desperate attempt to recapture their earlier passion. "Ah," Rafez murmured, smiling soulfully at her, "when passion has gone…"
"But we wanted to try. We wanted to hope. And
now…
"
Inspector Rafez reached across the table to grasp her hand in sympathy. "At such moments," he said, "we can only bow to the will of Fate."
"I'm sure you're right," she agreed, and released her hand so she could sip chardonnay, the only drink she was permitting herself during this dangerous time.
Down below, the soldiers had clamped the Beetle with grappling hooks and metal cables. The cables ran up to a pulley on the front of their van, so the van's engine could be used to winch the Beetle out of its watery resting place and grindingly up the boulder-strewn slope until, no longer quite recognizable as an automobile, it reached the parking lot.
Had this been a crime scene, that would have been a terrible way to treat the primary piece of evidence, but it wasn't a crime scene, was it? It was an accident scene.
And now everyone was finished. Mike was turning his back to yawn, even the Ortizes were coming down from their self-satisfied high, and the bashful local cop had resigned himself to the fact that Inspector Rafez had the inside track with the beautiful rich widow. Rank, as everyone knows, has its privileges.
Lola was driven home by the inspectors. Loto sat in front with the driver and Rafez sat in back with Lola. She'd expected she might have to fend him off, but he behaved himself as he and Loto and Lola chatted about Guerrera, the changes since she'd moved away (not many), and people they might know in common (a few).
After a while, Loto began to doze. The silences lengthened. "I've been thinking about moving to the States myself," Rafez said.
"Oh, yes?"
"Sure. New York City, I was thinking. I read about New York City a lot, and there's a lot of Spanish people there."
"That's right."
"The police there," Rafez said, "they could use some cops talk Spanish, I bet that's true."
"I'm sure they've got some," Lola said.
"Oh, yes, sure, they'd have to do that already. But look at this, Señora… Señora Lee. May I speak to you as Lola?"
"Yes, I'd like that."
"Thank you. And I am Rafael. Rafael Rafez."
"How do you do," she said politely.
"Well, Lola, here's what I think," he said. "I think they got cops there that speak Spanish and maybe know the people from the south, know them a little, but you look at me. Already I'm a cop, and already I'm here in South America; I got dealings with all kinds of Spanish people in this country. Not just Guerrerans, all kinds. Look at all the borders around us."
"That's true."
"I think, if I got to New York," Rafez told her, "I'd get a job with the cops in New York, they're glad to have me, a guy knows the people like I know the people, and already a
cop.
Already took
two courses
in police technique, up in Miami. U.S. government courses, you know about them?"
"No, I don't," Lola said.
"Very good, very professional. I got diplomas, I'll show you sometime."
"That would be nice," Lola said, and they arrived in San Cristobal, and the van behind them peeled off, and Loto woke up to say to the driver, "Take me home."
So they had a little middle-of-the-night tour of the empty streets of San Cristobal, with the widely spaced pinkish streetlights and all the facades shuttered and shut up for the night. They stopped at a newish concrete apartment building and Loto yawned, got out of the Land Rover, and then stuck his head back in to say, "Condolences, Señora."
"Thank you."
Once they'd left the lights of San Cristobal behind, on the road to Sabanon, Rafez did make his move. Apparently he was a little heavy-handed, the bastard, and Lola had to defend herself with increasing vigor. She'd hoped the presence of the driver would be some sort of deterrent, but the driver never saw a thing, never even looked in the rearview mirror.
She tried to remain gentle about it, the heartbroken and dazed widow lady,
"But we wanted to try. We wanted to hope. And
now…
"
Inspector Rafez reached across the table to grasp her hand in sympathy. "At such moments," he said, "we can only bow to the will of Fate."
"I'm sure you're right," she agreed, and released her hand so she could sip chardonnay, the only drink she was permitting herself during this dangerous time.
Down below, the soldiers had clamped the Beetle with grappling hooks and metal cables. The cables ran up to a pulley on the front of their van, so the van's engine could be used to winch the Beetle out of its watery resting place and grindingly up the boulder-strewn slope until, no longer quite recognizable as an automobile, it reached the parking lot.
Had this been a crime scene, that would have been a terrible way to treat the primary piece of evidence, but it wasn't a crime scene, was it? It was an accident scene.
And now everyone was finished. Mike was turning his back to yawn, even the Ortizes were coming down from their self-satisfied high, and the bashful local cop had resigned himself to the fact that Inspector Rafez had the inside track with the beautiful rich widow. Rank, as everyone knows, has its privileges.
Lola was driven home by the inspectors. Loto sat in front with the driver and Rafez sat in back with Lola. She'd expected she might have to fend him off, but he behaved himself as he and Loto and Lola chatted about Guerrera, the changes since she'd moved away (not many), and people they might know in common (a few).
After a while, Loto began to doze. The silences lengthened. "I've been thinking about moving to the States myself," Rafez said.
"Oh, yes?"
"Sure. New York City, I was thinking. I read about New York City a lot, and there's a lot of Spanish people there."
"That's right."
"The police there," Rafez said, "they could use some cops talk Spanish, I bet that's true."
"I'm sure they've got some," Lola said.
"Oh, yes, sure, they'd have to do that already. But look at this, Señora… Señora Lee. May I speak to you as Lola?"
"Yes, I'd like that."
"Thank you. And I am Rafael. Rafael Rafez."
"How do you do," she said politely.
"Well, Lola, here's what I think," he said. "I think they got cops there that speak Spanish and maybe know the people from the south, know them a little, but you look at me. Already I'm a cop, and already I'm here in South America; I got dealings with all kinds of Spanish people in this country. Not just Guerrerans, all kinds. Look at all the borders around us."
"That's true."
"I think, if I got to New York," Rafez told her, "I'd get a job with the cops in New York, they're glad to have me, a guy knows the people like I know the people, and already a
cop.
Already took
two courses
in police technique, up in Miami. U.S. government courses, you know about them?"
"No, I don't," Lola said.
"Very good, very professional. I got diplomas, I'll show you sometime."
"That would be nice," Lola said, and they arrived in San Cristobal, and the van behind them peeled off, and Loto woke up to say to the driver, "Take me home."
So they had a little middle-of-the-night tour of the empty streets of San Cristobal, with the widely spaced pinkish streetlights and all the facades shuttered and shut up for the night. They stopped at a newish concrete apartment building and Loto yawned, got out of the Land Rover, and then stuck his head back in to say, "Condolences, Señora."
"Thank you."
Once they'd left the lights of San Cristobal behind, on the road to Sabanon, Rafez did make his move. Apparently he was a little heavy-handed, the bastard, and Lola had to defend herself with increasing vigor. She'd hoped the presence of the driver would be some sort of deterrent, but the driver never saw a thing, never even looked in the rearview mirror.
She tried to remain gentle about it, the heartbroken and dazed widow lady,
Similar Books
