down her thighs.

  Gail said, "I just can't picture Seth and Rebecca together."

  "They had more in common then."

  "Why were you surprised when he said he was a CPA?"

  "He used to be so dedicated to the law. He wanted to be an advocate for the poor. If you had said to him, 'Seth, one day you'll be an accountant,' he would have laughed at you. Or shot himself."

  "A lawyer. Why did he quit?"

  "I don't know. I went to New York and we lost touch."

  "So. You were neighbors in the Grove, back in the funky days. How old were you then?"

  "Twenty when my grandfather kicked me out. I had already met Seth. He let me stay with him and Rebecca till I found a place."

  "Wait a minute. You said you left home, but you never told me your grandfather kicked you out. What happened?"

  "According to him, I was a communist." Anthony laughed. "I had long hair and a beard, and I read leftist books and dared to disagree. Seth let me sleep on his sofa for a while, then I rented an apartment in the same building. It was on Elizabeth Street, not a great neighborhood. There was a drug dealer across the street and a Pentecostal preacher behind us. So on the weekends"—Anthony leaned over to kiss her back—"we heard gunfire and sometimes"—his mouth moved lower—"speaking in tongues."

  Gail's skin tingled. "How did you survive?"

  "My mother gave me money, and I found a job. Several jobs."

  "What was Rebecca studying?"

  "She wanted to go to medical school. I guess she never did." Anthony stretched out beside her. "That's enough talking."

  Propped on an elbow, Gail pulled a strand of his hair through her fingers. It curled when she let it go. "Long hair and a beard. Did you look like Che Guevara?"