American Tropic - By Thomas Sanchez Page 0,53
while Bizango is still out there.”
“I’ll make you a deal. Stay on until Bizango is caught, then go home to your family.”
Luz turns and gives the Chief a firm handshake. “It’s a deal. I can live with that.”
“It has to be. I can’t take the chance of keeping you on.”
Luz peers down into the pen; she sees her own reflection on the water’s surface above the snook and barracuda making their futile runs at freedom. “I used to come here after school as a kid. Back then they kept a six-hundred-seventy-five-pound loggerhead turtle in this pen. He was a hundred thirty-nine years old, and famous for biting off the fingers of the turtle hunters who captured him in the ocean. Big George, they called him. He was a celebrity, a real tourist attraction, the biggest turtle in the world in captivity. Every day I’d throw a head of lettuce into the water for George. George would circle around the pen, then cut above the surface and give a big blow of water as he went for the floating lettuce. George wasn’t a meat eater. He loved lettuce.”
The Chief stands closer to Luz, his shoulder touching hers. “The DNA results I brought you don’t lie. You don’t have much time left. You already knew your breast cancer came back, but this test turned up two different kinds of cancer waiting to spread. You’ve got a deadly trifecta going. I just want you to understand: should you change your mind and decide to walk away from the force now, no one will say you didn’t serve honorably. In fact, everyone will say how brave you were to hang in so long.”
Luz doesn’t look up from the water. “I remember the day George died. When he gasped his last breath in this pen, he was slaughtered and made into soup and combs. I was inconsolable. I cried myself to sleep every night after. My dad gave me five dollars to go buy myself something to cheer me up. I went to the Catholic church—they have a grotto there with a life-size Virgin statue inside. You can pay money to light a candle for the Virgin to protect you from hurricanes, or answer your prayers. With the five bucks, I lit up all the candles in the grotto for Big George.”
The Chief turns away from the pen and steps back. He pulls out his wallet and takes out a five-dollar bill. “What do you say”—he holds up the bill with a grin—“we go to the grotto and light us some candles.”
Zoe sits at Noah’s kitchen table, wearing a bare-shouldered halter-top sundress. Her blond hair is swept up in a French knot, exposing diamond-stud earrings in her lobes. She watches with fascination as Noah works at the stove over pots and pans of steaming and frying food. “When did you take up cooking?”
Noah carefully flips two yellowfin-tuna fillets simmering in a pan over a gas flame. “I’ve only recently become interested in the alchemy of the culinary arts.” He uncorks a glass vial and spreads crushed ginger root on the fish. He opens the oven door and sprinkles passionflower petals onto a baking plantain-banana pie.
“ ‘Alchemy of the culinary arts’? You make it sound like something exotic. Women cook every day. No big deal.” She picks up the water glass in front of her and takes a sip. Her mouth puckers. “This water tastes like it’s got bitter lemon in it or something.”
“Do you like it?”
Zoe smacks her lips. “It’s tangy. I don’t know if I like it or not.”
“Would you like something more than water?”
“Like some rum, maybe?”
“That’s not what I meant. I’m just trying to be a good husband.”
“A good husband? Too late for that. I gave you every chance a woman can give. I brought the final divorce document with me. All you have to do is sign it.”
Noah opens the refrigerator door and takes out a bowl of strawberry soup. “At least we can have dinner; here’s the first course.” He places the bowl in front of her and sits close.
“What a weird-looking soup.” She bends her head and sniffs at the pink concoction with red nuggets of dried strawberries floating on top.
Noah scoops a spoonful of soup from the bowl and holds it up to her lips.
Zoe laughs nervously. “I’m not sure I want this. What do you know about cooking, anyway?”
“There’s only one way to find out. Close your eyes and take a sip.”
She doesn’t close her eyes.
“Trust me.”
Zoe