“What do you mean the same fellow? There can’t be two heads of the same fellow.”
“I tell you it’s the same man. I’m sure of it,” Marion said. Her head was beginning to hurt, and she was feeling that vertigo she felt when she stood up too long.
“Granny,” Fay said in a whisper. “Don’t you know who this is?”
“No, dear, who?”
Fay told her.
“Oh my,” Marion said. “I thought he looked familiar.”
Marion felt the porch spin lazily around her; she was about to lose her balance. She grabbed the arms of the rocker and slowly, very slowly, put her 102-year-old body to rest. Perhaps, she thought, this was more excitement than she had bargained for.
Back in the office, Britt Montero, an emotional wreck, collapsed at her desk. She had not rested since Jake Lassiter’s call. Her mind was screaming. She tried to gather her thoughts as she took a sip from her Daffy Duck Christmas mug. Coffee was the only thing she knew could calm her. She had already drunk two espressos and one cafe con leche at the Beach, but she needed more. Britt had served herself a mug of freshly brewed Colombian supreme blend from Publix. As she breathed in the aroma, feeling it filtering her thoughts, she wondered: Of all the reporters in town, why had Jake Lassiter called her? She wasn’t the only one who could have identified that head, the head.
But she didn’t dwell on that point. She wanted the story. She was dying for the story. Castro dead! It could lead to riots. Too much was at stake; she had to be sure.
As she refilled her Daffy Duck mug, Britt considered the loose threads, mulling over all the questions. Was this really Fidel’s head? For that matter, was it anybody’s head? The thing she’d seen in Jake’s canister looked human to her, but maybe she hadn’t looked at it closely enough. And how about the stale aroma of cigar smoke that had wafted up from the canister after Jake had opened it? Hadn’t she read somewhere that Fidel had quit smoking? It was all so confusing. She needed more coffee.
Britt tossed back her wavy hair, away from her forehead; she needed to lay out a plan. The caffeine finally kicked in, and the hive on her left arm began to itch. It always itched when she was deep into a good story.
Suddenly, she decided what to do. She picked up the phone and dialed the number—a number everyone wanted and only she possessed. Just like the man whose number it was: Big Joey G., pudgy and bald, yet unassailable. Last seen coming out of the house of his private masseuse off Biscayne Boulevard. If this was as big as she thought it was, he would know something, she thought. And he owed her one.
It only took three international calls and two beeper pages for him to answer her on his cellular. He wouldn’t divulge much, yet she was sure he knew more than he let on. But he did say something that jolted her. There wasn’t one canister, he’d heard, there were two. And Big People were after them. He wouldn’t explain any more, but he warned her to be careful.
Britt thought it was just like Big Joey G., always saying just enough, never completing the picture. That was his modus operandi: leave them curious.
After hanging up, Britt immediately called Jake.
“Lassiter, this is Britt. I need to see you and Deal ASAP.”
“Deal is out,” answered Lassiter.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean he’s out. We won! The city was afraid of a big loss, and settled his suit for nine point two million. Deal took the deal.”
“Did you say nine million?”
“That’s what I said. Anyway, he decided this other thing was a bad omen—he doesn’t want anything to do with it. He left it with me and wouldn’t even tell me where he was going.”
“Incredible. Where was his sense of civic duty?” said Britt. “In any case, I have news for you. Can you come down to the office?”
“No, I’m too far. Give me thirty minutes and I’ll meet you at the Fishbone Grill, in the Grove,” said Lassiter.