Suspicion of Deceit (3 page)

Lloyd Dixon was rotating the ice cubes in a rocks glass with a forefinger. "We were talking about you, Quintana. My wife thinks you've got some pull with the Cubans."

As everyone looked at Anthony, Gail saw his mouth twitch into a smile that quickly vanished. He said, "No. I have no such influence with anyone. For personal and business reasons, I stay out of politics."

The bald man—Martin—said, "Oh, this is useful."

"Martin, please." Rebecca frowned at him, then said to Anthony, "What do you think might happen? How will the exile community react? That's what we need to know."

"The exile community—if there is such a thing anymore—does not speak with one voice. Some people will care, some won't. You could have problems, but I can't tell you how serious they would be. It depends on the circumstances. I'm sorry I can't be of more help."

Rebecca apparently hadn't expected this. The man she had hoped would hand her an easy decision was sitting there watching her struggle.

Gail decided to chime in on the legal questions, which would at least get the focus off Anthony. "You're all aware, I assume, that you can't just fire Thomas Nolan without paying him. What you've got here is a policy decision, not a legal one. If you do decide to replace him, we could possibly negotiate a settlement with his manager." She added, "Honestly, though, they don't have to settle for a dime less than what you agreed to pay."

The old man turned to the woman in the beaded dress. "I didn't think the Spanish cared much about opera. Well, Carreras and Domingo, of course, but I don't think I can name any others. Luis Lima?" He stared into his brandy snifter. "Juan Pons."

The woman held a cigarette between red-tipped fingers, "Wally, Havana is in
Cuba."

"I know that!" he snapped back. "I was simply making the observation that, in general, opera is not a notably Spanish art form."

She exhaled smoke, then smiled at Anthony. "We have some Cubans on the board of directors, lovely people."

Anthony smiled back. "I am so happy to hear it."

Lloyd Dixon gave a low laugh. "Jesus, Eleanor."

Rebecca still had her eyes on Anthony. "What do you think we ought to do?"

"To avoid trouble completely? Tell Thomas Nolan to get out of Miami."

Martin snorted, then looked down at Anthony as if he had personally dragged this situation through the door like roadkilll "What kind of trouble? Death threats? Bombs?"

Anthony's dark eyes turned slowly upward. He propped his ankle on his knee and leaned back, arms spread, jacket open. The casual position was subtly insolent. "Call a press conference. Nolan can make up some story. He wanted to see how miserable the conditions are, he didn't sing for anyone important, he made no money, and so on."

"Lie. Grovel a bit. There's a thought."

From the piano came a schmaltzy lounge tune. Seth Greer, gamely playing through some wrong notes, said, "Don't forget, Rebecca. Tom Nolan is giving master classes at the New World School of the Arts. The vocal director won't like it if we fire him. They've already started the semester."

Martin pointed at Seth. "What if some hothead threatens a student? What do you do about
that?''

Eleanor rolled her eyes. "Martin, you are paranoid."

The old man glared around the room. "Who hired Thomas Nolan? Who failed to check him out?"

"Wally, it doesn't
matter.
There haven't been any bombs in years. They don't do that anymore." Tapping her ashes, Eleanor looked over at Anthony. "Or am I wrong?"

"How would I know?"

"You
are
wrong, Eleanor." Lamplight shone on Wallace's pink scalp, visible through thin white hair. "Just last year there was a fire at a restaurant where a singer from Cuba was going to appear, and they had to close down."

"It was arson," Anthony said. "The owners set the fire to collect the insurance." No one was listening, and Anthony leaned back on the sofa with his drink and muttered something in Spanish. Gail laid a hand on his knee.

"Well, the
opera
never had any trouble," Eleanor insisted.

"Of course we have." Wallace snapped his fingers, trying to remember the particulars. "We invited some singers from Moscow on a friendship tour, performing in the county auditorium, and the exiles brought mice in their purses and pockets and let them go. You could hear them scurrying around in the rafters for
months."

"That was twenty-five years ago!"

Martin said, "One lunatic with a can of gasoline is all it takes."

