attack.
“The lady of the house was working out at the gym upstairs,” he said. “She is grooming herself and will be at your disposal shortly.”
Biondani led them through a sunny kitchen past plainclothesmen at a table covered with breakfast and a mean-l ooking MP5 machine pistol. The apartment occupied the entire floor and offered panoramic views. It had the air of a showroom: a grand piano, lush carpeting, sumptuous sofas.
“Hello, everyone!”
Florencia greeted them like a perky hostess, not a prisoner in gilded limbo. She was trailed by a weary-looking female officer in jeans and a wearier-looking maid in uniform. Biondani made introductions.
“The famous Valentín from Chicago!” Florencia kissed him on both cheeks. “I’ve heard all about you.”
As she bustled around getting them seated, Pescatore decided that, despite her ungentlemanly nickname, La Gorda Flo wasn’t that fat. She reclined on her side next to him on the couch, her movements creating hills and valleys in her low-cut, leopard-skin top and electric-blue leather pants. She was over forty, at least ten years older than Raymond. Her helmet-style hairdo reminded him of the suburban molls in The Sopranos. Below the bangs, the perpetually startled eyes and oddly upturned nose reflected a vicious cycle of cosmetic surgery.
“My goodness, that one looks like Beyoncé,” Florencia chirped. “At least from the back. And the hair.”
She was appraising Belhaj as the French investigator removed her coat and draped it over a chair. The comment was marginally accurate, at best. It confirmed his impression that Florencia expressed her thoughts as they crossed her mind, unconcerned about saying something politically incorrect or wildly inappropriate.
“So you want to talk about Ramón.” She turned to Pescatore. Her smile was a mask of makeup strained by fear. “Your old and dear friend. The love of my life. The curse of my life.”
“I always called him Raymond,” he replied. “Don’t tell me his name was really Ramón all this time.”
“No, that was what I called him. He started using it himself. It was part of his discovery of where he came from, he said.”
Pescatore had planned to defer to the others. But he sensed that Florencia felt a connection to him. He glanced at Furukawa, who nodded.
“You said he talked about me?” Pescatore continued.
“A lot.” She put her hand on his arm. He smelled coconut perfume. “He had great fondness for you. His best friend from childhood. You could have been a good influence on him. Instead, he was a bad influence on you. He regretted it very much. As if it were the cause of all his troubles.”
Pescatore’s hopes that Raymond would somehow turn out to be one of the good guys had been waning. Now, the first thing out of her mouth amounted to a heartfelt apology from Raymond.
“How did you come to meet him?”
“It was about eight years ago. I used to do favors for some rich turquitos: residency papers, bureaucratic troubles. They would throw me some mangoes for my help. Ramón had a relative who sent him to me through a family named Kharroubi. Ramón wanted Argentine citizenship.”
He qualified for citizenship because of his Argentine mother, Florencia explained. She expedited the process for a private fee. Raymond invited her to see him sing at a hole-in-the-wall club in the San Telmo neighborhood. He performed several times a week, accompanying himself on piano or teaming with a rhythm section.
“The first time I went, he dedicated a song to me: ‘Sophisticated Lady,’” she said wistfully. “From then on, he always sang it for me. What a song. What a voice. I didn’t understand half the words, but it didn’t matter.”
A memory came to Pescatore. He was getting high with Raymond and listening to jazz, a Tony Bennett version of “Sophisticated Lady.” Raymond called it one of the best songs ever. He said no woman was going to turn down Tony Benedetto with lines like
“The lady of the house was working out at the gym upstairs,” he said. “She is grooming herself and will be at your disposal shortly.”
Biondani led them through a sunny kitchen past plainclothesmen at a table covered with breakfast and a mean-l ooking MP5 machine pistol. The apartment occupied the entire floor and offered panoramic views. It had the air of a showroom: a grand piano, lush carpeting, sumptuous sofas.
“Hello, everyone!”
Florencia greeted them like a perky hostess, not a prisoner in gilded limbo. She was trailed by a weary-looking female officer in jeans and a wearier-looking maid in uniform. Biondani made introductions.
“The famous Valentín from Chicago!” Florencia kissed him on both cheeks. “I’ve heard all about you.”
As she bustled around getting them seated, Pescatore decided that, despite her ungentlemanly nickname, La Gorda Flo wasn’t that fat. She reclined on her side next to him on the couch, her movements creating hills and valleys in her low-cut, leopard-skin top and electric-blue leather pants. She was over forty, at least ten years older than Raymond. Her helmet-style hairdo reminded him of the suburban molls in The Sopranos. Below the bangs, the perpetually startled eyes and oddly upturned nose reflected a vicious cycle of cosmetic surgery.
“My goodness, that one looks like Beyoncé,” Florencia chirped. “At least from the back. And the hair.”
She was appraising Belhaj as the French investigator removed her coat and draped it over a chair. The comment was marginally accurate, at best. It confirmed his impression that Florencia expressed her thoughts as they crossed her mind, unconcerned about saying something politically incorrect or wildly inappropriate.
“So you want to talk about Ramón.” She turned to Pescatore. Her smile was a mask of makeup strained by fear. “Your old and dear friend. The love of my life. The curse of my life.”
“I always called him Raymond,” he replied. “Don’t tell me his name was really Ramón all this time.”
“No, that was what I called him. He started using it himself. It was part of his discovery of where he came from, he said.”
Pescatore had planned to defer to the others. But he sensed that Florencia felt a connection to him. He glanced at Furukawa, who nodded.
“You said he talked about me?” Pescatore continued.
“A lot.” She put her hand on his arm. He smelled coconut perfume. “He had great fondness for you. His best friend from childhood. You could have been a good influence on him. Instead, he was a bad influence on you. He regretted it very much. As if it were the cause of all his troubles.”
Pescatore’s hopes that Raymond would somehow turn out to be one of the good guys had been waning. Now, the first thing out of her mouth amounted to a heartfelt apology from Raymond.
“How did you come to meet him?”
“It was about eight years ago. I used to do favors for some rich turquitos: residency papers, bureaucratic troubles. They would throw me some mangoes for my help. Ramón had a relative who sent him to me through a family named Kharroubi. Ramón wanted Argentine citizenship.”
He qualified for citizenship because of his Argentine mother, Florencia explained. She expedited the process for a private fee. Raymond invited her to see him sing at a hole-in-the-wall club in the San Telmo neighborhood. He performed several times a week, accompanying himself on piano or teaming with a rhythm section.
“The first time I went, he dedicated a song to me: ‘Sophisticated Lady,’” she said wistfully. “From then on, he always sang it for me. What a song. What a voice. I didn’t understand half the words, but it didn’t matter.”
A memory came to Pescatore. He was getting high with Raymond and listening to jazz, a Tony Bennett version of “Sophisticated Lady.” Raymond called it one of the best songs ever. He said no woman was going to turn down Tony Benedetto with lines like
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