Mambo (The Frank Pagan Novels) by Campbell Armstrong

Author:Campbell Armstrong [Armstrong, Campbell]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781504007085
Publisher: Open Road Media Mystery & Thriller
Published: 2015-02-17T00:00:00+00:00

14

Miami

On this strange dawn enormous cloud formations, lit by a pale sun, formed a purple mass over Miami. Motionless, the clouds might have been solid matter, cliffs and rocky promontories afloat in the sky. Later, the day would grow warmer and the bulk would disperse in violent lightning and rain, the whole discordant Floridian symphony of weather.

Magdalena Torrente, driving her BMW towards Little Havana, took no notice of the heavens. She crossed the Rickenbacker Causeway at the speed limit. Traffic was still light. She’d been drawn out of sleep by the telephone, and had reached for the instrument with a sense of dread. Nothing good ever came from phone calls at seven a.m. Anything that happened before then had to be ungodly. She’d heard Garrido’s voice. He needed to see her at the restaurant. He wouldn’t say why. The old man had grown increasingly fond of cryptic behaviour. He’d been playing the secret game for too many years. So, still sleepy, she’d showered, brewed coffee, dressed, left her house in Key Biscayne.

She drove on Brickell Avenue, heart of revitalised Miami, leafy between high-rise buildings. The Bayside Market Plaza was new and bold. Drug money had infiltrated everyday life. An illicit, cocky prosperity flourished here. But this was something else Magdalena didn’t notice as she drove toward Calle Ocho. What did Garrido want at this hour? Why had he called? His voice was quiet, almost a whisper – she couldn’t tell much from it. On Calle Ocho she passed closed shops; a couple of druggies, locked in their own time zone, stared morosely at her.

On the side-street where Garrido’s restaurant was situated she parked the car, got out. She wore blue jeans, soft leather boots that came just above the ankles, a black silk jacket, lemon shirt. She was incongruous in this neighbourhood of steel-shuttered windows and graffiti and funky yards filled with empty wine bottles and needles and tyres.

She entered the restaurant by the front door. The big empty room, which wasn’t open for breakfast trade, smelled of last night’s onions and chillis. Chairs were inverted on tables. Garrido, in the white suit he always wore, sat in an alcove at the rear. Beside him was a hefty man she’d never seen before – unusual in itself because Garrido always preferred to meet her alone.

Garrido looked up when she approached. She felt a dryness at the back of her throat, a sudden pulse in her chest. Something in Garrido’s face unnerved her, although she wasn’t sure what – the light in the eye, the set of the mouth, something. He was different this morning and she didn’t like it.

“Sit down, my dear,” he said.

She eased into the alcove, conscious of the stranger watching her approvingly. When she caught his eye he winked, smiled. She was sometimes amused by the effect she had on men; even Pagan, even dear Frank, when he’d come to see her in London, had been strangely subdued in her presence – except for his bold parting kiss, which had been interesting to her only as a memory.

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