"Jesus H. Christ!" With his crooked half-smile, Dixon surveyed the people sitting around the room. "We're lucky to get this guy. He invited Rebecca and me to hear the opera in Dortmund when we went through Germany. His performance in
Lucia
blew me away. Tom wanted to come to Miami, so I said sure, I'll work it out. Now look where he is. His career is taking off, and he's going to debut at the Met next year. I'm the one who brought him here, and I am not going to see him flushed because we're scared of the Cubans." He stood belly forward, feet planted squarely on the marble floor. "Quintana, you said there's a
possibility
of problems, but it depends on the circumstances. What did you mean by that?"

Anthony rotated the heavy glass slowly in his hands, taking his time. "Well, it depends on how you handle it. I would advise you to be as nonconfrontational as possible. Try to show that you understand the exiles' position. What happens also depends on why Thomas Nolan went to Cuba and what he did there. That is the most important factor. What was his purpose? To make a statement against the embargo? Was he paid? Who did he sing for? The party elite or ordinary people on the street? What else has he said or done with regard to Cuba?"

Seth Greer called out from behind the piano, "Maybe he french-kissed the Beard."

Anthony finally laughed. "Oh, yes. If they have that on videotape, you're finished."

"I hate this sort of thing," Wallace said. "Just hate it. I say let's all go home and the general director can handle it when he gets back from New York. What do we pay him for, anyway?"

"Oh, Wally! What a spineless response." Eleanor leaned forward over crossed legs to crush out her cigarette in a crystal ashtray, and her bracelets jingled.

"Then let's get rid of Thomas Nolan, like this fellow says. Send him packing. That's my vote."

"You know, Wally, there is such a thing as freedom of artistic expression in this country."

A lively melody came from the piano—Seth Greer playing the first few bars of "God Bless America." Everyone looked at him. "We at the Miami Opera support a man's right to sing anywhere he wants— even Miami." His hands came down on the keys.

Rebecca turned around and said sharply, "Seth, please!"

"Another vote for Nolan," Eleanor said. "Wally's pooping out on us. What about you, Martin? Come on." She raised a fist, and bracelets clattered down her arm. "Don't let them push us around."

"Two to one," said Seth. "What'll it be, Martin? You gonna let the right-wing wackos call the shots for us?"

Martin yelled at him, "This isn't a game! The Cubans are going to come after Tom Nolan. They have to, or people will think they've gone soft. They don't compromise, and they're proud of it! What if somebody shoots at him? Blows up his car? We should ask Ms. Connor here about a liability lawsuit. She might have to defend us in court. I say we replace him."

Eleanor groaned, "Oh, Martin!"

Rebecca said, "Stop! I didn't want this to be a
vote.
I wanted us to agree. We have to, or it's going to be so divisive. We haven't even considered the effect on the community. Dissension is the last thing we want."

"Absolutely right!" Martin pointed at her. "What would this do to our fundraising efforts?"

Dixon growled, "Not a damn thing, Martin. Where are your
cojones?"

Seth said, "Come on, Becky, do the right thing."

Rebecca Dixon was sitting forward on the edge of her chair.

Gail stood up. "Okay. Time out." She held up both hands. Everyone looked at her. "One question. Has anybody asked Thomas Nolan what he did in Cuba?"

Silence. A melting ice cube clinked in someone's glass.

Rebecca slowly sat back in her chair. She laughed, then bit her lip. "Yes. That would seem rather important. And ... as you are the only one not interested in the outcome—Would you mind?"

In the semidarkness of his bedroom, Anthony was rubbing Gail's back, hands moving between her shoulder blades, sliding to her waist, then rising over her bare buttocks, then down her thighs.

Gail said, "I just can't picture Seth and Rebecca together."

"They had more in common then."

"Why were you surprised when he said he was a CPA?"

"He used to be so dedicated to the law. He wanted to be an advocate for the poor. If you had said to him, 'Seth, one day you'll be an accountant,' he would have laughed at you. Or shot himself."

"A lawyer. Why did he quit?"

"I don't know. I went to New York and we lost touch."

"So. You were neighbors in the Grove, back in the funky days. How old were you then?"

"Twenty when my grandfather kicked me out. I had already met Seth. He let me stay with him and Rebecca till I found a place."

"Wait a minute. You said you left home, but you never told me your grandfather kicked you out. What happened?"

