already got the place staked out. He hasn’t seen them, they haven’t threatened him—he’s paranoid in the extreme. I said, ‘You think he’d come get you just because you made fun of his paintings?’ He doesn’t say anything for a minute. Then he says, ‘No’—ready for this?—‘because I’m the one who painted the pictures. Why did you have to print all that about me doing those pictures with my eyes closed? You’ve done this to me! You practically drew them a map,’ and on and on. He’s half crazed, Nestor… but he’s admitted it!”
“He came right out and said he forged them? Was anybody else listening to this conversation—or is it your word against his?”
“It’s better than that,” said John Smith. “I’ve got it all on tape—and he agreed to it. I told him he ought to have a record of every step of the way.”
“But isn’t he confessing to being a forger?”
“That’s the least of his worries right now. He thinks they’re coming after him. Besides, if you ask me, he’s dying to have his great talent ‘revealed.’ ”
::::::Jesús Cristo.:::::: Something about John Smith’s enthusiasm, his joy in the hunt, his anticipation of a great journalistic coup, spooked Nestor. ::::::“dying”::::::
20
The Witness
¡Caliente! Caliente baby… Got plenty fuego in yo’ caja china… Means you needs a length a Hose put in it. ::::::Jesus! What time is it?:::::: Nestor rolled over to his iPhone and picked it up ::::::5:33 a.m.—mierda:::::: and growled as truculently as he had ever growled in his life: “Camacho.”
The woman on the line said, “Nestor?” with a big question mark… She wasn’t at all sure that this inhospitable animal voice was Nestor Camacho’s.
“Yes,” he said, in the tone of voice that conveys the message “Kindly disintegrate.”
Feebly, almost tearfully, the woman said, “I’m sorry, Nestor, but I wouldn’t call you like this unless I absolutely had to. It’s me… Magdalena.” Her voice began breaking. “You’re the… only… person who… can help me!”
::::::It’s me… Magdalena!::::::
A single memory swept in under the radar, which is to say subliminally, and suffused Nestor’s nervous system without ever becoming a thought… blip Magdalena is dumping him on the street in Hialeah and speeding off so fast in her mysteriously acquired BMW that the tires are squealing and two wheels actually lift off the ground as she turns at the intersection to get away from him. It came in under the radar, but it did a good job of finishing off love, lust, libido, even sympathy… at 5:30 a.m.
“Nestor?… Are you there?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” he said. “You have to admit this is pretty weird.”
“What is?”
“Getting a call from you. Anyway, ¿qué pasa?”
“I don’t know if I can explain all this over the telephone, Nestor. Can’t we meet—for coffee, breakfast… anything?”
“When?”
“Now!”
“Does it have to be right now? It’s five-thirty in the morning. I went to bed at two.”
“Oh, Nestor… if you never do anuh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uhther thi-ing for me! I ne-e-ee-eed you now-ow-ow.” Her words were breaking up into tears, even little words like now and thing. “I ca-a-n-n’t sleep. I haven’t slept all night. I’m so scared. Nestor! Please hel-l-lp me-ee-ee!”
As has been true throughout recorded history, rare is the strong man strong enough to shrug off a woman’s tears… To that add Nestor’s pride in his strength and—dare he even think it?—valor as a protector—the man on the mast about to plunge to his death… Hernandez about to be strangled by the giant in the crack house… the tears of a woman pleading for the Protector… He caved.
“Well… where?” he said. Both of them had roommates in apartments so small there would be no privacy. Okay; they should meet for coffee, but what was open this early? “Well, there’s always Ricky’s,” said Nestor.
Magdalena was astounded. “You don’t mean Ricky’s in Hialeah!”
::::::Oh, but I do:::::: Nestor said to himself. The simple truth was the moment he said “Ricky’s,” the ambrosial smell of the pastelitos came back to him… and made him intensely hungry… which in turn convinced him that he couldn’t possibly stay awake without Ricky’s. All he said out loud was “I don’t know any other place that opens at five-thirty a.m., and if I don’t have something to eat, you’re gonna have a zombie on your hands.”
So they settled on Ricky’s forty-five minutes from now, which would be 6:15 a.m. Nestor couldn’t hold back a profound sigh… followed by a profound groan… What was he doing?
Nestor had to park the Camaro two blocks away from Ricky’s, and walking those two blocks reignited his many Hialeah