“Excuse me,” she said to the hostess upon entering.
“You must be Mrs. Wolfe,” the young lady replied at once. “Please come with me. Mr. Díaz is waiting for you.”
Félix Cortez – Juan Díaz – was sitting in a corner booth at the rear of the restaurant. Moira was sure that he’d picked the dark place for privacy, and that he had his back to the wall so that he could see her coming. She was partially correct on both counts. Cortez was wary of being in this area. CIA headquarters was less than five miles away, thousands of FBI personnel lived in this area, and who could say whether a senior counterintelligence officer might also like this restaurant? He didn’t think that anyone there knew what he looked like, but intelligence officers do not live to collect their pensions by assuming anything. His nervousness was not entirely feigned. On the other hand, he was unarmed. Cortez was in a business where firearms caused far more problems than they solved, public perceptions to the contrary.
Félix rose as she approached. The hostess departed as soon as she realized the nature of this “business dinner,” leaving the two lovers – she thought it was kind of cute – to grab each other’s hands and exchange kisses that were oddly passionate despite their being restrained for so public a place. Cortez seated his lady, pouring her a glass of white wine before resuming his place opposite her. His first words were delivered with sheepish embarrassment.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”
“How long have you been waiting?” Moira asked. There were a half-dozen stubbed-out cigarettes in the ashtray.
“Almost an hour,” he answered with a funny look. Clearly he was amused at himself, she thought.
“But I’m early.”
“I know.” This time he laughed. “You make me a fool, Moira. I do not act in such a way at home.”
She misread what he was trying to say. “I’m sorry, Juan, I didn’t mean-”
A perfect response, Cortez’s mind reported. Exactly right. He took her hand across the table and his eyes sparkled. “Do not trouble yourself. Sometimes it is good for a man to be a fool. Forgive me for calling you so abruptly. A small business problem. I had to fly to Detroit on short notice, and since I was in the neighborhood, as you say, I wanted to see you before I went home.”
“Problem… ?”
“A change in the design for a carburetor. Something to do with fuel economy, and I must change some tools in my factories.” He waved his hand. “The problem is solved. These things are not uncommon – and, it gave me an excuse to make an extra trip here. Perhaps I should thank your EPA, or whatever government office complains about air pollution.”
“I will write the letter myself, if you wish.”
His voice changed. “It is so good to see you again, Moira.”
“I was afraid that -”
The emotion on his face was manifest. “No, Moira, it was I who was afraid. I am a foreigner. I come here so seldom, and surely there must be many men who -”
“Juan, where are you staying?” Mrs. Wolfe asked.
“At the Sheraton.”
“Do they have room service?”
“Yes, but why -”
“I won’t be hungry for about two hours,” she told him, and finished off her wine. “Can we leave now?”
Félix dropped a pair of twenties on the table and led her out. The hostess was reminded of a song from The King and I. They were in the lobby of the Sheraton in less than six minutes. Both walked quickly to the elevators, and both looked warily about, both hoping that they wouldn’t be spotted, but for different reasons. His tenth-floor room was actually an expensive suite. Moira scarcely noticed on entering, and for the next hour knew of nothing but a man whose name she mistakenly thought was Juan Díaz.
“So wonderful a thing,” he said at last.
“What’s that?”
“So wonderful a thing that there was a problem with the new carburetor.”
“Juan!”
“I must now create quality-control problems so that they call me every week to Detroit,” he suggested lightly, stroking her arm as he did so.
“Why not build a factory here?”
“The labor costs are too high,” he said seriously. “Of course, drugs would be less of a problem.”
“There, too?”
“Yes. They call it basuco, filthy stuff, not good enough for export, and too many of my workers indulge.” He stopped talking for a moment. “Moira, I try to make a joke, and you force me to speak of business. Have you lost interest in me?”
“What do you think?”
“I think I need to return to Venezuela while I can still walk.”
Her fingers did some exploring. “I think you will recover soon.”
“That is good to know.” He turned his head to kiss her, and let his eyes linger, examining her body in the rays of the setting sun that spilled through the windows. She noticed his stares and reached for the sheet. He stopped her.
“I am no longer young,” she said.
“Every child in all the world looks upon his mother and sees the most beautiful woman in the world, even though many mothers are not beautiful. Do you know why this is so? The child looks with love, and sees love returned. Love is what makes beauty, Moira. And, truly, you are beautiful to me.”
And there it was. The word was finally out in the open. He watched her eyes go somewhat wider, her mouth move, and her breaths deepen for a moment. For the second time, Cortez felt shame. He shrugged it off. Or tried to. He’d done this sort of thing before, of course. But always with young women, young, single ones with an eye for adventure and a taste for excitement. This one was different in so many ways. Different or not, he reminded himself, there was work to be done.
“Forgive me. Do I embarrass you?”
“No,” she answered softly. “Not now.”
He smiled down at her. “And now, are you ready for dinner?”
“Yes.”
“That is good.”
Cortez rose and got the bathrobes from the back of the bathroom door. Service was good. Half an hour later, Moira stayed in the bedroom while the dinner cart was rolled into the sitting room. He opened the connecting door as soon as the waiter left.
“You make of me a dishonest man. The look he gave me!”
She laughed. “Do you know how long it’s been since. I had to hide in the other room?”
“And you didn’t order enough. How can you live on this tiny salad?”
“If I grow fat, you will not come back to me.”
“Where I come from, we do not count a woman’s ribs,” Cortez said. “When I see someone who grows too thin, I think it is the basuco again. Where I live, they are the ones who forget even to eat.”
“Is it that bad?”
“Do you know what basuco is?”
“Cocaine, according to the reports I see.”
“Poor quality, not good enough for the criminals to send to the norteamericanos, and mixed with chemicals that poison the brain. It is becoming the curse of my homeland.”
“It’s pretty bad here,” Moira said. She could see that it was something that really worried her lover. Just like it was with the Director, she thought.
“I have spoken to the police at home. How can my workers do their jobs if their minds are poisoned by this thing? And what do the police do? They shrug and mumble excuses – and people die. They die from the basuco. They die from the guns of the dealers. And no one does anything to stop it.” Cortez made a frustrated gesture. “You know, Moira, I am not merely a capitalist. My factories, they give jobs, they bring money into my country, money for the people to build houses and educate their children. I am rich, yes, but I help to build my country – with these hands, I do it. My workers, they come to me and tell me that their children – ah! I can do nothing. Someday, the dealers, they will come to me and try to take my factory,” he went on. “I will go to the police, and the police will do nothing. I will go to the army, and the army will do nothing. You work for your federales, yes? Is there nothing anyone can do?” Cortez nearly held his breath, wondering what the answer would be.
“You should see the reports I have to type for the Director.”
“Reports,” he snorted. “Anyone can write reports. At home, the police write many reports, and the judges do their investigations – and nothing happens. If I ran my factory in this way, soon I would be living in a hillside shack and begging for money in the street! Do your federales do anything?”