"According to him, I was a communist." Anthony laughed. "I had long hair and a beard, and I read leftist books and dared to disagree. Seth let me sleep on his sofa for a while, then I rented an apartment in the same building. It was on Elizabeth Street, not a great neighborhood. There was a drug dealer across the street and a Pentecostal preacher behind us. So on the weekends"—Anthony leaned over to kiss her back—"we heard gunfire and sometimes"—his mouth moved lower—"speaking in tongues."

Gail's skin tingled. "How did you survive?"

"My mother gave me money, and I found a job. Several jobs."

"What was Rebecca studying?"

"She wanted to go to medical school. I guess she never did." Anthony stretched out beside her. "That's enough talking."

Propped on an elbow, Gail pulled a strand of his hair through her fingers. It curled when she let it go. "Long hair and a beard. Did you look like Che Guevara?"

"What?"

"Rebecca told me you had a poster of Che Guevara."

"Ay, Diós mio."

"I wondered how it was that Rebecca Dixon had seen the inside of your apartment."

"And now you know. What else did she tell you?"

"Nothing—except she seemed familiar with your family history."

"It was a long time ago."

"Let's see. Twenty years ago I was fourteen, in ninth grade. Very skinny, with long straight hair. I wore knee socks and clogs. Jimmy Carter was president. What else was going on in the world? Disco? The first
Star Wars
movie?" Gail traced a line down Anthony's long nose, then around his full lips. "I was wondering about something."

"You always are."

"You spent three years at the University of Miami majoring in philosophy, correct? And then you went to New York and graduated in business. With only a year to go?"

"I wanted to get out of Miami and see the world."

"Come on. You're too sensible."

"Now, yes. Then—" He smiled. "I was young. My grandfather and I had argued again, and I wanted to get away for a while. So I went to NYU, then law school at Columbia. Married, had two kids, moved back to Miami, divorced. Then I met you. The story of my life. And here we are." He rolled toward her. "Guess what I want now."

She moved her hands lightly over the muscles in his back. His skin was like satin. "There's a lot about you I don't know."

"Nothing important."

"Would you tell me if I asked?"

"Not tonight." He kissed each corner of her mouth. "Tonight we're going to do something else."

"Anthony—"

"Shh. No more talking."

CHAPTER THREE

In winter Miami International Airport became a chaps of cars, tour buses and taxis, exhaust fumes and police whistles. Long lines formed at ticket counters. Aviateca, Aeroflot, Lacsa, Taca, Lufthansa, Halisa, Varig— humanity flowing in all directions.

Gail and her mother maneuvered toward Concourse E, where the 3:15 p.m. American Airlines flight would arrive from Puerto Rico, bringing Karen from her winter break as a ten-year-old first mate on her father's sailboat charter cruises. She had called a few times to say what a great time she was having.
How selfish of me,
Gail had , thought, hanging up the phone,
to have hoped that Karen hadn't sounded quite so happy.
What if she decided to stay with her father? What if he wooed her with sailboats and snorkeling and going to school barefoot on an island? Dave was not happy about the prospect of Karen's having a stepfather, particularly this one.
Oh, Gail. A Cuban? Are you nuts?

On their way to the airport Gail had told her mother about the scene at the Dixons' apartment two nights ago, and her assignment to speak to Thomas Nolan. Who was he? What was the right way to approach him?

Irene Strickland Connor was the best source of information about anyone connected to the Miami Opera. A debutante in her day, and a member of Young Patronesses of the Opera (now defunct), Irene had been on the board for years. Comfortable but by no means wealthy, she worked like a bee collecting her required $10,000 a year from willing donors. This put her in the office frequently, where she would hear all sorts of tales. Her small stature, curly red hair, and innocent blue eyes made people want to talk to her. And she never revealed anything said in confidence-except to her dearest trusted friends, and of course her daughter.

"Let's see what I can tell you. Tom Nolan is thirty-five. Never married. As far as I can tell, he's unattached. He was born in Miami, did you know that? He left as a boy, though, and grew up in Virginia."

Irene stepped back to avoid a businessman running full tilt with his suit bag. She was quick on her feet today in a pair of bright yellow sneakers.

"He's spending the winter season with us. Most of the lead singers we hire fly in, stay for a few weeks during rehearsals and performance, then leave, but Tom is here for the semester, teaching classes at New World. That means he's approachable," Irene concluded.